Deja Vu. Fern MichaelsЧитать онлайн книгу.
she wished she had a warm body comforting her, even if it was a dog. It was sad to remember how many things she’d been talked out of. Well, that wasn’t going to happen again.
Martine wiggled, stretched, and realized she felt a lot better than when Alfred had first arrived. Must have been the hot “tea.” She reached up and turned the lamp on. Still another rerun of NCIS was playing. Must be some kind of marathon today, she decided.
Because she felt so good emotionally, Martine headed off to her bathroom, where she showered and washed her hair. Alfred hadn’t said anything about not doing it, so she wasn’t disobeying doctor’s orders. Powdered, perfumed, and dressed in a clean nightgown and her ratty robe, she made her way back to the sofa and curled up again. She spent the rest of the evening dozing and watching the NCIS marathon.
This time, her dreams were pleasant; she was running through a field of flowers, with a magnificent golden retriever at her side. She knew she was dreaming because no faceless person with a gun would chase a woman and her dog through a field of flowers.
Satisfied that she was on the road to recovery, Martine made a cup of plain tea with honey and lemon and carried it over to the sofa. She folded up the purple afghan and draped it over the back of the couch. Warm afghans were for sick people. As far as she was concerned, she was no longer sick, just under the weather. She did her best to concentrate on the late news. She wasn’t the least bit surprised to find out she was the lead news at the top of the hour. She grimaced when the anchor and crew wished her a speedy recovery.
Martine couldn’t believe how excited she was at the plan swirling around inside her head. Satisfied that with a little tweaking she could make it work, she let her mind wander to other things, like her small family. Such as it was. The day she’d taken the oath of office, her sister, Agnes, had kissed her good-bye, wished her good luck, and said she didn’t want to be part of Washington’s fishbowl. Agnes had signed up for Doctors Without Borders, and that was the last Martine had heard of her. God alone knew where Aggie was. Then there was Alvin, her brother, who had virtually said the same thing, although he’d whispered in her ear that he was proud of her. He’d mumbled something vague about going to build bridges in India somewhere. So much for family. Now, if she had a dog, she would have a family, someone to celebrate the holidays with. Someone to talk to, someone who wouldn’t argue with her, someone who, she hoped, would listen attentively and not pass judgment. She could frolic and play with him or her when she went to Camp David. He or she could sleep at the foot of her bed. Maybe she’d let him or her sleep in the Lincoln Bedroom. Yessiree, very soon she was going to have a family if she didn’t chicken out. She could hardly wait.
Three cups of tea and two glasses of orange juice later, Martine looked at the clock. Her PDB would be arriving along with her chief of staff any minute. The president’s daily brief always arrived just as the sun was coming up. She was still wearing her ratty old-friend robe and her fuzzy-bear slippers.
When the COS arrived, they got right down to presidential business, which lasted all of fifteen minutes. The COS then inquired about the president’s health and asked if she had any specific instructions for him.
“Actually, I do have something you can do for me if you can somehow do it without a media blitz. Can you get me a dog? A big one. One that needs a home, a rescue if possible. A shepherd or maybe a golden retriever. Gender isn’t important, but I think I lean more toward a female. Can you do it?”
The COS looked stunned at the request, but he rose to the occasion. “Do I have a time limit, Madam President?”
Martine squared her shoulders. “Today will be just fine,” she responded in her best I-am-the-president voice. The COS blinked, mumbled something about wishing her a good day, and left with the PDB.
Martine found herself giggling when the door closed behind the COS. World affairs would be taking a backseat at least for as long as it took the COS to delegate her request to others. Satisfied that she had started her day on a roll, she picked up her phone and asked her secretary to come to her quarters. Plans were only as good as the follow-through. She needed help with what needed to be done. In order to get any, she had to start in her own backyard.
Martine settled deeper into the chocolate sofa and flipped through the channels till she found the Home Shopping Network. She narrowed her eyes to slits as she stared at the array of jewelry being hawked. Sooner or later they would show something diamonique.
Charles Martin had set up a buffet on the terrace at Pinewood. “It would be a shame to eat indoors and miss all this beautiful sunshine on such a glorious day,” he’d said. The Sisters had agreed.
Sunday these days was dinner at Pinewood. It was the Sisters’ way of staying in touch after a week of getting on with their lives. Or as Annie put it, there will be no more separations in this family. Everyone agreed, so it was dinner at Pinewood every Sunday, and each of them looked forward to it because when dinner was over, the table cleared, they sat around and hashed and rehashed and speculated on what the future was going to hold for all of them. Today was no exception.
“And there still has been no word on Hank Jellicoe,” Alexis said. “I don’t know why, but I find that hard to believe. The man gets away from some of the most experienced, the most knowledgeable guys in the spook business and hasn’t been seen or heard from since. Un-be-lievable!”
“There are a lot of red faces on the other side of the world,” Nikki said. “I think we made the right decision when we turned down the Big Five’s request to find him. I also think we were right when we told them that sooner or later Hank will find us and to save their money. It’s nice to know, though, that they wired half our fee into our secret account in case we changed our minds. Speaking of minds, I think we blew theirs when we had Lizzie return our fee. I guess it’s safe to say we built a little goodwill by doing that. And not one of the five rescinded our immunity contracts. Lizzie said that was a good thing, and it is.”
“I have some news,” Annie said, a smug expression on her face.
“And that would be … what, dear?” Myra asked.
“Fergus Duffy from Scotland Yard called me early this morning. Me! He asked me to have dinner with him the day after tomorrow. Why are you all looking at me like that? I am not in mourning over Fish. Just like Isabelle is not in mourning over Stu Franklin. What? What? Do you think no man would want me after … after Fish?”
“But…” Nellie sputtered.
“But what, Nellie?” Annie bristled. “Are you trying to say something here, like maybe I’m not attractive to men of a certain age? Some men prefer experienced women, did you ever think of that?”
“That’s not what I meant, Countess de Silva, and you know it. What I meant … mean is, why now? It’s been almost eight months since you all signed off on your deal with the Big Five. What is Fergus Duffy doing here in Washington? He is here, right? Or are you jetting off to some wild and woolly place for this surprise dinner?” Nellie said, refusing to give Annie an edge.
“I hate a wiseass, Nellie. All he said was he was going out to the farm at Langley. Seems there is some kind of powwow going on at the CIA, and they called him in. I’m going. But I don’t have a thing to wear.”
“I’ll lend you my pearls,” Myra volunteered.
“I never wore that dress I bought in Neiman Marcus; it’s yours,” Maggie said. “But those rhinestone boots won’t cut it with that dress.”
“I have a beautiful pair of slut shoes if you can walk in them,” Alexis offered.
Jack Emery looked around at the men seated at the table. He rolled his eyes, a signal they should retire to the garden while the ladies got down to the real business at hand, high fashion and a thousand and one ways to reduce Fergus Duffy to mincemeat.
“Oh,