“Perfect! Line it up!” Tom said.
“Ah, Tom . . .” Matt interrupted. “Nothing against a good early fund-raiser. But it’s really a little early to do more than a ‘friends of Tom’ deal, don’t you think? I mean, don’t you want to finish getting your platform together before we meet with any significant groups? We skated through the March primary with the bare bones, but now is the time to focus on getting your message out there. The Panthers might want to hear your stance on any number of issues.”
“Ah hell, Matt, they’re just a bunch of old folks!” Tom said cheerfully.
“That might be a little shortsighted,” Matt easily continued. “These are active folks who will care about more than just health care.”
“Dude—don’t worry, be happy,” Tom insisted with a winsome grin. “Look, we’ve got plenty of time. I am already working out the last platform issues with the party folks,” he assured Matt. “So, Rebecca, if you can get us in front of the Silver Panthers, you’ll be the shining star of this campaign. Okay, let’s see what else—Angie, I want the phone bank up so we can start making some cold calls next week.”
And as Tom began to rattle off a list of tasks for the group to tackle, Rebecca risked a look at Popinjay. He was looking at her, too, calm and expressionless. She smiled tightly, turned back to her papers. Matt slowly leaned over, so close that when he whispered, she felt his breath in her hair. “Don’t set it up,” he said. “We need to chat with the party folks first.”
“He just asked me to,” she whispered back.
Matt scooted closer, leaned over again. “I’m telling you that it’s premature. He doesn’t have enough of the right things to say just yet, and the party will want to orchestrate it. Don’t worry; I’ll talk to him when we’re through here.”
Rebecca wondered if Matt knew so much, why he wasn’t running for office himself. “FYI,” she whispered, “you are not the candidate. Tom is.”
“Now, why am I not surprised to hear you say that?” he cheerfully remarked, and straightened in his seat. But then he leaned over again, his eyes on Tom. “By the way . . . do you always smell so good?” he whispered.
There was that bothersome flush again.
“The March primaries are over, folks!” Tom was bellowing, moving into his pep talk. “We’ve got our work cut out for us and we need to gear up for the big fight!” He slapped both hands down on the scarred metal table. “The Republicans are going to try to chew us up and spit us out, so come in each day ready to do the work of two people. Fair enough? Angie will get the offices set up tomorrow and man the front. Parrish, we’ll fine-tune that platform soon,” he said with a wink, and abruptly stood up. “Okay, gotta roll! Thanks for dropping in, folks. Come on, Angie, let’s go check out my office.”
Angie immediately jumped up to follow Tom, as did Gilbert, which left only Pat and Matt behind with Rebecca, who was busy getting Grayson off her lap, who was pretending he was dead and was not cooperating.
Pat turned and looked at Matt. “Another productive meeting, huh?” she asked sarcastically.
Rebecca had no clue what Pat meant—she thought the meeting had been very productive.
Grayson slid off her lap, stood, and shoved his hands into his jeans. “Mom, when can we go home?” he whined.
“Now, honey,” she said, and gathered her papers, stacking them properly (all facing the same direction and in numeric order. She had, of course, numbered them) before sliding them carefully into the color-coded file in her new briefcase.
“Good idea about the Silver Panthers, Rebecca,” Pat said. “But . . . getting something together so soon by the end of the month is kind of stretching it, don’t you think?” she asked, exchanging a look with Matt. “I mean, if you want to do it right.”
Now, those were fighting words. Right was the only way Rebecca ever did anything, and if there was one thing on this earth she did to perfection, it was host a party. She pasted a pageant smile on her face. “It’s really not so hard. I’ve got some ideas.”
“I’m just saying, don’t be too disappointed if you can’t do it, honey,” Pat said in such a condescending way that made Rebecca’s alter ego campaign strategist rear her ugly head and growled.
“I can do it,” she repeated.