This Side of Heaven by Anna Schmidt

Author:Anna Schmidt
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Harlequin
Published: 2008-09-15T00:00:00+00:00

1987

Zoe

Peter won the election and reelection. It hardly seemed like a major step to go from campaign manager to chief of staff. I knew that Spence wasn’t thrilled, but by then he was so caught up in his work that he could find little basis for his concerns. His counseling center and its program quickly became a model for other such centers springing up around the country. The amount of time we were each devoting to our work made us blind to the chasm that was widening between us.

“Earth to Zoe,” Peter said as he placed his hands on my desk and leaned across it. I glanced up and caught a glimpse of the large office wall clock over his left shoulder. It was after nine. The cubicles where the rest of the mayor’s staff spent their workdays were deserted.

“I have to get home,” I said. “Can we finish this tomorrow?”

“You don’t have to get home. The kids are at camp and Spencer is in London, remember?”

I smiled wearily. “Okay, I lied. What I really need is a hot shower, my jammies and a MASH rerun. My brain is seriously fried, Peter.”

“How about some dinner first—a real dinner, not takeout? A glass of wine maybe?” When I hesitated, he added, “Come on, Zoe, let me treat you. You’ve worked really hard to get the budget under control and I’d like to say thanks.”

“I have to eat,” I said with a shrug.

“Gee, don’t get all mushy on me, okay?” Peter replied sarcastically, but he grinned and got my coat from the closet and held it for me.

We decided to walk to the restaurant. It had rained hard that afternoon and the sidewalks were dotted with puddles. Peter took my arm once to guide me around one I hadn’t seen because I was filling him in on the latest budget cuts. I never gave it a second thought when he tucked my hand in the crook of his elbow as we continued on our way.

The restaurant was one of those hole-in-the-wall Italian places that’s everybody’s favorite once they try it the first time, though far from a pizzeria. The chef had trained in Northern Italy and prided himself on a menu that was varied and unique. Peter and I had ordered takeout from the place more than once since I’d started the job as his chief of staff.

While Peter worked the room shaking hands with patrons who recognized him, I ordered a glass of wine and settled into a booth.

It was impossible not to wonder how Spence would react to my having dinner alone with Peter. It was clear that both Spence and Peter thought I had capitulated to Peter’s unrelenting campaign to have me on his staff once he won the election. My decision, of course, delighted Peter. One night as we lay in the dark, Spence said, “Another stepping-stone to your dream?”

“I hope you can be okay with this,” I had said, knowing I didn’t have to explain what “this” was.

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