Malice

“You can't expect people to believe what they read in tabloids, Mrs. Mackenzie.”

“Then why print it?” Grace said firmly.

The interviewer asked a thousand unfortunate questions, but eventually she asked Grace to tell them about “Help Kids!” and her work with the victims of child abuse. She told them about St. Mary's and Saint Andrew's, and “Help Kids!” She made a plea for children everywhere that they never had to go through what she had gone through. Despite their probing and the lack of sympathy with which they had handled much of it, and the spuriousness, she had turned it into a deeply moving and very sympathetic interview, and everyone congratulated her afterwards. Charles was particularly proud of her, and they spent a quiet evening after the cameras had left, and talked about all that had happened. It had been a terrible time for Grace, but at least she had said her piece now.

They spent her birthday at home, and Abigail had friends over that night. But only because her parents had insisted. It was her birthday too. And Grace was very quiet as she sat at the pool with Charles. She was still feeling shaken and withdrawn, and she hated going anywhere. People were still harassing her, even in bank lines and public rest rooms. She was happier at home, behind her walls, and she dreaded going out, even with Charles. In spite of his campaign, it was a very quiet summer.

But by August, finally, everything seemed to be back to normal. There were no more photographers camped outside, and she hadn't been on the cover of the tabloids in weeks.

“I guess you're just not popular anymore,” Charles teased. He actually managed to take a week off to be with her, and he was glad he had. Her asthma had gotten bad again, for the first time in years, and she was feeling ill. He was sure it was stress, but this time she suspected what it was before he did. She was pregnant.

“In the middle of all this furor? How did you manage that?” He was shocked at first, but he was happy too. Their children were what brought them the most joy in all their years together. He worried about her during the campaign though. The baby was due in March, and she was two months pregnant, which meant that she'd be campaigning all through the early months. She'd be five months pregnant at the election. He wanted her to take it easy, and try not to wear herself out too much, or get too upset over the press when they went back to Washington. And then he groaned as he thought of it. “I'll be fifty-nine years old when this baby is born, I'll be eighty when he or she graduates from college. Oh my God, Grace.” He smiled ruefully, and she scolded him.

“Oh shut up. I'm starting to look like the older woman in your life, so don't complain to me. You look like you're thirty.” He nearly did too. Not thirty, but forty easily. He had barely been touched by the hands of time, but at thirty-nine she didn't look bad either.

In September, they moved back to Washington. In spite of his campaign, they had had a quiet summer. They had only gone out with close friends in Greenwich, and because of the furor she'd caused in June, and her early pregnancy, he had done all of his campaigning without her.

Abigail started high school that year. Andrew went into his second year, and he had a new girlfriend, her father was the French ambassador. And Matt started third grade with all the usual commotion of new backpacks, school supplies, whether to have hot lunch or bring his own. For Matt, every day was still a big adventure.

They hadn't told them about the baby yet, Grace thought it was too soon. She was just three months pregnant, and they had decided to wait until after Matt's birthday in September. Grace had planned a party for him. And little by little, she started going out with Charles again. It was hard being seen again, knowing that her ugly past had become part of everyone's dinner conversation. But there hadn't been anything written about her in weeks, and she was feeling guilty about not campaigning with her husband.

It was a hot September Saturday afternoon, the day before Matthew's party, and Grace was buying some things they needed at Sutton Place Gourmet, like ice cream and plastic knives and forks and sodas. And as she stood at the checkout stand, waiting to pay, she almost fainted when she saw it. The latest edition of the tabloid Thrill had just been set out, and Charles hadn't been warned this time. There was a photograph of her nude, with her head thrown back and her eyes closed, right on the cover. There were two black boxes covering her breasts and her pubic area, and other than that, the photograph left nothing to the imagination. Her legs were spread wide, and she looked like she was in the throes of passion. The headline read “Senator's Wife Did Porno in Chicago.” She thought she was going to throw up as she gathered them up, and held a hundred-dollar bill out with a trembling hand. For a moment she didn't know what she was doing.

“You want all of them?” The young clerk looked surprised as she nodded. She was almost breathless. But her inhaler was her constant friend now.

“Do you have more?” she said hoarsely to him. And he nodded.

“Sure. In the back. You want them too?”

“Yes.” She bought fifty copies of Thrill, and the groceries she needed for Matt, and ran to her car, as though she had just bought the only copies in existence and she was going to hide them. And as she drove home, crying behind the wheel, she realized how stupid she had been. You couldn't buy them all up. It was like emptying the ocean with a teacup.

She ran into the house as soon as she stopped the car, but Charles was sitting in the kitchen looking stunned, holding a copy of the tabloid in his hands. His chief aide had just seen it and brought it to him. They had never warned them. The aide saw the look on Grace's face, and left immediately, and Charles looked at her with real shock for the first time. She had never seen him look as betrayed or as weary, and seeing him that way almost killed her.

“What is this, Grace?”

“I don't know.” She was crying as she sat down next to him, shaking. “I don't know …”

“It can't be you.” But it looked like her. You could see her face. Even though her eyes were closed, she was completely recognizable. And then suddenly, she knew … he must have taken off her clothes … he must have taken them all off. … The only thing she was wearing was a black ribbon around her neck. He must have put it on her, for sex appeal, while she was sleeping. The credit for the photograph said Marcus Anders. She went even paler than she was when she first saw it. And Charles had seen her look. He knew there was something to it. “Do you know who took this?”

She nodded, wishing that she could die for him. Wishing, for his sake, that she had never met him, or borne his children.

“What is this, Grace?” For the first time in sixteen years, his tone was icy. “When did you do this?”

“I don't know for sure that I did,” she said, choking on her own words as she sat down slowly at the kitchen table. “I … I went out with a photographer a few times in Chicago. I told you about him. He said he wanted to take pictures of me, and they wanted me to at the agency …” She faltered and he looked shocked.

“They wanted you to do porno? What kind of agency was this?”

“It was a modeling agency,” the life was going out of her. She couldn't fight this anymore, she couldn't defend herself forever. She would leave him if he wanted her to. She would do anything he wanted. “They wanted me to model, and he said he'd take some shots, like for a portfolio. We were friends. I trusted him, I liked him. He was the first man I'd ever gone out with. I was twenty-one years old. I had no experience. My roommates hated him, they were a lot smarter than I was. He took me to his studio, he played a lot of music, he poured me some wine … and he drugged me. I told you about it a long time ago.” But he no longer remembered. “I guess I must have passed out. I was completely out of it, and I think he took pictures of me when I was asleep, but I was wearing a man's shirt, it was no worse than that. I never took my clothes off.”

“How do you know that for sure?”

She looked at him honestly. She had never lied to him, and she didn't intend to start now. “I don't. I don't know anything. I thought he had raped me, but he hadn't. My roommate took me to a doctor and she said nothing had happened. I tried to get the negatives from him, and he wouldn't give them to me. My roommates finally said I should just forget it. He needed a release to use them, if I was recognizable, and if I wasn't, who cared anyway. I would have liked to get them back, but I knew I couldn't. At one point, he tried to make it sound like I'd signed a release, but then he gave me the impression that I hadn't. I don't see how I could have anyway. I was so stoned from what he gave me, I could barely see when I left.

“He showed the pictures to the head of the agency afterwards, and the head of the agency made a pass at me. He said the shots were pretty hot, but he said that I had a shirt on, so I figured nothing really terrible had happened. I never saw the pictures. I never saw him again. I never thought we'd be in this position, that I'd be married to someone important and we'd be vulnerable.” Now he could do anything he wanted. And they looked terrible. They looked like real porno. All she was wearing was a black ribbon she'd never seen before tied at her throat. And as she stared at the photograph, she saw that she looked drugged. She looked completely out of it, to her own eyes. But to a stranger, intent on seeing something lewd, it was everything they could have wanted. She couldn't believe anyone could do something like that. He had destroyed her life with a single picture. She just sat there, looking at Charles, her whole body sagging with grief as she saw the pain on his face. Killing her father in self-defense was bad enough, but how was he going to explain this to his constituents, the media, and their children?

“I don't know what to say. I can't believe you'd do such a thing.” He was overwhelmed, and his chin was quivering with unshed tears. He couldn't even look at her as he turned away and cried. Nothing he could have done to her could have been worse. She would have preferred it if he had hit her.

“I didn't do it, Charles,” she said weakly, crying too. She knew for a certainty that their marriage had just ended over Marcus's pictures. “I was drugged.”

“What a fool you were … what a fool …” She couldn't deny that. “And what a bastard he must have been to make you do that.” She nodded through her tears, unable to say anything in her own defense. And a moment later, Charles took the paper and went upstairs alone to their bedroom. She didn't follow him. She was beside herself, but she knew that on Monday, the day after Matt's party, she would have to leave him. She had to leave all of them. She couldn't keep putting them through this.

The photograph itself was on the news that night, and the story broke so big that every network and wire service in the country were calling. His aides were frantically trying to explain that it was probably all a mistake, the girl only looked like her, and no, Mrs. Mackenzie was not available for comment. But even worse, there was an interview with Marcus the next day. He had white hair, and he looked seedy in the interview, but he said with a lascivious smile that the photographs were indeed of Grace Mackenzie, and he had a signed release to prove it. He held it up for all to see and explained that she had posed for him in Chicago eighteen years before. “She was a real hot mama,” he said, smiling. And from the photographic evidence, she certainly looked it.

“Was she in great financial need at the time?” the interviewer asked, pretending to look for a sympathetic reason why she had done it.

“Not at all. She loved doing it,” he said, smiling. “Some women do.”

“Did she give you the release to use the photographs commercially?”

“Of course.” He looked insulted even to be asked. They flashed the photograph again, and then moved on to another topic, as Grace stared at the screen in unconcealed hatred. She had never given a release to him, and when Goldsmith the libel attorney called back at noon, she told him point-blank that she had signed no release to Marcus Anders.

“We'll see what we can do, Grace. But if you posed for that photograph, and gave him a release, there isn't a damn thing we can do.”

“I did not sign a release to him. I didn't sign anything.”

“Maybe he forged it. I'll do my best. But you can't unring a bell, Grace. They've seen it. It's out there. You can't take it back, or undo it. If you posed for it eighteen years ago, you've got to know it's out there, and it'll come back to haunt you.” And then, in a worried tone, “Are there any others? Do you know how many he took?”

“I have no idea.” She almost groaned as she said it.

“If the paper bought them from him in good faith, and he represented to them that he had a release, and presented one to them, then they're protected.”

“Why is everyone protected except me? Why am I always the guilty party?” It was like getting beaten again, and raped. She was a victim again. It was no different from getting raped night after night by her father. Only her father wasn't doing it anymore, everyone else was. And it wasn't fair. It wasn't fair that just because Charles was in politics they had a right to destroy her and their family. They had had sixteen wonderful years, and now it had all turned into a nightmare. It was like coming back full circle, and being put back in prison. She was helpless against the lies. The truth meant nothing. Everything she'd done, everything she'd lived, everything she'd built had been wasted.

And by that afternoon she'd seen a copy of the release, and there was no denying that she had signed it. The handwriting was shaky, and the forms a little loose, but even to her own eyes, she recognized the signature. She couldn't believe it. He had obviously made her do it when she was barely conscious.

Matthew's party was subdued, everyone had either heard about or seen the tabloids. All the parents who dropped their children off gave Grace strange looks, or at least she thought so. Charles was on hand to greet them too, but the two of them had barely spoken since the night before, and he had spent the night in their guest room. He needed time to think, and to absorb what had happened.

They had talked to the children about the photographs that morning. Matthew didn't really understand what they were about, but Abigail and Andrew did. Andrew looked agonized, and Abigail had burst into tears again. She couldn't believe all that her mother had put them through. How could she do it?

“How can you lecture us about the way we behave, about morality, and not sleeping with boys, when you did things like that? I suppose you were forced to do it, just like your father forced you? Who forced you this time, Mom?” Grace had lost control this time, and she had slapped Abigail across the face, and then apologized profusely. But she just couldn't take it anymore. She was tired of the lies, and the price they ail had paid.

“I never did that, Abigail. Not knowingly, at least. I was drugged and tricked by a photographer in Chicago when I was very young and stupid. But to the best of my knowledge, I never posed for that picture.”

“Yeah, sure.” But it was all more than Grace could take. She didn't discuss it with them any further. And half an hour later, Abigail left to spend the evening with a friend, and Andrew went out with his new girlfriend.

Matthew enjoyed his party anyway, and Grace cooked dinner for him afterwards. Abby called to say she was spending the night with her friend, and Grace didn't argue with her. And Andrew came in at nine, but didn't disturb them.

Charles was in the library working again, and Grace knew what she had to do. When Charles came into their bedroom to get some papers, he pretended not to be concerned, but he was startied to see her packing a suitcase.

“What's that all about?” Charles asked casually.

“I figure you've been through enough, and rightfully so,” she said quietly, with her back to him. She was packing two big suitcases and he was suddenly worried. He had been hard on her, but he had a right to be upset. Anyone would have been shocked. But he was willing to let her past die quietly behind them. He hadn't told her that yet, but he was slowly coming around. Some things were harder than others. He just needed some time to himself to absorb it. He thought that she'd understand that, but apparently, she didn't.

“Where is it you're going?” he asked quietly.

“I don't know. New York, I think.”

“To look for a job?” He smiled, but she didn't see him.

“Yeah, as a porno queen. I've got a great portfolio now.”

“Come on, Grace,” he moved closer to her, “don't be silly.”

“Silly?” She turned on him. “You think that's what this is? You think having stuff like that out is silly? You think it's silly to destroy your husband's career and get to the point that your children hate you?”

“They don't hate you. They don't understand. None of us does. It's hard to understand why anyone wants to hurt you.”

“They just do. They've done it all my life. I should be used to it by now. It's no big deal. And don't worry, without me, you should win the election.” She sounded hurt and angry and defeated.

“That's not as important to me as you are,” he said gently.

“Bullshit,” she said, sounding hard. But at that moment she hated herself for everything she'd done to him, for ever loving him, or thinking that she could leave the past behind her. She couldn't leave anything behind. It had all come with her, like clanking tin cans tied to her tail, and they reeked of all that was rotten.

Charles went back downstairs again, thinking that she needed to be alone, and they both spent a lonely night in their separate quarters.

She made breakfast for him and Andrew and Matt the next day, and Charles made a point of telling her again not to go anywhere. He was referring to the night before and the suitcase, but she pretended not to understand, in front of the boys. And then they all left. Charles had a lot of important meetings, and press fires to put out, and he never had time to call her till noon, and when he did there was no answer.

Grace was long gone by then. She had written to each of them the night before, sitting up in bed, crying over the words until her tears blurred her eyes and she had to start again and again, just to tell them how much she loved them and how sorry she was for all the pain that she had caused them. She told them each to take care of Dad, and be good to him. The hardest one to write was to Matt. He was still too young. He probably wouldn't understand why she had left him. She was doing it for them. She was the bait that had brought the sharks, now she had to get as far away from them as possible, so no one would hurt them. She was going to New York for a few days, just to catch her breath, and she left the letters for Charles to give them.

And after New York, she thought she'd go to L.A. She could find a job, until the baby came. She would give it to Charles then … or maybe he'd let her keep it. She was upset and confused and sobbing when she left. The housekeeper saw her go, and heard her wrenching sobs in the garage, but she was afraid to go to her and intrude. She knew what she was crying about or so she thought. She'd cried herself when she'd seen the tabloids.

But Grace didn't take the car. She had called a cab, and waited for it outside the house with her bags. The housekeeper saw the cab pull away, but she wasn't sure who was inside. She thought Grace was still in the garage, getting ready to do some errands before she picked up Matthew. In fact, she had called a friend to pick him up, and she had left a long, agonizing letter for Charles in their bedroom, with the ones for her children.

The cabdriver drove as fast as he could to Dulles Airport, chatting all the while. He was from Iran, and he told her how happy he was in the United States, and that his wife was having a baby. He talked incessantly and Grace didn't bother to listen to him. She felt sick when she saw that he had the picture of her on the cover of Thrill on the front seat of the cab, and he was looking over his shoulder to talk to her, when he ran right into another cab, and then was rear-ended hard, by two cars behind him. It took them more than half an hour to get unsnarled. The highway patrol came, no one appeared to be hurt, so all they had to do was exchange all their numbers, driver's licenses, and the names of their insurance carriers. To Grace, it seemed endless. But she had nowhere to go anyway. She was taking a commuter flight, and she could always catch the next one.

“You all right?” The driver looked worried. He was terrified that somebody would complain to his boss, but she promised she wouldn't. “Hey,” he said, pointing to Thrill as she felt panic rise in her throat, “you look like her!” He meant it as a compliment, but Grace didn't look pleased. “She's a pretty girl, huh? Pretty woman!” He gazed admiringly at the photograph that was supposed to be Grace but somehow didn't seem right whenever she looked at it, “she's married to a congressman,” he continued. “Lucky guy!” Was that how people looked at it, she wondered. Lucky guy? Too bad Charles didn't think so, but who could blame him?

He dropped her off at the airport, and she felt a little twinge in her neck from when they'd been hit, and she felt a little stiff, but it was nothing major. She didn't want to make any trouble for him. And she just managed to catch her flight. It wasn't until after they landed in New York that she realized she was bleeding. But it wasn't too bad. If she could just get to the hotel and rest, she'd be fine. She'd had a few incidents like that with Matt and Andrew when she was pregnant, the doctor had told her to rest, and the bleeding had always stopped quickly.

She gave the cabdriver the address of the Carlyle Hotel on East Seventy-sixth Street and Madison. She had made the reservation from the plane. It was only half a dozen blocks from where she used to live, and she liked it. She had stayed there once with Charles, and she had happy memories there. She had happy memories everywhere with him. Until June, their life had been idyllic.

She checked in at the desk. They were expecting her, and she had registered under the name of Grace Adams. They gave her a small room filled with rose-covered chintz, and the bellboy put down her two bags. She tipped him, and he left, and no one had said how remarkable her resemblance was to the porno queen in the tabloids.

She wondered as she lay down on the bed if Charles had come home by then and found her letter. She knew she wouldn't call. It was better to leave like this, if she called and talked to them at all, especially Charles, or Matt, she knew she couldn't do it.

She was exhausted as she lay on the bed thinking of them, she felt drained and utterly worn out, and her neck still hurt, and she had little nagging cramps low in her abdomen and in her back. She knew it was nothing. She didn't have the strength to go to the bathroom. She just lay there, feeling weak and sad, and slowly the room began to spin around, and eventually she drifted off into the blackness.

She woke again at four a.m., and by this time the cramps she'd felt earlier were really bad. She rolled over, and moaned in pain. She could hardly stand them. She lay there curled up for a long time, and then she looked down at the bed underneath her. It was soaked with blood and so were her slacks. She knew she had to do something soon, before she passed out again. But standing up was so painful, she almost fainted. She grabbed her handbag, and crawled to the door, pulling the raincoat she'd brought tight around her. She staggered out into the hall, and rang for the elevator. She rode downstairs huddled over, but the elevator operators said nothing.

She knew the hospital was only half a block away, and all she had to do was get there in a hurry. She saw the bellmen watching her, and the clerk at the desk, and when she got outside into the warm September air, she felt a little better.

“Cab, miss?” the doorman asked, but she shook her head and tried to straighten up, but she couldn't. A flash of pain made her gasp, and suddenly a cramp of unbelievable strength buckled her knees, as he reached out and caught her. “Are you all right?”

“I'm fine … I just have … a little problem …” At first he thought she was drunk, but when he saw her face, he could see that she was in pain. And she looked vaguely familiar. They had so many regulars and movie stars, sometimes it was hard to know who you knew and who you didn't. “I was just going … to the hospital …”

“Why don't you take a cab? There's one right here. He'll take you right across Park Avenue and drop you off. I'd take you myself, but I can't leave the door,” he apologized, and she agreed to take the cab. She could hardly walk now. The doorman told him Lenox Hill, and she handed the doorman and the driver each five dollars.

“Thanks, I'll be fine,” she reassured everyone, but she didn't look it. After they'd crossed Park Avenue, and pulled into the space for the emergency room, the driver turned to look at her, and at first he didn't see her. She had slipped off the seat, and she was lying on the floor of his cab, unconscious.

Chapter 15

As they wheeled Grace into the emergency room, she saw lights spinning by overhead, and heard noises. There were metallic sounds, and someone called her by her first name. They kept saying it over and over, and then they were doing something terrible to her, and there was awful pain. She tried to sit up and stop them. What were they doing … they were killing her … it was terrible … why didn't they stop … she had never felt so much pain in her life. She screamed, and then everything went black, and there was silence.

The phone rang in the house in Washington. It was five-thirty in the morning. But Charles wasn't asleep. He had been awake all night, praying that she would call him. He'd been such a fool. He had been wrong to react the way he had, but they were all worn down by the constant attack of the tabloids. And it had been a shock. But the last thing he had wanted to do was lose her. He had told the kids she'd gone to New York for a conference for “Help Kids!” and would be back in a few days, which would give him a little time to find her. He wasn't sure where she was. He had tried calling the house in Connecticut all night and she wasn't there. He'd called the Carlyle in New York and there was no one registered by the name of Mackenzie. He wondered if she was at a hotel in Washington somewhere, hiding. And when the phone rang, he hoped it would be her, but it wasn't.

“Mr. Mackenzie?” The voice was unfamiliar. His name was on an I.D. card in her wallet, simply as Charles Mackenzie. And her driver's license read Grace Adams Mackenzie.

“Yes?” He wondered if it was going to be a crank call, and was sorry he had answered. The letters and calls had started again in full force after her photos.

“We have a Grace Mackenzie here.” The voice seemed totally without interest.

“Who are you?” Had she been kidnapped? Was she dead? … Oh God …

“I'm calling from Lenox Hill Hospital in New York. Mis. Mackenzie just came out of surgery.” … oh God … no … there had been an accident … “She was brought in by a cabdriver, hemorrhaging very badly.” Oh no … the baby … he felt a hand clutch his heart, but all he could think about was Grace now.

“Is she all right?” He sounded hoarse and frightened, but the nurse was slighdy reassuring.

“She's lost a lot of blood. But we'd rather not give her a transfusion.” They did everything they could now to avoid it. “She's stabilized, and her condition is listed as fair.” And then for a moment, the voice became almost human. “She lost the baby. I'm sorry.”

“Thank you.” He had to catch his breath and figure out what to do. “Is she conscious? Can I talk to her?”

“She's in the recovery room. I'd say she'll be there till eight-thirty or nine. They want to get her blood pressure up before they send her to a room, and it's still pretty low right now. I don't think she's going anywhere till later this morning.”

“She can't check out, can she?”

“I don't think so.” The nurse sounded surprised at the question. “I don't think she'll feel up to it. There's a key in her bag from the Carlyle Hotel. I called there. But they said no one was with her.”

“Thank you. Thank you very much for calling me. I'll be there as soon as I can.” He jumped out of bed as soon as he hung up, and scrawled a note to the kids about an early meeting. He dressed in five minutes, without shaving, and drove to the airport. He was there by six-thirty, and caught a seven o'clock flight. A number of the flight attendants recognized him, but no one said anything. They just brought him the newspaper, juice, a Danish, and a cup of coffee, like they did for everyone else, and left him alone. For most of the flight, he sat staring out the window.

They landed at eight-fifteen, and he got to Lenox Hill just after nine o'clock. They were just wheeling Grace into her room when he got there. He followed the gurney into the room, and she looked surprised to see him, and very groggy.

“How did you get here?” She looked confused, and her eyes kept drifting shut, as the nurse and the orderly left the room. Grace looked gray and utterly exhausted.

“I flew,” he smiled, standing next to her, and gently took her hand in his. He had no idea if she knew yet about the baby.

“I think I fell,” she said vaguely.

“Where?”

“I don't remember … I was in a cab in Washington and someone hit us …” She wasn't sure now if it was a dream or not … “And then, I had terrible pains …” She looked up at him, suddenly worried. “Where am I?”

“You're at Lenox Hill. In New York,” he said soothingly, sitting down in the chair next to her, but never letting go of her hand. He was frightened by how bad she looked and was anxious to speak to the doctor.

“How did I get here?”

“I think a cabdriver brought you in. You passed out in his cab. Drunk again, I guess.” He smiled, but without saying anything, she started to cry then. She had touched her belly and it felt flat. At three months there had been a little hill growing there and it was suddenly gone. And then she remembered the terrible pain the night before, and the bleeding. No one had told her anything yet about the baby. “Grace? … sweetheart, I love you … I love you more than anything. I want you to know that. I don't want to lose you.” She was crying harder then, for him, for the baby they'd lost, and their children. Everything was so difficult, and so sad now.

“I lost the baby … didn't I?” She looked at him for confirmation and he nodded. They both cried then, and he held her.

“I'm so sorry. I should have been smart enough to know you'd really go. I thought you were bluffing and needed some space that night. I almost died when I read your letter.”

“Did you give my letters to the children?”

“No,” he said honestly. “I kept them. I wanted to find you and bring you back. But if I'd been smart enough to keep you from going in the first place, you wouldn't have had the accident, and …” He was convinced it was all his fault.

“Shhh … maybe it was just from ail the stress we've been through … I guess it wasn't the right time anyway, with everything that's happened.”

“It's always the right time … I want to have another baby with you,” he said lovingly. He didn't care how old they both were, they both loved their children. “I want our life back.”

“So do I,” she whispered. They talked for a little while, and he stroked her hair and kissed her face, and eventually she fell asleep and he went to locate the doctor. But he wasn't encouraging. She had lost a dramatic amount of blood, and the doctor didn't think she'd be feeling well for a while, and he said that while she was certainly able to conceive again, he didn't recommend it. She had a startling amount of scarring, and he was actually surprised she'd gotten pregnant as often as she had. Charles did not volunteer an explanation for the scarring. The doctor suggested that she go to the hotel and rest for a couple of days, and then go home to Washington and stay in bed for at least another week, maybe two. A miscarriage at three months with the kind of hemorrhaging she'd experienced was nothing to take lightly.

They went from the hospital to the hotel that afternoon, and Grace was stunned by how weak she was. She could hardly walk and Charles carried her into the hotel, and to her room, and put her right to bed, and ordered room service for her. She was sad, but they were happy to be together, and the room was very cozy. He called his aides in Washington and told them that he wouldn't be back for a couple of days, and then he called the housekeeper and told her to explain to the children that he was with their mother in New York, and would be back in two days. She promised to stay with them until he returned, and drive Matt to school. Everything was in order.

“Nice and simple. Now all you have to do is get well, and try to forget what happened.”

But after they left the hospital, the nurse at the front desk had commented to the doctor, “Do you know who that was?” He had no idea. The name had meant nothing to him. “That was Congressman Mackenzie from Connecticut and his porno queen wife. Don't you read the tabloids?”

“No, I don't,” he said, barely amused. Porno queen or not, the woman had been very lucky not to bleed to death. And he wondered if her “porno” activities had anything to do with the scarring. But he didn't have time to worry about it, he had surgery all afternoon. She wasn't his problem.

At the hotel, Charles made her sleep as much as she could, and the next morning, Grace was feeling better. She ate breakfast and sat up in a chair, and she wanted to go out for a walk with him, but she didn't have the strength to do it. She couldn't believe how rotten she felt. He called her former obstetrician in New York, and he was nice enough to come to see her. He gave her some pills and some vitamins, and told her she'd just have to be patient. And when they went out in the hall, Charles asked him about what the doctor at Lenox Hill had said about the scarring. But her own doctor wasn't impressed. She'd had it for years and it had never given her any trouble.

“She's got to take it easy now though, Charles. She looks like she's lost a lot of blood. She's probably very anemic.”

“I know. She's had a rough time lately.”

“I know. I've seen. Neither of you deserves that. I'm sorry.”

He thanked him and the doctor left, and they curled up on the couch and watched old movies and ordered room service, and the next day, he bundled her up in a limousine, and took her to the airport, and put her in a wheelchair. He had thought about driving her back to Washington, but that seemed too tiring too. Flying was quicker. They flew first class, and he got another wheelchair for her when they arrived, and he wheeled her quickly through the airport. But she waved frantically for him to stop as they passed a newspaper stand. And they both stood there, dumbfounded by what they saw.

A new edition of the tabloid had come out with a raging headline. “Senator's Wife Sneaks off to New York for Abortion.” Grace burst into tears the minute she saw it, and he didn't even bother to buy one for them to read. There was a huge picture of her on the front from a congressional party months before. He just wheeled her through the airport at full speed and took her to where he had left his car two days before. She was still crying when he opened the door for her with a strained expression. Were they never going to give her a break and leave them alone? Apparently not.

He helped her into the car, and walked around and got in himself, and then he turned to her with a look that touched her very soul. “I love you. You can't let them destroy us … or you … we have to get through this.”

“I know,” she said, but she couldn't stop crying.

At least this time, the six o'clock news did not dignify the story with a comment. This was strictly tabloid material. And they told the children about it that night but said it wasn't true. They said that Grace had gone to New York and been in an accident in a cab, which was almost true. She had, but it had been in Washington, and she had lost a baby. But Grace didn't think they should know that, so they didn't tell them about the miscarriage.

She was still feeling very weak the next day, but the children were being very good to her, even Abby brought breakfast to her room, and at lunchtime Grace went downstairs for a cup of tea, and happened to look out the window. There were pickets lined up outside carrying signs of “Murderess!” “Baby Killer!” “Abortion Monger.” There were photographs of aborted fetuses, and Grace had an asthma attack the moment she saw them.

She had Charles paged, and when he called her he was horrified, and told her he'd call the police immediately. They came half an hour later, but the pickets only moved across the street, in peaceful demonstration. And by then, a camera crew had arrived, and it became a circus. Charles came home shortly after that, and he was beginning to wonder if they would ever have a normal life again. He refused to comment to the camera crew, and said that his wife had been in a car accident and was ill and he would really appreciate their leaving, after which there was a lot of hooting and jeering.

But that afternoon, when the children came home, the pickets were gone, and only the camera crew remained, and Grace, looking deathly pale, was fixing dinner.

Charles tried to force her to go upstairs, but she flatly refused. “I've had enough. I'm not going to let them ruin our lives anymore. We're going back to normal,” She was determined, although she was visibly shaky, but he had to admire her, as he pushed a chair under her and suggested she sit down while he made dinner.

“Could you maybe wait a week before this show of strength?” he suggested.

“No, I can't,” she said firmly. And much to everyone's surprise, they had a very pleasant dinner. Abby seemed to have calmed down again while Grace was gone, and if anything, she seemed helpful and sympathetic. It was hard to know what, but something had turned her around. Maybe there had just been so much grief, that she had figured out they all needed each other. And Andrew commented on the ghouls outside, and said he was tempted to moon them from his bedroom window, which made everyone laugh, even Grace, although she told him not to.

“I don't think we need to see any more Mackenzie flesh in the tabloids,” she said ruefully.

And afterwards, while she straightened up, Abby asked her quietly. “That wasn't true about the abortion, was it, Mom?” She looked a little worried.

“No, sweetheart, it wasn't.”

“I didn't think so.”

“I would never have an abortion. I love your father very much, and I would love to have another baby.”

“Do you think you will?”

“Maybe. I don't know. There's an awful lot going on right now. Poor Dad is under a lot of pressure.”

“So are you,” she said, sympathetic for the first time. “I was talking to Nicole's mom about it, and she said she felt really sorry for you, that most of the time, they tell lies and ruin people's lives. It made me realize how awful for you all this must be. I didn't mean to make it worse.” There were tears in her eyes as she said it.

“You didn't” Grace leaned over and kissed her.

“I'm sorry, Mom.” They hugged for a long time, and had a quiet moment, and then they walked upstairs arm in arm, and Charles smiled as he watched them.

Life was peaceful again, for the next few days, with the exception of hate letters about her alleged abortion. But by the weekend, another of Marcus's photographs had been printed in Thrill again. She wore the same black velvet ribbon around her neck, and the same lack of clothes. It was essentially the same photograph they'd seen before, just a slightly different position, and only slightly more suggestive. It didn't shock her anymore, it just made her angry. And, of course, his supposed “release” from her allegedly covered this one also.

“What are we supposed to wait for here? An entire album?” Grace said in fury. But Goldsmith told them again that they had no legal recourse, all the same conditions existed as before. There was supposedly a signed “release” with her signature, and the fact that Marcus owned the pictures and she was a so-called celebrity because of whom she was married to allowed him to publish whatever he wanted. As celebrities, they had no right to privacy anyway, so they could not be “invaded,” and they couldn't prove loss of income, or actual malice. “Do you suppose we should call that bastard Marcus and try to buy the rest of what he has?” she asked Charles, but he shook his head.

“You can't. That would be like paying blackmail, and he might not sell them to you anyway. He might keep some of them back, there's no way of knowing. Thrill is probably paying him a pretty penny for this. Pictures like that of someone like you are worth a lot of money.”

“Nice for him, maybe we should get a commission.”

She was so angry, but there was nothing she could do. And the following week she went to some campaign events with Charles. It was hard to determine how much damage the tabloids had done, people still greeted her warmly. But it was certainly unsettling for all of them, and very distracting.

A third photograph was released two weeks later, and this time when Matt came home from school, he was crying. And when Grace asked what had happened, he said that one of his friends had called her a bad name. She felt as though she'd been slapped when he said it.

“What kind of a name?” She tried to sound calm, but she wasn't.

“You know,” he said miserably. “The ‘H’ one.”

She smiled sadly at him. “It doesn't start with an ‘H.’ Unless you mean harlot.”

“It wasn't that one,” he said miserably. He didn't want to tell her.

“Darling, I'm so sorry.” She put her arms around him, and wanted to run away again. But she knew she couldn't run away anymore. She had to face it with them.

It happened again at his school, and again the day after. And Charles and Grace got into a fight over it that night. She wanted to take the children back to Connecticut, and he told her she couldn't run away. They had to stand and fight, and she told him she refused to destroy her family over his “damn campaign.” But that wasn't what it was about, and they both knew it. They were just frustrated at their own helplessness, and needed to scream at someone, since they couldn't do anything to stop what was happening.

But Matthew didn't understand that, and when Grace went to tuck him in, she couldn't find him. She asked Abby where he'd gone, and she shrugged and pointed to his room. She was on the phone with Nicole and she hadn't seen him. And Andrew hadn't seen him either. She went downstairs to Charles in the den, still annoyed at him, and asked if he'd seen Matthew.

“Isn't he upstairs?” They exchanged a look and he suddenly caught Grace's concern, and they started looking for him in earnest. He was nowhere. “He couldn't have gone out,” Charles said, looking worried. “We'd have seen him.”

“No, we wouldn't necessarily.” And then in an undertone, “Do you think he heard us fighting?”

“Maybe.” Charles looked even more upset than she did. He was worried about kidnapping if Matt was wandering the streets somewhere. Washington was a dangerous city after dark. And when they went upstairs again, they found the note he had left in his room. Don 't fight over me anymore. I'm leaving. Love, Matt. Mom and Dad, I love you. Say bye to Kisses for me. Kisses was their chocolate Lab, because when they'd gotten her Grace had said she looked like a little pile of Hershey Kisses.

“Where do you think he went?” Grace looked panicked as she asked him.

“I don't know. I'm calling the police.” Charles's whole face was tense, and his jaw was working.

“It'll wind up in the tabloids,” she said nervously.

“I don't care. I want to find him tonight, before anything happens.” They were both frantic and the police reassured them that they would find him as soon as possible. They said that kids his age wandered off all the time, and usually stayed pretty close to home. They asked for a list of his best friends and a picture of him, and they set out in the squad car. Charles and Grace stayed home to wait for him, in case he came back. But the policemen were back with him half an hour later. He had been buying Hostess Twinkies at a convenience store two blocks away and feeling very sorry for himself. They had spotted him at once, and he didn't resist coming home. He was ready.

“Why did you do that?” Grace asked, still shaken by what he'd done. She just couldn't believe it. None of their children had ever run away. But they'd also never been under that kind of pressure.

“I didn't want you and Dad fighting over me,” Matt said sadly. But it had been scary outside, and he was glad to be back now.

“We weren't fighting over you, we were just talking.”

“No you weren't, you were fighting.”

“Everybody fights sometimes,” Charles explained, and pulled him down on his knee as he sat down. The police had just left and they had promised Charles not to tell the papers. There had to be something private in their lives, even if it was only their eight-year-old running away for half an hour. Nothing else was sacred.

“Mommy and I love each other, you know that.”

“Yeah, I know … it's just that everything has been so yucky lately. People keep saying stuff in school, and Mom cries all the time.” She looked guilty as she thought about it. She did cry a lot these days, but who wouldn't?

“Remember what I told you the other day,” Charles explained. “We have to be strong. All of us. For each other. We can't run away. We can't give up. We just have to stick together.”

“Yeah, okay,” he said, only half convinced, but happy to be home again. It had been a dumb idea to run away and he knew it.

His mother walked him upstairs and tucked him in and they all went to bed early that night. Grace and Charles were exhausted and Matthew was asleep almost the moment his head hit the pillow. Kisses was lying at the foot of the bed, and snoring softly.

But the following week, another photograph was released and this one showed Grace full face, staring into the camera, with glazed eyes and a look of surprise on her face, with her eyes wide-open as though someone had just done something really shocking and deli-ciously sensual to her. They were the most erotic series of photographs she had ever seen, and little by little, bit by bit they were driving her crazy.

She called information then, and wondered why she had taken so long to do it. He wasn't in Chicago. Or in New York. He was in Washington, they told her finally at Thrill It was perfect. Why hadn't she thought of it sooner? She knew she had absolutely no choice. It didn't matter what happened to her anymore. She had to.

She opened the safe and took Charles's gun out, and then she got in her car and drove to the address she'd jotted down on a piece of paper. The kids were at school, and Charles was at work. No one knew where she was going, or what she intended to do. But she knew. She had it planned, and it was going to be worth whatever it cost her.

She rang the bell at his studio on F Street, and she was surprised when someone buzzed her in without asking who she was. It meant either that they were very big and busy, or extremely sloppy. Because with a lot of valuable equipment around, they should have been more careful, but fortunately, they weren't.

It was all so easy, she couldn't imagine why she had never thought of it before. The door was open, and there was no one there, except Marcus. He didn't even have an assistant. He had his back to her, and he was bending over a camera, shooting a bowl of fruit on a table. He was all alone, and he didn't even see her.

“Hello, Marcus.” Her voice was unfamiliar to him after all these years. It was sensual and slow and she sounded happy to see him.

“Who's that?” He turned and looked at her with a surprised little smile, not recognizing her at first, wondering who she was, he liked her looks, and … then suddenly he realized who she was and he stopped dead in his tracks. She was pointing a gun at him and she was smiling.

“I should have done this weeks ago,” she said simply. “I don't know why I didn't think of it sooner. Now put down the camera, and don't touch the shutter or I'll shoot you and it, and I'd hate to hurt your camera. Put it down. Now.” Her voice was sharp and no longer sensual and he put the camera down carefully on the table behind him.

“Come on, Grace … don't be a bad sport … I'm just making a living.”

“I don't like the way you do it,” she said flatly.

“You look beautiful in the photographs, you have to give me that.”

“I don't give you shit. You're a piece of slime. You told me you never took my clothes off.”

“I lied.”

“And you must have had me sign the release when I was practically unconscious.” She was icy cold with fury, but she was in complete control now. It was entirely premeditated. This time it really would be murder one. She was going to kill him, and looking at her, he knew it. He had driven her too far, and she had snapped. She didn't care what they did to her this time. She'd survived it before. And it was worth it.

“Come on, Grace, be a sport. They're great pictures. Look, what's the difference. It's done. I'll give you the rest of the negatives.”

“I don't give a damn. I'm going to shoot your balls off. And after that, I'm going to kill you. I don't need a release for that. Just a gun.”

“For chrissake, Grace. Give it up. They're just pictures.”

“That's my life you've been fucking with … my children … my husband … my marriage …”

“He looks like a jerk anyway. He must be to put up with you … Christ, I remember all that prudey bullshit nineteen years ago. Even on drugs, you weren't any fun. You were a drag, Grace, a real drag.” He was vicious, and if she'd been less wound up she'd have seen that he was coked up to the gills. He'd been using the money from Thrill to support his habit. “You were a real lousy piece of ass even then,” he went on, but at least she knew the truth about that.

“You never slept with me,” she said coolly.

“Sure, I did. I've got pictures to prove it.”

“You're sick.” He started sniveling then, whining about how she had no right to come in here like that and try and interfere with how he made his living.

“You're a rotten little creep,” she said as she cocked the trigger, and the sound of it startied both of them.

“You're not going to do it, are you, Grace?” he whined.

“Yes, I am. You deserve it.”

“You'll go back to prison,” he said in a wheedling tone, as his nose ran pathetically. The past nineteen years had not been good to him. He had stooped to a lot of things in the meantime, few of them legal.

“I don't care if I go back,” she said coldly. “You'll be dead. It's worth it” He sank to his knees then.

“Come on … don't do it … I'll give you all the pictures … they were only going to run two more anyway … I've got one of you with a guy, it's a real beauty … you can have it for free …” He was crying.

“Who has the photographs?” What guy? There had been no one else in the studio, or had there been while she was sleeping? It was disgusting to think of.

“I have them. In the safe. I'll get them.”

“The hell you will. You probably have a gun in there. I don't need them.”

“Don't you want to see them, they're gorgeous.”

“All I want to see is you dead on the floor, and bleeding,” she said, feeling her hand shake. And as she looked at him, she didn't know why, but she suddenly thought of Charles, and then Matthew … if she shot Marcus, she would never be with them again, except in prison visiting rooms, probably forever. … It took her breath away, thinking about it, and all she suddenly wanted to do was hold them, and feel them next to her … and Abby and Andrew. … “Get up!” she said viciously to Marcus. He did, crying at her again. “And stop whining. You're a miserable piece of shit”

“Grace, please don't shoot me.”

She backed slowly toward the door, and he knew she was going to shoot him from there, and all he could do was cry and beg her not to.

“What do you want to live for?” she asked angrily. She was furious at him now. He wasn't worth her time. Or her life. How could she have even thought he was? “What does a miserable piece of slime like you want to live for? Just for money? To ruin other people's lives? You're not even worth shooting.” And with that, she turned around, and hurried down the stairs, before he could even think of following her. She was out the door and back in her car, before he could even cross the room. All he did was sit down on the floor and cry, unable to believe she hadn't shot him. He had been absolutely certain she was going to kill him, and he'd been right, until the last five minutes. Just seeing him again, standing there, sniveling, coked out to the gills, had brought her to her senses.

She drove home and put the gun away, and then she called Charles. “I have to see you,” she said urgently. She didn't want to tell him on the phone, in case someone was listening, but she wanted him to know what she'd almost done. She had almost gone crazy. She had, for a while, but thank God, she had come to her senses.

“Can it wait till lunch?”

“Okay.” She was still shaking from what had happened. She could have been in jail by then and on her way back to prison for life. She couldn't believe she had almost been that stupid. But that's what it had driven her to, all the lies, and the agony, the humiliation, and the exposure.

“Are you all right?” he sounded worried.

“I'm fine. Better than I've been for a while.”

“What did you do?” he teased, “Kill someone?”

“No, I didn't, as a matter of fact.” She sounded vaguely amused.

“I'll meet you at Le Rivage at one o'clock.”

“I'll be there. I love you.”

They hadn't had a lunch date in a while, and she was happy to see him when he walked in. She was already waiting. He ordered a glass of wine, she never drank at lunch, and rarely at dinner. And then they ordered lunch. And when they had, she told him in an undertone what had happened. He literally grew pale when she told him. He was stunned. She knew how wrong it was, but for a moment, just a moment, it had seemed worth it.

“Maybe Matt's right, and I'd better behave myself, or you'll shoot me,” he said in a whisper, and she laughed at him.

“And don't you forget it.” But she knew she would never do anything like that again. It had been one moment of blind madness, but even in the height of her fury, she hadn't done it, and she was glad. Marcus Anders wasn't worth it.

“I guess that kind of takes the wind out of what I was going to tell you.” It had been quite a day for both of them. He couldn't even begin to imagine the horror it would have been if she had shot Marcus Anders. It didn't even bear thinking, though he could understand the provocation. He wasn't sure what he'd have done himself if he'd ever seen him. But thank God she had come to her senses. It was just one more confirmation to him that he was doing the right thing. It wasn't even a tough decision. “I'm withdrawing from the campaign, Grace. It's not worth it It's not right for us. We've been through enough. We don't need to do this anymore. It's what I said to you in New York. I want our life back. I've been thinking about it ever since then. How much more are we supposed to pay for all this? At what price glory?”

“Are you sure?” She felt terrible to have caused him to withdraw from politics. He wasn't running for his congressional seat again, and if he didn't persist in the senatorial race he'd be out of politics, for a while at least, or possibly forever. “What'll you do with yourself?”

“I'll find something to do,” he smiled. “Six years in Washington is a long time. I think it's enough now.”

“Will you come back?” she asked sadly. “Will we come back?”

“Maybe. I doubt it. The price is too high for some of us. Some people get away with it quietly forever. But we didn't. There was too much in your past, too many people were jealous of us. I think just the relationship we have and the kids get plenty of people riled. There are a lot of miserably envious, unhappy people in the world. You can't worry about it all the time. But you can't fight it forever either. I'm fifty-nine years old, and I'm tired, Grace. It's time to fold up our tents and go home.” He had already called a press conference for the next day, while she was threatening to kill Marcus Anders. The irony of it was amazing.

They told the children that night, and they were all disappointed. They were used to his being in politics, and they didn't want to go back to Connecticut full time. They all said it was boring, except in summer.

“Actually,” he admitted for the first time, “I've been thinking that a change of scene might do us all good for a while. Like maybe Europe. London, or France, or maybe even Switzerland for a year or two.”

Abby looked horrified and Matthew looked cautious. “What do they have in Switzerland, Dad?”

“Cows,” Abby said in disgust. “And chocolate.”

“That's good. I like cows and chocolate. Can we take Kisses?”

“Yes, except if we go to England.”

“Then we can't go to London,” Matthew said mat-ter-of-factly.

They all knew Andrew's vote would have been France since his girlfriend was going back to Paris for two years. Her father was being transferred to their home office on the Quai d'Orsay, and she had told him all about it.

“I can work in the Paris branch of our law firm, or our London branch, if I go back to the firm, or we can live cheaply and grow our own vegetables in a farmhouse somewhere. We have a lot of options.” He smiled at them. He'd been thinking about making a change ever since the attacks by the tabloids. But whatever they did after that, it was time for them to leave Washington, and they all knew it. It was just too high a price to pay for any man, or any family that stood behind him.

He had called Roger Marshall and apologized, and Roger said he understood completely. He thought there might be some other interesting opportunities in the near future, but it was too soon for Charles even to want to hear them.

The next morning, Charles was gracious and honorable and he looked relieved when he told the gathered members of the press that he was retiring from the senatorial race for personal reasons.

“Does this have to do with the photographs your wife posed for years ago, Congressman? Or is it because of her prison record coming out last June?” They were all such bastards. A new era had come to journalism, and it was not a pretty one. There had been a time when none of this would have happened. It was all muckraking and lies and maliciousness, actual or otherwise, provable or not. They went for the gut every time with a stiletto, and they didn't even care whose gut it was, as long as the stiletto came back with blood and guts on it. They had the mistaken impression that that was what their readers wanted.

“To the best of my knowledge,” Charles looked them in the eye, “my wife never posed for any photographs, sir.”

“What about the abortion? Was that true? … Will you be going back to Congress in two years? … Do you have any other political goals in mind? … What about a cabinet post? Has the President said anything if he gets reelected? … Is it true that she was in porno films in Chicago? …”

“Thank you, ladies and gentlemen, for all your kindness and courtesy over the past six years. Goodbye, and thank you.” He ended like the perfect gentleman he had always been, and he left the room without ever looking back. And in two more months, at the end of his congressional term, he would be gone, and it would be all over.

Chapter 16

The last photograph was released in Thrill two weeks after Charles resigned, and it was an anticlimax then, even to Grace. Marcus had sold it to them a month before, and he couldn't withdraw it, even with all his whining. A deal was a deal, and he had sold it and spent the money. But he was terrified that Grace would come back with the gun again, and this time maybe she'd get him. He was afraid to leave the studio, and he decided to leave town. He decided not to sell them the photograph of her with the guy that he'd spoken of. It was a great shot too, and they really looked like they were doing it. But she'd shoot him for sure over that one, and Thrill didn't really care anymore. Mackenzie had resigned and he was old news. Who cared about his old lady?

But three days after the picture came out, the wire services got a call. It was from a man in New York, he ran a photo lab, and Marcus Anders had burned him for a lot of money. Anders had made half a million bucks thanks to him, and he'd put it all up his nose and cheated the man who was calling. And besides, the lab man knew there was something rotten about what Anders was doing. At first, it had seemed all right, but then the photographs had just kept on coming. They had beaten her to death, and then the poor guy quit. It wasn't right, for a lot of reasons. So he blew the whistle.

His name was Jose Cervantes, and he was the best trick man in New York, probably in the business. He did beautiful retouching for respectable photographers, and some funny stuff when he was paid enough by guys like Marcus Anders. He could take Margaret Thatcher's head and put her on Arnold Schwarzenegger's body. All he needed was one single tiny seam, and you had it. Presto! Magic! All he'd needed for Grace's photos, he explained, was the tiny black ribbon he'd added at her neck and he could join her head to any body. He had chosen some really luscious ones, in some fairly exotic positions, but at first Marcus had told him it was for fun. It was only when he'd seen them printed in Thrill that he really knew what the photographer was doing. He could have come forward then, but he didn't want to get involved. He could have been charged with fraud, but there was nothing illegal about tricking photographs. It was done constantly for ads, for jokes, for greeting cards, for layouts. It was only when you did what Marcus had done that it became illegal. Therein lay the malicious intent, the actual malice everyone looked for and never found. But they had it this time.

Marcus Anders had set out to ruin her. He had had nothing to do with exposing her prison record, he hadn't even known about it, and he had forgotten his pictures of her completely. But once he saw the pieces on her in Thrill, about killing her father and going to jail, he unearthed his old pictures of her and set Jose working on them. Jose hadn't even recognized her till he read the first article in Thrill, and realized what Marcus was doing. But Marcus had all his work by then. And they were entirely faked. The original photographs were as she had remembered them, in Marcus's white shirt, many of them even in blue jeans. What had worked so well for their purposes was the expression on her face, as she lay back against the fur, drugged and only semiconscious. It made her look as though she were having sex at the time they were taken.

The story made a lot of news, and Thrill was wide-open for a major lawsuit. Mr. Goldsmith, the attorney, was delighted, and charges of fraud and malicious mischief were brought against Marcus, but he had disappeared by then, and word was he'd gone to Europe.

Marcus and Thrill had done it for fun, and for profit, and just to prove they could, each one not really caring, not taking responsibility, the artist, the photographer, the forger, the editor, and in the end, the Mac-kenzies were the victims.

But they all looked whole in body and soul again, as they packed their house in Washington, and went to spend Christmas in Connecticut. And then they went back to close the house on R Street. It had sold immediately to a brand-new congressman from Alabama.

“Will you miss Washington?” Grace asked, as they lay in bed on their last night in the house in Georgetown. He wasn't sure if she was sorry to leave or not. In some ways, she wasn't. In others she would miss it. She worried that Charles would always feel that he had left unfinished business. But he said he wouldn't. He had accomplished a lot in Congress in six years, and learned innumerable important lessons. The most important one he'd learned was that his family meant a lot more to him than his job. He knew he had made the right decision. They'd been through enough pain to last a lifetime. It had made the children stronger too, and brought them all closer together.

He had had other offers too, from corporations in the private sector, an important foundation or two, and of course they wanted him back at the law firm, but he hadn't made up his mind yet. And they were going to do exactly what he'd said. They were going to spend six or eight months in Europe. They were going to Switzerland, France, and England. He had already made arrangements with two schools while they were there, in Geneva and Paris. And Kisses was going to stay with friends in Greenwich until they came home for the summer. He'd have made his mind up by then about their future. And maybe, if she was up to it, Grace might have another baby. And if not, they were happy as they were. For Charles, all the doors were open.

The next day Grace was already in the car with the kids when the phone rang. Charles was making a last check of the house to make sure they hadn't left anything behind, but he had only found Matt's football, and a pair of old sneakers under the back porch, otherwise everything was gone. The house was empty.

The call was from the Department of State, from a man Charles knew only vaguely. Charles knew he was close to the President, but he had had few dealings with him, and he knew mainly that he was a good friend of Roger Marshall's.

“The President would like to see you sometime today, if you have time,” he said, and Charles smiled and shook his head. It never failed. Maybe he just wanted to say goodbye and thank him for a job well done, but it seemed less than likely.

“We were just about to drive to Connecticut. We're out of here. The kids are already in the car.”

“Would you all like to come over for a few minutes? I'm sure we could find something for them to do. He has fifteen minutes at ten forty-five, if that suits you.” Charles wanted to say “Why?” but he knew that wasn't done, and he didn't want to slam any doors behind him, surely not the one to the Oval Office.

“I suppose we could do that, if you can stand three noisy kids and a dog.”

“I've got five,” he laughed, “and a pig my wife bought me for Christmas.”

“We'll be right over.”

The kids were vastly impressed that they were stopping off at the White House to say goodbye.

“I'll bet he doesn't do that for everyone,” Matt said proudly, wishing he could tell someone.

“What's that all about?” Grace asked, as he drove the station wagon to Pennsylvania Avenue.

Theirs was the least distinguished vehicle to drive up to the White House in quite a while, he was sure, and he had told Grace honestly that he had absolutely no idea what they wanted.

“They want you to run for president in four years,” she grinned at him. “Tell him you don't have time.”

“Yeah. Sure.” He laughed at her as he left them in the car, and an aide came to invite them inside. They were going to give the kids a mini-tour, and a young Marine volunteered to walk Kisses. There was a nice friendly atmosphere that was typical of the current administration. They liked kids and dogs and people. And Charles.

In the Oval Office, the President told Charles that he was sorry he had withdrawn from the Senate race, but he understood it. There were times when one had to make decisions for one's own life, and not the country. And Charles told him that he appreciated the support, but would miss Washington, and hoped they'd meet again.

“I was hoping that too.” The President smiled at him, and asked him what his plans were, and Charles told him. They were leaving for Switzerland that week, for two weeks of skiing.

“How do you feel about France?” the President inquired conversationally, and Charles explained that they were going to Normandy and Brittany, and they had made arrangements to put the kids in school in Paris. “When do you plan to arrive?” He was looking pensive.

“By February or March probably. We're going to stay till school lets out in June. Then travel around England for a month, and come home. I figure we'll be ready by then, and I'd better go back to work one of these days.”

“How about in April?”

“Sir?” Charles didn't quite understand and the President smiled.

“I was asking how you felt about going back to work in April.”

“I'll still be in Paris then,” he said discreetly. He had no intention of coming back to Washington before a year, or even two, and not back to the States till that summer.

“That's not a problem,” the President continued. “The current ambassador to France would like to come home by April to retire. He hasn't been well this year. How would you feel about a post as ambassador to France for two or three years? And then we can talk about the next election. We'll need some good men in four years, Charles. I'd like to see you among them.”

“Ambassador to France?” He looked blank. He couldn't even imagine it, but it sounded like the chance of a lifetime. “May I discuss this with my wife?”

“Of course.”

“I'll call you, sir.”

“Take your time. It's a good post, Charles. I think you'd like it.”

“I think we all would.” Charles was bowled over. And the back door to Washington was open for him whenever he wanted.

He promised to let the President know in a few days. The two men shook hands, and Charles went downstairs looking excited. Grace could see that something had happened upstairs, and she was dying to know what it was. It took them forever to get the kids and the dog back into the car, and finally they did and everyone asked at Once what the President had said to him.

“Not much,” he teased them all and strung it out, as they drove away from the White House. “The usual stuff, you know, so long, have a great trip, don't forget to write.”

“Dad!” Abby complained, and Grace gave him a friendly shove.

“Are you going to tell us?”

“Maybe. What am I bid?”

“I'm going to push you out of the car, if you don't tell us soon!” she threatened.

“You'd better listen to her, Dad,” Matt warned, and the dog started to bark furiously as though she wanted to know too.

“Okay, okay. He said we're the worst-behaved people he's ever met and he doesn't want us back here.” He grinned and they all shouted at him in unison and told him he wasn't funny. “So bad, in fact, that he thinks we should stay in Europe.” In truth it had been hard enough to say goodbye to their friends in Washington after six years, but they were excited about their adventure abroad and Andrew could hardly wait to see his friend in Paris.

Charles was looking at Grace then, with a curious glance. “He offered me the ambassadorship to Paris,” he told her quietly as the kids continued to make a ruckus behind them.

“He did?” She looked stunned. “Now?”

“In April.”

“What did you say?”

“I said I had to ask you, all of you, and he said to let him know. What do you think?” He was looking at her as he drove through Washington, and headed north to Greenwich.

“I think we're the luckiest people alive,” she said, and meant it. They had come out nearly unscathed from the fires of hell, and they were still together. “You know what else I think?” she asked, leaning close to him as she whispered.

“What?”

She said it so the kids wouldn't hear. “I think I'm pregnant.” He looked at her with a grin, and answered back in a whisper just loud enough to be heard despite the din in the backseat.

“I'm going to be eighty-two when this one graduates from college, maybe I should stop counting. I suppose we'll have to name him François.”

“Françoise,” she corrected, and he laughed.

“Twins. Does that mean we're going?” he asked politely.

“Sounds like it, doesn't it?” The kids in the backseat were singing French songs at the top of their lungs and Andy was beaming.

“Do you mind having a baby over there?” he asked her quietly again. It worried him a little.

“Nope,” she grinned. “I can't think of anyplace I'd rather be than Paris.”

“Does that mean yes?”

She nodded. “I think so.”

“He said he'd like me back here in two or three years to talk about the next elections. But I don't know, I'm not sure I'd ever want to go through all this again.”

“Maybe we wouldn't next time. Maybe they wore themselves out.”

“After the stunt that jerk pulled with his photographs, we may end up owning Thrill by then,” he smiled ruefully. Goldsmith was going to be busy.

“We could burn it to the ground. What a nice idea.” She smiled evilly.

“I'd love to.” He smiled and leaned over and kissed her. In some ways, listening to their children laugh and sing in the backseat, and looking at her, made it seem as though the nightmare of the past months had never happened.

“Au revoir, Washington!” the kids shouted as they drove across the Potomac.

Charles looked at the place where so many dreams were born, and so many died, and shrugged his shoulders. “See ya.” Grace moved closer to him, and smiled as she looked out the window.

WATCH FOR THE NEW NOVEL

FROM

DANIELLE STEEL

On Sale in Hardcover

June 27, 2006

COMING OUT

Olympia Crawford Rubinstein has a way of managing her thriving family with grace and humor. With twin daughters finishing high school, a son at Dartmouth, and a kindergartener from her second marriage, there seems to be nothing Olympia can't handle … until one sunny day in May, when she opens an invitation for her daughters to attend the most exclusive coming out ball in New York—and chaos erupts all around her. …

From a son's crisis to a daughter's heartbreak, from a case of the chickenpox to a political debate raging in her household, Olympia is on the verge of surrender… until a series of startling choices and changes of heart, family and friends turn a night of calamity into an evening of magic. As old wounds are healed, barriers are shattered and new traditions are born, and a debutante ball becomes a catalyst for change, revelation, acceptance, and love.

Please turn the page for a special advance preview.

COMING OUT

on sale June 27, 2006

Chapter 1

Olympia Crawford Rubinstein was whizzing around her kitchen on a sunny May morning, in the brownstone she shared with her family on Jane Street in New York, near the old meat-packing district of the West Village. It had long since become a fashionable neighborhood of mostly modern apartment buildings with doormen, and old renovated brownstones. Olympia was fixing lunch for her five-year-old son, Max. The school bus was due to drop him off in a few minutes. He was in kindergarten at Dalton, and Friday was a half day for him. She always took Fridays off to spend them with him. Although Olympia had three older children from her first marriage, Max was Olympia and Harry's only child.

Olympia and Harry had restored the house six years before, when she was pregnant with Max. Before that, they had lived in her Park Avenue apartment, which she had previously shared with her three children after her divorce. And then Harry joined them. She had met Harry Rubinstein a year after her divorce. And now, she and Harry had been married for thirteen years. They had waited eight years to have Max, and his parents and siblings adored him. He was a loving, funny, happy child.

Olympia was a partner in a booming law practice, specializing in civil rights issues and class action lawsuits. Her favorite cases, and what she specialized in, were those that involved discrimination against or some form of abuse of children. She had made a name for herself in her field. She had gone to law school after her divorce, fifteen years before, and married Harry two years later. He had been one of her law professors at Columbia Law School, and was now a judge on the federal court of appeals. He had recently been considered for a seat on the Supreme Court. In the end, they hadn't appointed him, but he'd come close, and she and Harry both hoped that the next time a vacancy came up, he would get it.

She and Harry shared all the same beliefs, values, and passions—even though they came from very different backgrounds. He came from an Orthodox Jewish home, and both his parents had been Holocaust survivors as children. His mother had gone to Dachau from Munich at ten, and lost her entire family. His father had been one of the few survivors of Auschwitz, and they met in Israel later. They had married as teenagers, moved to London, and from there to the States. Both had lost their entire families, and their only son had become the focus of all their energies, dreams, and hopes. They had worked like slaves all their lives to give him an education, his father as a tailor and his mother as a seamstress, working in the sweatshops of the Lower East Side, and eventually on Seventh Avenue in what was later referred to as the garment district. His father had died just after Harry and Olympia married. Harry's greatest regret was that his father hadn't known Max. Harry's mother, Frieda, was a strong, intelligent, loving woman of seventy-six, who thought her son was a genius, and her grandson a prodigy.

Olympia had converted from her staunch Episcopalian background to Judaism when she married Harry. They attended a Reform synagogue, and Olympia said the prayers for Shabbat every Friday night, and lit the candles, which never failed to touch Harry. There was no doubt in Harry's mind, or even his mother's, that Olympia was a fantastic woman, a great mother to all her children, a terrific attorney, and a wonderful wife. Like Olympia, Harry had been married before, but he had no other children. Olympia was turning forty-five in July, and Harry was fifty-three. They were well matched in all ways, though their backgrounds couldn't have been more different. Even physically, they were an interesting and complementary combination. Her hair was blond, her eyes were blue; he was dark, with dark brown eyes; she was tiny; he was a huge teddy bear of a man, with a quick smile and an easygoing disposition. Olympia was shy and serious, though prone to easy laughter, especially when it was provoked by Harry or her children. She was a remarkably dutiful and loving daughter-in-law to Harry's mother, Frieda.

Olympia's background was entirely different from Harry's. The Crawfords were an illustrious and extremely social New York family, whose blue-blooded ancestors had intermarried with Astors and Vanderbilts for generations. Buildings and academic institutions were named after them, and theirs had been one of the largest “cottages” in Newport, Rhode Island, where they spent the summers. The family fortune had dwindled to next to nothing by the time her parents died when she was in college, and she had been forced to sell the “cottage” and surrounding estate to pay their debts and taxes. Her father had never really worked, and as one of her distant relatives had said after he died, “he had a small fortune, he had made it from a large one.” By the time she cleaned up all their debts and sold their property, there was simply no money, just rivers of blue blood and aristocratic connections. She had just enough left to pay for her education, and put a small nest egg away, which later paid for law school.

She married her college sweetheart, Chauncey Bedham Walker IV, six months after she graduated from Vassar, and he from Princeton. He had been charming, handsome, and fun-loving, the captain of the crew team, an expert horseman, played polo, and when they met, Olympia was understandably dazzled by him. Olympia was head over heels in love with him, and didn't give a damn about his family's enormous fortune. She was totally in love with Chauncey, enough so as not to notice that he drank too much, played constantly, had a roving eye, and spent far too much money. He went to work in his family's investment bank, and did anything he wanted, which eventually included going to work as seldom as possible, spending literally no time with her, and having random affairs with a multitude of women. By the time she knew what was happening, she and Chauncey had three children. Charlie came along two years after they were married, and his identical twin sisters, Virginia and Veronica, three years later. When she and Chauncey split up seven years after they married, Charlie was five, the twins two, and Olympia was twenty-nine years old. As soon as they separated, he quit his job at the bank, and went to live in Newport with his grandmother, the doyenne of Newport and Palm Beach society, and devoted himself to playing polo and chasing women.

A year later Chauncey married Felicia Weatherton, who was the perfect mate for him. They built a house on his grandmother's estate, which he ultimately inherited, filled her stables with new horses, and had three daughters in four years. A year after Chauncey married Felicia, Olympia married Harry Rubinstein, which Chauncey found not only ridiculous but appalling. He was rendered speechless when their son, Charlie, told him his mother had converted to the Jewish faith. He had been equally shocked earlier when Olympia enrolled in law school, all of which proved to him, as Olympia had figured out long before, that despite the similarity of their ancestry, she and Chauncey had absolutely nothing in common, and never would. As she grew older, the ideas that had seemed normal to her in her youth appalled her. Almost all of Chauncey's values, or lack of them, were anathema to her.

The fifteen years since their divorce had been years of erratic truce, and occasional minor warfare, usually over money. He supported their three children decently, though not generously. Despite what he had inherited from his family, Chauncey was stingy with his first family, and far more generous with his second wife and their children. To add insult to injury, he had forced Olympia to agree that she would never urge their children to become Jewish. It wasn't an issue anyway. She had no intention of doing so. Olympia's conversion was a private, personal decision between her and Harry. Chauncey was unabashedly anti-Semitic. Harry thought Olympiad first husband was pompous, arrogant, and useless. Other than the fact that he was her children's father and she had loved him when she married him, for the past fifteen years, Olympia found it impossible to defend him. Prejudice was Chauncey's middle name. There was absolutely nothing politically correct about him or Felicia, and Harry loathed him. They represented everything he detested, and he could never understand how Olympia had tolerated him for ten minutes, let alone seven years of marriage. People like Chauncey and Felicia, and the whole hierarchy of Newport society, and all it stood for, were a mystery to Harry. He wanted to know nothing about it, and Olympia's occasional explanations were wasted on him.

Harry adored Olympia, her three children, and their son, Max. And in some ways, her daughter Veronica seemed more like Harry's daughter than Chauncey's. They shared all of the same extremely liberal, socially responsible ideas. Virginia, her twin, was much more of a throwback to their Newport ancestry, and was far more frivolous than her twin sister. Charlie, their older brother, was at Dartmouth, studying theology and threatening to become a minister. Max was a being unto himself, a wise old soul, who his grandmother swore was just like her own father, who had been a rabbi in Germany before being sent to Dachau, where he had helped as many people as he could before he was exterminated along with the rest of her family.

The stories of Frieda's childhood and lost loved ones always made Olympia weep. Frieda Rubinstein had a number tattooed on the inside of her left wrist, which was a sobering reminder of the childhood the Nazis had stolen from her. Because of it, she had worn long sleeves all her life, and still did. Olympia frequently bought beautiful silk blouses and long-sleeved sweaters for her. There was a powerful bond of love and respect between the two women, which continued to deepen over the years.

Olympia heard the mail being pushed through the slot in the front door, went to get it, and tossed it on the kitchen table as she finished making Max's lunch. With perfect timing, she heard the doorbell ring at almost precisely the same instant. Max was home from school, and she was looking forward to spending the afternoon with him. Their Fridays together were always special. Olympia knew she had the best of both worlds, a career she loved and that satisfied her, and a family that was the hub and core of her emotional existence. Each seemed to enhance and complement the other.

COMING THIS FALL

H.R.H.

BY

DANIELLE STEEL

On Sale in Hardcover

October 31, 2006

In a novel where ancient traditions conflict with

reality and the pressures of modern life, a young

European princess proves that simplicity,

courage, and dignity win the day and forever

alter her world.

MALICE

A Dell Book

Published by Bantam Dell

A Division of Random House, Inc.

New York, New York

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents

either are the product of the author's imagination or are used

fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead,

events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved

Copyright © 1996 by Danielle Steel

Dell is a registered trademark of Random House, Inc.,

and the colophon is a trademark of Random House, Inc.

eISBN: 978-0-307-56664-5

www.bantamdell.com

v3.0

Table of Contents

Cover

Other Books By This Author

Title Page

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Copyright