her, unamused.
Point taken.
The red-letter day that the astrologer had promised began at eleven o’clock that morning. Jim Bailey walked into Leslie’s tiny, cramped office.
‘We have a new client,’ he announced. ‘I want you to take charge.’
She was already handling more accounts than anyone else at the firm, but she knew better than to protest.
‘Fine,’ she said. ‘What is it?’
‘It’s not a what, it’s a who. You’ve heard of Oliver Russell, of course?’
Everyone had heard of Oliver Russell. A local attorney and candidate for governor, he had his face on billboards all over Kentucky. With his brilliant legal record, he was considered, at thirty-five, the most eligible bachelor in the state. He was on all the talk shows on the major television stations in Lexington – WDKY, WTVQ, WKYT – and on the popular local radio stations, WKQQ and WLRO. Strikingly handsome, with black, unruly hair, dark eyes, an athletic build, and a warm smile, he had the reputation of having slept with most of the ladies in Lexington.
‘Yes, I’ve heard of him. What are we going to do for him?’
‘We’re going to try to help turn him into the governor of Kentucky. He’s on his way here now.’
Oliver Russell arrived a few minutes later. He was even more attractive in person than in his photographs.
When he was introduced to Leslie, he smiled warmly. ‘I’ve heard a lot about you. I’m so glad you’re going to handle my campaign.’
He was not at all what Leslie had expected. There was a completely disarming sincerity about the man. For a moment, Leslie was at a loss for words.
‘I – thank you. Please sit down.’
Oliver Russell took a seat.
‘Let’s start at the beginning,’ Leslie suggested. ‘Why are you running for governor?’
‘It’s very simple. Kentucky’s a wonderful state. We know it is, because we live here, and we’re able to enjoy its magic – but much of the country thinks of us as a bunch of hillbillies. I want to change that image. Kentucky has more to offer than a dozen other states combined. The history of this country began here. We have one of the oldest capitol buildings in America. Kentucky gave this country two presidents. It’s the land of Daniel Boone and Kit Carson and Judge Roy Bean. We have the most beautiful scenery in the world – exciting caves, rivers, bluegrass fields – everything. I want to open all that up to the rest of the world.’
He spoke with a deep conviction, and Leslie found herself strongly drawn to him. She thought of the astrology column. ‘The new moon illuminates your love life. Today will he a red-letter day. Be prepared to enjoy it.’
Oliver Russell was saying, ‘The campaign won’t work unless you believe in this as strongly as I do.’
‘I do,’ Leslie said quickly. Too quickly? ‘I’m really looking forward to this.’ She hesitated a moment. ‘May I ask you a question?’
‘Certainly.’
‘What’s your birth sign?’
‘Virgo.’
After Oliver Russell left, Leslie went into Jim Bailey’s office. ‘I like him,’ she said. ‘He’s sincere. He really cares. I think he’d make a fine governor.’
Jim looked at her thoughtfully. ‘It’s not going to be easy.’
She looked at him, puzzled. ‘Oh? Why?’
Bailey shrugged. ‘I’m not sure. There’s something going on that I can’t explain. You’ve seen Russell on all the billboards and on television?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, that’s stopped.’
‘I don’t understand. Why?’
‘No one knows for certain, but there are a lot of strange rumors. One of the rumors is that someone was backing Russell, putting up all the money for his campaign, and then for some reason suddenly dropped him.’
‘In the middle of a campaign he was winning? That doesn’t make sense, Jim.’
‘I know.’
‘Why did he come to us?’
‘He really wants this. I think he’s ambitious. And he feels he can make a difference. He would like us to figure out a campaign that won’t cost him a lot of money. He can’t afford to buy any more airtime or do much advertising. All we can really do for him is to arrange interviews, plant newspaper articles, that sort of thing.’ He shook his head. ‘Governor Addison is spending a fortune on his campaign. In the last two weeks, Russell’s gone way down in the polls. It’s a shame. He’s a good lawyer. Does a lot of pro bono work. I think he’d make a good governor, too.’
That night Leslie made her first note in her new diary.
Dear Diary: This morning I met the man I am going to marry.
Leslie Stewart’s early childhood was idyllic. She was an extraordinarily intelligent child. Her father was an English professor at Lexington Community College and her mother was a housewife. Leslie’s father was a handsome man, patrician and intellectual. He was a caring father, and he saw to it that the family took their vacations together and traveled together. Her father adored her. ‘You’re Daddy’s girl,’ he would say. He would tell her how beautiful she looked and compliment her on her grades, her behavior, her friends. Leslie could do no wrong in his eyes. For her ninth birthday, her father bought her a beautiful brown velvet dress with lace cuffs. He would have her put the dress on, and he would show her off to his friends when they came to dinner. ‘Isn’t she a beauty?’ he would say.
Leslie worshiped him.
One morning, a year later, in a split second, Leslie’s wonderful life vanished. Her mother, face stained with tears, sat her down. ‘Darling, your father has … left us.’
Leslie did not understand at first. ‘When will he be back?’
‘He’s not coming back.’
And each word was a sharp knife.
My mother has driven him away, Leslie thought. She felt sorry for her mother because now there would be a divorce and a custody fight. Her father would never let her go. Never. He’ll come for me, Leslie told herself.
But weeks passed, and her father never called. They won’t let him come and see me, Leslie decided. Mother’s punishing him.
It was Leslie’s elderly aunt who explained to the child that there would be no custody battle. Leslie’s father had fallen in love with a widow who taught at the university and had moved in with her, in her house on Limestone Street.
One day when they were out shopping, Leslie’s mother pointed out the house. ‘That’s where they live,’ she said bitterly.
Leslie resolved to visit her father. When he sees me, she thought, he’ll want to come home.
On a Friday, after school, Leslie went to the house on Limestone Street and rang the doorbell. The door was opened by a girl Leslie’s age. She was wearing a brown velvet dress with lace cuffs. Leslie stared at her, in shock.
The little girl was looking at her curiously. ‘Who are you?’
Leslie fled.
Over the next year, Leslie watched her mother retire into herself. She had lost all interest in life. Leslie had believed that ‘dying of a broken heart’ was an empty phrase, but Leslie helplessly watched her mother fade away and die, and when people asked her what her mother had died of, Leslie answered, ‘She died of a broken heart.’
And Leslie resolved that no man would ever do that