“Do you mind?” Seth asked me.
What I minded was that he hadn’t asked if it was okay to share so much personal information with the reporter. Though I’d gained a bit of attention a few years ago when I graduated from college with a pre-med degree at the age of seventeen, I liked to lead a quiet, private life. Partially because I didn’t like my photo saved in public records. What would happen if someone in 2001 saw a photo of me from 1941 or 1861? Ilooked exactly the same in all three time periods. People would think it a coincidence, but what if it drew questions I didn’t want to answer?
Seth had already told the reporter who I was, though, so what would it matter if he took a picture of us too? “I don’t mind,” I said quietly.
Grinning, and apparently unaware of my discomfort, Seth wrapped my arm around his elbow as we turned to the reporter. He took a few pictures of us, which caught the interest of some of the other reporters.
“Congressman,” they shouted, “who’s the lucky lady?”
“Margaret Clarke,” Seth said with pride.
“Can we get a picture?”
We smiled for all the cameras, and my excitement about the evening started to wane. I just wanted to get inside, away from the reporters and the attention.
Finally, Seth turned me toward the doors, and we entered the theater lobby. After going through security, he took me to the bar and ordered a glass of red wine for himself and a Sprite for me. I wasn’t thirsty, but it gave me something to do with my hands.
The lobby was full of people in tuxedos and evening gowns. A photographer was roaming the room, and each time he got close, I tried to turn my back.
This would be the perfect time to talk to Seth about my dad’s project, but I couldn’t get him to focus. He seemed to know everyone in the room, and those he didn’t know, he introduced himself to. He moved from one person to the next like the good politician he was, shaking hands and making small talk. He soaked it all up with a smile while keeping me close to his side, letting everyone know who I was and dropping my parents’ names, too. It was clear he thrived in this environment when all I wanted to do was find a quiet corner and hide.
After thirty minutes of exhausting small talk with strangers,Seth finally led me into the auditorium. I’d been at Ford’s Theatre a few times in my 2001 path but had not been there in 1861. The building had been painstakingly renovated through the years to maintain its original integrity. The carpet and chair upholstery were red, while the trim and walls were a creamy white. Yellow doors and accents matched the curtains. Tonight there was red-white-and-blue bunting everywhere, as the theme of the evening was “American Celebration.”
Extra bunting and Americana decor adorned the upper right-hand box where Abraham Lincoln had sat on April 14, 1865—the night he was shot by John Wilkes Booth.
Our tickets placed us in the mezzanine. After we found our seats, we watched as the room began to fill.
I realized I might not get another chance all evening to talk about my dad. “Seth.”
He turned and smiled at me, giving me his full attention.
I almost faltered—he was so handsome. But I forged ahead. “My dad mentioned you’re on the Committee of Military Construction.”
“It’s one of several committees I’m on.”
How did I approach this subject? Did I come right out and say my dad needed his support? Or did I just keep things general and, if Seth liked me, maybe he’d be more likely to work with my dad?
I decided to keep it general. “He’s excited to work with you. He has a lot of plans for the Pentagon.”
“I like your dad.” It was all Seth said before President Bush and Laura Bush arrived, to great fanfare, and took their seats in the front row.
The evening unfolded with several performances by comedians and singers. Seth sat close to me, his shoulder brushed up against mine, and while a country band performed, he reached over and took my hand in his. His touch was gentle, but thoughhe looked at the stage, I knew he was just as aware of my touch as I was of his.
When he finally looked at me, there was a question in his eyes.
Should I let him hold my hand? Did it give him the wrong idea? Was there any harm in giving him the wrong idea? Couldn’t I enjoy his company while I was still here? I wasn’t committing my life to him.
But what did that mean about my growing feelings for Gray and Zechariah? Was it wrong to enjoy each of them? It wasn’t like I was cheating on anyone—was it? I wasn’t married or committed to any of them. I didn’t even know how Gray or Zechariah truly felt about me—not like Seth, who’d made it known.
In the end, I allowed him to hold my hand, reveling in the feel of his touch and attention and trying to push aside all thoughts of Gray and Zechariah, and all the work I had ahead of me in 2001. Work that could be jeopardized if my mind was not focused on my job.
A very real possibility, with the way Seth distracted me from everything but him.
After President Bush closed out the evening at the theater by quoting President Lincoln on the importance of theater to provide rest, inspiration, and laughter, the party of six hundred moved to the Organization of American States, about a twenty-minute walk from Ford’s Theatre, for a sit-down dinner.
“Do you mind if we walk?” Seth asked as we left the theater and stepped into the dark evening. Streetlights illuminated the sidewalks, lighting up the shuttle buses they’d arranged to take people from the theater to the meal.
“I don’t mind.” I wanted some fresh air to help me collectmy thoughts. The crush of people in the theater had made me feel unsettled—that, and Seth’s hand.
