Impulse

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Amy had served as a “side man” to her father during the summers, then full time in the two years since college. In that time, she had been listening silently and learning. She had been traveling for his political campaign advisory company for almost four months now on her own. It had been a revealing experience.

Her dad used her as a trusted representative. It was interesting work, but it would have been better if she was a man.

Men reacted to her not as Bill Allen’s representative, but as a young female. Their reactions ranged from indulgence, to tolerance for Bill Allen’s daughter, to genuine attraction, to lechery. But mostly they had trouble taking her seriously.

Where a man could have started at a basic level of acceptance, Amy had to work to reach up to that zero and then had to work hard for the men to even listen to her.

Her father told her, “It’s good experience,” and he ruffled her hair. He then grinned at her and said, “In another fifty years, they’ll listen to you and take you very seriously with genuine respect. By then you won’t be the sable-haired blue-eyed killer you are now.”

She’d fingercombed her hair back into place and given the disgruntled reply, “I’ll have it before then.” Her father didn’t realize his hair-ruffling was very like other male reaction to her. She was aware, but she could tolerate it from him since he was her father.

However, the next time she’d gone to have her hair cut, she’d told Peter to give her a hairstyle that would allow her father to ruffle it without destroying anything calculated.

Peter had groused a sympathetic, “Men!” He then spent almost forty minutes studying her head before he cut her hair in the matter of about twenty minutes in a neat, shake-right swirl.

Peter believed in style not fad, and he said, “You’re lucky you can wear your hair any way you choose and forget it. You have enough hair, your head shape is good and your features are well placed. Ears can be a bore. Yours aren’t bad.” From Peter that was accolades only to her luck. He had meant nothing personal.

* * *

Below Amy’s balcony, down on the pedestrian walkway, a group of wedding guests strolled along in the misty evening, laughing. Even from two floors up, Amy could clearly hear, “But who else will come?”

“Who knows? It’ll be interesting to see.”

How carelessly those elegantly, casually clothed people chatted. Anyone listening closely could intrude and pretend to be one of them.

Being oblivious to listeners was the way with any specialty group whether it was business, politics, travelers or, as in this case, monied people.

It never occurred to them they were overheard and someone could carefully listen. Look at the information she’d gleaned just in the lobby, the elevator and just now. They didn’t actually know who all would be there at the wedding of Sally and Tad.

Even Amy, who had no ulterior motives, could go to any of them and say, “Well, hello! I’m a descendant of your Aunt...” Was it Tilly? No, not Tilly. It had been Trilby. “I’m your long lost cousin, Amy Abbott!”

She could say that quite easily. They didn’t know all of their relations. Even those they knew weren’t in touch with the others. She could fake being related.

And they would accept her. After a certain strata in life, people were no longer snobbish. They would include her quite nicely, for a time, just for the novelty if for no other reason.

All Amy had to do was take advantage of their careless tongues. She could do it. And if she did...she could meet Chas! Ah, yes. Did Chas know he was a carrot to her goatish...uh...ewe-ish desires?

If she did pretend to be related to them, it would give her the opportunity to find out what kind of man he really was. She would learn if he was solid or hollow. She could do it as a test of her father’s schooling. An independent study. Test her skill of summation. What a neat cover-up for lust.

Lust? She? Of course not! It was simply... curiosity.

However, it would be interesting to have an affair with him. To have him look at her with that sinfully lazy smile. To have him bend his head down to hear her and watch her mouth as she spoke. To be the object of his attention.

She might be able to do that, too, with complete immunity. Not only could Amy Abbott Allen invade their celebration, but she could contrive to have an affair with the dominant male wolf.

They were all strangers, she wasn’t native around there. She could very easily perpetrate such a masquerade...and get away with it.

She did pause. Again. It was another threshold. Was it the one she’d sensed as she’d entered the suite?

She was contemplating a very rash thing here. Strange behavior for the puritan Amy Abbott Allen. It was one thing to fake an acquaintance and invade a private gathering just to see if she could, but it was another thing entirely for a woman of her upbringing to even think about plotting an affair.

An affair with a stranger she’d only glimpsed in a hotel lobby? Insane! She’d been working too hard. She was alone too much. Her male contacts called it burnout or nerves or relaxation or distraction or almost any other word. She’d always sneered and called the affairs predatory usage.

Could it be she was no better than any prowling male? Women did do this sort of thing. Amy knew they did, but she’d always thought they were a different kind of woman.

Perhaps Amy’s interest now was only because she’d never before seen a man she wanted.

Amy did want to try for him.

With the decision, she spent a long time listening to a wild, shocked debate inside her head— all of which she realized she’d heard before! Had she only been thwarted from seduction by her conscience? Was she a victim of Victorian morals?

She was not! While not quite past this one, she was a Twenty-first Century Woman!

She could live like any man. She could take her pleasures as she found them and enjoy the freedom of choice. She could.

She could stand on her back legs and howl just like any others of the wolf pack. She could go right ahead and have an affair, right there, with Chas...if she could entice him.

What if he wasn’t interested? Well, there were others in the party. She could... No. She could look them over again, but she hadn’t seen any of the others who’d rated a third glance.

It was to Chas that her eyes had clung. It was he whose body spoke to hers. She wanted him.

And of course, she had the advantage of being unknown. She could vanish into the night, like a highwaym— highwaywoman.

* * *

Lochinvar had carried off the bride. Amy would be a female Lochinvar. One who carried off a man from a wedding celebration. It was an omen.

He’d be something to try to carry off since he was so big. And she only wanted the affair. It would be an affair of mystery for she would vanish. Would he pine for her? Search?

Her mind made up all sorts of tales of his search. He’d stand on the outer edges of her life, she would at last recognize him and she would be kind.

No, that would never do. When she left, it would be finished. She couldn’t have old lovers turn up here and there. That would make her life too cluttered.

The affair would stay an interlude of enchantment. And he would never know who she really was.

Of course, once she met him, there was the chance that she might not be interested. He could well be hollow. But the opportunity was there for her to find out if he was a solid man.

She didn’t have to languish through the days of simply catching glimpses of him around the hotel. She could get to know him, and she could judge whether or not she wanted to know him...better.

Wasn’t that the word men used? “I’d like to know you...better.” All she had to do would be to enter their group, ta-dah! and reveal herself as a long-lost cousin!

Having that distraction from boredom, the affair would entertain her. She had to have something to do until Peck and Mitzie left her parents’ house. She could read up on the campaign of Harry Albert Habbison, who was running for a State Senator’s job in Illinois.

H.A.H. seemed so relaxed and easy, but he was about the shrewdest hayseed she’d ever met. He was going to use the State Senator’s position to campaign statewide, and he’d then become a U.S. Senator or he’d have scalps.

Amy was curious what her father would do with her notes in working up a rough on Harry’s campaign. Harry had a good chance of winning his district. And in a sampling in the state, people didn’t yet know of him.

That was good. If they had no opinion of the unknown, there was nothing to counteract.

In Illinois, the Republicans had always ruled the state while the Democrats held Chicago. But that was changing. Could a Republican hayseed make it? Harry thought so. How would her dad advise on that, and what would be his comments on her notes? It would be interesting.

Amy’s father was considered one of the country’s most brilliant campaign advisors. A lot of gimmicks were attributed to him. The handwritten notes whose ink actually smeared. The shirtsleeves and loosened tie with suit coat carried over one shoulder with the left fingers holding it— leaving the right hand free to shake any hand.

The coat over the shoulder was attributed to Sinatra’s long-ago album cover, as Mr. Allen pointed out. Although, before then, his candidates had used it— for a time.

By now the folksy, shirtsleeved bit had been so overused, and used so awkwardly and with such calculation, that no Allen-advised candidate touched such a cliché.

Any Allen campaign pattern was so quickly copied that he allowed others to take credit for them, because by then he’d gone on to better ideas. The senior Allen didn’t like to be coupled with ideas that were past their time. The only thing he pointed to— with clients— was who had used him and how many had won.

So, naturally, there was the question as to how many of those who won had beaten better men? Whose side to take was faced with every potential client.

The preliminaries for the decision was Amy’s job. It turned on who was the client, his reputation and how he reacted to her.

She probed as to what sort of people were around the candidate and what were his goals.

There had been potential clients who’d been turned down who had won. And there were good men Allen had accepted as clients who’d lost. No one won them all.

So what would her dad do with Harry A. Habbison? Something ought to be done with that double H. Her father might shun such a gimmick. Honest And Honest? Double H for double Honor?

The man was honorable. She’d stake her judgment on that one, but he was peculiarly unpalatable. However, the H.A.H. might be used by the opposition as the derisive sound, hah! Maybe they shouldn’t draw attention to his initials.

What was Chas’s full name? Now there was a man who would tempt any woman to vote for him. Chas, the dominant male wolf.

A woman always wants the best man around. And there was the warrior in Chas which would inspire men to believe in him. Ah, to have Chas for a candidate client. All they would have to do would be to put him on television and ask him to say his name and what he wanted.

Amy really didn’t care what he wanted. She wanted him. She wanted to talk to him, and have him look at her, smile at her, to reach out, put his hand on her nape and draw her to him. Yes.

It was getting quite cool with her balcony door open. Why would she stand there, in the cool wet darkness, dreaming about a man who hadn’t even looked at her?

He was probably a loyal husband with six kids. Any wife of his would willingly have six kids for that man. She...well, no, she wasn’t having his children. She simply wanted an affair, if he was single.

She was going to try. Tomorrow she would contrive to meet Sally and introduce herself as a long-lost cousin. And after that, it would only be a matter of time before she met Chas. The impulse was a little heady, and she felt a strong recklessness. It would be an adventure.

Two

Amy had gone to bed so early that she wakened at a completely uncivilized time on Thursday. The morning’s gray sky was still dripping. With the balcony door open, the air smelled fresh and cool like San Francisco’s fog.

Instead of using one of the beds in the bedroom, Amy had opened out the sleeper sofa in the living room and slept there, snug and warm under a fleecy blanket.

She stretched and stretched and yawned before she lay peacefully in an unusual indulgence. She’d heard there were actually people who wakened before they got up. She could get used to it.

Her empty stomach indicated it was hungry. She could easily eat there in her suite, from her stocked supplies. However, the time factor made utilization of The Relative Plan rather urgent.

It would be wiser to go down to one of the dining rooms for breakfast in order to begin her deception. Did they serve this early? Would any of the wedding party even be up?

Amy sat up and swung her legs off the sofa bed, then stood and stretched as she enjoyed just doing that. Going down the suite’s hall into the bedroom, she looked at her wardrobe. She’d have to get some more things from her car.

She flicked through the few things hanging there and pulled out a shockingly expensive jogging suit. She’d bought it because the color matched her blue eyes exactly, and it beat utilitarian gray bulk all hollow.

Amy surveyed herself. She did not look like a serious athlete.

Her headband was an old one from her father. It bore the label McMahon, for the ex-quarterback of the Chicago Bears. She picked up a purple-hooded sweat jacket, put her door card in the back pocket of her pants and went down to the breakfast room.

Quite a few people were there! What were all these people doing up at such an ungodly hour?

There was a hum of conversation in the room, and the waiters moved around. There was the clink of plates and rustle of people.

Then Amy realized most of the diners were wedding guests. In her quick scan, she didn’t see Chas. But she did see those present were dressed in a wide range of casual sports clothing, and her impulsive sports buy wasn’t beyond reason.

She chose a seat within earshot of Sally, the redheaded bride-to-be, in order to pick up on any mention of their Aunt...was it Tilly? No, it was Trilby. Their “relative in common.”

Amy noted that Sally wore a deliciously baggy old gray utilitarian sweat suit. Sally could wear a barrel and still be a knockout. Amy was glad Sally was getting married. Chas’s cousin or not, Amy wanted Sally out of the way.

Looking over the menu, Amy threw caution to the wind and ordered a monster breakfast. Eggs with an S, pancakes, trout, bacon, strawberries and tea. And she ate it as she listened only to the table next to hers.

The bride said, “The dresses haven’t arrived.”

The woman with Sally soothed her. “They’ll get here. Don’t panic.”

“The wedding is Saturday! The day after tomorrow! I don’t want to get married in this sweat suit.”

“You have that green dress.”

“I used to wear it with Frank.”

“Well? So?”

“Every time I wear that dress, I think of Frank, and even you will have to admit I can’t marry Tad while I’m thinking about Frank.”

“Why don’t you give it to the League’s Second Chance Boutique?”

“It looks terrific on me.” Sally’s voice was deliberately mild in her acceptance of looking great.

“I have to agree to that. Did I ever tell you I once stole it? But when I put it on, it looked like a dishrag on me, so I put it back.”

“The color is wrong for you. You have a great figure.”

“It was too tight.”

“So that’s when it happened! Do you know I had to mend that seam?”

“Old Simmy would have been proud of you!” Sally’s companion exclaimed as she laughed. Then she asked, “Where is Tad?”

“He and Chas went on a soggy jog.”

“Chas is probably having to tell Tad what marriage means.”

“Tad knows.”