With a loud groan, Richard pushed up to a sitting position, then managed to pull himself up off the dirt floor of the barn. On the opposite wall was an old mirror framed in leather, so he staggered over and pulled up on the hem of his polo shirt. He froze at what he saw.
Who the hell was that? A used-up senior citizen looked back at Richard. The stranger was a geezer with a gut, gray hair, and a swelling red welt under his left eye. The stitches seemed fine, if you didn’t mind having a chest sewn together like leather on a baseball. Honestly, Richard didn’t like what he saw in that reflection. He didn’t like what he’d become.
His salvation was his daughter. Christina would keep his memory alive. Because of her, Richard Wahlman would leave a legacy bigger than Ways and Means, his philanthropy, and his party leadership. He would have a flesh and blood monument to the vital man he once had been.
Richard tucked in his shirt, wiped off his trousers, and was headed across the yard toward the rental car when he had an epiphany. For the first time in nearly thirty years of corporate law practice and serving Boston in state and national elected offices, he had nowhere in particular to go and no one who was expecting his arrival. He had no meetings. No dinners. No cocktail parties for the sole purpose of sweet-talking donors and flattering lobbyists. In fact, it was possible that he’d never return to that life. Polls conducted after his television appearance had shown an instant decline in voter support, and within hours, Washington had decided he was an embarrassment. Contagious. An unpleasant reminder to his colleagues of just how easily the game could go awry, how close they all were to disgrace. Already, some of his longtime colleagues had turned on him.
And “home” was no longer an option, of course. Tamara had made it clear that she was done. He was on his own.
He would catch a flight to Reagan National this afternoon and hunker down at the Jefferson for a while. He could set up shop and avoid the media. His cardiologist could stop by. He could meet with his broker and his attorney. They would discuss establishing a trust for his daughter, ensuring that she would have everything she would ever need. And, while he was in town, he’d find a discreet real estate agent to help him locate a perfect house. He wanted something with a yard for Christina, and perhaps a pool. Maybe there would be enough land that she could have a pony if she wanted. Where would they live? Massachusetts? Northern Virginia? Connecticut? Of course, the house would need extra rooms for housekeeping staff and the nanny.
“I’m not usually a violent man.”
Richard jumped. He had been so lost in his own thoughts that he hadn’t noticed Charlie. But there he sat, about twenty feet away on a front-porch rocking chair, his hands gripping the armrests.
Richard collected himself. “You were upset. I happened to be the sucker standing in front of you. I’ll survive.” He cautiously moved closer to the porch.
Charlie nodded in time with the rocking chair, obviously giving careful consideration to his next words. “I’ve been thinking about what you said, Wahlman. You do seem very protective of Christina, worried about her welfare.”
Richard breathed in relief. Charlie had turned the corner. He was finally willing to have the conversation they desperately needed to have.
“Yes, Mr. McGuinness. Of course I’m protective. She’s my daughter. I only want her to be happy and safe and have the best life possible.”
“Ayuh, see what I mean? Now that’s a protective parent speakin’.”
“Absolutely!” Richard propped a foot on the lowest porch step and tried to smile, but his face hurt too much. “I think about whether she’s warm and what she’s eating and if she’s in a place that frightens her. I wish I could see her, just to know she’s all right. Or even hear her voice on the phone. I may not have known her for very long but she has become precious to me.”