Page 10 of The Senator's Wife

After a lovely meal spent catching up, Camille and Rosemary took their coffee and went to sit by the pool while it was still light.

“What time is your flight to Lisbon tomorrow?” Rosemary asked.

Camille gave her a quizzical look. “My trip was canceled. I told you that yesterday, remember?”

Rosemary nodded. “Oh, that’s right. You said the conference was postponed till next month.” She took a sip of her coffee and sighed. “Not too many more nights by the pool. It’ll be time to close it soon.”

“I love it out here. Remember all the cookouts we used to have in the summer? Sloane and I used to spend all day working on our tans, trying to look cool for the friends Bobby would bring over. Not that they ever looked at us.” Camille laughed.

Rosemary felt a pinch in her heart at Camille’s use of her old nickname for her brother. There’d been an eight-year difference in age between Camille and Robert, and during his prime teenage years, he’d viewed her and Sloane as little kids. Of course, that all changed when Sloane grew up. “I could always tell that Sloane had a crush on him. I was so happy when they finally started dating,” Rosemary said. “They were perfect together.” She cleared her throat. “Camille, what do you think about her being with Whit?”

Camille put her coffee cup down. “It doesn’t really matter what I think, although you certainly made it clear whatyouthink when we had lunch at Sloane’s. What matters is that Sloane is happy. After what she’s been through, she deserves it. Losing Robert that way was horrible for all of us, of course. And then Sloane was thrown into the terrible lupus flare that knocked her off her feetfor weeks. I’m glad to see her happy, and I hope that Whit will take good care of her.”

Rosemary sighed. “I know we’ve talked about this before, but I just can’t stop wondering…how did things escalate so quickly? I know accidents happen with guns, but it doesn’t ring true to me that Peg would react so violently. It doesn’t make any sense.”

“The police investigated the shooting. So did the FBI. They didn’t find anything suspicious,” Camille answered.

“That’s true, but I ran into Michelle Sommers on Sunday. You remember her; she was a good friend of Peg’s.”

Camille shook her head. “I don’t know the name.”

“She’s an artist and was in town to see the Whistler watercolor exhibition at the Freer. Anyway, she said something that I can’t stop thinking about.”

“What did she say?”

“That Peg had called her husband for legal advice because she was afraid that Whit was leaving her for another woman. She also said Peg believed that he was putting money away in a secret account.”

Camille was staring at her. “Mom, what are you saying? That Whit orchestrated this whole thing to keep Peg from finding some hidden stash? Maybe he was secretly putting money aside so she wouldn’t spend it all. And besides, Peg is the one who called Robert and insisted he come over, remember? Whit didn’t even know he was going to be there that day.”

Rosemary contemplated this last comment. That was true, but something still rang false. Rosemary had always believed that Whit was an opportunist. In her estimation he’d latched on to Robert and Peg, using them both to further his own agenda. Rosemary had observed him over the years and seen the occasional flicker of resentment in his eyes when he looked at Robert, or the way he would admire a costly piece of art in her home, lingering over it a tad too long. Her son’s one failing was that he had always looked for the best in others, but Rosemary looked for the truth, and despitethe fact that Camille accused her of having an unreasonable bias where Whit was concerned, Rosemary wasn’t convinced. And now Whit was living in Robert’s house, married to his wife, and living the life Robert should be living. Whit was hiding something; of that, she was sure. Rosemary had some investigating to do. And she knew exactly who to call.

- 8 -

SLOANE

The weekend away was just what they’d both needed, and this Monday morning Sloane felt rested and refreshed. She walked briskly from the elevator and into the seventh-floor offices of the Emerson-Chase Foundation in Alexandria, Virginia, stopping briefly at the receptionist’s desk. “Good morning, Rebecca.”

“Good morning, Mrs. Montgomery.” The young intern smiled up at her.

“I have a ten o’clock.” Sloane glanced at her watch. “You can send them right to my office, but would you buzz me when they arrive?”

“Of course.”

“Thank you.” Sloane headed down the hall to her office, the budding ache in her hip cautioning her to slow her gait. The space was light and airy, the pale green walls covered in framed photographs except for the wall opposite her desk, where a large deKooning painting, one that had been in her family since 1948, hung. She faltered when she saw the large vase of sunflowers on her desk. She’d mentioned once to Whit how much she loved them, and ever since he’d put in a standing order at the florist to have them delivered to her office—each week with a different message. She picked up the card:I’m still on cloud nine from our weekend. Can’t wait to wrap you in my arms tonight.

She felt a buzz of delight, smiling to herself as she remembered their lovemaking. They’d stayed up late afterward, talking about their plans for the future and the traveling they would do once she’d recovered from hip surgery. But now, as she looked at the flowers, she couldn’t help remembering the trip to Tuscany withRobert and being surrounded by the happy flowers when they’d driven past fields and fields of them, a sea of gold facing the sun. It had made her want Robert to stop the car so she could run into the field to stand in their midst.

Her feelings were so conflicted that she wondered if everyone who remarried after the death of a spouse felt guilty for finding love again. Robert was gone and she had forged a new life, but sometimes it felt like she was replacing him. That first year after Robert died, she thought she would never smile again. Whit had been such a good friend to her, had never tried to cross the line into anything romantic. The change happened slowly, and she and Whit seemed to realize simultaneously and with surprise that they were in love. Perhaps it was partly the realization that life can change so quickly and without warning that made them decide to grab this new chance at love regardless of the timing or what people might think.

She sat at her desk and picked up a silver-framed photograph of Robert and her taken in front of a Washington shelter they’d built for battered women. That had been one of their first undertakings when they established the foundation. They both looked so young, Sloane thought as she examined the picture more closely, tracing his face with her finger. She sighed and put it back in its place among the other photos, remembering those early days.

The foundation’s name—Emerson-Chase—was the combination of Sloane’s maiden name, Emerson, and Robert’s surname, Chase. It was divided into two entities: the Emerson-Chase Foundation and the Emerson-Chase Foundation Trust. The foundation focused on philanthropic works, while the foundation trust managed the assets and transfer proceeds. From the beginning, Sloane had been chair of the foundation, and she and Robert the joint trustees of the trust. An advisory board of eight members included Camille. With an endowment in the millions of dollars and valuable real estate in Washington and Virginia, it wielded enormous power in addition to its good works. Sloane wasn’t naïve. It hadopened doors all over the city and would now be a great asset to Whit. She bit the inside of her lip as she contemplated her next move, then buzzed her executive assistant.

“Miles, can you come in?”

“Be right there.” In a moment, he was through the door and seated in front of her desk.

“Will you take a look at my calendar and set up an appointment with our lawyers? The meeting can be here or at the law firm, whichever they think best. You can let them know that I need to discuss some changes to one of the trusts.”

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