“You made me wear this,” she rejoined. “Now you’re going to have to wait.”
At the restaurant, they sat at a table by the grand savannah window and reconnected over oysters, tenderloin, and a bottle of French champagne. They talked about everything and nothing, bridging the gap of lost time with banter and laughter and stories. Beneath the good cheer of reunion, however, the current of desire ran strong. Studying him in the candlelight, Zoe realized again that she loved him. He was from a different world, but he was more attractive for it. He was steady but not boring, brave in the face of fear, and unafraid to talk about his feelings. She couldn’t predict the future, but she trusted him with her life. It was more than enough for now.
After the meal, he drove her home in a silence alive with satisfaction and expectation. She took his hand without a word and looked out the window at the darkened streets. The summer stars twinkled high above and the quarter moon hung like a lantern in the sky. When they parked in the driveway, she looked deep into his eyes and said, “Come.”
He followed her into the house and down the lamp-lit hallway to her quarters. Kicking off her heels, she took him to her bed and kissed his lips. He pushed her back and cradled her face in his hands, saying with his eyes what she already knew in her heart. The pleasure that followed belied all of her deepest fears. She didn’t think about the virus, she thought only of Joseph, and afterward, she felt a deep measure of contentment.
She laid her head against his chest and listened to the beating of his heart.
“When I first met you,” he said after a while, “I thought you were arrogant. Now I realize that it’s passion that drives you, not pride.”
She laughed softly. “When I first met you, I thought you didn’t know how to smile.”
He stroked her hair and murmured, “Understanding takes time.”
“Stay with me,” she said, lifting her head and facing him.
“Of course.”
“I don’t mean just tonight.”
The next day, the universe seemed to smile on Zoe. In the morning, she received an email from Samantha Wu.
Zoe, it gives me great pleasure to inform you that Naomi Potter at the New Yorker loved your article. She told me that your mother once wrote a piece for them. They’re going to run it in April, and Naomi is going to edit it, which in my experience means a lot of red ink. She’ll push you harder than I ever did, but she’ll bring out the shine. She thinks it’s going to be big. Congratulations! In case you’re wondering, Time passed on the article but opened the door for an interview. Let me know if you’re ever interested.
Zoe fired back an exclamatory email, then found Joseph in the kitchen and told him the news. Her enthusiasm proved infectious. Before long, they were wearing matching grins.
That afternoon, Zoe was sitting at her desk when a call came through. She didn’t recognize the number and allowed it to go to voicemail. A minute later, her iPhone vibrated. Curious, she picked up the phone and played the voicemail.
“Ms. Fleming, this is Cynthia Chansa. I apologize for being rude when we spoke. Charity’s death has been very hard for me to accept. I want to help Kuyeya. I don’t know if what I remember will matter, but I’ve put it all in writing. I’d like to send it to you, along with Charity’s letters. Text me your address, and I’ll put them in the post.”
Zoe sent the text with warm words of gratitude and then tried—but failed—to concentrate on the police medical report she was reading.
That evening, Joseph joined her for dinner at the Prentices’, and Tom and Carol went out of their way to give them privacy. Over chicken and couscous, Zoe gave Joseph a crash course on her father’s campaign. After winning the New Hampshire primary, he had lost South Carolina to the Governor of Kansas, igniting a debate among the pundits about his chances in the general election. Some claimed that he was too moderate, others that he wasn’t comfortable talking about religion, still others that his wealth put him out of touch with the American people. To make up ground, the Senator and his SuperPAC fired a fusillade of attack ads at the Kansas governor. The polls responded favorably, but doubts persisted about Jack Fleming’s electability in November.
“All of this must be so strange for you,” Joseph said when she finished her summary. “Seeing your father’s every move analyzed and criticized, his whole life under scrutiny.”
She laughed. “Sometimes I think I’m going to wake up and find myself in the headlines. I’ve gotten a few queries from reporters, but nothing intrusive. Somehow his people have kept our relationship out of the press.”