“As most of you know, I’m Georgeanne Dreyfus and I’ve been Senator Barron’s communications director for the last three years. Before that I worked as his state office manager before coming to DC as his assistant press secretary and then press secretary. Most of you know me. We’ve talked on the phone, exchanged emails, visited in the halls of the Russell Building, at the back of Senate committee rooms and in the halls of the Capitol.”
Her voice broke and Clay steeled himself to let her continue instead of taking over the microphone. All he could do was squeeze her hand to show his support. He’d wanted to be the only one speaking at this thing, but Georgie insisted she speak for herself. This was Georgie’s story and she deserved to tell it.
“Thursday I received news from my doctor’s office.” A murmur surged through the group, but no one spoke. “I’m thirty years old and I’ve been diagnosed with stage three breast cancer.”
Clay shifted closer to her, his arm pressed against hers as he held her hand a little tighter. She had to blink tears from her eyes and clear her throat before she could continue.
“I’m returning to my home in Oklahoma to begin treatment. This is a very difficult time for us, for Clay...for the senator and me. We would appreciate your understanding. I know he is a public figure. I know his life is a matter of a great deal of gossip and is probably infinitely entertaining. This is not funny, nor is it entertainment. This is real. It’s life at its worst.” She swallowed and looked at him, her gaze warm and tearstained. “I tried to quit Thursday afternoon. Senator Barron refused my resignation. Many men would have let me walk out the door, happy they dodged the bullet. Clay informed me that wasn’t going to happen. He promised to walk beside me each step of the way.”
She turned her head to look at the reporters. “That makes me the luckiest woman in the world.”
Clay dropped her hand and pulled her into his embrace, his arms going around her as her cheek nestled against his chest. Silence enveloped the area—everyone so quiet, traffic sounds were clearly audible. There was no whir and click of cameras, no shouted questions.
Finally, one woman near the back raised her hand. Clay nodded in her direction. She had to clear her voice several times before she could get her question out. “Alexi Madison, Fox News. Our prayers to you both,” she said. “Will you keep us informed of your progress? Not for the news cycle, but because we care.”
He nodded, but didn’t speak. A man raised his hand and Clay acknowledged him.
“David Graves, CNN. I think I can speak for all of us when I say our thoughts are with you both and we’re all hoping for a swift recovery.” The reporter, his expression soft, added in a gruff voice, “My wife is a survivor.” When Georgie offered him a small smile in response, he continued, “I think I ask this question for everyone, Senator, given the rumors of your interest in the presidency. Will this affect your decision?”
Georgie leaned into the microphone before Clay could react. “Dave, what part of stick around for the announcement next Friday did you not understand?” This got chuckles from the group. “The senator quite clearly stated that he’ll let everyone know his plans then. And no fishing for gossip in the hallways. Only four people know what he’ll say and none of us will talk.
“One last question,” Georgie stated as she pointed to a petite woman in the front of the group. Miriam Davis, long-time political reporter for the Washington Post, was known for her tough questions and bulldog devotion to digging out the truth. “Miriam?”
“Since we don’t have a society reporter here, I’m just going to say this. If there’s a wedding, I better have an invite.”
Sixteen
They flew home Monday afternoon after the presser. Georgie’s dad was at Wiley Post Airport to meet them, along with Clay’s brothers, Cord and Chance, and their wives, Jolie and Cassie. After a steak dinner in the reserved back room of Cattlemen’s Café, her dad kissed her cheek.
“The ranch is there when you need to come home, sweetie. You need to stay here for a while for the doctor, yeah?”
Teary-eyed, she nodded. “Can Clay and I come down this weekend? Maybe spend Saturday night?”
“Sure, baby. I’ll lay in the supplies for a real ranch breakfast.”
“Has Mother—” She bit off the rest of her question.
“No, Georgie. I haven’t heard from her. She’s in St. Tropez or someplace with that gaggle of divorcees she hangs with.” His arm slipped around her shoulders as he walked her a short distance from the group. In a quiet voice, he added, “Are you sure?”