44
Thank goodness for my little tape recorder. Jane had made it to Eleanor Gable’s office, right on time at five. Running on adrenaline. Gable was already talking faster than Jane’s frantic note-taking could possibly keep up.
The candidate catalogued her personal history in nonstop bullet points: flossy childhood on the North Shore, boarding school, college, trust fund, escapades, law school. Women’s rights, volunteer work, politics, change the world, do her part, take a stand.
Ellie Gable came out from behind the pale green antique desk in her opulent Beacon Hill study and paced, all broad gestures and unrelenting eye contact, in front of the tartan-silk curtains draping the bay window.
Wonder how many Chanel suits the woman has, Jane thought. Not that there’s anything wrong with that.
“So when we finally got enough signatures to get on the ballot”—Gable was wrapping up the push-for-the-nomination chapter in her political life—“we knew we were on the way.” She refilled a crystal goblet with the last of her Diet Coke, lifting the empty plastic bottle to signal a conservatively suited young woman standing near the doorway for another. The links of Gable’s gold charm bracelet glinted in the light of the crackling fire. “And now with the election less than two weeks away—well, it’s all been the most exciting, the most compelling—”
Wonder why her people called this an “interview.” Jane dutifully took notes as Gable continued. It was more like a performance. A monologue. The world according to Ellie. Jane was too weary to try to stop her. It wouldn’t work anyway.
“We’ve matched Lassiter dollar for dollar in contributions,” Gable was saying. “And I’m sure you know all the polls—thank you, Frannie, you can leave us now.” Accepting another Diet Coke, she unscrewed the plastic cap with barely a pause. “All the polls have us neck and neck. And Lassiter trending down. Isn’t that what the Register says, Jane?”
Jane looked up from her notebook. “Is that what your internals are showing?”
“Well, yes, they do. But we won’t know until election day, will we? That’s why our get-out-the-vote organization—”
Jane eyed the photographs covering every flat surface and tabletop in the study as Gable continued. Silver frames, smiling faces, beaches and monuments and infants and christenings and graduations and inaugurations. Nantucket, again. Washington, D.C. Wonder why Gable never married. Maybe she had? Nothing in her bio about it. But that was proof of nothing.
“Is it difficult to run by yourself?” Jane’s question came out almost before it was fully formed. “Most candidates these days have a spouse, a partner of some kind, to be a—you know, touchstone, companion, a reliable buddy on the campaign trail.”
“More likely to be killed by a terrorist than get married after forty? Like that old Newsweek article? That where you’re going with this?” Gable said. She took a sip of soda, smiling. “Nope, Jane, I’m a one-woman show, always have been. Looking for love? Well, of course, in the back of my mind. Aren’t you? You’re not married, right? But there are so many things I need to get accomplished. Marital bliss will have to wait.”
Gable tucked a strand of ice blond hair behind one ear, revealing a filigreed onyx and gold earring.
“Is this the part of the story where you compare me with Moira Lassiter?” She put her hands out, raising and lowering, like a scale. “Married, not married. Family woman, single woman. Good wife, bad girl.”
Jane started to protest. “You’re hardly a—”
“What does Moira say about me, might I ask? And what does she say about being MIA?”
“Missing in action?” Jane asked. Interesting. The chic candidate was suddenly gossip girl.
“Not to mention the fiasco at the Springfield rally,” Gable went on. Her voice lowered. “A mess, huh? I heard all about it. You’re the reporter, Jane. But seems as if something’s going on over there. Moira suddenly off the map. Campaign appearances canceled. Off the record? If you ask me, it’s out of control.” She gave a little smile. “Perhaps it’s just Gable momentum. We’ll see.”
Gable placed her goblet onto a leather coaster atop a sculpted wood end table, ice clinking as it settled in the glass. “Let me ask you something, Jane. In the story you write, are you going to mention Lassiter’s first wife? Or have you media people decided to leave that out?”
Jane knew she hadn’t kept the surprise from her face. First wife? She racked her memory, going over the research in her file. She was zonked, so tired, but she’d have remembered that. There was nothing.
“I see you aren’t aware of this,” Gable said. “Well, some are, some aren’t. It was … heavens, twenty years ago? Or more. Before he ran for governor. Before he got anywhere near politics. I simply wonder why it’s never discussed.”
Kenna Wilkes? Could Kenna Wilkes be Lassiter’s first wife? Jane quickly calculated, estimating and subtracting. Impossible. Kenna—whoever she really was, if Jake was right—looked way too young for that. Ellie Gable herself would be closer to the right age. Now that would be a story.
“What happened to her? Do you know her name?” Jane asked.
“Katharine, something, I think,” Gable said. “I’m not sure what happened to her. If anything ‘happened,’ you know? It would be easy enough to dig up the answers, I suppose. She certainly hasn’t appeared at my front door, I can tell you that. More’s the pity.”
Strange that Moira never mentioned this. Or—Jane mentally shrugged—maybe not so strange. Everyone was divorced.
“Katharine what?” Jane asked. “Is her last name still Lassiter?”
Gable took a sip of her drink, examining the glass before replacing it on the coaster. “Oh, goodness. Those hotshots running Owen’s campaign, I’m sure they know. Kiernan? Is that his name? And that Maitland. What’s his name? Roy?”
“Rory,” Jane said.
“That’s right,” Gable said. “Rory. I’m sure he decided it wasn’t important. Times change, voters change. Ronald Reagan, Newt Gingrich. Rockefeller, Joe Kennedy. They all had first wives. Who knows who else. Everyone gets divorced.”
“Except for you.” Jane smiled. “Or do you have an ex-husband who’s not in your campaign literature?”
“Me?” Gable said. Her charm bracelet flashed as she waved a hand. “Ask me anything, Jane. The Gable campaign has nothing to hide.”