“True.” Georgie’s mind was running double time with the fact that the FBI was listening to every word. Did she care if the FBI hustled over to question Cal? “But that was three months ago. I heard he’s seeing Nadira in Overseas Operations. I don’t want to talk about Cal. Let’s talk about you. How are you?”
Frank rubbed the faint red seam visible through his crew cut. Until two weeks ago he had sported a thick shock of medium-brown hair that made him seem even younger than his forty years. “I’ve healed just fine. The surgeon says the operation was a success. Too bad the patient will die anyway.”
Georgie tried to answer his gallows humor with a smile but it was so shaky she couldn’t hold it. Brain tumor too invasive to remove. Frank had only months, perhaps, to live.
“I’d be angry if the Grim Reaper were taking me from something important. But with Mia gone …” He let the thought trail. His wife of eight years had died two years ago of uterine cancer. He shook his head. “Can’t believe that fucker Death has circled back for me.”
Not knowing what to say, Georgie just surged out of her chair and hugged him.
“All right, all right.” He gently disentangled himself from her. “Let me go before someone accuses me of sexual harassment in the workplace. You work for me, remember?”
Georgie’s smile stabilized. “Correction. I’m a freelancer.”
“That’s why you will take this new assignment.”
Georgie looked at the sheet he handed her and grimaced. It was for an afternoon reception at the White House for at-risk teens. Ooh boy. “I really want to, Frank. I do. But I made this commitment to my friend.”
“I suppose he has a name.”
Crap. She hadn’t thought that far. “Brad.” She cringed, hoping Brad wasn’t on the other end of her bug.
“He must be something if he can distract you from your life’s work.” Frank inspected her over his glasses. “Details. Where did you meet, yada yada yada. I’m living vicariously these days.”
“I’ll bring him around sometime soon. You should be asking to see my pictures from the trip.” She reached for her camera bag and pulled out a Zip drive. Twirling her fingers around an imaginary mustache, she handed it to him. “Brought back some filthy postcards just for you.”
“Legs?” He looked over at her when the first photo of a pair of dusty feet appeared on his screen.
She nodded. “Legs. There are some I took before I left that were all about the color blue. Today I’m working on yellow—”
Frank put up a finger for quiet as he slowly scrolled through, pausing to study an occasional shot.
Georgie watched over his shoulder, like a child awaiting a verdict from a parent. Frank and Mia didn’t have children but they’d quickly become the foster parents for many of the young people who came to work at AP, leaving behind family and friends in order to pursue their dreams. D.C. wasn’t like other cities where one could establish longtime relationships. For the most part it was a meeting ground, a part-time life, full of upwardly mobile transients whose being in Washington depended on their ability to stay connected with the ever-changing power brokers of politics. The Kellers had provided an anchor, career advice, friendly faces, and space for weekly potluck meals where people who didn’t feel like part of the city could, for an evening, feel attached.
It took Georgie a few seconds to realize that Frank was no longer staring at her pictures but staring off into space. His hand was clutching the mouse as pictures flipped past too quickly to be seen.
“Frank?” She reached out and touched his arm. The muscles felt locked in place. Alarmed, she shook his shoulder. “Frank?”
Frank jerked and looked at her. “What?”
“You were staring and didn’t respond when I spoke to you.”
His expression clouded for a moment. “Shit. Petit mal seizure. They told me to expect them. But I was hoping.” He sat down heavily, beginning to sweat.
“Who do I need to call?”
He looked up at her with a strange expression. “No one. Not if you want to remain my friend.”
“Okay. But you look pale. Did you eat?”
“No. I guess I forgot.” He rubbed his scar. “The meds cost me my appetite.”
“Sit down. I’ll get you water and some of whatever’s left in the break room.”
“You don’t need …” Georgie was already moving away. She came back with a scrambled-egg-and-bacon sandwich, a bottle of water and one of juice, and a large latte with extra sugar, his favorite. He ate like a man who hadn’t seen a meal in a week.
When he was done, he sat back and smiled a weary little smile.
“Sorry if I frightened you. If it weren’t for the weirdness”—he touched his taped eye—“I’d demand to keep my job until I fell completely apart. However, some of the higher-ups aren’t as sanguine about these things.”
Georgie bit her lip. “I won’t say a thing. But promise me, you won’t be driving?”