“We’ll need to find someone to move it,” Mark said in that casual tone of his that can be so maddening at times. I swear if he’d been in the Blitz in London he’d have said as calmly, “Why look, darling, there are fireworks tonight.”
“No,” I said.
He gave me his classic look of suspicious puzzlement.
“You are planning to bring it, aren’t you?”
“No. I’m staying. And it’s staying with me.” My voice echoed my mental state, somewhere between a toddler bent on self-destruction and a teenager in revolt.
It was the year that proved youth was not an impediment to the presidency. The nation wanted fresh ideas, a clean slate, a brand new start. The country was disillusioned with men weighed down with political legacies and suspicious of agendas accrued with political donations from special interests. It seemed the wiser course to choose a man whose history was yet to be written.
Van Hartman was the perfect candidate.
It was a steal at a hundred dollars a month. The quaint, historic Medical Shoppe stood next to the 18th century courthouse in the small Virginia town I’d moved to after law school. It was built by a doctor during the Revolutionary War, used by another during the Civil War. It sat at the edge of the historic Yorktown Battlefield and oozed history. I was a fledgling attorney looking for a place to hang my shingle, and it was the perfect place.