TWENTY-FIVE

“I AM WORRIED about the women, Nicolae,” Viv Ivins said. “And I am not the only one.”

Carpathia folded his hands and leaned back in his office chair. “The women? I have told you: they are mere dalliances. I seriously have no interest in any of them.”

“That’s my point, beloved. I don’t care what you do for recreation, but you must be discreet. The election is close. And others are nervous—”

“That is another thing!” Nicolae said, letting his chair return upright. “Do not talk to me about others or about your not being the only one concerned! If someone has an issue with me, he should say so to my face. Now who are we talking about?”

“I don’t know if I should speak for—”

“Aunt Viv! You raised the issue. You said you were not the only one. Now who?”

“They have your best interests at heart, Nicolae. They should not be in trouble for caring about you and your future.”

“I appreciate that, Viv, but what does it say about their concern for me and their loyalty to me if they are running around behind my back, talking to you and who knows who else about my—?”

“I have no evidence of that.”

“Then what? What are they saying? And who are they so I can put their minds at ease?”

Viv studied her shoes, and Nicolae could tell she would cave if he just waited her out. “Tristan,” she said softly.

“My night-shift driver? Tell me you are not serious! Get him in here.”

“He is, of course, sleeping right now, Nicolae. I can ask him to come to work a few minutes early this evening. But, please, you must know he is among your most loyal staff and a great admirer of—”

“He will get a chance to affirm that soon. And explain himself, of course.”

It became clear to Irene that Rayford and Chloe had once again conspired against her. They wouldn’t admit it, of course, and she didn’t have hard evidence. But suddenly Chloe decided that despite whatever was good or interesting or unique about New Hope, she would stay with their old church, as long as Irene was insisting that she continue to attend.

“That’s where I’m going too,” Rayford said, and Irene realized she was caught. What was it about New Hope that so threatened Rayford? He was essentially saying that he would back her insistence that Chloe stay in church a few more years—against her will—and that he would even attend more frequently, as long as they stayed at their regular church.

“We’d like it if you went with us,” Rayford said.

“Oh, we would, would we?” Irene didn’t want to sound so shrewish, and if she could just count a beat or two before responding, maybe she could be more civil. But if Rayford’s comment wasn’t evidence of collusion, Irene didn’t know what was. Well, she wasn’t about to split up her family over which church they attended, desperate as she was to move to New Hope. Maddeningly, she had succeeded on some level. Rayford might attend more, and Chloe would reluctantly go every Sunday—at least for a while—as long as it was at this nonthreatening country club of a church. Well, Irene would just have to continue using Jackie as her lifeline to real spiritual growth. She would recommit herself to daily Bible reading and prayer, and she would throw herself into the weekly sessions with Jackie like never before. If she couldn’t personally sit under the teaching of Vernon Billings, getting his input secondhand would have to do.

But what abut Raymie? Soon he would be old enough to understand that he, too, needed Jesus. It would be up to her—which she assumed was the way it should be anyway—to lead him to faith. He certainly wasn’t going to be guided toward a real experience with Christ in a church that never emphasized that.

One thing was sure: though Irene had no idea how long it would be before Chloe dropped out altogether—and while Irene would fight that to the end—that would signal her time to switch churches. She was not about to wither and die on the vine when she knew she belonged somewhere like New Hope.

Cameron Williams was finding it hard to concentrate on finishing at Princeton. He knew he could coast to graduation with a great grade point average and lots of attention, but his enthusiasm was fading for campus activities, the school paper, his class work, all that. The job at the Globe loomed, and he could hardly wait.

That news had gotten around in his circles, and he was suddenly the celebrated young journalist on campus. His very personal piece about attending his mother’s funeral and how he felt about missing seeing her alive became the piece the Globe used to introduce their soon-coming new reporter.

Cameron had not been aware that he was an emotional writer, and he didn’t try to affect a certain tone just for effect. But even Dizzy Rowland told him he was impressed by how Cameron had used simple, straightforward language to tell a story with universal impact. “You didn’t manufacture emotion, son. You elicited it from the reader.”

“You know, sir,” Cameron had said, “I hardly think about that—when I’m writing I mean.”

“What do you think about?”

Cameron shook his head and squinted, trying to conjure the feelings and emotions that went into his craft. For a man who planned to make his living with words, he was having a hard time articulating his own thoughts.

“I guess I’d have to say I’m consumed with curiosity,” he said. “I have so many questions, and I assume the reader does too. I’m his agent, asking what he would ask, trying to find out every detail he would want to know—and maybe a few he hasn’t thought of. When I’m focused on putting a piece together, I’m desperate to include every cogent detail and leave out anything that slows it down or detracts.”

“You’re not thinking about avoiding clichés or forcing the emotion?”

Cameron shook his head. “Comes naturally, I guess.”

“Intuitive.”

“I hope so.”

“It’s a gift, Cameron.”

The Globe also assigned Cameron to interview a Boston native who had accepted a department chairmanship at Princeton, and Cameron somehow managed to turn it into more than a simple news story. And he had covered the story of a Massachusetts family who had seen their three adopted Asian children graduate from Ivy League schools, marry, start successful businesses, and move to New Jersey.

All Cameron wanted was to get out of school and get to Boston so he could do this every day.

Nicolae liked Tristan and had almost since the day he hired him nearly two years before. The young man was quiet and industrious, and when he did speak, he was complimentary of his boss. Carpathia knew he himself was above being impressed by flattery, but anyone, he concluded, liked to be respected.

He decided to host Tristan in the living room rather than the office, which might have been more intimidating. Nicolae wanted to coax as much information as he could from the young driver. But when Tristan entered, wearing his black chauffeur’s uniform and carrying his cap, he looked wan and wary.

“Sit there, please,” Nicolae said, pointing to an easy chair across from the divan where he sat. “Ms. Ivins tells me you have a concern you would like to share with me.”

“Oh yes, sir. I feel bad that I confided in her and did not come directly to you.”

“By all means, be assured I prefer the latter.”

“Yes, sir. And I assure you I have not shared my concerns with anyone else.”

“Then there is no need for you to be speriat. I would be most concerned and would not mind your being nervous if you were spreading things about me among the staff and especially anyone outside.”

“Oh no, of course not.”

“So, what is on your mind, Tristan?”

“Ms. Ivins did not tell you?”

“As a matter of fact, she did. And she shares your worries, as you probably know. But I want to hear from you. In your own words.”

Tristan worked his cap in both hands and looked past Nicolae. “First off, I realize it is none of my business.”

“I am none of your business, Tristan? That is ridicol, absurd! Not only am I your business, I want to be your business. How many times have I told the staff that to be successful you all must take a certain degree of ownership in me and in the company?”

Tristan nodded. “Many times, yes, I understand.”

“So, out with it. What?”

“I don’t begrudge you your guests.”

“The women who visit me nearly every night.”

“Yes. I wish I had them lining up at my door.”

“I am sure you have little problem in that regard, Tristan.”

“Well, let’s just say my home is not as busy as yours is.”

“It is merely recreation, my friend. No one is compelled to visit me.”

“Oh, I understand. And I doubt most people would personally have any trouble with it. But there is a reason you send me to pick up these women and return them, and that it is always after dark.”

“Of course. Discretion.”

“Which means it is important I keep this confidential. From your enemies particularly.”

“Of course.”

“That is what I worry about, Mr. Carpathia. I can only imagine what Mr. Tismaneanu might do with such information.”

“A point well-taken and one of the reasons I use someone as trusted as you to carry out this duty. Do you have any suspicion that he or his people might be aware of this?”

“Actually, I do.”

That Nicolae had not expected. He leaned forward expectantly, his stare begging for details.

“I know a man who works for Tismaneanu,” Tristan said. “Well, knowing him is probably overstating it. He is an acquaintance. A friend of a friend.”

“Yes, and what does this man do for Emil?”

“I don’t even know that. I know he is not educated and is a bit of a delincvent, so I—”

“What would a criminal be doing in Tismaneanu’s employ?”

“—doubt he is in any position of trust or authority. Probably works on the grounds. Perhaps his boss asked anyone there if they knew anyone here.”

“Perhaps. And so he contacted you.”

“Yes, with a strange question and a request. He wanted to know if I wanted to make some extra money—innocent money, he called it. I assured him I was well paid and not looking for more work. He said it would be no more work. Only that when I deliver guests to you late at night and leave with them before dawn, I should stop under the light in the circular drive rather than under the covered portico at the entrance. He said no one would be the wiser and that for this I could expect a few hundred in cash for less than one week’s work. Of course it would have been no work. It would have required only that I walk your guests an extra twenty-five feet or so.”

Nicolae gazed at the ceiling, then closed his eyes. “He wants them illuminated, does he?”

“Apparently. And call me prost, but I do not understand why.”

“I would never call you stupid, Tristan. But surely you can guess why.”

“But I have looked from every angle out there, and I cannot see where anyone could mount a camera.”

“With modern technology, Tristan, they could be a long way away. Illumination is the key. The alternative, of course, is to follow you to where you pick up these guests and drop them off, and perhaps the lighting is better there.”

“But a photo of their getting out and getting back in right here at your own residence, that is clearly what Tismaneanu is after. Do you suppose he means to ruin you with this? sell photographs to the newspapers?”

Nicolae stood and shrugged. “That might be beneath even old Emil,” he said. “But it would not surprise me if an emissary of his came and showed me pictures, trying to exact some concession on my part.”

“Concession?”

“Get me to pull out of the race at this late stage. Something like that.”

“We must not let that happen! You will win unless this gets out. We need you in Parliament.”

“Do not give it another thought, Tristan. Thank you for telling me, and remember what to do in the future.”

“Tell only you.”

“Good man. Now I am about to make some arrangements for tomorrow night, and I may want you to accede to your acquaintance’s wishes.”

“But I already refused him.”

“Can you not change your mind? tell yourself there could be little harm in this and that you could always use a few more dollars?”

“Maybe. If you wish.”

“I will let you know. I have some work to do first.”