All the doubts in her head were shoved aside in the next few weeks in favor of the gala. There was so much to be done. The event was to be held at the Three Nines ranch, an old spread, but more of a scenic conglomerate than working ranch anymore, with a few hundred head of cattle, a dude ranch, and lots of old pecan and oak trees. Caterers had to be consulted—barbecue for five hundred people took ten masters. Lighting had to be arranged, plus seating. A stage and dance floor had to be constructed, which the Three Nines was happy to contribute, as they had planned to create an amphitheater for the local performing arts scene, anyway. But the construction company hired to do it was slow as molasses, and Rebecca was fearful that the construction would never be finished in time. The entertainers had to have contracts, which Tom’s publicity firm was slow putting out.
And then there was the matter of major contributions needed to pay for the event, which was Rebecca’s primary concern; and contributions needed to fill Tom’s war chest, which was his primary concern. Tom called Rebecca daily for a head count and openly speculated who would give more than the price per seat. Not a day went by that he didn’t ask about Rebecca’s father, to the point that it was grating on her nerves, and at last, Rebecca asked, “Why the great interest in my dad, Tom?”
“Are you kidding?” He snorted incredulously (Tom had, in these last weeks sliding toward the election, gone from good ol’ boy to hot-tempered candidate). “What do you think? Your old man could make a sizable contribution to my campaign, Rebecca. You’ve talked to him about that, right?”
“No, Tom, I asked him to come, that’s all,” she said through gritted teeth. “He’s not a fan of politics and even less so when it comes to Democrats. If you want more, you’ll have to ask him yourself,” she said. It galled her, because she knew her father would contribute if Tom asked, if only for her sake. That is exactly what she would have hoped for a few months ago—but now she couldn’t think how to explain to Dad that she’d done all this for a man she wouldn’t vote for.
“Don’t think I won’t ask,” Tom said with all confidence. “You just get your old man there. I’ll do the rest.”
Oh, that’s right, you’ll do it all, won’t you, you silver-tongued devil? And which magazine will you be reading from? Whatever. She charitably chalked up Tom’s testiness to a general state of being keyed up, and besides, her mind was already racing ahead to the phone call she needed to make about ushers. So she hung up, shook it off, went on with the dozens of calls she needed to make before she and Gray and Harold could take their routine trip out to see the site.
As those weeks flew by, Rebecca and Matt saw each other as often as they could, but they were both terribly busy. She missed him. She knew he was up to his neck—he had hinted at some trouble at the firm—but when she asked, he shrugged it off, saying he wanted to talk about sunnier subjects. And she knew that Tom was demanding as much of Matt’s time as he was of hers in advance of this gala. Most recently, Matt said over dinner one night, Tom had asked him to investigate Russ Erwin’s background, and even though Matt had found nothing untoward, Tom was relentless. “I don’t know, Rebecca, there is nothing to suggest that Russ Erwin isn’t as exactly what he appears to be: a stand-up guy with a real concern about what is going on in Texas.”
“Did you tell that to Tom?”
“I did,” Matt said. “But have you seen the ads the Republicans are putting out on Tom, the one from Eeyore’s birthday party where he looks like a clown?”
“Yes,” she said with a wince—just one more thing Matt was right about. The list was beginning to pile up so high she’d have to ride a crane to the top.
“The whole race is going negative. Tom and Gunter are putting out an ad in the next few days that shows Phil Harbaugh laughing at some joke, only he looks half drunk. The caption is going to be something like, ‘This is what Harbaugh thinks about Medicare’. And that’s only the beginning,” he warned her. “Russ Erwin has managed to stay off the radar screen until now. But there is a new poll next week, and if he’s gained any ground—which I suspect he has—then he will become the target of the nasty ads, too.”
“I am beginning to detest politics,” Rebecca said, putting down her fork, her appetite gone.
“You and me both,” Matt grimly agreed.
“Once this gala is over, I’m through,” she said resolutely.