In the meantime, Tom looked around at the things Rebecca had put on the walls. “The place looks great!” he exclaimed. “Did you do this, Matt?” he asked, and paused to laugh at his own jest before throwing his arm around Rebecca’s shoulder and squeezing tight. “Rebecca, you are perfect for this team. This is great,” he said, gesturing to the wall adornments. And then he abruptly let go, pivoted about and started for the back room. “I want flags like these in every office,” he boomed.
His enthusiastic response had put some wind back into her alter ego sails, and Rebecca followed him, walking past Matt, chin lifted. “Already done,” she said pertly.
“I am so not surprised,” Matt said behind her.
They gathered in the back when Angie (in gold streaks) and Pat (in standard-issue gay) arrived, laden with paper bags full of sodas, chips, and salsa, around which they all gathered in the back room. “I love chips and salsa,” Tom said. “They ought to make it a law or something.”
“You are they,” Pat reminded him, to which Tom nodded thoughtfully, as if that notion had just occurred to him.
Matt (who had taken a seat right next to Rebecca, naturally, for what better place from which to torment her?) did not partake of the chips and salsa. He sat so close that she could smell his cologne, absently drumming his hand on the table in front of her. While the others chatted about unfamiliar people and events, Rebecca couldn’t help noticing his strong, capable hand. It was huge. Which naturally reminded her of what Robin often said— “Big hands, big dick. They’ve done scientific studies, you know.” And that Rachel often disputed that fact. “It’s the feet, not the hands. Always check the feet first!” A surreptitious peek below the table confirmed that Matt had it covered on both fronts.
Too heavy on the visualization front had Rebecca’s face flushing hot again, but damn it, she could not stop looking at his hand.
Fortunately, Matt didn’t notice; he was too busy leaning across her to squint at the motivational poster she had pinned up on the wall. “Building the Perfect Team: No one person can perform a task to the highest standards,” he thoughtfully read aloud, then glanced around the table. “I’d say we’ve pretty much proven that in spades.” He looked back at the poster. “Yet a team can contain experts in many fields.” He looked at Rebecca. “Like decorating?”
“Jealous,” she muttered, looking straight ahead.
“Oh, I don’t think so,” he said. “I’m a lot of things right now, but jealous isn’t one of them. Would you like to know what I am?” He smiled that deadly lopsided smile again.
Fortunately, Pat saved any conversation about which things, exactly, he was, by asking Tom, “Can we get started? I’ve got a school board meeting tonight.”
Rebecca was grateful for Pat’s intervention—Grayson was beginning to tire, and was, at present, hanging over her lap like a limp rag. Juggling his weight, she pulled from her new briefcase the papers she had printed from her computer, spread them neatly before her, lined them up in proper order, fished out a pen, and placed it carefully to the side, in case she needed to take notes.
“Okay,” Tom sighed, clearly unhappy that Pat had ended the good time. “I’d like to get a list together of what groups we need to target immediately. I also need to get reports on where we are with the mailers.”
Rebecca raised her hand. Pat did not; Pat just started to rattle off a number of the groups Rebecca had so carefully researched. “Young Democrats in the metro areas, Junior League in Dallas and Houston, and maybe most importantly,” she said, “the Texas Democrats for Change.”
“Let’s start with TDC,” Tom said as Rebecca frantically looked at her list. “So, let’s think of—”
Be aggressive! Rebecca’s alter ego shouted at her. “Ah, Tom, excuse me?” Rebecca blurted, hand up high. “There is one other group I’d like to put on the table.”
“Okay, let’s hear it.”
She cleared her throat. “Well, ah . . . Pat covered most of them,” she said, flashing a smile at Pat, “but there is one other that might be worth a look. The Silver Panthers.”
Next to her, Matt sat back, folded his arms loosely across his chest and grinned.
“They are a grassroots organization of senior citizens,” she explained.
“Oh, we know who they are,” Tom said. “And thank you for mentioning them. We inadvertently forgot them.” He smiled. “They are a tough nut to crack . . . but I’m sure you know that, right?”
“Ooh . . . well, they are having their state convention at Lakeway at the end of the month. And I . . . I was thinking it might be a good opportunity to introduce you to them.”
“Rebecca, that’s a great idea,” Tom declared.
She smiled, relaxing a little. “I don’t know for a fact if we can get their attention at this late date—”
“Here’s a surprise: We can’t,” Matt interjected amicably.
Without sparing him a glance, Rebecca continued, “But I thought, maybe, we could host like a little party or something, and invite as many conference attendees as we could get.”