Rebecca was on fire, her limbs cradling and squeezing insistently, her torso arching upward to seek him, her voice a river of warmth in his ear. "Yes," she whispered. "Now." And Ed tried to answer, taking ravenous bites of collarbone and breast, caressing hips and ass, making it as far as parting her thighs and pressing forward and . . .
. . . and. Not quite there.
From somewhere beneath him, miles away it seemed, he felt her weight shift, heard her sigh. "What's wrong, sweetie?" she asked, though the answer, on its surface, was obvious.
For a moment Ed ignored it, tried to put all thoughts other than her out of his head, but already the motion was gone, the river had run dry, and he rolled off and flopped back onto the mattress. "I'm sorry, baby, I just can't," he said, watching the ceiling fan spin lazy circles through the hot air. "I guess I'm tired."
Rebecca turned on her side, facing him, and ran her fingertips over his chest. "I know, sweetie," she said. "Today would've gotten to anyone."
"Mm." He covered her hand with his own, moving with her as she traced tiny patterns, then abruptly stopped and pulled her hand away. "Gotten to me?" he said. "What do you mean, gotten to me?"
"Why, you know what I mean. The phone calls, the reporters, the whole bit."
"Well, yeah. But you took care of that." He tried to end the discussion with a squeeze of her hand. "Thanks for holding them off."
But Rebecca wasn't finished; she propped herself up on her elbow and looked down at him, blonde bangs shading her face. "And then you go to Mike's, just to check in, and he challenges you! Like you're some sort of enemy of the people."
"Oh, that, that. Listen, baby, don't make too much of that. Mike's all talk."
"Then why are you so upset? Why didn't you -- "
"I was just too tired, okay?" He sprang up, away from her, and sat on the edge of the bed.
"For God's sake, Ed." Oh Christ, he thought, I do not have the patience for this. But instead of returning his fire, she knelt behind him and kneaded his shoulders. "I was going to say, why didn't you just say you wanted to sleep? I understand."
"I know, baby. I know." And he did. If there was one thing Rebecca was, it was understanding; it was enough to bring his guard down. A little. "So how do we play this one?" he asked. "The easiest, safest thing to do is bury it. I can convene a closed-door meeting of the planning commission, gavel that park straight out of town. People'd be sore, but they'd get over it."
"But sweetie, that's backroom politics. That's not you."
Amazing, thought Ed. A year in his office -- in his arms -- and she still thought you could run a town without backroom politics; things had just gone smoothly enough that the occasion had never arisen. "It's nothing sinister," he said, trying to soothe her.
"But why not do it openly? We could have a public hearing, Mike or whoever would be free to speak for the park, and when it's over you'd see that people wanted to do the right thing. You're big enough to let others have their say, and you're strong enough to carry the day. That's why I came to work for you." She stopped kneading and draped her arms around him, her nipples tickling his shoulder blades. "That's why I fell in love with you."
Something in Ed told him no, get it over with, but there was her touch, her scent, tugging at him, her words teasing him again. Yes, he thought, I am big enough. Besides, open-mindedness plays well in an election year. "Okay," he said, "we'll have a public hearing," and he turned to kiss her. Then he looked at his watch, frowned, and started getting ready to go home to Janet.
The hearing was scheduled for a week later, and Janet would be by his side for it, as she was for most public events. A mutual concession to the importance of appearances. He wandered down to the town auditorium from his office a little before seven, and saw to his amazement that the place was packed. As he entered the main hall, a murmur went through the crowd, an ominous sound unlike any he'd heard as mayor. "There he is," he heard a lone voice say, cutting through the din, then voices and faces blurring under the bright lights, momentarily disorienting him. He whirled and caught sight of Janet, up by the dais, talking with old Edna Campbell. In an instant, he was swooping down on them and grabbing Janet and leading her to her place in the front row with no more than a nod to Edna.
"That was polite. Why didn't you just tackle her?" whispered Janet.
"What the hell is going on here? It's a damn mob scene."
"Funny, I seem to recall this being your idea." She flashed a wicked grin. "Unless it was your, uh, protege's idea."
"Of course it was my idea," he hissed.
"Good. Just remember, either way it's your responsibility."
"Oh, shut up, Janet."
"Just smile, Ed."
That much he could do. He mounted the dais, to tepid applause and shouted slogans -- mostly pro-park, "Let them build" and "We need jobs" and the like; the planning commission, which was a five-member all-volunteer body, followed, obviously rattled by the crowd; and the hearing was called to order. The town clerk began with the obligatory reading of the proposal and an explanation of how the commission worked (a straight majority vote, which the mayor couldn't veto), and then the floor was opened to questions and statements.
And the statements came in a torrent. A few preservationist pleas, from people Ed had expected to find useful: Sally Jacobs from the historical society; Ben Torres, head of the local miners' union; a few ranching couples -- and a lot more calls for the development, some from surprising quarters: Ann McGuire, the high school principal; Jerry Hart, the owner of a downtown block (who'd been only too grateful when Ed stuffed another development scheme a few years back); even several ranchers whose land, Ed knew, would be the target of a feeding frenzy if the project were ever approved. He watched the parade of boosters with amazement and more than a little chagrin, for their warnings about the future of the town amounted to a condemnation of the way he'd run it. Hadn't these people wanted -- begged for -- slow growth?
Finally, when it was evident that everyone else with something to say had said it, Mike rose in his seat. Cheers flew from the crowd surrounding him; he had to wait a few moments before speaking, and he looked straight at Ed the whole time. "I think you all know who I am," he began. "I've lived my whole life in Johnston, and I do business in Johnston. So I don't take lightly the idea of altering the town's landscape. But I also don't take lightly the idea that we should show our affection by letting it rot." Another wave of cheers went up. "I thought I might have been the only one," he continued. "I was afraid that the town would be afraid. But I've spent the past week talking to people, some of whom you've heard here tonight, and they've spoken better than I can. They want something to build on, something to believe in. Mayor Fontaine, members of the commission, I hope you'll give them that something. I urge you to vote now -- publicly -- to build this park. Thank you." He sat down, his gaze still trained on Ed; the auditorium went into a frenzy that made the earlier scene seem timid, yells and whoops and catcalls and even a few missiles rocketing across the packed seats and aisles.
Ed looked down at Janet, who looked back smugly; looked for Rebecca and couldn't find her; and then glanced around at his neighbors on the dais: they had that deer-in-the-headlights look. And this spelled trouble. Ed knew better than anyone how exquisitely sensitive the planning commission was to pressure. If they voted then and there, as Mike wanted, they'd vote for development, 5-0. The next move was Ed's, and when the crowd had quieted somewhat he rose and approached the podium.
"Thank you all for coming," he said, smiling warmly. "And thank you all for your input." He nodded at Mike. "The commission members and I will certainly take what we've heard into consideration during our meetings on this matter . . ."
Mike stood up again. "Did you hear us, Mr. Mayor?" he yelled. "We want you to vote out in the open!" This time, the crowd rose as one, faced Ed, and began chanting: "Open vote, open vote, open vote," loud enough that he couldn't continue, even with amplification. All he could do was stand at the podium and weather the storm, watching the surge of banners and clenched fists and wondering what the hell was happening to him. An open hearing wasn't a binding town meeting: he had the right to call a closed-door vote any time he wanted. But how could he do that and survive that fall's election? Or even make it out of there in one piece?
Of course he couldn't, and of course an open vote would go against him; he seemed to be fucked no matter what. And then, without moving a muscle, without changing his demeanor a bit, he hit on a fallback. Not a perfect fallback, but the only one at this point.
"As I said," he shouted, "we'll talk it over during our meetings. The commission needs to study the ramifications of this. But I pledge to you tonight that we will do this in the most fair and open way possible. I propose to place the question of SouthWestWorld on the ballot this fall. Can I count on all of you, for or against, to sign the petition?"
At this, the crowd went wild, issuing their loudest and longest cheers of the night. Mike applauded a little, mostly to be polite, but was left scratching his head, wondering why Ed seemed to be playing to the pro-park crowd. Because I have no choice, thought Ed, catching Mike's eye and giving him a genuinely respectful bow. Mike had organized his forces superbly, and had nearly ambushed him completely; now the best he could do was fight it out in November. And while that's what democracy is all about, as Rebecca would have said, democracy is a risky business. . . .
It wasn't till after the clerk had dissolved the meeting that Ed found Rebecca, hanging back under the colonnade, and approached her -- casual, businesslike, she was his assistant, after all -- to talk. Something was bothering her; she barely acknowledged him as she stared out into the emptying hall, her jaw set firmly.
"Don't take it too hard," he said. "I mean, yes, I was upset, but I've made bad calls in my time."
"You were upset at me? Ed, you were ready to sweep them all aside as if they weren't there. You only backed off because you absolutely had to. It was disgraceful."
"Rebecca." He longed to reach out to her, to caress her slender neck and let her know that it was all right, that this was just work getting in the way of things, but he couldn't, not there. "Rebecca, the name of the game in politics is winning. You can't do good things if you're busy picking yourself up off the canvas."
"You can't do good things if you're busy doing bad things," she said, and brushed past him.
"Rebecca, come back -- "
"By the way," she said over her shoulder, "don't expect me in tomorrow."
Ed watched her leaving, receding into the distance till she was a tiny silhouette framed by the front entrance then disappearing outside. He wandered off down a side hallway, pacing back and forth in front of deserted offices, trying to think of reasons he'd done well and mostly coming up blank. When he got back to the hall it was nearly empty; Janet, unable to find him, had gone home. He looked around for someone, anyone, to talk to. Then he saw Edna, shuffling down the side aisle with her cane, making almost glacial progress toward the exit.
"Edna," he said, cutting across rows of seats to intercept her.
Edna looked up, surprised. "Yes, Ed?" she said.
"I'm sorry if I -- that is, I didn't mean to be -- " But he could tell his earlier rudeness hadn't registered with her, if only because not everything registered with her. He smiled, a little sheepishly. "How about I help you to your car." He extended his arm, crooked at the elbow; she slipped her free arm through, and they strolled out of the hall together.