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By Root 566 0

her comments to him that night about the articles he’d been writing represented a different sort of loss. She was criticizing the very thing that defined him: his professional life. He knew many men who referred to their children when describing themselves and what they’d accomplished in life. Describing yourself by describing your offspring? Not for him. True, bringing up kids was tough, and succeeding at it was an achievement of which to be immensely proud. But for a man—and he readily acknowledged, at least to himself, that his feelings were sexist—there was more than parenting to define who you were and what you’d gotten done during your precious time on earth.

Those thoughts, and soon so many others, swirled uncontrollably about him as he sipped his drink and tried to bring order to them.

The phone calls that night. It had to have been Michael. How dare he inject himself that way? He was now glad that he would see Michael face to face the next day. He would confront him directly about whether he’d made those two nuisance calls. But his next thought was that the calls were irrelevant in the greater scheme of things, only serving to give credence to Michael’s very existence, which he’d been fighting since the first contact with his brother. He didn’t want him to exist, and had actually, inexplicably, tried to will him dead.

Georgia interrupted his introspection. “Come to bed,” she said from the doorway.

“Yeah,” he replied, getting up and carrying his empty glass to the kitchen. “You think they’re serious?” he asked absently.

“Robbie and Tom? No, I don’t. Not yet. But if they are, we’ll hear about it soon enough. Come on, tomorrow’s another day.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Washington, D.C., is not prime territory for single women seeking a mate. There are a lot more single females than eligible single males there than in most cities. Bright, healthy women gravitate to the nation’s capital in search of the sort of adventure that the intriguing world of government and politics can provide. Working in the city’s major industry may not rival mountain climbing or skydiving for sheer thrills, but the pervasive pull of power, and rubbing elbows with it, can be intoxicating, stimulating, as well as on more than one occasion, an aphrodisiac.

The news business, too, exerts a grip on ambitious young people looking for challenge and public recognition. Like other so-called magnetic professions, journalism jobs generally pay less than other professional pursuits and the hours are long. But that’s a small price to pay for escaping the more mundane pursuits of, say, banking, accounting, or teaching. Are most single young women in Washington biding time until the elusive “Mr. Right” comes along? Hardly. That was then. Many of today’s well-educated, savvy, and sexually aware women, using their smarts, education, and ideas in every corner of the former swamp now known as the nation’s capital, have relegated Mr. Right to the era when flight attendants were called stewardesses, a steno pad was a primary career asset, and only men dared rent porn videos. It isn’t that should a real Mr. Right come along, they wouldn’t sign on to becoming Mrs. Right. But rather than waste time with the Mr. Wrongs—of which there are plenty in D.C.—they prefer their own company, thank you, marching to the beat of their own drummers and enjoying the rhythm.

Roberta Wilcox was a good example.

She and Tom Curtis had, as her parents suspected, met up again after dinner at the Eighteenth Street Lounge (known to regulars as ESL) above a mattress shop south of Dupont Circle. The restored mansion was once the home of Teddy Roosevelt, who robust as he was, might not have enjoyed the mix of acid rock, hip-hop, and reggae emanating from the elaborate deejay’s booth. After passing muster by a burly, dour bouncer, the couple entered the club, one of the hottest venues in the city. They skirted the dance floor and made their way to an outdoor deck at the rear of the club where they found the last two vacant chairs at a tiny table. They ordered drinks—a Cosmopolitan for