The interior of the house was decorated with a distinctly Southwestern flare, all bright, solid colors and geometric patterns. Southwestern art has shifted in the last twenty years; before the Rising, any house with that many potted cacti and Native American?style throw rugs would have boasted a coyote statue or two and possibly a polished steer?s skull, complete with horns. I?ve seen pictures?it was pretty morbid stuff. These days, representations of any animal that weighs more than forty pounds have a tendency to make people uncomfortable, so coyotes and steers are both out of fashion, unless you?re dealing with a serious nihilist or some kid playing ?creature of the night.? Only the painted deserts remain. An enormous picture window took up half of one wall, marking the house as having been put up before the Rising. No one builds windows like that anymore. They?re an invitation to attack.
The kitchen was defined by raised counters rather than walls, spilling tile flooring into the hall and attached dining room in an almost organic fashion. Senator Ryman was standing by the big butcher?s block at the center when we entered, arms around the waist of a woman in blue jeans and a flannel lumberjack?s shirt. Her brown hair was pulled back in a high, girlish ponytail. He was murmuring something in her ear, looking a good ten years younger than he had when we met outside.
Shaun and I exchanged a glance, debating the merits of retreating and allowing them this private time. My journalistic instincts said ?stay,? and I certainly wasn?t turning off the cameras, but my sense of ethics told me that people deserve a chance to unwind before starting on something as huge as a full-on political campaign.
Luckily, Buffy saved us from the conundrum by barreling straight ahead, sniffing the air appreciatively, and asking, ?What?s for lunch? Wow, I?m starving. That smells like shrimp and mahimahi?am I close? Can I do anything to help??
Senator Ryman stepped away from his wife, exchanging an amused look with her before turning a grin on Buffy, and said, ?I think things are pretty much in hand. Besides which, Emily?s too territorial to share her kitchen with another woman. Even if it?s a borrowed kitchen.?
?Quiet, you,? said Emily, jabbing him in the ribs with a wooden spoon. He winced theatrically, and she laughed. The laugh was bright, perfectly in keeping with the practical, elegantly simple kitchen. ?Now, let me see if I can guess which of you is which. I know you have two Georges and a Shaun?how is that fair?? She put on an exaggerated pout, not looking a bit like a senator?s wife. ?Three boys? names for two girls and a boy. It puts me at a disadvantage.?
?We didn?t get to choose our own names, ma?am,? I said, fighting a smile. Shaun and I don?t even know what names we were born with. We were orphaned in the Rising, and when the Masons adopted us, we were both listed under ?Baby Doe.?
?Oh, but one of you did,? she said. ?One of the Georges is also a Buffy, and if I remember my pop culture right, it should be the blonde one.? She turned, extending a hand toward Buffy. ?Georgette Meissonier, correct??
?Absolutely,? Buffy said, taking her hand. ?You can call me Buffy. Everyone else does.?
?It?s a pleasure to meet you,? Emily replied, and released her hand, turning toward Shaun and me. ?That must make you the Masons. Shaun and Georgia. Yes??
?Got it,? Shaun said, saluting her. Somehow, he kept the gesture from looking like he was making fun. I?ve never understood how he does that.
I stepped forward, offering her a hand. ?George is fine by me, or Georgia. Whichever is easier for you, Mrs. Ryman.?
?Call me Emily,? she said. Her grip was cool, and the glance she cast toward my sunglasses was understanding. ?Are the lights too bright for you? They?re all soft bulbs, but I can dim the window a bit more if you need me to.?
?No, thank you,? I said, eyebrows rising as I studied her face more closely. Her eyes weren?t dark, as I had first assumed; what I had taken to be deep brown irises were actually her pupils, so dilated that they pushed the natural muddy hazel of her eyes into a thin ring around the edges. ?Wouldn?t you know if the lights were a problem??
She smiled, wryly. ?My eyes aren?t as sensitive as they used to be. I was an early case, and there was some nerve damage by the time they figured out what was going on. You?ll tell me if the lights get to be too much??
I nodded. ?Sure will.?
?Wonderful. You three make yourselves comfortable. Lunch will be up in a few minutes. We?re having fish tacos with mango salsa and virgin mimosas.? She raised a finger to the senator, adding playfully, ?I don?t want to hear a word of complaint from you, Mister. We?re not getting these nice reporters drunk before things even get started.?
?Don?t worry, ma?am,? Shaun said. ?Some of us can hold our liquor.?