Arts Commission in fifteen minutes.” He heldout a manila folder. “I’ve got your briefing paper.”
Cooper ignored the folder. “Thank you, Roger. Check on me in fifteen minutes.”
Roger didn’t budge. “Did I show you …? A buzzer is right there beside the middle drawer. If you need anything.”
“Thank you, Roger. I feel well equipped. I’ll let you know if I need you.”
She saw the flush starting again around his neckline and spreading up his cheeks, his hand tightening on the folder, wrinkling it. He gave a curt nod and closed the door.
“The eyes follow you,” Kincaid said. He was looking at the wall behind the desk.
She swiveled in her chair to the huge oil portrait of Pickett hanging there. Pickett in dark suit and power tie, that incredibly appealing half-smile that made people want to know him, trust him.
“No matter where you move in the room, he seems to be looking at you,” Kincaid said. “And now he’s looking over your shoulder.”
“I suppose I should get my own portrait.”
“Or maybe a picture of Roger.” He nodded toward the door. “He seems fixated on looking over your shoulder, too.”
She hesitated, choosing her words carefully. “It might seem that way, I suppose. Roger and I haven’t had a chance to talk about ground rules.”
“Who sets those rules?” Kincaid asked with a trace of a smile. And then when she frowned, he added, “This is all off the record.”
She hesitated. Off the record or not, this was Wheeler Kincaid. “The person who sits in this chair sets the rules,” she said.
“You seem pretty sure about that. Good for you. But don’t be surprised if you need to have a come-to-Jesus meeting with Roger.”
“I can do that.”
“Again, good for you.”
“Roger might be a bit upset that he’s not out campaigning with Pickett,” she said.
“Roger is highly pissed. He’s been around a long time, thinks he’s earned a shot at the big dance.”
“Instead …”
“He’s here because he’s third-rate, and Pickett can’t afford to have third-raters on his campaign payroll. Roger’s like a well-trained dog—obeys commands to the letter but doesn’t have a lick of imagination.”
“I don’t know that the rest of them do either. Carter told me …”
“Off the record.”
“Carter says they don’t get it—social networking, all of that.” She stopped again. “Why am I telling you this? They all think you’re toxic.”
He smiled. “Only at times and in places where it’s warranted.”
“And it’s not warranted here?”
“I wouldn’t be off the record if it were.”
“Back to Roger.”
“Yes,” he said. “He’s been vocal about his assignment, vocal around people he shouldn’t be vocal around.”
“And what is he saying?”
“That he’s babysitting.”
Cooper held herself, took a moment and a deep breath. “He has nothing to babysit. I’m the governor.”
Kincaid glanced up again at Pickett’s portrait, then gave Cooper a long look. “Are you?”
“Damn right.”
“I really, truly hope so. When somebody tries to rope you and haul you in, I hope you can say exactly that: ‘Damn right.’ Because there are people who don’t think you are.” He held out his hand. “Could I take a look at your schedule?”
He scanned the paper Cooper handed him. “Full day. Arts Commission, photo-op with some Girl Scouts, two hours for lunch. Afternoonmeeting with a delegation from Banks County.” A glance up. “Do you know what that’s about?”
She sat stone-faced.
“They want some money for levee work. Lots of flooding in Banks County during the fall. Cows floating downriver, all kinds of misery.” Back to the paper. “Then home to the cozy warmth of the Executive Mansion.” He shoved the schedule back onto her desk and pulled a sheaf of folded papers from the inner pocket of his jacket. “And then there’s all this.”
“What?”
“The morning’s output from your Press Office.” He read, “
Cooper ignored the folder. “Thank you, Roger. Check on me in fifteen minutes.”
Roger didn’t budge. “Did I show you …? A buzzer is right there beside the middle drawer. If you need anything.”
“Thank you, Roger. I feel well equipped. I’ll let you know if I need you.”
She saw the flush starting again around his neckline and spreading up his cheeks, his hand tightening on the folder, wrinkling it. He gave a curt nod and closed the door.
“The eyes follow you,” Kincaid said. He was looking at the wall behind the desk.
She swiveled in her chair to the huge oil portrait of Pickett hanging there. Pickett in dark suit and power tie, that incredibly appealing half-smile that made people want to know him, trust him.
“No matter where you move in the room, he seems to be looking at you,” Kincaid said. “And now he’s looking over your shoulder.”
“I suppose I should get my own portrait.”
“Or maybe a picture of Roger.” He nodded toward the door. “He seems fixated on looking over your shoulder, too.”
She hesitated, choosing her words carefully. “It might seem that way, I suppose. Roger and I haven’t had a chance to talk about ground rules.”
“Who sets those rules?” Kincaid asked with a trace of a smile. And then when she frowned, he added, “This is all off the record.”
She hesitated. Off the record or not, this was Wheeler Kincaid. “The person who sits in this chair sets the rules,” she said.
“You seem pretty sure about that. Good for you. But don’t be surprised if you need to have a come-to-Jesus meeting with Roger.”
“I can do that.”
“Again, good for you.”
“Roger might be a bit upset that he’s not out campaigning with Pickett,” she said.
“Roger is highly pissed. He’s been around a long time, thinks he’s earned a shot at the big dance.”
“Instead …”
“He’s here because he’s third-rate, and Pickett can’t afford to have third-raters on his campaign payroll. Roger’s like a well-trained dog—obeys commands to the letter but doesn’t have a lick of imagination.”
“I don’t know that the rest of them do either. Carter told me …”
“Off the record.”
“Carter says they don’t get it—social networking, all of that.” She stopped again. “Why am I telling you this? They all think you’re toxic.”
He smiled. “Only at times and in places where it’s warranted.”
“And it’s not warranted here?”
“I wouldn’t be off the record if it were.”
“Back to Roger.”
“Yes,” he said. “He’s been vocal about his assignment, vocal around people he shouldn’t be vocal around.”
“And what is he saying?”
“That he’s babysitting.”
Cooper held herself, took a moment and a deep breath. “He has nothing to babysit. I’m the governor.”
Kincaid glanced up again at Pickett’s portrait, then gave Cooper a long look. “Are you?”
“Damn right.”
“I really, truly hope so. When somebody tries to rope you and haul you in, I hope you can say exactly that: ‘Damn right.’ Because there are people who don’t think you are.” He held out his hand. “Could I take a look at your schedule?”
He scanned the paper Cooper handed him. “Full day. Arts Commission, photo-op with some Girl Scouts, two hours for lunch. Afternoonmeeting with a delegation from Banks County.” A glance up. “Do you know what that’s about?”
She sat stone-faced.
“They want some money for levee work. Lots of flooding in Banks County during the fall. Cows floating downriver, all kinds of misery.” Back to the paper. “Then home to the cozy warmth of the Executive Mansion.” He shoved the schedule back onto her desk and pulled a sheaf of folded papers from the inner pocket of his jacket. “And then there’s all this.”
“What?”
“The morning’s output from your Press Office.” He read, “
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