“No,” she said, and the intensity of her voice surprised her. “You can’t quit. We’ll find a way to make it work.”
Oliver turned to look at her. “You really care, don’t you?”
Am I reading too much into that question? “Yes,” she said quietly. “I really care.”
When they arrived at her apartment, Leslie took a deep breath. “Would you like to come in?”
He looked at her a long time. “Yes.”
Afterward, she never knew who made the first move. All she remembered was that they were undressing each other and she was in his arms and there was a wild, feral haste in their lovemaking, and after that, a slow and easy melting, in a rhythm that was timeless and ecstatic. It was the most wonderful feeling Leslie had ever experienced.
They were together the whole night, and it was magical. Oliver was insatiable, giving and demanding at the same time, and he went on forever. He was an animal. And Leslie thought, Oh, my God, I’m one, too.
In the morning, over a breakfast of orange juice, scrambled eggs, toast, and bacon, Leslie said, “There’s going to be a picnic at Green River Lake on Friday, Oliver. There will be a lot of people there. I’ll arrange for you to make a speech. We’ll buy radio time to let everyone know you’re going to be there. Then we’ll—”
“Leslie,” he protested, “I haven’t the money to do that.”
“Oh, don’t worry about that,” she said airily. “The agency will pay for it.”
She knew that there was not the remotest chance that the agency would pay for it. She intended to do that herself. She would tell Jim Bailey that the money had been donated by a Russell supporter. And it would be the truth. I’ll do anything in the world to help him, she thought.
There were two hundred people at the picnic at Green River Lake, and when Oliver addressed the crowd, he was brilliant.
“Half the people in this country don’t vote,” he told them. “We have the lowest voting record of any industrial country in the world—less than fifty percent. If you want things to change, it’s your responsibility to make sure they do change. It’s more than a responsibility, it’s a privilege. There’s an election coming up soon. Whether you vote for me or my opponent, vote. Be there.”
They cheered him.
Leslie arranged for Oliver to appear at as many functions as possible. He presided at the opening of a children’s clinic, dedicated a bridge, talked to women’s groups, labor groups, at charity events, and retirement homes. Still, he kept slipping in the polls. Whenever Oliver was not campaigning, he and Leslie found some time to be together. They went riding in a horse-drawn carriage through Triangle Park, spent a Saturday afternoon at the Antique Market, and had dinner at A la Lucie. Oliver gave Leslie flowers for Groundhog Day and on the anniversary of the Battle of Bull Run, and left loving messages on her answering machine: “Darling—where are you? I miss you, miss you, miss you.”
“I’m madly in love with your answering machine. Do you have any idea how sexy it sounds?”
“I think it must be illegal to be this happy. I love you.”
It didn’t matter to Leslie where she and Oliver went: She just wanted to be with him.
One of the most exciting things they did was to go white-water rafting on the Russell Fork River one Sunday. The trip started innocently, gently, until the river began to pound its way around the base of the mountains in a giant loop that began a series of deafening, breathtaking vertical drops in the rapids: five feet…eight feet…nine feet…only a terrifying raft length apart. The trip took three and a half hours, and when Leslie and Oliver got off the raft, they were soaking wet and glad to be alive. They could not keep their hands off each other. They made love in their cabin, in the back of his automobile, in the woods.
One early fall evening, Oliver prepared dinner at his home, a charming house in Versailles, a small town near Lexington. There were grilled flank steaks marinated in soy sauce, garlic, and herbs, served with baked potato, salad, and a perfect red wine.