The Senator’s Daughter by Christine Carroll

to shut the open window as though the draft was unhealthy.
    She came back and lifted the covers with the practiced hands of a nurse and examined the butterfly closures on the two-inch gash in the meaty part of Sylvia’s calf. “Looking good. We’ll have those off you in another week.”
    Mary sat in a burgundy-upholstered wing chair across from the bed.
    Beneath her steady regard, Sylvia lifted the spoon and dipped it into the cereal. With dread, she conveyed it to her mouth. And began to chew. Or rather, to manipulate the viscous gray paste. Round and round her mouth it traveled, seeming to get bigger with each circuit.
    Finally, Sylvia tried to get rid of it by swallowing, but her throat tried to close, as if to say, “Don’t send that down here.” In desperation, she lifted the china teacup painted with violets and washed the offending mass down with bitter tannic liquid.
    It was on the tip of her tongue to say, “I despise oatmeal and tea, and bananas are for babies.”
    Then she looked at Mary, who watched her with a concern so sincere Sylvia felt ashamed. “You’ve been so good to me. You and Buck.” She spooned up more oatmeal. “I guess this stick-to-your-ribs stuff keeps the Quakers milking cows and slopping hogs on cold mornings.”
    Mary pounced. “Do you come from farm country?”
    How was it possible her notoriety had not spread to this peaceful mountain glen? Taking a bite of banana, she played for time.
    â€œOr are you a city girl?” Mary pressed.
    Sylvia swallowed and reached for the tea. It kind of grew on you.
    Mary leaned forward, her hands on her knees. “You’ve brought some baggage along with you despite your lack of luggage. I’m here if you care to talk about it.”
    Sylvia directed her regard at the polished hardwood floor. She could feel Mary studying her profile; her father had always used the trick of waiting to make her get on with it.
    She sipped more tea. “I’ve been letting you take care of me … now I need to do something in return. Can’t I help out around the place?”
    If Laura Cabot Chatsworth could hear her daughter, she’d fall into a genuine Virginia swoon—”Mammy, my smelling salts … no child of mine is going to work waitin’ on people.”
    Sylvia ignored the image and gestured to her tray. “I could help you out with breakfast.”
    Too late, she realized the guests might recognize her. “I mean …”
    Mary gave her a look that said she understood Sylvia must stay hidden from the person who’d harmed her. “You can work in the kitchen and stay out of sight.”

    On Sunday morning, Sylvia rose when only a faint gray brightened the eastern horizon. Who would have believed she had been alone on a Saturday night, rather than coming back to her town house after last call and sleeping till afternoon?
    Without TV, she couldn’t even find out what Julio Castillo had to say about her not being around. Or had he forgotten her so soon?
    One thing she knew was she had not forgotten Lyle Thomas. Every moment of their encounter had etched itself into her memory, from walking up to the big blond in the undersea light of Ice, to hearing him entreat her to open her bedroom door.
    If she had, where would she be now? In bed with Lyle, having finally gotten around to experimenting with the effect of Puget Sound oysters on libido?
    Stretching, she closed her eyes again. A sweet ache stole over her while she envisioned him lying on his side by her, stroking her skin, bending to kiss her breasts. The need sharpened when she imagined his bare chest against hers, belly to belly …
    With a sigh, Sylvia got up and dressed in the clothing Mary had brought her from Wal-Mart, things her mother would faint at the sight of.
    Yet, Sylvia kind of liked the well-fitting Levis, a black ribbed tank top that had cost $2.99 according to the tag, and a red and black