by Sally Quinn
“Hey, Des,” she said. “You know what?”
“What?”
“You’re an asshole.”
“I can’t believe such vulgar language would come from the mouth of such a delicate angel,” he said, taking off his shoes and plunking down on the other side of the bed, his coffee in hand.
“I just want you to know that I’ve noticed that you’re on the bed with me.”
“Damn, you don’t miss a trick,” he said shaking his head in amazement.
She took a sip of her tea and looked him directly in the eye. She was feeling slightly less groggy since she had splashed cold water on her face and run a brush through her hair.
He looked back at her and they both smiled.
“I’m suddenly starving,” she said. She took a huge bite out of her croissant.
“Me, too.” He did the same.
He was still smiling as he reached over and wiped the flakes off her mouth with his thumb.
She reached over and gently brushed his lips as well.
He caught her hand and held it there.
She looked at him again. This time they were both serious.
“What do you want, Shaw?”
“I want you.”
She could feel his words reverberate through her body.
“Take off your bathrobe.”
Almost as if in a trance she slowly removed her robe, pulling it out from under her so she was still under the covers.
They hadn’t taken their eyes off each other.
He reached his arm around her neck behind the pillow, then leaned over and softly brushed her lips with his.
Before she could respond, he had pulled away, moved his arm back and was leaning against his own pillow again.
“Take off your nightshirt.”
She swallowed hard. This was a mistake. She reached down and slowly unbuttoned each button until the last one was undone. She carefully opened it and let it slide off her shoulders. Only her breasts were bare, the rest of her was still covered.
Des reached over and pulled back the covers so that her whole body was exposed.
“Oh God,” he breathed.
Her heart was beating so loudly that she could hear it and she was unable to swallow at all.
He leaned over and began to trace her body with his finger. First the eyes, then the nose, the mouth, the throat… taking in each part of her with his eyes as he went.
He wet his finger with his tongue and traced her again, so gently that it was hard to believe such a strong hand was on her.
When he had finished he looked at her again and she began to shiver. This time he traced her with his tongue, starting with her eyes, then her mouth… downward, until she began to moan.
“What do you want, Sterling?” he whispered.
“I want you.”
* * *
The air-conditioning in the East Room had been turned up full blast and Allison was glad she was wearing her London clothes. She had been sweltering only a few minutes ago in the oppressive heat. Now everyone sat on their little gold caterers’ chairs shivering in their black linen dresses and dark summer suits.
It was overcast outside and you could cut the humidity with a knife. Inside, the White House was even more depressing. The President’s casket had been set up in the center of the East Room with a small altar in front of it. The altar and the bier were hung with black crepe and there were swags of black crepe over the doorways and windows. Large standing candelabra were on the corners of the altar and at the entrances into the room, lending an Elizabethan quality to the already lugubrious atmosphere.
She had met Uncle Roger at Blair House, and his attendant had driven them across the street to the White House and helped him in.
She was horrified to find that they had been seated almost directly behind where Sadie and her family were to sit. Allison felt like running and hiding.
Someone was playing hymns on the piano. It was such a small tinkly sound in that vast room overwhelmed with the raised bier that it seemed somewhat ludicrous. Yet it broke the weight of the silence mercifully, a curious hint of life in a deadened atmosphere. No one had spoken a word since Allison and Uncle Rog had taken their seats. No one even looked up as others filed in and took their seats. People sat as if in a trance.
An Episcopalian minister entered the room and took his place at the makeshift altar. Everyone sat up at attention. The minister was an old family friend of the Greys’ from Richmond. He had married Rosey and Sadie and christened their children. Allison was surprised not to see Cotes. He must be with Sadie.
Then a slight murmur arose as everyone looked toward the door.
Sadie was standing alone, with Willie, his hand clasped in hers. Her normally flushed skin was absolutely white, contrasting sharply with her auburn hair and black silk dress.
She looked so beautiful and so sad that Allison found herself fighting back tears.
What flashed through Allison’s mind was the first time she had ever seen Sadie Grey. She was the wife of the newly elected Vice President just up from Richmond for her first real Washington party. She had arrived late at Lorraine Hadley’s for dinner. When she and Rosey had walked in the door everyone had gasped at the gorgeous couple.
This was six years and a lot of pain later. Sadie had seemed, that night, so young and radiant and so full of expectation. They really had had it all, those two. Now look what it had come to.
Willie was tugging at his mother’s hand and she looked down at her son. He had his mother’s coloring, dark curly hair, with a hint of auburn. His features were heavier, stronger than those of his patrician father. His lips were fuller and his nose not as aquiline as Rosey’s had been. He was his mother’s child.
He was pointing toward his father’s coffin.
“Mommy, Mommy,” he cried out. “Daddy’s in the box. Open the box, Mommy. I want to see Daddy.”
Everyone in the room heard and their eyes went immediately to Sadie’s face, which seemed to shatter at the sound of her son’s voice.
Before anyone could stop him, Willie had broken away from his mother and raced toward the coffin. He pulled himself up on the platform and was beginning to climb up on the coffin when Outland, his older brother, rushed forward and grabbed him, kicking and screaming, up into his arms.
“I want to see my daddy,” he cried. “I want my daddy.”
Cotes appeared from behind Sadie, grasped her arm just in time, Allison thought, and led her to her seat in the front row. Sadie’s daughter, Annie Laurie, her face red and streaming with tears, followed and sat beside her brother. Outland had taken a seat next to his mother with Willie on his lap.
Allison had not seen Outland in years. He had been at Stanford, having rejected his father’s alma mater, the University of Virginia. He was a strikingly handsome young man, dark and brooding, with long black lashes and a thin mouth. He had his father’s lithe body and aristocratic bearing. Annie Laurie, a sophomore at Sweetbriar, was a clone of Rosey. The same narrow face, long thin nose, light brown hair, slightly haughty look.
Outland turned to look at the rows behind him and spotted Uncle Roger in his wheelchair on the end. He smiled and nodded briefly. Allison prayed Sadie would not turn around. She didn’t want Sadie to see her and she didn’t want to have to acknowledge Sadie herself.
What if Sadie still loved Des? What if she wanted him back? She hadn’t even dared mention Sadie’s name to Des again after they’d made love. It seemed inappropriate, almost sacrilegious. She couldn’t believe Des would have made love to her this time if he had any intention of going back to Sadie. He knew Sadie was free now. He knew he could probably have her back. To sleep with Allison under those circumstances, if that had been his intention, would have been too cruel. Des was not a cruel person. She really believed him this time when he said he loved her.
God, how could she be thinking like this in front of Rosey’s coffin? He hadn’t even been dead two days. He was lying only a few feet from her and she was wondering wheth
er Sadie was going to take Des away.
It had to be the last thing on Sadie’s mind. Allison glanced in her direction. Sadie’s head was bowed in grief as the eulogy began.
5
“Des is here.”
Jenny stood in the doorway of Sadie’s office in the family quarters. She was trying to hide the disapproving look on her face.
Sadie was standing by the window looking out at all the mourners in Lafayette Square. There were so many of them. Mostly dressed in black, standing in the summer heat, sweltering in the humidity, weeping or simply staring at the White House with its flag at half mast.
She wore the same black silk dress she had had on at the memorial service that morning. It had been even more painful than she had expected and she had lost control as she had expected. When Willie climbed up on Rosey’s coffin it was just too much. She was still somewhat in shock, but her worst fears about her own lack of composure had been confirmed. She really didn’t know how she was going to get through the next few days. Des was her only hope. Maybe he could give her strength.
She wondered whether or not she should mention Allison. She had seen Allison the moment she walked into the East Room that morning. She couldn’t believe that Allison had been invited, much less that she had come, even if it was to comfort Roger Kimball. She had to admit Allison had looked miserable and had done everything she could to disappear. They had avoided looking at each other. Still, Allison’s presence had made her guilt and grief more acute. If she mentioned it it would only upset Des and distract him. She would leave it alone. It was done now and she needed him too much to make him feel conflicted. She had not attended any other service. There were too many plans to be made and she had to be involved in all of them. Visiting dignitaries and heads of state, what to do with them? The rotunda, Tuesday morning, the funeral service at the National Cathedral, the burial later in Arlington, not Richmond. Transportation, flowers, invitations, music, seating, not to mention clothes for herself and her children, her hair, a veil… it was endless. At least it kept her occupied. Then there were the notes and letters and newspapers that reminded her of her loss. Most of the televisions in the White House were on, so there was an echo through the rooms of various channels and TV anchormen reporting the latest events and rerunning newsreels of important people arriving. Thank God at least there were no pictures of the assassination or of their ambulance ride to the hospital.
The appointment with Des had been for 4:00 P.M., immediately after the service for journalists. Jenny had told her that the crowd for that one was bigger than at any of the others. She had also told her that Des seemed stunned that Sadie would want to see him.
“How can I say no, Jen?” he had asked.
“You can’t,” she replied.
Jenny had told him nothing except that Sadie wanted to see him, and she had disappeared as soon as she announced him.
Des stood in the doorway. Sadie’s back was to him.
“You wanted to see me.” It was a statement as much as a question.
She turned and faced him.
“Yes.”
She looked lovelier than he had remembered. Grief became her. She wore very little makeup. What little there was had been cried off during the day. Even though she had freshened up for Des, she hadn’t dared put on mascara. Her hair was brushed back from her face with little regard for style. She looked simple and natural and beautiful.
He said nothing.
She noticed his eyes were red and puffy. He had been crying. She had never seen him cry. But then everybody had been crying. Men she never believed were capable of any emotion had totally lost control.
She had cried in front of him enough times. Oddly, now she felt emptied of all emotion.
He looked wonderful. Tanned, strong. That square jaw, that cocky stance, those eyes that could always tell what she was thinking. Only now he had absolutely no idea.
“I thought you might want an interview.”
“How are you, Sadie?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t really want me to interview you?”
“I don’t know.”
“I’d like to hug you.”
“I thought it might help.”
He took a step forward.
“To do an interview, I mean.”
“I don’t think it’s right.”
“It would be a big scoop.”
“I can live without it.”
“I needed to see you.”
He took another step forward. She still did not move.
“I’m here.”
“I can’t do this alone.”
“What can I do?”
“Stay here.”
“How can I?”
“Please?”
“I…”
“Des?”
She ran into his arms before he could get to her and held him tightly.
Now the emotions returned and she broke down. It was all too much for her. She felt so conflicted, so confused, so hopeless. She didn’t know what she felt anymore. It was so good to be back in his arms again after these past two years and so comforting to have a man to hold on to after these past two days. Yet she was overcome with guilt, remorse, anger, self-pity, grief, loss, pain. Was there any emotion she wasn’t feeling now except happiness?
“Oh God, Des, I’m so sorry. So sorry to do this to you.”
Her arms were wrapped around his waist, his around her back. They held on to each other though she had felt him begin to pull away slightly before she apologized.
“It’s all right, Sadiebelle,” he said. “It’s all right.” It surprised her that he had used her nickname, that it had come back so quickly and automatically. It seemed to have a soothing effect on her.
He loosened his grip on her and led her to the sofa where they sat down together. He continued to hold her hand, fighting back his own tears as she wept.
“I want to give you an interview,” she said, when she had quieted down.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Sadie. I couldn’t take advantage of you like that. You’re distraught. You don’t know what you’re saying. You don’t need this.”
She managed a smile.
“Where’s the old Des? He would have leapt at it.”
“The old Des died a little over two years ago.”
“So now both men in my life are dead.”
“Oh Sadie… what can I do? How can I help you?”
“Where’s your notebook?”
“I don’t…”
She looked at him, imploringly.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a notebook and pen, opened it, and looked up at her.
It was the first time their eyes had met since he walked in. He swallowed hard, remembering why he had loved her. She had always been so vulnerable, unlike Allison, who could be so aloof, so self-sufficient.
Sadie brought out his most primitive instincts for protecting a woman. She had always seemed to need him and never more than now.
“I want you to write that what people will see in the next few days is a spectacle, a ceremony filled with pictures. The pictures are of a family, a young widow, her two teenaged children and her toddler, grieving over the loss of their father and husband, who also happened to be the President of the United States. He was young and vital, rich, well born, and handsome. He was also intelligent, honest, courageous, and decent. He had more integrity than any man I have ever known. He cared deeply about his family and his country. He believed in them. When he was betrayed, he could be the most forgiving of all men. He was everything he appeared to be and more.”
She was speaking in a quiet voice, tears sliding softly down her cheeks. Des was writing steadily, not looking up at her.
“But people shouldn’t color this picture perfect. Because it’s much sadder even than it looks. Because this model wife, the First Lady of the United States, betrayed her husband. She had an affair while he was President…”
“Sadie, stop it.” Des droppe
d his pen and took hold of her arm, shaking it.
“No, let me finish. Hear me out, please. I need to talk about it…. She risked humiliating him before the world, destroying his presidency, her family, and deeply hurting the country. She risked everything for her own pleasure. She even considered leaving him.”
“Why didn’t she?” His curiosity and the depth of her emotion had gotten the better of him.
“Because she was afraid. She was afraid that her lover didn’t really love her for herself. That he was enamored by the fact that she was the First Lady. That he expected too much of her. That he wanted her to be independent, to take care of herself, and she wasn’t capable of that. That she had no talent, except perhaps writing silly novels, and he believed she was better than she was. That he had no money and neither did she. That her husband threatened to give up the presidency if she left him. That her two children would have been devastated by it. That it would have hurt the country. And that she was pregnant.”
She said that sentence almost under her breath and waited. But he didn’t pick up on it.
“Did she love him?”
She caught her breath and looked him in the eye.
“She loved him with all her heart. More than he loved her.”
“Then why didn’t she tell him that when she broke it off so abruptly?”
“Because she was afraid he wouldn’t let her go if she told him the truth.”
“She was right.”
* * *
She had insisted on the side entrance to the National Cathedral. That way she would walk right in front of the pulpit and go immediately to the front-row pew. She wouldn’t have to walk all that distance down the main aisle past all those people.
Outland, Annie Laurie, and Willie were in the presidential limousine with her. Her parents and Rosey’s parents were in the car behind them. Thank God for Willie. She hadn’t counted on his presence being such a distraction. He was her incentive for maintaining control, much more so than the thought of the millions of people watching her.
Willie had climbed all over her during the ride from the White House to the cathedral, and she was desperate to keep him from wrinkling her long-sleeved black silk suit. He had almost pulled off one of the braid buttons and had managed to snag her black stockings with his fingernails.
