by Sally Quinn
“You’ll do it,” he said firmly.
She felt relieved at his decisiveness.
“You’ll do it because it’s a good excuse to come back to Washington to be near me.”
She was briefly surprised and then she burst out laughing.
“You bastard.”
They had been picking at their food, neither one as enthusiastic about their meal as they had been about the champagne. Des had ordered another bottle and the waiter had just opened it and placed it in the bucket.
“Let’s get out of here,” he said and grabbed her by the arm. He took the bottle of champagne and pulled her, as she reached for her purse and jacket, out of the restaurant into the steamy night.
“Where are we going?” she giggled.
“We’re going for a walk.”
“Are you crazy? From what I’ve been reading about Washington we’re liable to get blown away by drug addicts with Uzis.”
“Okay, we’ll go for a ride.”
“Taking me for another ride are you? Why should I trust you, Desmond Shaw?”
She was half in the bag but pretending to be sober. He could always tell when she’d had too much to drink. She pronounced his name Dezzzzmond. Heavy on the zzzz’s.
“Shut up,” he said, and took her by the back of her head. He held her to him, kissing her fiercely on the mouth. Then he gripped her with the arm that held the champagne while his other hand slid down to grab her behind.
“Actually, I think we’ll go back to my house.”
“And what are we going to do there?”
“Talk.”
He had taken her by the waist and was leading her down the block and around the corner to his house on 21st Street, stopping every few steps to kiss her.
“How can we talk when you keep kissing me?”
“You’re the one who’s looking for challenges.”
He reached in his pocket for the key and let them both in. They dropped their jackets and her bag on the floor, putting the bottle he had been carrying on the hall table. He pressed her against the door-jamb and continued to kiss her, this time holding her from behind with both hands.
She was the one who unzipped his zipper. But not before he had magically removed her underpants and had her skirt above her waist. He had backed up to the table and was leaning against it to allow her to wrap her legs around his waist and support her. His mouth was feverishly searching her mouth, her neck, as he moved frantically inside her. She was gasping for breath and begging him not to stop—“oh God, Dezzzz…”—when suddenly there was a loud crash.
The champagne bottle had fallen over and was pouring bubbles and foam all over the table and down the floor.
“Shit,” said Des. Allison jerked away in surprise from the noise, leaving him exposed in all his glory.
Before he had a chance to do anything she had pulled off her camisole and skirt and crouched on the floor next to the table. She let the champagne run into her mouth, down her chin, across her breasts and dribble toward her belly button.
Des knelt beside Allison on the floor and began licking the champagne off her face with his tongue, then moved downward.
“Hurry, Des,” she moaned, “before it loses its fizz.”
“More challenges,” he mumbled.
He moved his body on top of her and soon they were in perfect, if slightly drunken, rhythm.
It was Allison who began to cry first after they had come together, deep, heaving sobs.
Then Des was crying, too, guttural noises rising up out of his chest. The two of them lay on the hard wooden floor of the foyer crying until they were exhausted, holding on to each other as though they expected somebody to come and wrench them apart.
“Oh God, Des. Rosey’s dead. The President is dead. I can’t bear it. I just can’t stand it. Somebody shot him and it’s as if nobody cares. This whole horrible city doesn’t give a damn about it. All they care about is getting in with the new administration. It’s so grotesque. There’s no time even for mourning.”
She was still crying, but softly now, tears flowing from her eyes.
He pulled himself off of her and sat up, burying his face in his hands. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’ve just lost it. I can’t seem to get control of myself.”
Allison sat up next to him and rested her head on his shoulder.
It was catching, this crying. As soon as her tears would subside, he would cry and she would start up again. The two of them sat there for a long while in the dark, naked and wet in their grief.
“It’s Sadie, isn’t it, Des? You’re crying for Sadie.”
She had never dared to bring it up before, but now she had to know the truth.
“I’m crying for us all, Sonny. I’m crying for Sadie. I loved her once and she’s hurting. I want to help her and I can’t because she wants too much from me. I’m crying for Rosey, poor fucker. He was a decent President and he didn’t deserve to die. I’m crying for those kids. Willie, who will never know his dad. I’m crying for the country. What kind of a place is this where people murder each other and murder their Presidents? I’m crying for me. For all the guilt I feel for Rosey and the pain I caused him. I’m crying for you. For causing you so much pain, too.”
His voice cracked again and he buried his face in his hands once more and she circled him with her arms to stop the shaking.
“Do you still love her?”
She couldn’t go on another minute without asking.
Des was silent for a long time.
“I care about her. Maybe I love her. But it’s more protective. She’s not the woman for me. It would never have worked. She’s too dependent, too needy. She’s a sensational dame, though.”
Allison felt sick. This wasn’t exactly what she wanted or needed to hear. Des was thinking out loud more than speaking directly to her, and she knew he was being totally honest. He was searching his feeling to come up with the right words.
“Do I love her? God, how many times I’ve asked myself that question. I love many things about her. Am I in love with her? I was very sexually attracted. How much of it was the idea that she was the President’s wife? That she was forbidden fruit? How much was the challenge, the excitement, the danger? She believes that’s all it was. She may be right. I don’t think so. I don’t want to think so. It doesn’t say much for me if it’s true. I don’t think I behaved very well. I’m not going to get any prizes for moral superiority. I did wrong. No question. But sometimes love, sex, passion, whatever you want to call it, makes you crazy. I don’t remember having a brain during that period. I don’t recall having a rational moment. I recall thinking I was nuts, out of control, certifiable. I recall thinking my cock had replaced my brain and I was a prisoner of its whims. I was obsessed. I was possessed. I don’t think, but I’m not sure, that I should really be held accountable, because I had no control over the demons that forced me to act the way I did. So the answer is I don’t know.”
She waited. She’d never heard him talk so openly about himself. Des was not, to say the least, introspective. She felt ill. She had not understood the depth of his feelings for Sadie. It was her fault for bringing it up. She should have known better. Yet she listened in horrified fascination the way she might have watched the amputation of one of her own limbs.
“What I do know is this…”
It was dark outside, but the light from the streetlamp shone through the living-room windows and they could see each other in shadow. She traced his profile against the white of the walls in her mind because up until now he had been speaking to no one, not looking in her direction.
She felt suddenly overwhelmed with her love for him, her need for him. She could feel the fear in her throat, fear that he might not want her after all, when they had come so close. She was still wearing his claddagh ring. She wrapped her arms around his neck and squeezed him as hard as she could, grasping one hand with the other to protect the ring from being pulled off should he change his mind.
“I know
I love you. I’m in love with you. I’m crazy about you. I want you. I need you. I have never doubted that feeling for one moment since I first met you. Even when I was seeing Sadie I always loved you and missed you. You are my life and I want you with me for the rest of it. I want you to marry me and I want you to say that you will. You haven’t answered me yet, you know.”
Now he was looking down at her. He took her chin in his hand and kissed her lips, then brushed her eyelids with his mouth, then her nose, then her lips again. He pulled back from her and looked directly into her eyes.
“I love you, Sonny, and I want to marry you. Will you marry me?”
She could sense all the fear and tension being siphoned out of her body, replaced with sureness and calm.
She closed her eyes and whispered.
“Yes, Des. Yes, I will marry you.”
He pulled her to him, back down on the dark wood floor and they made love softly, gently, until they were both spent.
7
“Dear Des, It’s been two months. I need you. Love, Sadie.”
She had written the note in desperation and sent it off before she could change her mind. Now she was sorry but it was too late. He would have to answer her. He had no choice. What would he say? It almost didn’t matter. The fact was that she needed to talk to him. She had to.
Her phone rang. It was the White House operator. Des was on the line. She hadn’t given him her number.
“Des?”
“Hi, how are you?”
“Can you come see me?”
She ignored his question.
“Sure.”
“Tonight?”
“Uh, I don’t see why not.”
“You’ll have dinner?”
She was too anxious.
“Yes.”
That wasn’t enough.
“I’d be happy to.”
“Good.”
She wondered if he could hear the relief in her voice.
“Well, I guess I’ll see you tonight then.”
“Right.”
“Goodbye.”
“Bye.”
* * *
It was hot, but a dry heat, not the killing humidity of Washington summers. Early September brought with it a hint of fall, which usually disappointed by the end of the month when the dampness returned. There was a slight breeze this particular evening and the crickets seemed especially loud as Des drove from Dupont Circle over to Sadie’s house in Georgetown.
He was perspiring quite profusely despite the breeze, despite the fact that the top was down on his Thunderbird, and the fact that he had just showered and changed. He found a parking space near the corner of Dumbarton and Wisconsin right next to a little flower stand. On impulse he stopped and bought a small bouquet of anemones, which he carried up the stairs to the large federal brick house like a teenage boy going courting.
The housekeeper let him in the front door and led him down the hallway past the living room, out to a small private stone terrace dominated by a huge shady oak tree.
Sadie was standing by a wrought-iron chair as he walked outside. She took a step forward to greet him, then stopped.
He walked over to her. They looked at each other for a moment, before Des, who had his navy blazer slung over his shoulder, dropped it on the chair and took both of her hands.
“Sara Adabelle,” he said.
“I like it when you call me that.”
He searched her face, looking for evidence of pain. It was there. Tiny lines had appeared around the corners of her eyes as though she had been squinting in the sun. He noticed for the first time a few gray hairs mingled in with the McDougald auburn. It was more an indication, he suspected, of less than religious attendance at her hairdresser’s than any real sign of aging.
She was still in mourning, but her black silk dress was casual and slinky and wrapped around the waist to reveal her lovely figure.
They stared at each other for a moment, then she stepped back and beckoned to a chair.
“Please.”
He sat down and automatically loosened his tie, then crossed and uncrossed his legs, shifted in his seat.
“Irish, neat?”
“Actually, I think I’ll have a beer. It’s so hot.”
She seemed disappointed that he had rejected her attempt at intimacy.
“I’ll get it.”
“Here, let me help.” He jumped up.
“No, no. It’s right here in the bar. Besides, it feels kind of good to be able to do things for myself now. Not always have somebody at your beck and call every second. I always found that a little claustrophobic.”
She disappeared into the house and came back a few minutes later with a beer and a kir for herself. She took a chair opposite him and the two of them sat there for a moment in silence listening to the breeze rustle the leaves.
“I thought you might have called,” she said.
“I… I didn’t want to bother you. I know you must be swamped.”
“Actually I was, in a way. But so much of it has been obligation rather than solace. I’ve needed a friend. Jenny’s been great, but she was close to Rosey and it’s been hard for her. She’s pretty broken up. I can’t lean on the kids. It’s tough enough on them already. And Lorraine, well, forget Lorraine. She’s completely useless. All I hear is that it’s her fault, she never should have insisted on having cocktails in the garden. She overruled the Secret Service, she can’t possibly go on living in that house now. There are bloodstains all over the terrace that she can’t get out…. God, it makes me crazy just to hear her voice. She acts as if she’s the only person who is suffering over this. I’ve heard that she’s collapsed several times at parties and has had to be taken home. It’s really ridiculous.”
“I’ve never heard you use that tone about Lorraine.”
“Well, I’ve had it. This has ruined what was left of our friendship. Though she did help me find this wonderful house. In the same way her house reminds her of Rosey’s death, she reminds me. I can’t stand to be around her. That leaves you.”
“How can I help you?”
“You can be here for me. You can listen to me cry. You can hold me when I’m feeling sad. You can talk to me and tell me funny stories. You can give me reasons for wanting to go on living.”
“I don’t know what to say.”
“Say you’re going to marry Allison. That would be the truth. Then we can stop being so awkward with each other.”
“I’m going to marry Allison.”
“When?”
“How the hell should I know?”
He was clearly irritated.
“Sorry. It’s just that she’s in England and can’t leave until her replacement’s wife has a baby. It’s all very complicated.”
“It’s right for you, Des. She’s right for you. I wasn’t enough. You need a strong, independent woman. I’m not like that. I can see your annoyance with her now. But you know, there’s a touch of pride in your voice. You kind of like it that she’s not just hopping on a plane the minute you snap your fingers, don’t you?”
“I think I like it in theory more than in practice.”
They sat in silence once again.
“Would you like another drink?”
“Not just yet, thanks.”
“She’ll probably want to have babies.”
“Oh, no, not Allison. She’s not the type. Too career-oriented.”
“Don’t count on it.”
“Besides, I don’t want to get into that again. I’ve done it. The midnight feedings, changing diapers, nannies, pediatricians, getting into the right schools. It’s a nightmare. I’m too old for it. Christ, by the time the kid was twenty I’d be in my seventies. No way.”
“You’ve discussed it then?”
“No. What’s to discuss?”
“I don’t know. It just seems to me that if you’re about to marry someone the topic of children might happen to come up.”
“Mommy! Mommy!”
They bo
th looked up as a dark curly-haired child with a filthy face tumbled out onto the terrace. He was followed closely behind by a round-faced, buxom, heavy-set young woman, looking exasperated.
“Mommy, I don’t want a bath,” Willie whined as he crawled up into Sadie’s lap.
“Willie, I let you play in the dirt an extra hour because you promised you’d take a bath,” said Monica. “It’s almost your bedtime. Now come here.”
She went over to Sadie and grabbed the kicking bundle from her arms.
“Look, you’re getting Mummy all dirty.”
Sadie’s face lit up for the first time since Des had come in.
“Willie,” she said, laughing. “I want you to mind Monica. It’s almost your bedtime anyway. You should have had a bath long ago. If you go take one now you can have a popsicle before you go to bed.”
“Posicle?”
His eyes widened at this unexpected windfall. Before Monica could turn around, Willie was headed into the house, desperate that she might change her mind.
“Sadie,” said Monica reprovingly. “That’s bribery. Besides, he hardly touched his dinner and it’s not good for his teeth.”
“You’re absolutely right, Monica, and that’s why you’re the world’s most fabulous nanny and I’m not. If his teeth rot out because of tonight, so be it. Monica, this is Desmond Shaw, an old friend of mine. Des, this is Monica Meehan. Monica’s from Ireland. She came when Willie was born. She’s promised to stay until he’s twenty-one, at which point she will need a nanny.”
