Black Friday (or Black Market) - James Patterson [55]
“I guess I understand, Mr. President, and I’m afraid I have to quit under those circumstances. With all respect, I resign, sir. I’m out of this.”
Carroll got up and walked out of the conference room, then out of the White House. It was over for him.
Chapter 38
APPROXIMATELY AN HOUR LATER, Carroll sat inside an Eastern shuttle jet destined for New York. Outside, an electrical storm whipped the sky.
From his window he could see dramatic black clouds rushing by. He stared at the gathering storm and felt overwhelmed by a curious loneliness.
It was at times like these when he missed Nora most Nobody he’d met before or since was as good at making him feel whole; nobody else seemed able to make him laugh at himself. And that was the real trick, being able to laugh when you needed to—and right now, Carroll needed to laugh at something.
He felt Caitlin Dillon’s hand on his arm. Turning, he gave her a weary half smile. She was trying to be sympathetic, to be kind. But she wasn’t Nora.
“You must know it isn’t your fault. Everybody’s frustrated, Arch. Green Band didn’t just do a number on Wall Street, it created an atmosphere of panic. Our President, who is turning out to be even less decisive than I imagined he’d be, made a panicky decision. That’s all.”
She patted his arm and he felt like a kid with a scraped, bloody knee. The warm, almost maternal streak in Caitlin surprised him.
“It isn’t your fault. Washington is loaded with scared then making inadequate decisions.” She paused before asking, “What will you do? Go into legal practice? Draw up wills? Deeds of trust? Maybe something like corporate law?”
Carroll drifted back from somewhere distant inside his mind. Her light sarcasm didn’t escape him. He even welcomed it Law, he thought. The reason he’d never used his degree was because he couldn’t stomach the idea of law tomes, of hunting down precedents in the dust of unready able books, and having to fraternize with other lawyers.
He was quiet for a time. Then he said, “Can you honestly imagine me reporting to Phil Berger?”
Caitlin shook her head. “He’s an egghead in more than one sense of the word. The man must have been hatched.”
Carroll suddenly laughed. The storm rocked the plane a moment. “When I was a kid, my mother used to give us hard-boiled eggs for breakfast. Some tradition from the old country. All of us kids would beat the tops open with our spoons. That’s what I should have had back there in the White House. A big spoon to beat on Phil Berger’s head.”
Carroll turned toward Caitlin Dillon. She was laughing now. It was a musical kind of laugh, like some quirky tune you couldn’t forget one that ran through your mind in a tantalizing way but you couldn’t put a name to it.
Carroll finally shook with laughter. “You surprise me. You really surprise me.”
“Why is that?”
“You look so damn straight and businesslike, but you’ve got this weird sense of humor.”
“Weird for a Wall Street business type, I guess. For a dyed-in-the-wool Midwesterner. A Presbyterian.”
Carroll laughed some more, and it felt pretty good. Tension knots in his neck were finally loosening up. “Yeah. Of course. For a country hick from Ohio.”
“My father taught me that you need a good sense of humor to survive Wall Street. He survived it, though just barely.”
Caitlin gazed at Carroll, saying nothing more. She had stopped laughing and her expression was serious; her eyes searched his face. She looked as if maybe a small important gear had just shifted inside her mind.
Carroll watched her, conscious of something happening in his own body. For a moment, he had the uncomfortable feeling that he was betraying Nora, betraying a memory—
Christ, it had been a long time since he had reacted like this; he was aware of how deprived he was, how hungry he’d become. He raised one hand, his fingers trembling slightly, and he placed the palm against the side of Caitlin’s face.
Tenderly, he kissed her.
And then the moment was over as suddenly as if it had never happened.
Caitlin Dillon