The Senator from Texas

PART ONE

Chapter 1

January – Washington, D.C.

A cold, persistent rain peppered against the kitchen window of our historical townhouse in Georgetown. It was only 4 p.m. and already dank and dismal outside. I was adding brown sugar to the apple slices that were boiling on the stove when, from across the house, I heard the front door open and then close. I wasn’t expecting my husband home until five, still who else could it be? Stephen? I called out falteringly.

There was no reply.

I turned off the burner and quickly wiped my hands on the dish towel that rested over the shoulder of my red cable sweater. I slowly padded across the wood planked floor from the kitchen through the den, where the gas logs were blazing in the fireplace, and into the foyer. Irritation consumed me the instant I saw that it was my husband, and not only had he not bothered to answer me, he had nonchalantly tossed his wet overcoat on top of my late grandmother’s mahogany writing desk.

I picked up his coat and transferred it to the coat tree that stood a mere three feet away. Using my towel I wiped the desk until I was certain it was completely dry. Hi, I said cheerfully, ignoring the fact that I’d asked him dozens of times not to use my antique desk as a catchall.

Stephen pulled off his wet Cole Hahn loafers and left them sitting in the middle of the foyer floor and walked past me without so much as a hello or kiss my ass. He unceremoniously plopped into his favorite armchair.

I’m fine. Thanks for asking, I answered myself, the words dripping with sarcasm.

Alanna, Stephen whined. I’ve had a horrible day. He raked his hand through his hair, letting it rest on his neck as if it was aching. Ooo, get me a scotch, will ya?

Oh, poor baby, I cooed. I’m really sorry you’ve had a bad day, but if you think you’re going to take it out on me – you would be wrong. I turned on my heel and walked toward the kitchen. Without looking back, I said, Get your own damn scotch.

Stephen Hudson is the Senior Senator from the state of Texas. He stands six foot three, according to his press bio, and even taller in his boots, which he always wears on the campaign trail. He first gained public attention as an All-American receiver at the University of Texas. He was on the short list for the Heisman Trophy his senior year. Or so he claims. Aside from his athletic prowess, he has the looks that make females swoon and movie stars appear plain and ordinary in comparison.

In Texas if a candidate is good-looking, articulate, and a football player he is practically a shoo-in.

I’m Alanna Hudson, wife of the Senior Senator from Texas; at least that’s how I’m labeled in the newspapers and press releases.

A few minutes passed before I heard Stephen approaching. I’m sorry, Lanni. I’m a real jackass. He began kissing my neck, knowing it was one of my sensitive erogenous zones.

I gave him the silent treatment, but didn’t pull away. Instead I stretched my neck to give him ample access. Why would I do that? Did I happen to mention that besides being absolutely gorgeous he is sexy as hell? His love nibbles were making my eyes roll back in my head.

I don’t know how you put up with me, he said apologetically.

You’ve got a couple of good moves in your repertoire that makes you worth keeping around.

I felt the air from his chuckle on my neck. I’m going to take you on a vacation to a deserted island where I can have you all to myself.

Yeah, I said slow-like, I’ve heard that one before.

I really am. But for now, he began massaging my shoulders – another one of Stephen’s moves that I’m particularly fond of, the weatherman said this storm should pass in an hour or so. Let’s find a dark restaurant with a secluded booth where we can make out like horny teenagers.

Ah, sounds good. If only we could.

Stephen lifted his head. Why can’t we?

"Because your kiss butt party is tonight."

Oh, shit! I thought that was Thursday.

"Thursday is your new senator meet and greet kiss butt gathering. Tonight is the neighborhood kiss butt dinner." Our Washington residence is in a neighborhood filled with politicians, judges, cabinet members and lobbyists who believe that having a traveling dinner every few months makes us look like average, Leave it to Beaver, kind of folks. Stephen volunteered our house for the dessert this time around.

I call all of Stephen’s social events kiss butt because they’re all about politicking. Socializing with our neighbors is fine and dandy, except sometimes I think it’s more about getting donations for his campaign fund than being hospitable.

All the thoughts of the secluded booth flew out of Stephen’s head. It was show-time. Tonight he would be the center of attention. He would be in his element, slapping backs and kissing cheeks, and calling everyone by their first name. If ever a person was born to be on stage, it was Stephen Hudson.

Is there anything I can do to help? he asked with the proper amount of solicitude.

I wrinkled my nose. He and I both knew his help would be more a hindrance than anything else. His sole culinary skill was slapping a steak on an outdoor grill – and that was only after I bought it, marinated it and handed it to him. I’m finishing up the last of six pies I’ve made from scratch, I said, tooting my own horn. You go get in the shower and if you’re lucky I’ll join you in a few minutes.

Chapter 2

Alanna stepped out of the shower first, showing no inhibition of her nudity. Being in the raw with Stephen was as natural for her as breathing.

At the age of thirty-seven she still has the same girlish shape she had in her twenties. As good as her figure was; her hair was better. Her crowning glory. It was the color of melted milk chocolate and fell to her shoulders. Just curly enough to produce the perfect wind-blown look and it cased her face the same way a gilded frame highlighted a Monet painting. She joked that her olive complexion and hazel eyes must have come from some Sicilian that snuck into the family tree.

Alanna went through her basic beauty routines. She quit drying her hair when it was still slightly damp, then bent at the waist, and shook her head. When she straightened no one would guess she hadn’t spent hours in the salon. She applied blush, eye shadow, and lip gloss, all in pink and rose tones. Lastly she shimmed into a pair of antique blue wool slacks and a matching sweater with a cowl collar that fell off one shoulder. Added jewelry and in half an hour she looked like a million bucks.

While Alanna waited for Stephen to finish preening she made sure the dining room was ready for the evening’s final course. After a few tweaks she was satisfied with the white mum and red rose centerpiece she’d ordered from the florist. The china plates were lined up with the silverware. The tall crystal candlesticks sparkled. The coffee urn shined. Most importantly, the pies – two chocolate, two apple, one pecan and one lemon meringue – were picture perfect.

When Stephen finally made his grand entrance he had on a pair of black cords that covered all but the silver tips of his croc boots. A crisp white shirt under a tweed sports jacket.

In Alanna’s eyes he also looked picture perfect.

Chapter 3

February – Austin, Texas

No one will believe this, but it’s true. So help me. I feel twenty pounds lighter when the airplane touches down at Austin-Bergstrom Airport. That big Washington weight falls off my back and I get so lightheaded that I want to hug the entire Lone Star state. I’m home, and as the adage goes, there’s no place like it.

In Washington I’m a fish out of water. No one points it out – at least not to my face – but I’m different from other politicians’ wives. It isn’t that the they are more intelligent; I have them beat in academic achievements. Most of the elected Senators, too. Of course, the fact that I don’t use any of my advanced degrees and titles sort of negates that advantage.

The difference is that, unlike the other wives, I don’t give a hoot about politics. Could care less about who is the majority or minority. Don’t spend my every waking hour obsessing on what the party on the other side of the aisle is up to.

What galls me the most are the politicians who claim to be devoted public servants and end up serving only their own interests. Then every time they come up for reelection they stump to small towns and give heartfelt speeches promising to continue their fight to protect Joe Citizen. And they manage to say it with a straight face, too. I suppose it is difficult to make a complete turnaround when you’ve been raised in stately homes where chores are done by other people and attended exclusive private schools where elitist beliefs are honed on a daily basis.

Then again, maybe it’s me. My attitude is that just because my husband chose a career in politics doesn’t automatically make me a political game player. I’m a Republican only because that’s my husband’s affiliation. I care deeply for my country and I vote, but – unbeknownst to Stephen – I vote for as many Democrats as I do Republicans. I judge people by their character, not whether they are a donkey or an elephant.

To say I get bitter when I spend time in the nation’s capitol is an understatement; I just flat don’t like people who believe their shit don’t stink.

Happily, I spotted my dad when I entered the public part of the airport. We had talked a couple of nights earlier and I told him it wasn’t necessary for him to pick me up. I promised to take a cab and call him as soon as I got home. Yet, I had expected him to be waiting for me and would have been disappointed if he hadn’t been.

Hi, Dad, I said loud enough to be heard over the crowd noise.

Lanni Liz, he said, then hugged me close.

I smiled at my pet name. He had called me Lanni Liz for as long as I can remember. My full name is Alanna Elizabeth Cole-Hudson.

Alanna’s father, Ed Cole, was past the sixty-year mark, but could easily pass for ten years younger. He stood straight as a rod; square jawed with steel blue eyes that forever saw Alanna as his precious little girl. Do you have any luggage? he asked her.

No. Only this, I said, holding up my canvas tote bag, which held my purse, a Wall Street Journal and a sexy romance novel that kept me good company on the three hour flight.

Have you eaten?

Eat? On a plane? Are you kidding me? I said as a serious joke.

Hungry?

Yes.

How about a hamburger? Ed asked.

Perfect.

Chapter 4

You were in Washington longer than usual – five weeks, wasn’t it? Ed framed his question while inching his year old Escalade toward the airport exit.

Is that all? I said, a puff of air escaping my mouth. It sure seemed longer than that. This mid-term election brought a dozen new Republican Senators to Capitol Hill. It took forever to party them through the club initiation. I pulled the silk scarf from around my neck and stuck it into my tote. "Imagine, if you will, Animal House with expensive booze instead of kegs and historical buildings in place of a dilapidated frat house."

You’re exaggerating, Ed said, his lips curling into a smile.

Maybe a little, I admitted. "We did have a lot of parties. They weren’t drunken bashes and we didn’t wear togas. There were classy affairs. But the initiation part is true. It was hell week for a bunch of nice people who still believe their government is of the people and for the people. The older statesmen indoctrinated them to never collaborate with the enemy. Don’t talk to the press and don’t vote for any bill your party didn’t draft. Trust me; the old guard in the Democratic Party was doing the same thing with their new Senators." I wasn’t aware how depressing I sounded.

When we elect enough Senators like Stephen, that will change, Ed said, being the eternal optimist.

Hearing Stephen’s name made me feel warm inside, and brought color to my cheeks. That’s because last night was still vivid in my mind’s eye. It had been better than our honeymoon, a perfect night complete with good wine and satin sheets. He’s trying. Stephen never complains, but there are times when I can see he is frustrated at constantly beating his head against the partisan brick wall.

Ed’s optimism was still hanging in the air when he drove into the parking lot of their favorite hamburger joint, LEO’S. It was two-thirty and still packed. Lucky for us a car pulled out of a space near the entrance. Ed quickly eased his Cadillac between the faded yellow lines.

I peered upward through the passenger door window. It was so liberating to be out from under the gray, dreary skies of the East Coast and back to sunny skies that make Texas look even larger than it is. As far as I’m concerned sunshine is the perfect elixir for what ails you.

I practically jumped out of the car and dog-trotted to the front door of the restaurant. The odor of fried onions coming from the roof’s exhaust pipe triggered memories of other times I’d been here with dad. Since I was a little girl dad and I have discussed many monumental events over an onion-fried burger. It was our comfort food.

I led the way into the square dining room. The restaurant definitely wasn’t fancy; it was a seat yourself kind of place. My eyes quickly scanned the seating and found my favorite booth was empty. It was the booth where I gushed to dad that I had met the one, his name was Stephen Hudson.

I made a beeline for it.

Both dad and I ordered the supreme. A deluxe onion-burger and curly fries.

We ate slowly, savoring every morsel and when we finished eating I got antsy to get home. Dad, on the other hand, seemed content to stay put. In fact, it was almost five and our behinds were still glued to the booth benches. The waiter had cleared our empty plates a half hour ago. All the patrons who were in the diner when we arrived were long gone. Some who came in after us were gone, too. The staff politely mopped around our feet in what I considered to be a hint for us to leave, but dad continued to relate snippets he’d read in the newspapers while I was gone. He critiqued the most recent weather forecasts and got into a nonsensical debate about whether he should get the flu shot or not.

The longer dad procrastinated the more anxious I became. I sensed he had an ulterior motive. My inner voice begged, please don’t say it. Please don’t say it. I concentrated hard in an attempt to telegraph my plea across the table. Then he said it. The words I dreaded and hoped not to hear today. So much for my extrasensory skills.

Lanni Liz, Ed said in his inside voice, I know you’re probably tired, but do you have a few minutes to stop by and see your mom with me?

Oh crap! I said to myself.

To be clear, my reluctance to see my mother has nothing to do with any disagreements or hostility or neglect. I loved her. She was a fantastic mom.

That’s it! Why hadn’t I realized it sooner? For me everything about my mom is in the past tense. She was a good mother. I loved her.

Now there is a woman with my mother’s name – Victoria Cole – lying in a bed in a convalescent home. She’s so thin she doesn’t make a dent in the mattress and her hair is silver gray.

My mother had been so vain about her hair that she had it colored every four weeks. She never missed a salon appointment – rain, shine, hurricane or broken bones couldn’t keep her away.

My mom would never have allowed her gray to show.

Chapter 5

The Empire Convalescent Residence had once been an opulent hotel built in the late 1940’s. No expense had been spared to create the upscale getaway. According to whispered rumors, in its heyday it had been the place for a sordid rendezvous.

For more than half a century the hotel had provided accommodations for honeymooners, businessmen, cross country travelers and countless John Smiths. It wasn’t until hotel chains began popping up on every street corner that the aging inn gave up the ghost and sold to a healthcare conglomerate. Before we knew it the hotel had been converted into an exclusive care facility for disabled patients. Little did I know that our family would one day need its services.

How did my mother end up in an old converted hotel room? That’s a good question. Wish I had a good answer. All I know for sure is that two years ago mom made dad breakfast and sent him off to work, same as she had for nearly forty years. When he returned home around six that evening she was unconscious on the floor.

She’s been unconscious ever since, unable to move or speak. Whether she can hear is questionable. The official medical opinion is that there is no evidence that she can’t hear. On the other hand, there is no evidence that she can. That small crack of hope is why dad speaks to her as if she hears every word he says.

What could have caused mom’s coma depends entirely on which doctor I ask. It could have been a stroke. A heart problem. An aneurysm. One doctor suspects she fell and hit her head, even though she was found on the carpet in the middle of the room, nowhere near any furniture. Another suggested a burglar may have hurt her, except nothing was stolen.

Mom’s prognosis is clear as mud. She might wake up someday – or maybe she won’t. If she does wake up she may be normal – or maybe she won’t. I realize that the practice of medicine isn’t an exact science and doctors have to be careful not to give false hope, but give me a damn break.

The elaborate wrought iron gates were open when dad and I arrived at the convalescent residence. They were always open – it wasn’t as if any of the patients were going to make a run for it. We parked and crossed the cement lot and entered a secured foyer. Dad signed the entrance log and after pushing the buzzer we were admitted by one of the uniformed employees. The whole rigmarole reminded me of someone entering a prison to visit an inmate, not that I’ve ever been to a prison. Nevertheless, it couldn’t be too different.

The grand hotel lobby still featured marble walls and crystal chandeliers, except it was now being used as a communal television room. Deadpan-faced patients of all ages were propped up on leather couches or sitting in wheel chairs and watching a mindless game show that I doubt they understood. I cynically wondered if that counted as the educational portion of their rehabilitation.

From the onerous smell I suspected the kitchen was somewhere behind the marble walls. The odor was strong, yet indistinguishable.

We hurried past the crowd of patients and got into an elevator decorated with 1980’s styled gold-veined mirrors and wood paneling. On the eighth floor the elevator doors separated and I saw the sign that read Intensive Care Unit. When we stepped out the eerie sounds of breathing machines was deafening.

Dad put on his happy-face when he went into his wife’s bedroom and gave her cheek a buzz, exactly like he used to when he came home from work. Hi, Vicky, he said, Lanni came with me today. He glared at me urging me to join in the one-sided conversation.

I never knew where to focus my eyes when I was in this room. The intravenous bag that dripped clear liquid into her body revolted me. The worse invasion of privacy was the bag that captured her bright yellow urine. Littering other parts of the sterile room were the demeaning medical supplies that are used on a daily basis. A box of rubber gloves. Stacks of adult diapers and mattress pads. Plastic basins and liquid soap.

Missing were the bottles of perfume on her dresser. The embroidered pillows on her bed. The closet full of shoes she let me wear when I was little. No, this was definitely not my mother’s bedroom.

The hardest part was looking at the woman lying in the narrow hospital bed. And not for the reason you may think. Simply put, she absolutely freaked me out.

Before my mom ended up here, I thought a coma was a long, peaceful sleep. I’ve learned that’s not necessarily the case. Not for Victoria Cole anyway. There are times when her eyes are partially open and her irises are moving – and not always in unison. She has muscle spasms and occasionally makes an unexpected guttural sound that scares the hell out of me.

For me, being in this room is being trapped in a real life horror movie.

But to appease dad I said, Hi, Mom. Good to see you. Except I kept my distance.

Lanni has been in Washington for a few weeks. Hon, do you remember when we went to Washington on vacation? Lanni must have been about ten or eleven at the time.

A nurse, carrying another bag of clear liquid, interrupted dad’s reminiscing. While she exchanged it with the near empty one she chatted with her patient. Sorry to intrude, Mrs. Cole. I won’t take but a minute.

As soon as the nurse left, dad straightened the bed covers, lifting his wife’s arms out from under the sheet.

That’s when I noticed her pale purple nightgown. It looked silk and very feminine with rows of smocking on the bodice. That’s a beautiful gown, I remarked.

I bought it for her for Christmas, Ed answered, pleased by the compliment.

You’ve got great taste. Tell me the truth, did you really go to the lingerie department – or did you order it on the internet? I gave him a jokingly suspicious eye.

I went to the store. He looked proud as a peacock. I bought the matching robe, too.

My inner devil was quick to criticize his purchase. Well, that was a waste of money.

Of course I was conscious-stricken for the thought, but extremely relieved I hadn’t said it aloud.

Chapter 6

There was no mention of Victoria Cole on the drive home. There was nothing to be said that hadn’t been said before. Nothing in Victoria’s existence ever changed. Day was the same as night. Winter the same as summer.

So when dad began talking about his business I was relieved.

When do you think you’ll have time to come by the store? Your desk is piled high. And April fifteenth is not that far away.

Dad owns a tire company. He started the business when whitewalls were popular. It was small then, just dad and a part-time student who fixed flats. Today he has four locations across Austin and a hundred-plus employees. There’s nothing dad doesn’t know about tires, however he’s not near as confident when it comes to the bureaucratic end of the business. For dad the IRS code and state regulations might as well be written in an ancient forgotten language.

It’s a good thing he has me, if I do say so myself. I’ve been his unpaid bookkeeper and tax preparer since I was in high school. Long before I earned degrees in finance and accounting.

I’ll come by in a couple of days, I promised, and was amused at his mention of my desk, which wasn’t a desk at all. It was an old, dilapidated drop-leaf tabletop held up by two metal file cabinets, one on each end. There was a wire basket on top where dad put bank statements, month-end figures and payroll records.

I’m anxious to hear what you think about my new products, Ed said, trying to be coy and not doing a very good job.

"What new products? I asked in astonishment. Dad usually runs any changes past me before he implements them – not after.

He grinned like a hormonal teenaged boy who just got to second base for the first time. I added a new line of high-end Mag wheels. It’s amazing how much people will shell out for fancy wheels, he shook his head in disbelief. And… I hired an artist. He paints flames on anything that rolls. Pickups, motorcycles, Hummers, race cars, you name it. As of yesterday I have a three-week waiting list for him.

You hired a flame artist, I said between giggles. Wow. No one can ever accuse you of not thinking outside the box. My pride of dad’s entrepreneur skills soared while my mind ticked