disclaimer: all belongs to WB ...

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chapter 9

Ruggedly someone tackled Rory's back, making her stumble and almost knock down a track full of poorly xeroxed leaflets.

„Hey, calm down guys, that's neither a White House press conference nor Brad Pitt's second engagement party!" Her usual profession-related solidarity vanished with the stabbing pain at her left scapula the encounter had produced. No member of the camera team bothered to respond while they rushed by, the young reporter in a state of trance, mumbling, „Where is the bloody candidate again?" for the third time in a row.

Rory thanked her personal goddess of destiny once more that no wicked twist of fate had brought her to the television so far and turned another handwritten page of her scratchpad over.

The visit at the Hartford Community Centre had been scheduled from 2.00-3.00 p.m. and tightly organized - a few handshakes, reading a fairy tale of bearable length and decent content to Kindergarten kids whose mothers were working, ensuring some elderly ladies that their health coverage will be in good hands, tossing one ball in the basket, well-picked underprivileged teenagers lingering around the scene - just for the press.

It was 4.30 now and McMahon was playing basketball since 40 minutes. Catherine, on the edge of hysterics, shuffled appointments around as if she were trading top-grade oil stocks the day the OPEC announced a 50 percent output cut. She looked like a freak of nature, her ear adnated to her mobile, her shoulder crooked in an unhealthy angle to steady the phone.

„Does he do that often?" Rory asked in one of the rare communication breaks Catherine used immediately to send four of her assistants to run 12 different errands in a very short-spoken Napoleonic kind of way. Barely using words she would have made a great Baseball coach.

„Unconventional," she answered while handing Rory one of her muesli-bars. „That's the official wording. ‚He's a very unconventional political figure.' And a wearisome one too sometimes, let me add confidentially."

The humming sound of her mobile arose. Rory made a compassionate gesture before leaving her to sort out the turmoil McMahon's sudden urge for physical exercise had produced.

Through the muddy, heavy decorated panes of the high windows she observed the ongoing game. McMahon and Tristan had split up in different teams. Obviously the bunch of teenagers gave them a hard time. Rory brushed a psychedelic paper sunflower aside to get a full glimpse on the shady asphalted backyard.

The candidate had thrown his jacket on a nearby bench and rolled up his sleeves while Tristan had gotten rid of his tailored chemise and played in a tight white cotton undershirt. Little trails of sweat were running down his temple, his short hair was is a state of utter disarray. He didn't just pretend to be part of his team, fulfilling half-heartedly what was expected from a dynamic young associate. He fought hard, moving his lean body with ease around the ground.

Great,' Rory thought, pictures of his muscular frame floating through her mind, envisioning some words her next article should definitely not include.

She had never seen him so relaxed before, all tension vanished from his features, all of his covers fallen. Smiling happily he high-fived with a girl of about 14, wearing an oversized LA Lakers shirt and tight pigtails, who had plunged the ball after he had passed it felicitously. She eyed the elder blonde approvingly before lining up in one of these formations totally alien to Rory whose ball-game knowledge didn't extend watching Space Jam and having been the proud owner of Air Jordan's in 3rd grade.

Ten minutes later an exhausted bunch of kids flounced into the room, gathering around the two old vending machines, counting coins and trading sodas.

„How did they keep up?" Rory asked the 12-year old who had given her an extended tour around the centre after she had arrived.

„OK I guess. For people wearing ties," he answered grinning, feeling totally in charge of the situation.

She lowered her voice, pretending to exchange secret information, but still being loud enough that everybody could actually hear their conversation. „It's very noble of you guys, that you let them score some points. Mercy is the virtue of the kings," she whispered.

The boy, fully aware that the whole room was listening smirked knowingly. „They didn't seem as if they had many other joys in life."

Rory winked conspiratorially. „And they may have a job for you in 6 years time. But actually you look more like someone who prefers honest work."

Amused Tristan and McMahon had followed their public humiliation.

„That's a hell of a woman," the candidate uttered in his younger companion's direction.

„And she has always been," Tristan said quietly observing Rory, still carefree joking with the boy, sitting on a desk in indian style. The straight neckline of her black sweater had slipped down her left shoulder, uncovering one strap of her tank top and her alabaster collarbone. She seemed to glow.

„I'm heading home, take a shower, lick my wounds. See you at 7.00. What is it tonight? The Connecticut Association of Fly Fisherman?" The prospect of Rory probably being there as well made even the image of grumpy old man, clad in rubber-boots, rambling about water pollution control a bearable vision.

„Close enough. The League of Conservation Voters," McMahon sighed, quaking slightly under Catherine's reproachful look.

While collecting his shattered wardrobe pieces Tristan's gaze was still fixed on Rory, hoping for a miracle of physics that made her sense his stare on her skin, causing her to look up and acknowledge his presence. But the rules of natural science decided to stay intact.

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„Rory, do you have a minute?" Catherine caught up with her right in time before the bus arrived to take her home.

„Sure." She turned around, trying to orientate in the unknown neighbourhood. No sign of a coffee shop. ‚Frightening' she thought. „Should we go back inside?"

„No, they had probably enough unwanted attention for the next two legislative periods."

„But if they could, the kids would vote for you." Rory added smiling.

„Extremely soothing. Hope the governor, whom McMahon should have met while he was occupied with regressing into a little boy sees that in a related rose-coloured manner."

„What do you want to talk about? Is something wrong?" she asked slightly timid, inwardly fearing that her articles had been a bit too discerning for their likes. Over the weeks she had discovered how much she had actually grown fond of the job. It required a different writing style, a different way to treat people, a different way of observing. The nuances were richer, the stories more spirited.

Of course there was Tristan, annoyingly close, testing her self-control, guarding her thoughts on strange paths now and than. But she was old enough to see him for what he was, not allowing to let him get to her.

„No, good heavens! Everything's perfect. You wouldn't suspect us of censorship, would you? Freedom of the press - the forth pillar of democracy. You made yourself quite a handful of devoted fans within our team."

Rory relaxed and in a spontaneous wave of joy linked her arm with Catherine's. „Let's walk."

„McMahon plans to go overseas for a couple of days. A few major contributions for our campaign came from businessmen living abroad. And with money comes the obligation to attend some formal dinner parties, some informal back room meetings and some social activities under the autumnal European sky." Her voice became slightly dry. Rory could tell that she wasn't pleased by the fact that the race's leading man had the chance to break away during the hot phase, leaving her behind to cover up for him. „There are truly more objectionable scenarios than dancing with some CEO's wife in a glamorous cabaret parisiene. We thought you would like to accompany him."

„Huh?" Rory was speechless. „Why?"

„Besides being good material for a nice piece, Ben mentioned that you're in fact a foreign correspondent. It may be interesting for you. And - as a special feature we could provide you with - McMahon's French is dreadful. Offering your assistance could earn you a lifelong exemption of communal taxes," she explained in the earnest voice possible.

„My editor wouldn't pay for it." Rory said defiantly.

„Why don't you just give him a call? Three days London, two days Paris are worth the try."

The second Catherine had closed the door of the cab Rory pushed the speed dial of her phone, waiting impatiently for her boss's sulky opening lines.

„Kiddo, thought they got rid of you, put you in concrete boots and plunged you on the bottom of some rotten lake."

„My articles aren't that bad."

„Wrong approach. Your articles are that good," he mumbled with the most ungrudging display of praise she had ever heard from him.

„You don't have to waste your energy with flattering, Morty. I like the job. I won't bail out."

„Give credit to whom credit is due," he said theatrically.

The moment could not have been better. „Have I ever asked you for a favour?" Her voice was questioning but steady.

„I fear the worst. You make them famous and they forget the meaning of the word ‚modesty'" Rory could hear him pouring a glass of whiskey. Maybe she just knew, being experienced with his company. „Actually you have. Remember the interview with Bishop Desmond Tutu you wanted to make? And your own workspace with a view on our lovely Japanese cherry tree? And the VIP hockey tickets for that strange, plaid-wearing friend of yours? And ..."

„I got the point." Lacking another strategy she just spilled out the news.

„Fine, fine. Go, but don't wear your nose too high for us normal mortals when you're back."

Rory gulped, searching for the hidden hitch of his surrender without a struggle. She couldn't detect one.

„There is a little patisserie in the Rue Lemercier. They sell those tiny marvels made of pistachios, Swiss chocolate and the beaten white of eggs. If I don't see at least a dozen waiting on my desk next Monday morning, fresh I have to insist, you're fired," he uttered before interrupting the connection.

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„Very unconvincingly," Lorelai muttered while cramming another orange marshmellow in her mouth. She shared a woollen cover with her daughter; both had their feet on the low table in front of the TV and their hands in a big bowl of randomly assembled sweets. Since one hour they were watching a Danish independent film about a 19th century lunatic asylum. Strangely enough time refused to flow in a normal pace.

„How come I never hear you say things like that when we talk about Terminator 3?" Rory shot her a scrutinizing look.

„Hm. Better special effects?" her mother offered.

„You're a lost cause."

„And you're no fun at all since we sent you away to Yale." Lorelai whined. „Honestly. I bet not even the actors have seen that film as a whole." With that she turned the DVD player off and altered her position to face Rory.

Her eyes were glowing impishly. „Now, tell me everything. How's the dating front doing?"

„I have a fulfilling and complex job. Shouldn't that be the first thing coming to your mind? Sanity and reason would stipulate that kind of scenario."

„When exactly did that alien existence gained control over your body and turned you into my mother?"

With a dull thud one of the Gilmore's pillows landed on Lorelai's face. „That's better. Fight it. You're stronger than that green, slimy, aeh ... thing inside of you, my dear daughter," she said laughing, gasping for air, waving her hands aimlessly around.

Rory surrendered. „Why are you asking?"

„Don't know. Something is different." Lorelai squeezed the cushion under her arms and crimpled her nose.

„My alien symbiont?"

„Besides that little fellow. I sense ..." she closed her eyes, touching Rory's forehead pretending to connect with higher powers „... expectations and tension and desire."

„That's lame, mom. You try that every time you see me, in slightly different variations, hoping it will fit one day and catch me in surprise."

Lorelai shrugged her shoulders innocently. „Luke, reaching for the world of spirits has left a disagreeable dehydrated feeling," she yelled dramatically.

Water, not coffee," was the only response coming from the kitchen.

„I'm going to Europe," Rory said in the silence that followed Luke's brave act of stableness.

„What? Why? When?" Lorelai had instantly forgotten all the evil little episodes of vengeance she had envisioned for her husband.

„Today," Rory stated calmly, answering the last question.

„Why haven't you told us sooner?"

„You haven't seemed to be particularly interested in my work," she said, slowly opening a golden wrapped candy while savouring her triumph.

„Ha, waited to say that line the whole afternoon?" her mother gnarled.

„Could be. I've learned from the best."

„Pleeeeease. Take me with you, take me with you." Lorelai, who had gotten off the couch to fetch some coffee herself, bounced wildly up and down in front of Rory, her sing-sang voice spreading through the living room.

Luke cleared his throat.

„Take us with you, take us with you," she repeated grinning.

„I have to be at the airport in two hours. That's estimably the amount of time you need to decide which one of your fourteen pink tops to bring along."

„True. You won. I'll drive you. It seems that more cosmopolitan air I'm not granted to breath today. Unlike my daughter." She sniffed noticeable.

One and a half hours later they headed through the airport's monumental glass and concrete halls when Rory's mobile rang.

„Rory," Catherine's voice seemed a little strained. „Sudden change of plans. That bastard Conelli has rescheduled the date of the big TV duel on short notice. The day after tomorrow. Can you imagine a similar affront? Had never happened before. But he's the guy with the media connections." Rory frowned, listening to Catherine's jolty staccato. „McMahon can't come."

Of course' she thought sighing ‚would have been too nice to be true.'

They were still on their way to the British Airways counter, Lorelai one step ahead. Rory let her eyes wander around the cold architecture, reading the signs indicating delays and departures, watching the women in their business costumes, the families with their Disneyland paraphernalia. How she had wanted to get away, just for a few days.

„Rory, can you hear me?" Catherine asked concerned.

„Yeah, go on."

„We decided not to cancel the trip."

He was standing in the middle of the hall, the New York Times in one hand, a cup of take-away coffee in the other. Out of hundreds of people in that crowded building her gaze had found him.

„We just send someone else."

„Tristan," Rory whispered.

„Have a safe trip," Catherine chirped, happy that everything was finally settled and hung up.

She grabbed her mother's arm, thankful that she wasn't alone and approached the male figure.

Lorelai's eyes widened. „Could it be that you left out some tiny details concerning your work?"

Rory gave her a gentle knock in her ribs. „For example that your Senator to-be looks more like the James Bond to-be they are all searching for since Pierce Brosnan's wrinkles became a fact not even the most well-meaning fans could ignore any longer?" They were already in hearing distance. Rory's thankfulness wore off.

„Miss Gilmore. Are you planning to embellish our journey with your company?" Tristan said smiling while taking Lorelai's hand.

„My dictator-daughter came up with fancy arguments preventing that. We should have never let my parents pay for the college. How do you know me?" she asked examining the young man's face.

He had seen her the day he had left Chilton, the day of the Shakespeare performance he never had the chance to play. The day of the kiss he had never gotten.

„The family resemblance is nothing to overlook easily," he explained quickly. „Tristan DuGrey."

„Lorelai. Miss Gilmore would be wrong anyway." His name sounded vaguely familiar. Deep down under layers of useless memory fragments something must be laying.

Without a word he handed her the coffee. She gave him a questioning gaze.

„Your eyes were fixed on the Starbucks logo since you stopped pondering if there is a chance I may be a maniac, capable of kidnapping your daughter and sell her to a Russian mafia boss. I hope I can draw the conclusion from that unconventional behaviour that I'm considered harmless."

Lorelai laughed, taking a sip from the dark liquid. „Guys, my husband has probably manifold problems holding the dinner warm and your flight leaves in half an hour. Greet Paris from me." she stayed quiet for a second. „Wow, first time I use that phrase with the actual intended meaning."

She gave Rory a tight hug and Tristan a bright smile before she trailed to the exit. Walking away she thought about the look the young man had given her daughter and Rory's nervousness as soon as she had spotted him. Maybe she should ask her more often about work in the future.

In the line in front of the check-in counter two people were standing in silence, clinging to their passports the tension of unresolved business surrounding them.

TBC …

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Finally the time of some decent Tristan-Rory interaction has come. I thank all the people who held out and stayed long enough with the story to come to that point ;)