“You look great,” Rebecca responded with a reassuring smile, reaching to straighten his bolo tie.
“Remember, nothing about Medicare!” Pat reminded him.
“And everything about donations,” Matt added.
“Right, right,” Tom said, and looked at his note cards again as Doug wrapped it up by announcing, “It is a great honor for me to introduce to you the next lieutenant governor of the great state of Texas . . . Senator Tom Masters!”
Amid the applause and whistles, Tom took the steps two at a time, pausing to bow like a prizefighter, then waved to the crowd as he strode to the microphone like a superstar. “Thank you, thank you!” he shouted as the applause and whistling began to die down. “This has to be the best-looking crowd in the Lone Star State.”
That sparked another round of thunderous applause, through which Matt, Rebecca, Pat, and Gilbert made their way up front to a small table reserved for staff.
“Before I get started, I’d like to thank a few people who have made this night possible,” he said, shuffling through his note cards. “The fine people of the Three Nines Ranch,” he started.
Matt leaned toward Rebecca and muttered, “Stand up and wave to the crowd when he calls your name.”
“And Matthew Parrish, a personal friend and confidant,” he said, which, Rebecca thought, seemed to startle Matt. He came only halfway out of his chair, waved quickly to a smattering of applause as he sat again. “I’ll tell you what, if I don’t know the answer, my pal Matt does,” Tom continued as Matt sank in his chair and looked at Rebecca and Pat, shrugging with bewilderment. “And Pat Griswold. Where are you, Pat? Oh! Stand up, Pat,” Tom urged from the podium. “Now, Pat here, she’s dynamite. She’s helped shape my position on several key issues you’ll hear about tonight.”
Pat stood and sat quickly, blinking in shock.
“Nor can I forget our emcee this evening, Gilbert Ortiz,” Tom said, gesturing for Gilbert to stand. But Gilbert was already on his feet, clasping his hands and shaking them like a victory dance above his head, much to the delight of the crowd. Through the microphone, Tom laughed and said jokingly, “Gilbert, you’re taking my spotlight.” The crowd laughed again as Gilbert sat down.
Tom glanced at his notes. “Many of you have spoken to Angie Rush on the phone. Angie’s helping herself to barbecue—there she is!” he said, and they turned, saw Angie near the pits, jumping up and down and waving. “Angie is my right hand,” Tom said. He paused, then glanced at the staff table as if he couldn’t remember anyone else.
Rebecca felt her pulse racing. Tom looked directly at her, then said, “And Rebecca Reynolds—I mean Lear. I’m going to get that straight one of these days.” He chuckled. “Rebecca’s been a help to my campaign . . . Speaking of which, I want to talk to you about the vision I have for Texas,” he said, and shuffling his cards around, began to talk about Texas under his leadership.
Not that Rebecca heard any of his tripe—she couldn’t hear anything with the blood pounding in her ears. Rebecca has been a help to my campaign? That was it? What happened to thanking the people who made this night possible? What happened to all the things she had done for his stupid campaign, even when she had lost faith in him? That was all the recognition she was going to get, and he couldn’t even remember her damn name? And across the front row, she saw Bud, and she felt something implode within her.
She didn’t even realize that she was gripping the edge of the table until Matt put his hand on hers. Only then did she notice how the rest of them were looking at her—Pat, with horror; Gilbert, with confusion; and Matt . . . damn him, but Matt was looking at her with, what, pity?
That did it. Every self-help seminar she had attended, every self-help book she had read, all of them were suddenly bubbling up, frothing inside her, shouting—no, screaming—at her not to accept this horrible, unconscionable slight lying down. The real Rebecca, who slowly and surely had been climbing out of her hole, was suddenly clawing and scratching her way out, fighting for air.
As Tom droned on, Rebecca pulled her hand free of Matt’s and, glaring at him, she leaned across and whispered hotly, “Do not pity me!”
“Honey, I don’t pity—”