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chapter twelve

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if love is surrender
then whose war is it anyway?
-Frou Frou, "Psychobabble"

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April 11, 2003
6:55 pm

"Hey, Slim... I hope you got back home safely. I just wanted you to know that I had a really great time with you tonight. I'll be back in New York this weekend, and I'd really like to see you again. Just ... give me a call. We need to come up with an answer to your question."

Samantha replayed his message for probably the hundredth time that week, as she bustled around her apartment and attempted to make things presentable.

She had let work consume her this week, choosing to bury herself in her job to prevent herself from dwelling on the doubts and fears and questions that Monday night had drawn up. And that, in turn, had caused her apartment to go from its normal "casually lived in" status to "it looks like a mini tornado just hit."

She paused in her tracks to run her index finger over her lips once again, recalling the sensation of his kiss. It felt different from any other kiss she'd ever had, but then, Martin wasn't quite like any other man she'd met. He had called her twice that week, just to talk about everything and nothing. They had shied away from any conversation about them, and instead had stuck to general conversation -- her latest case, his big hearing on the Everett Foundation. His stories about the actual inner workings of the Senate. His laughter as she likened his description of the alliances and networks that his colleagues formed as similar to the cliques one might form in a high school cafeteria.

Making casual conversation with him came so easily.

If only she could figure out what she wanted. Playing back the message, hearing his voice, remembering how it felt to be close to him and to kiss him -- she could feel something in her heart tugging her to take a chance on this thing between them.

Well, his plane lands in an hour, she thought. You're going to have to figure something out before then.

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7:30 pm

Martin sat back in his seat, wringing his hands together nervously once again. He was glad his mother had insisted upon staying in New York all week. Otherwise, his parents would be with him on the plane right now and would insist upon knowing exactly where he was going once they landed.

This, at least, was a little bit easier.

An inadvertent smile played across his lips as he remembered just why he needed to avoid his parents' probing questions.

Samantha.

She was still a complete mystery to him, and that seemed to enthrall him even more. She was beautiful, independent, intelligent, and made him laugh constantly. They had spoken several times that week, and although they had not pursued the topic of their as-yet-undefined relationship, he was hoping to broach the subject with her tonight.

He didn't want to scare her away, but she made him feel something that he'd never felt before. Most of his past girlfriends had simply been girlfriends of convenience: what they lacked depth or ambition or personality, they couldn't make up for in makeup and country club gossip -- not that he was interested in such. He saw the kinds of women who threw themselves at his fellow politicians, and he knew that he wanted nothing to do with that kind of lifestyle. He saw his sisters, his cousin Jamie, his aunt and uncle, his parents -- the ease in which they fell with their spouses, how happy they made each other.

One day... came his haphazard musings.

Martin's chest heaved, breathing deeply, and his thoughts absent-mindedly wandered to when he'd returned to his office late Tuesday evening on his way back home.

"Hey, Beverly," he greeted his secretary as he made his way to his office and picked up the stack of mail and other assorted paperwork that had piled up in only two days' absence. "How was your weekend with your daughter?"

"It was great, thank you," she beamed at him proudly. "My husband and I took her to dinner downtown and she told us all about her plans for the summer. She got accepted in a program to study abroad at

Oxford!"

"That's fantastic," Martin told her, pausing in front of her desk. "Tell her that I studied for a semester in Oxford when I was in college, and I had the time of my life."

"I will," Beverly finished whatever she had been typing and turned her attention away from her computer screen. "Your father left you several messages about some dinner on Saturday night, Senator Jansen wants to set up a meeting for early tomorrow morning to discuss the Everett Foundation, and the phones have been ringing off the hook with well-wishers glad that everything turned out alright with Caroline's girls this weekend." She paused to look up at him. "It's nice to see you smiling so much, Senator Fitzgerald. It's been awhile since I've seen you looking so happy."

"I'm just so relieved that Kelsey and Bee are alright," he said, although he was sure Beverly knew there was something else.

"Of course, Senator. Of course. And you tell whoever that young woman of yours is that she'd better keep you smiling this way," she said in a no-nonsense tone. Martin shook his head, laughing but not denying anything. "Though I'm sure practically every other woman in America must be disappointed."

The plane jerked forward suddenly, and the pilot announced that there would be some turbulence as they prepared to descend. As though the butterflies in his stomach weren't adding enough of a churning sensation, that is.

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8:45 pm

Sam felt the sound of the buzzer almost before she heard it, her apartment now back to an acceptable degree of upheaval.

"Hey," she greeted him as she opened the door. "Come on in."

She hoped she sounded more confident and self-assured than she felt, and found her eyes scanning down the hallway as she closed the door behind her.

"You looking for someone else?" his lips curved upwards and his eyes sparkled.

"Just your posse," she replied, leading him inside. "Where's my good friend Dennis?"

"Quite honestly, I have no idea. He specializes in making himself appear invisible, and the others follow suit."

"Oh, good," she tilted her head to look up at him. "So, does he ever get a day off?"

"Of course he does. He just likes working any day I might be seeing you."

She feels suddenly stiff and afraid, knowing that the subject they've been avoiding all week is near on the horizon.

"Can I get you something to drink?" her question posed to distract and to delay the inevitable.

"Sure," he answered casually. "I'll have whatever you're having."

She moved purposefully to the kitchen and tried in vain to collect her thoughts. The hard-headed G woman part of her wanted this to stop right where it was, told her that no good could come from it. But there was this other part of her, the part that felt his eyes burn into the back of her form as she stepped about her kitchen, that told her to just shut up and go with how she felt.

And what she was feeling was completely alive -- his eyes still on her, watching her, as she moved back to the living room and lead him to the sofa. She set the two glasses down on the coffee table in front of them, taking extra time to ensure they were placed just so on the coasters.

"Sam -" Martin's voice was soft and reassuring, but insistent.

"I -" she started, but stopped quickly when she saw Martin hold his hands up.

"Before you say 'No' and that we have to be over before we even really start, I just want you to know that I really like you, Samantha. This thing between us -- I don't really understand it either. All I know is that I haven't been able to stop thinking about you since I met you. I don't need an answer -- not yet. But whenever you're ready or whatever you want, Sam, I'll be here." Sam noticed the way his hands were moving about rather nervously as he spoke, and she felt warm inside when she realized this was the same man she'd seen sound so confident and look so poised when he spoke in Senate sessions or when giving an interview on television.

Sam doesn't know how to answer him. But his nervous rambling came to a slow halt, and she wanted to reassure him that she was slowly coming to the conclusions he seemed to have settled into so easily.

"Well," she stated, "I do like my relationships nice and complicated."

She took his hands in hers and pulled him forward until she could feel his breath on her neck.

"And," her voice became low and throaty as she whispered into his ear, "who am I to give up on a challenge?"

His mouth moved over hers, silencing her instantly, and she gave in to the sensations that traveled down the entire length of her body.

She wasn't sure how long they sat there, each meticulously exploring the other as they continued to make out. It seemed a little bit surreal; she was certain she had to be dreaming. Good things don't happen to her -- and definitely not good things with good men. Men who didn't seem to have anything else to do other than be with her, here, like this. Slowly caressing her back underneath the blouse she wore, moving his hands back outside her shirt to softly run all the way along her sides.

She, too, was focused on her own ministrations. Her hands felt along his face, his jaw line, massaging the skin where his five o'clock shadow had begun to appear. She felt him groan against her lips, and her heart fluttered of its own volition.

She felt his hands creep up further along her sides, brushing briefly against the swell of her breasts as they moved upwards. The split-second contact left her hungry for more but before she could redirect his hands, he pulled away from her for a moment. His eyes studied something on her chest closely, and she almost lifted his chin to question, but then --

"Your shoulder? Is it feeling any better?"

She felt a blush rise up on her cheeks. The bruising had gone down several days before, and she herself didn't even think about it. She was touched, though, that he had.

She nodded. The words caught somewhere in her throat and she found herself unable to speak. All she could do was watch as he slowly leaned forward, pressing his lips gently against her once-bruised skin through the thin material of her blouse.

In that instant, she thought she saw her face reflected against the screen of her television.

But that woman who looked back at her appeared so happy, so carefree; her smile seemed to reach up past her eyes. She almost wasn't sure she was seeing herself at all.

Whoever this new woman was, though, she was beautiful.

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