Chapter 11

Fishing Expedition

An investigation with no pre-determined purpose, often by one political party seeking damaging information about another. Such inquiries are likened to fishing because they pull up whatever they happen to catch.  

You’re probably adept at fishing expeditions, and never realized it. For example, when you ask your husband supposedly innocent questions about his business trips or his nights out with his pals, any and all information (or for that matter, fibs) can be used against him at a later date—either in the bedroom, or in a court of law.

Speaking of a great catch, here’s a wonderful way to serve salmon! Try it with this unique topping combination:

Black Bean Salmon

(Compliments of SamTheCookingGuy.com)

Ingredients

1/2 cup apricot preserves (which is pretty much the same as jam)

1/4 cup black bean & garlic sauce

1 whole salmon filet, about 1.5 pounds, skin off might be easier

3 green onions, finely chopped

Sesame seeds

Directions

Heat broiler to high.

Put salmon on a baking sheet covered lightly with oil.

Combine apricot jam and black bean sauce in a small bowl - mix well and spread on top of salmon to cover.

Broil 4-5 inches from heat, approximately 7 minutes for each inch of thickness.

Remove to a platter or serving plates and sprinkle with green onions and sesame seeds – serve.

It’s been one hell of a morning.

Besides the usual throngs of awed and adoring voters, Congresswoman Catherine Martin was met with tomatoes thrown by protestors who take issue with her vote to cut farm subsidies.

She ducked, and I leaped, taking them in her stead.

Then there was the bowl of borscht tossed at her, from someone upset over the speech poo-pooing UN sanctions against Russia for its human rights violations. I pushed her out of the way just in the nick of time, only to get soaked.

Dominic nodded approvingly. “You look great in red. Thank goodness it’s a cold soup. Otherwise, you’d have been scalded—especially around the Bristol region, since that took the brunt … Oh my! Perhaps you’d like to borrow my coat.”

I look down to see what he’s staring at.

Hmmm. Cold tomato soup on a sheer blouse equals nipples standing at attention. In other words, not a great look.

I leave my Acme team to go home and change clothes. Mary is out of school now, so she rides back with me. We catch up with Catherine’s entourage just as she’s wrapping up a speech with the local chapter of the League of Women Voters.

Mary listens, enraptured, as Catherine regales the crowd with her vision of America at its best. In it, employment is at its peak, and our nation of producers is rewarded with high wages and real benefits. Higher education is for everyone who wishes to take advantage of it. Teachers are paid handsomely for educating our nation’s best and brightest. Which of us doesn’t fit that description? 

If only we saw ourselves as others see us.

In Catherine’s new world order, the safety and security of our citizens will always be a top priority. “We’ve already paid too high a price, forfeited too many lives, to go back on this promise,” she vows.

Mary’s iPhone captures it all on video. I’m sure it also picks up Mary’s declaration, “I want to be just like her.”

For once, I hope my daughter does not get her wish.

“I’m so happy your daughter was interested in accompanying us this afternoon,” Catherine says sweetly. “My goodness, what a pretty little thing she is! She reminds me of you at that age.”

“Do you really think so? I can’t imagine you’d remember me at fourteen. You dumped me as a friend before I was twelve.” I’m trying to keep the edge out of my voice, but my guess is that I’m failing miserably. 

I know this to be the case when Catherine, responds, “Yes, I think you’re right! I’m sure it was your colorful reputation I remember. My God, who could forget it? I didn’t—not for years.”

Before I can say another word, she glides away, greeting Mommy Dearest’s publisher, Allison O’Connor, with air kisses.

I am left standing with a mob of fawning acolytes.

After what I divulged to Jack last night, I’m glad he’s not here to see her imperious diss. 

Unfortunately, Mary does, and it embarrasses her enough that she turns her head in order to hide her mortification.  

I can’t say that I blame her. From what she’s seen and heard thus far, Catherine is not only the dream candidate, but a great wife, mother, and issues-oriented candidate. In fact, on the limo ride here, Catherine graciously answered Mary’s long list of carefully thought-out questions, piercing my daughter with the gaze she reserves for the likes of Katie Couric, Anderson Cooper and Oprah. The staff adviser to Hilldale High School’s newspaper, theSignal, will run the interview on the front page, which thrills Mary to no end.

Now, if only her mother doesn’t ruin it for her.

Okay, I’ll be on my best behavior, from now on out.

I’ve allowed my mind to wander while the interview hits its stride. On the other hand, Mary sits quietly in a corner of the studio, scribbling away on her pad. I presume she’s comparing the magazine publisher’s questions to the ones she asked in the limo, and is taking special note of Catherine’s seemingly thoughtful answers.

She doesn’t realize that Catherine has spent a lifetime answering these very same questions, and that she's had years to hone her answers to them. Every tilt of the head, every pause, and every inflection is well practiced. 

Robert and Evan, who sit quietly on either side of Catherine, wear the placid smiles that go hand in hand with a life spent reluctantly in the spotlight. I do notice, however, that Evan’s adoring gaze will sometimes drift from his mother to Mary. 

Just as Robert’s eyes shift my way.

It’s a good thing that Jack is with Dominic, covering the studio doors. Otherwise he would have picked up on it, and gotten the wrong idea.

Me? I know better.

Suddenly something the publisher says catches my attention: “—your renowned apple pie recipe! If you don’t mind, we’ll duplicate it here, right now.” Allison’s hand sweeps out over the room, where a state-of-the-art kitchen awaits them.

Huh? Her recipe?

Catherine blinks twice. This is her gotcha moment. My mother’s recipe isn’t something she ever knew by heart.

Unlike me.

“Ah, what a wonderful—and totally unexpected surprise,” Catherine purrs. “But I wouldn’t want to muss my suit.”

“No problem! We’ve got a full apron, right here.” From behind her chair, Allison pulls out two of them, emblazoned with the magazine’s curvy script logo.

Catherine’s lips curl into a smile. “How thoughtful.” She snaps her fingers for her press secretary Lydia.

While Lydia rushes to her side, I grab my cell phone and call Arnie.

He answers with a “Yo, boss lady, what’s up?”

“Quick—you have the code to Congresswoman Martin’s iCloud account, right?”

“Yep. I’m still assessing the threats that came to her. Why do you ask?”

“I need to access something in there.”

“I’ll send it to you now.”

A second later I get the code—and I’m in the cloud, searching for the term Apple Pie.

Ah, here it is …

My fingers work fast. I delete a cup of sugar. Instead the recipe now calls for sorghum. Forget the pinch of salt. Add three-quarters of a cup. Use crabapples, not Fiji. And the crust will be cornmeal, not flour.

Done.

And so is any future reliance on this recipe by CeeCee Connelly Martin.

Should I warn Mary not to take a bite? Nah. It’ll be a great life lesson:

No one is perfect.

It’s obvious that neither of these women have cooked a day in their lives. They glare at the editor who dares to question the type of apple or flour or sweetener the recipe calls for, let alone the generous use of salt. 

The photo op is priceless. At each step of the process, they stop to wrap their arms around each other and smile wide. 

They coo when they pull the baked pie out of the oven and pause for the camera, with forks poised at their mouths.

But the money shot is the look of horror on their faces as they spit out the pie.

The photographer, who is on rote, keeps clicking away, catching every squint, pucker, and gag.

I bite my lip to keep from snorting. 

Only Robert doesn’t feel the need to hold his tongue or look the other way. He’s laughing so hard that the others can’t help but join in.

Everyone but Catherine.

Her eyes flash angrily. As if driven by a heat-seeking missile, they seek me out.

I wave back, innocently. But there is no mistaking the message in her glare: Destroy.

She stalks off, her advance team in tow.

Evan is looking over Mary’s shoulder, reading her notes. When she realizes it, she blushes deeply. He says something that makes her laugh. Her reply has him doubling over.

I feel as if I’m looking at my past.

Robert is watching them, too. I catch his eye. He winks back. Worse yet, he comes up to me. 

It would be rude to walk away.

It will break my heart to make chitchat and pretend there was never anything between us.

Then again, maybe there wasn’t, and I imagined it all.

“The publisher is suggesting that they reduce the spread to just the interview, and nix the recipe,” he says with a grin. “But Catherine won’t hear of it. She says it’s all or nothing. I can’t wait to see how she spins this one.” 

Lydia sidles beside him. With a take-no-prisoners tone, she announces, “The congresswoman is leaving and requests that you join her.”

Evan hears her, too. “Dad, do we have to? Can’t we just meet up with her later?”

“That’s a great idea,” he says firmly, all the while looking at Lydia.

She gets the message, loud and clear: Make up some excuse for us.

She frowns at me as she stalks off.

“I’ll be glad to give you a lift. Jack and Dominic can accompany the congresswoman.”

“Ryan isn’t going to like it,” Jack and Dominic warn me in unison, through my ear bud.

For once, what Ryan wants isn’t my concern.

I’ve taken off my ear bud, and disengaged my phone.

It’s time to go home.

Because of Evan’s proclamation that he was cheated out of a slice of apple pie, Mary insists on making him one.

“It’s the best you’ll ever have,” she promises. “It’s my grandmother’s pie recipe.”

When he tastes it, he’ll never go back to store-bought. Or stolen, for that matter. Now having watched his mother cook, I’ve no doubt she screwed up Mother’s recipe many times before now.

While Mary bakes and Evan flirts and Mary flirts back, Robert meanders from the kitchen into my living room. He picks up a picture of Trisha and Mary, taken this summer, for a formal family portrait. Both are dressed in identical pink sundresses adorned with tiny white rosebuds. "Why do girls always seem happy in that color? It's CeeCee's favorite."

He then strolls over to one of the floor-to-ceiling bookcases. He seems impressed with the depth and breadth of our reading material: Jack’s world history and science tomes, my collection of classics and mystery novels. Then he spots something sitting flat on the tallest shelf: one of my high school yearbooks—

It’s the one from my freshman year. He reaches it with no problem, and flips through the pages. I’m too far away to see which one stops him. Since it was CeeCee’s senior year, I’m sure it’s one of the many shots glorifying her reign as the school’s queen bee.

“Do you still hate me?” he asks in a soft voice.

“Hate you?” The thought pulls me down into a wingback chair. “No, never! Why in the world would you think that?”

“I …” He shrugs. “I guess it was nothing, really. You may not remember, but we ran into each other once. By then, I was in college and you were a senior in high school. I was home during a holiday break, and I went to catch an East Pasadena basketball game. I came up to you, but you ignored me completely. I thought that, after the letter…never mind.”

“I’m sorry, but I don’t remember you at one of the games,” I murmur. 

I’m lying. Of course I do. I could tell he wanted redemption, to talk through his shame. But what was the point? The last thing I needed was for the rumors to start up again.

More importantly, I didn’t want to feel for him again.

He buys my blank stare. “Forget I said anything.”

There is one thing I can now acknowledge wholeheartedly. “I hated CeeCee. For what she did to my mother.”

He snorts. “Your mother? What about for what she did to you?”

“I guess it would have hurt much more if I hadn’t lost Mother around the same time. But I didn’t have time to think of me. I had to take care of my father, before I lost him, too.”

Robert nods. “Yes, I heard he—that he had a hard time of it.”

“Everything you heard was right. We both missed her, terribly. He became a drunk. I became … me.”

“You seem the same to me,” he insists.

I laugh, but I’m not happy to hear that. “Trust me, I’m a much different person than the one you remember.” I shrug. “But you haven’t changed. You’re still in top form. And you and CeeCee—”

He frowns. “There is no ‘me and CeeCee.’ There is only CeeCee. And then there’s Evan and me.” He bows his head. “She promised she’d quit Congress after this term. Little did I know that she meant to run for the presidency instead—and hold onto her seat, too, in case she loses the primary.” When he sits down, the yearbook is still in his hands. 

That’s when I notice the page isn’t turned to a picture of her. On it is the only picture of me: my class picture. The photographer wanted me to smile, but instead I glared at the camera. I’d lost my mother and my reputation. There was no reason to say cheese. He’s lucky I didn’t say fuck you.

Robert stares down at it and says, “She won’t be the next president.”

“What? How do you know? I mean, if anything, she’s now got a wide open field.”

“Because she’s a fake, and she’s a liar. She has been, all her life. And no matter how many voters she fools, or how much money comes her way, she’ll always be just that—”

I laugh. “That sounds like the definition of ‘politician’ to me.”

He laughs, too. Freely. Uncontrollably. 

Until he cries.

Until he comes out with it:

“It's over between us,” he chokes through his tears. 

“No. You're wrong, Bobby. With CeeCee, it's always about you.”

“You’re wrong, Donna! Somewhere along the way, she quit believing in that—in us.” He drops his head on his chest. “The people who own her are dirty. But she doesn’t care because doing their bidding will make her the most powerful person in the world.” He shrugs. 

“Queen of the Universe,” I murmur.

“You remember that, do you? Yes, queen of the universe.” He sighs heavily. “If only she cared as much about our marriage.”

“She's got to! It’s what has defined her life, from the beginning. For God’s sake, she stole my mother’s apple pie recipe over it! She spread rumors about me, because of it! Don’t tell me it was all for nothing.”

He shakes his head. “Donna, trust me, it’s over! There’s someone else now—some guy who calls her on a hot pink cell phone. It’s not a family phone, or registered with her campaign, or the secure phone for her congressional business.”

“Oh.” I fall back into the cushions. “Have you asked her about it?”

“Why? So I can hear another one of her lies?” He shakes his head. “I can’t stomach what she’s become. All I wanted was a normal life—just the two of us, and Evan. “This—right here—could have been us.”

Is he right?

If there had been no CeeCee, would Robert have hung around and fallen in love with me?

If my mother hadn’t died, would I have been the strong person I am today?

Would I have run into Carl at a shooting range and fallen in love, and married him—only to have him disappear, and for Jack to take his place, both within Acme, and my life?

But Robert loved CeeCee once. There is no denying it.

And no matter my mother’s fate, mine put me in the path of Carl, and Jack.

Instead, I say the one thing he needs to hear: “This would not have been us. We were never meant to be any more than this—the closest of friends—always.”

He nods because we both know this to be true. 

“In any event, I’m asking her for a divorce, after the awards ceremony tomorrow night.” He sounds hollow, soulless. “She’ll hate it because it will damage her political career. On the other hand, it may save her—it may save us. Maybe she’ll be my CeeCee again.”

I say nothing. But I hold his hand while he cries.

When his sobs finally subside, he wipes his tears away, nods, and stands up. “I could use a piece of your mother’s pie,” he says.

It’s time to put the past behind us, and live in the present.

It is time for pie.