Close Call Read Free Page A

Fidel Montoya and his Senate bid. He’d been a congressman from Maryland for ten years and was looking to move up, in next week’s special election, to a Senate seat. Already pundits were talking about him as a presidential candidate somewhere down the road. A bead of sweat trickled down Sydney’s spine and she shivered. Come to think of it, the call had sounded almost like … but no, that was ridiculous. The stuff of movies. People didn’t really put out hits, take out contracts—whatever the terminology was—on politicians, did they?
    Once the thought had invaded her mind, it refused to budge. She tried to think of an innocent explanation for the “job” looking like an “accident.” Maybe someone was arranging some sort of political trick or campaign disaster? The Montoya campaign had certainly attracted a lot of attention and more than its fair share of detractors. Fidel Montoya was a well-educated liberal who supported open immigration, gay rights, and abortion; right-wing loonies stuck to his campaign like gum to a shoe. They hefted posters, shouted slogans, hacked into his web page, tried to “persuade” people not to attend his rallies. She’d heard some of the more militant groups, given air time by the media, mention lynching, deportation (to the Mexico of his parents), and boiling in oil.
    While Sydney thought, her feet had carried her home. She bumped open the waist-high gate with her hip and let it swing shut with a clang. A demanding mew drew her gaze down. Indigo, the neighbor’s gray cat, rubbed against her leg.
    â€œHi, Indy.” She stooped to pat the friendly guy. Surprised to find the cell phone still gripped in her hand, she turned it off and slid it into a pocket. She’d call the deli instead, see if maybe they had her phone. She stroked the cat’s back. He arched and let out a series of burp-like purrs, slitting his eyes with bliss.
    â€œYou’re home.” Jason stood in the open doorway, his dark, gray-streaked hair looking even curlier than usual in the humidity. One hand dug into the pocket of the chinos that slipped off his narrow waist, revealing sharp hipbones and toned abs. The other hand held a champagne bottle. He smiled. A curl of heat warmed the pit of Sydney’s stomach. She loved the way his smile split his face, revealing deep dimples and white teeth.
    â€œI’m home.” She went to him and leaned into his kiss. His lips lingered on her. Maybe they could skip dinner … “Mmm. What are we celebrating?”
    He held the bottle aloft like a trophy. “Yours truly, Dr. Jason Nygaard, economics professor extraordinaire, was notified today of his selection for a Fulbright grant—”
    Oh, no. Sydney hugged him, dropping the deli bags and briefcase.
    â€œâ€”to teach in Indonesia for a year.”
    Indonesia! She’d known it was a possibility, since he applied four months ago, but—“Congratulations, sweetheart. I’m so happy for you.” Stifling her dismay, she planted kisses along his jaw and neck. “Pour some bubbly and let’s toast your achievement properly.” She retrieved the bags, nudging Indigo to get his nose out of the chicken bag.
    When they were settled on the small balcony off the back bed room, champagne fizzing in crystal flutes, she said, “Tell me every thing. When did you hear? What did they say?” She kicked off her shoes— aah, bliss —and propped her heels on the tiny tabletop no larger than a manhole cover. Sipping the Perrier-Jouet, she fought the urge to sneeze as bubbles tickled the roof of her mouth.
    â€œThey said I’m going to Indonesia,” Jason said, plunking the bottle onto the table. He went to the rail and leaned against it, gazing down into the garden—geraniums, marigolds, and petunias in planters, and shrubs around a brick patio. A patchwork of neighbors’ gardens and yards spread out