plastered across the front of every news magazine in the world. She was about to hint to Patrick that they should leave when a stranger’s voice cut into the conversation.
“Uh, excuse me, Commander Ross?”
The four of them looked up to see a young man, hardly out of his teens, standing nervously about four feet away, clearly too afraid to come any closer. “I, uh, hate to bother you, but . . .” He aimed a glance over his shoulder at a table somewhere in the room, swallowed, and tried again. “I was wondering if I could, uh, get your autograph?”
Melissa beamed with pride as Patrick gave the admirer a friendly nod. “Sure,” he joked as he pushed aside the remains of his dessert to make room on the table. “What am I signing—a napkin or a menu?”
“Actually,” the stranger said shyly, “it’s just a piece of paper my girlfriend had in her purse.”
“That’ll work just fine,” Patrick said as he scrawled out his name with the pen the guy offered. “There you go.”
“Wow, thanks—now I’ve got yours and Michael Jordan’s!” His face split in a huge grin, the young man hurried back to his table, his prize autograph clutched firmly in one hand.
“Well, you made his day,” Dennis said with a chuckle.
Patrick looked at Melissa. “Hey, you think Michael Jordan gets hand cramps?”
Before she could answer, Senator Ross leaned forward. “Popularity, boy. That’s the name of the game.” Melissa’s pretty features slipped a notch as she heard the slur in the senator’s words. Darn; he wasn’t going to get loud right here, was he? Jesus, not tonight. This time, however, he surprised her by lowering his voice instead of raising it. “I got the head of the Republic National Committee telling me you’re a shoo-in for a Senate seat, Patrick.”
Like Melissa’s, Patrick’s expression sobered a bit. “No thanks.”
The senator leaned back again, studying his son, and Melissa could’ve sworn the look in his eye was more calculating than anything else. “Come on, son. There’s no harm in at least exploring the possibilities. You could be one of the youngest ever—”
Patrick cleared his throat. “I’ll leave the politics to you, Dad. It’s just not my line of work.”
“I spent four years in flight school with your son, Senator.” Dennis smiled amiably. “He doesn’t lie well enough to be a politician.”
Bless Dennis for making them all laugh and turning the conversation away from government employment and exactly the kind of future Melissa, if not Patrick, wanted to avoid. She supposed it was probably inevitable—didn’t all astronauts grow up to be politicians of one sort or another? What a strange predicament to find herself in, madly in love with the son of a powerful United States senator and who, let’s face it, was destined to someday sit in an office in the nation’s capital.
“So, Dennis,” Senator Ross said when the gaiety had diminished, “Patrick only talks about the good stuff for dear old dad. Tell me what it was really like up there for eleven months.”
For just a beat too long Dennis didn’t answer, and Melissa frowned. Before Patrick’s father could pick up on the hesitation, however, Dennis looked over at Patrick and gave him a sappy smile. “Not much that I can tell you about the details, sir. But I will say this: Patrick and I are getting married.”
“Hey, just a minute,” Melissa exclaimed around the hoots of the three men. “He’s mine!”
“But you could draw a lot of liberal votes like that,” put in Senator Ross.
More laughter as the talk turned again to Senator Ross’s favorite subject and Melissa’s least preferred, and it was only a few minutes when she noticed that Patrick had sort of faded from the conversation. Now it was mostly Dennis and Patrick’s father, bantering back and forth like old college buddies while the older man put away his usual few too many. “Patrick,” she said in a low voice, touching his arm. “Are
“Uh, excuse me, Commander Ross?”
The four of them looked up to see a young man, hardly out of his teens, standing nervously about four feet away, clearly too afraid to come any closer. “I, uh, hate to bother you, but . . .” He aimed a glance over his shoulder at a table somewhere in the room, swallowed, and tried again. “I was wondering if I could, uh, get your autograph?”
Melissa beamed with pride as Patrick gave the admirer a friendly nod. “Sure,” he joked as he pushed aside the remains of his dessert to make room on the table. “What am I signing—a napkin or a menu?”
“Actually,” the stranger said shyly, “it’s just a piece of paper my girlfriend had in her purse.”
“That’ll work just fine,” Patrick said as he scrawled out his name with the pen the guy offered. “There you go.”
“Wow, thanks—now I’ve got yours and Michael Jordan’s!” His face split in a huge grin, the young man hurried back to his table, his prize autograph clutched firmly in one hand.
“Well, you made his day,” Dennis said with a chuckle.
Patrick looked at Melissa. “Hey, you think Michael Jordan gets hand cramps?”
Before she could answer, Senator Ross leaned forward. “Popularity, boy. That’s the name of the game.” Melissa’s pretty features slipped a notch as she heard the slur in the senator’s words. Darn; he wasn’t going to get loud right here, was he? Jesus, not tonight. This time, however, he surprised her by lowering his voice instead of raising it. “I got the head of the Republic National Committee telling me you’re a shoo-in for a Senate seat, Patrick.”
Like Melissa’s, Patrick’s expression sobered a bit. “No thanks.”
The senator leaned back again, studying his son, and Melissa could’ve sworn the look in his eye was more calculating than anything else. “Come on, son. There’s no harm in at least exploring the possibilities. You could be one of the youngest ever—”
Patrick cleared his throat. “I’ll leave the politics to you, Dad. It’s just not my line of work.”
“I spent four years in flight school with your son, Senator.” Dennis smiled amiably. “He doesn’t lie well enough to be a politician.”
Bless Dennis for making them all laugh and turning the conversation away from government employment and exactly the kind of future Melissa, if not Patrick, wanted to avoid. She supposed it was probably inevitable—didn’t all astronauts grow up to be politicians of one sort or another? What a strange predicament to find herself in, madly in love with the son of a powerful United States senator and who, let’s face it, was destined to someday sit in an office in the nation’s capital.
“So, Dennis,” Senator Ross said when the gaiety had diminished, “Patrick only talks about the good stuff for dear old dad. Tell me what it was really like up there for eleven months.”
For just a beat too long Dennis didn’t answer, and Melissa frowned. Before Patrick’s father could pick up on the hesitation, however, Dennis looked over at Patrick and gave him a sappy smile. “Not much that I can tell you about the details, sir. But I will say this: Patrick and I are getting married.”
“Hey, just a minute,” Melissa exclaimed around the hoots of the three men. “He’s mine!”
“But you could draw a lot of liberal votes like that,” put in Senator Ross.
More laughter as the talk turned again to Senator Ross’s favorite subject and Melissa’s least preferred, and it was only a few minutes when she noticed that Patrick had sort of faded from the conversation. Now it was mostly Dennis and Patrick’s father, bantering back and forth like old college buddies while the older man put away his usual few too many. “Patrick,” she said in a low voice, touching his arm. “Are
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