KIRSTEN EXTENDED her morning routine until three in the afternoon. She cleaned her little brick townhouse from top to bottom. Her music system pumped so strongly she could feel the bass rattle the sink through the scouring sponge. The house did not need cleaning and she scarcely heard the music at all. But it reduced the threat of hearing the phone ring, of having to speak with Fay, of someone from church asking where she was. All the things she was desperate to avoid.
At four she ate a bowl of fresh-sliced fruit and unsweetened yogurt. She took her time dressing. A deft hand with the makeup, just a touch of color, her hair was never a problem, a serious dress and modest jewelry. She put part of the Sunday Washington Post into her briefcase in case the senator’s aide made her wait. She checked her reflection one further time, and saw a lovely and poised young woman whose gaze was the only part of her exterior she could not control.
At a quarter to five she locked her front door and stepped into the humid broil of another late July afternoon. The one problem with these townhouses was the absence of shaded parking, which meant the car’s seat and wheel were almost too hot to touch. She drove down Glen Eden to where it connected with the Raleigh-Durham highway. The senator’s regional office was on Hargett, five blocks from the capitol, a ten-minute drive in the Sunday afternoon calm.
The aide was there to greet her at the building’s front entrance. “You couldn’t be anybody but Mr. Glenwood’s new assistant.”
“Kirsten Stansted.” The phone in her purse began ringing as she stepped into the building’s coolness. She decided to ignore it. “I work with Marcus.”
“I heard about you, but I didn’t believe it until now.” He was a pudgy man in the way of many political staffers, bound together with nerves and bad diet and too-long days. “Brent Daniels.”
“Marcus sends his regrets, but he is down in Wilmington meeting with his client.”
“You just be sure and tell Marcus how much I appreciate him being somewhere else.” He ushered her into the large office behind the receptionist’s desk. “It’s our lucky day, Senator.”
The bespectacled man raised his eyes from the papers strewn over his desk. “Now isn’t that the truth.”
“Kirsten Stansted is Glenwood’s right-hand lady, if rumors are to be believed.”
“The man is a purebred fool to let you wander around on your own.”
“I don’t give him any choice in the matter.”
The senator tottered over to compress her hand between both of his. “I don’t doubt that for a second. You take a coffee? How about a cold drink?”
“I’m fine, thank you.”
Each of the senator’s steps cast him from side to side, a vessel rocked by time’s winds. “Take a seat wherever you’ll be most comfortable, Ms. Stansted. I hope you won’t mind if we get right on to business. Brent and me, we’ve got families who don’t take kindly to having our Sundays being disturbed. But I wanted to weigh in personally on this matter.”
“Senator Jacobs is chairman of the Senate Foreign Relations Committee,” Brent added. “He’s used his position to press this issue of American children being abducted by foreign parents in custody disputes.”
“Germany was an original signatory of the Hague Convention on Children. But their judicial system flouts the regulations at every step. We’ve been looking for a landmark case to force the Germans’ hand.”
“This is a draft of the convention.” Brent Daniels handed her a bound manuscript. “Germany has become a haven for too many parents who otherwise would never be permitted to retain custody of young children. The German court system refuses to relinquish the children to American parents, even when our courts have come down in their favor.”
Kirsten’s cell phone chimed again. When she made no move to answer, the senator waited until the ringing halted, then went on, “Word is out, Ms. Stansted. News of this loophole is spreading via the Internet. Citizens of EU countries can reside anywhere in Europe they want. If they marry an American, find their marriage in trouble, and see the American court deciding against them, they grab the kids and flee to Germany.”
“Just as has happened with your client,” Brent finished.
“We’re in the process of enacting punitive legislation against the German government, and we’re working to obtain United Nations backing. But we need a high-profile case to demonstrate just how the court system is stacked against us. Then lo and behold, what happens but we hear about Dale Steadman. A top-notch fellow who’s got himself in this very plight.”
Kirsten’s phone began ringing once more. She did her best to ignore it and replied, “I have to tell you, sir, we’re just not certain how solid a case Marcus has.”
She sketched out what they had discovered. The senator and his aide did not mask their dismay over the news of the fire and the drinking and the local officials’ testimony.
The two men exchanged a glance before the senator said, “This is the problem with divorce issues. There are seldom any clear-cut rights and wrongs.”
“Sounds like you’d best not become publicly involved until we see the lay of the land,” Brent suggested.
“Don’t have much choice in the matter.”
The aide said to Kirsten, “If you’d be so kind as to keep me informed, my staff will help out any way we can.”
“I’ll tell Marcus, but right now I don’t see …” Her cell phone began a fourth ringing.
“Maybe you best see who that is, young lady.”
She retrieved the phone, punched the button. “Yes?”
“Kirsten? Ms. Stansted?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, thank heavens.”
“Dale. Dale Steadman.” The man choked over his own name. He took a broken breath. “Sorry. Sorry. When I couldn’t reach you I feared you were dead as well.”
Senator Jacobs leaned forward. “You all right, young lady? You’ve gone white as moonlight.”