Title: Declaration
Chapter 8
Author's Notes: This takes place before "Trojan Horse."
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"Hello there, Ma'am!"
"Gunny," I say brightly. "Feeling better?"
"Yes, Ma'am," he says as he limps into Clay's living room. "It was just a flesh wound."
I cross my arms. "Well, now, you sound like Clay. Tell me, Gunny. Do all you cloak-and-dagger types get your answers from some sort of spy handbook?"
He grins cockily. "Yes, Ma'am. The Handy Book of Common Phrases for Spies."
Shaking my head, I laugh softly. "I think my boyfriend is having an influence on you personality. So," I say. "Have you come to steal Clay away from me?" I smooth my hands along the seams of my evening gown, not- so-subtly trying to point out that Clay and I have plans tonight.
The corners of Gunny's mouth curl into a smile. I can practically hear the smart-alecky comments swirling around in his head. Finally, he says, "Don't worry, Ma'am. I just came to bring Clay some intel on Mrs. Webb's party."
"Intel?" I raise my eyebrows. "Are we expecting a military assault?" With Clay around, I wouldn't doubt it.
"More like an assault from various ex-girlfriends," Clay says cheerfully as he bounds in from the bedroom. Pulling on the sleeves of his tux, he asks, "Victor, what've we got?"
"Well, Clay," Gunny says, handing him a notebook. "Here is the anticipated guest list. You mother says the only problem area might be Rachel Loftin."
"Ah," Clay says.
"Rachel who?" I ask, placing on hands on my hips.
"However," Gunny continues. "Mrs. Webb says that she is currently dating a doctor."
Clay licks his lips and nods. "Good."
"Mrs. Webb also says to remind you that you could still go to medical school."
Clay chuckles. It's good to hear him laugh.
"Thank you, Victor," Clay says. "So what are your plans for this evening?"
"I thought I might catch a movie," he says.
Clay nods. "Alone?"
Gunny grins. "Unfortunately, sir."
Clapping Gunny on the back, Clay says, "Listen, give me a call on my cell phone at about 9:00. That way, we'll have a ready-made excuse to duck out it's boring."
"Clayton!" I say. "You would do that to your own mother?"
"Sarah, Mother's been known to duck out of her own social events on occasion."
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Taking a sip of mineral water, I glance around the room. People are milling around, chatting amiably about politics and business, and munching on caviar. Clay is on the other side of the room talking with a congressman whose name I can't seem to recall. Clay is standing stiff as a board, his arms clamped behind his back. When he catches my glaze, he rolls his eyes. I imagine that when Clay gets that phone call at 9:00, we'll be rushing off on "pressing business.""So, Sarah," says an aristocratic voice. "Are you having a nice time?"
I turn to Mrs. Webb and plaster on my best phony smile. "It's a lovely party, Mrs. Webb."
"Oh, really, Sarah," she drawls. "Call me Porter. And you don't have to pretend to have a good time. I am bored out of my mind."
I smile at my hostess, and this time it's genuine. "Why on earth do you have these parties if you don't enjoy them?"
She grins. When Mrs. Webb smiles like that, she looks like her son. "One has certain responsibilities when one is a member of my social class, Sarah. On the positive note, I should be able to talk most of these people into donating money to a very deserving homeless shelter."
I glance over at Clay, who is now talking to a trio of stuffy-looking elderly men. It figures. We finally get a night together and we're spending it apart. Letting out a breath, I take a drink of mineral water.
"You're good for him, you know," Mrs. Webb says suddenly.
I glance at her. "I'd like to think so."
She smiles. "You are. He's more at peace when he's with you."
At peace? Then why is he still having nightmares? "He has some bad days."
Nodding, Mrs. Webb, takes me by the arm and leads me gently into her study. "Sarah, he loves you."
"I know. I love him too." I still can't get used to saying that. "It's just . . . how do you live with it?"
"With loving a spy?" She lowers herself onto the brown leather couch. "It's difficult. But . . . you just do."
I shake my head. "But I hate what this lifestyle is doing to him. I'm scared for him."
"I am too," she says grimly. "I went through this with Clayton's father, and now I'm going through it with Clayton. But you know." She motions for me to sit next to her. "The difference between Neville and Clayton is that Clayton has a network of support. People who love him. Neville had colleagues."
"He had you and Clay."
"He could've had Clayton and me. He chose to keep us at distance."
I let out a long breath. "He won't talk to me. I don't know if he's trying to protect me, or if he's just too afraid to open up to me."
Mrs. Webb takes my hand. "Probably a little bit of both."
I swallow. "I feel like we're heading toward something significant. A turning point."
"What do you mean?"
"I think that if Clay doesn't come home soon, he's going to be swallowed up by that life. Just swallowed up."
Mrs. Webb doesn't say anything. She just squeezes my hand and rubs my shoulder. "It's all right, Sarah."
Suddenly, for the first time, I realize I'm crying. I can't let Clay see me like this. Opening my purse, I search for a tissue.
"Dear, let me get you something," Mrs. Webb says. She jumps off the couch and returns with a box of tissues. I have to admit, Clay's mother is easier to talk to than I would've guessed. I've been rather intimidated by her, but here I am sobbing in front of her, and pouring my heart out.
A light knock on the door snaps me out of my reverie. "Mother? Sarah?"
Damn. Now he's going to see that I've been crying.
Clay gingerly pushes the door open. When he sees my face, he bites his bottom lip and walks over to me. "Sarah, what's wrong?"
I don't answer. I just wrap my arms around him and hold on.
Mrs. Webb stands up. "I should go be an attentive hostess." She leans down and gives me a hug. Then, he turns to Clay, kisses him on the cheek, and says, "Clayton, forget what you are for one night."
He nods. "Actually, Mother, I've received a call. Sarah and I have to leave. There's a matter to which we must attend."
She pats his cheek, and smiling knowingly, says, "Of course, dear."
After Mrs. Webb leaves the room, Clay sits down beside me. By this time, my tears have abated, but my cheeks are stained with the evidence of my outburst.
"I thought we were having a good night," he says tentatively.
"We are. I'm just . . . I've just been feeling . . . uneasy."
"About us?"
"Yes and no." I lay my head on his shoulder. "I love you Clay. But I . . ." My voice trails off.
"Maybe I could take some time off."
"I'd love that," I say. "But they won't let you."
He kisses my cheek. "Sarah, do you want me to walk away?"
"From the Agency? I can't ask you to do that."
He gazes at me. Then he asks hesitantly, "From you?"
A wave of panic hits me. I sit up and take his face in my hands. "Don't you dare walk away from me. Don't you dare, Clayton."
