by Sally Quinn
She had discouraged her parents and the Greys from coming. She knew they wouldn’t enjoy it and it would have made her more depressed. Jenny had volunteered, too, but she had been persuaded that Sadie wanted to be alone with the kids, though the two older ones had each brought a friend from school.
She had made a deal with the kids. They had to eat with her on the dining terrace, at least dinner. Otherwise they were on their own. She didn’t want to be alone with just Monica and Willie. The rest of the time she would be content to play with them on the beach or read. She had brought a huge pile of novels. She hadn’t had a binge like that in years.
When she walked into her villa, the view from the open French doors took her breath away. Far in the distance a small purplish speck stuck out on the horizon, the tiny island of Saba. Kicking off her shoes, she stepped down off the tiled terrace and let the sand slide between her toes. She walked out to the water and stood gazing at the horizon. The sun was beginning its descent, there was a slight breeze and the air was warm and dry. Just the sound of the waves on the shore was soothing. She felt the tension begin to dissolve for the first time since Rosey died. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to fill her with a small feeling of hope.
She had the urge to be in the water, to symbolically wash away her sorrows. She rushed back to her room, pulled out her bathing suit, and raced down to the ocean, running into it as though she were finishing a marathon and bursting through the ribbon.
She had considered ordering dinner in her room the first night even though the hotel discouraged it. Then she decided, what the hell, she needed to celebrate in some way. Outland’s and Annie Laurie’s friends would lend a note of gaiety to the evening. She would even invite Monica and let Willie come, too. It would be fun. She would take the bottle of champagne that the manager had sent to the room and they would have a toast. But to what?
Suddenly she felt guilty. How could she feel like celebrating, like making a toast, when her husband was dead? What kind of person was she?
She was a live person, she concluded. Not a dead one. She had decided not to throw herself on the funeral pyre after all. Her life would go on. If she were to live, then she damn well ought to do it. Not sit around and feel sorry for herself.
In truth, she had already tried. She had tried in September calling Des, trying to rekindle that romance. She hadn’t heard from him after their exchange of letters. She had written him back after she had received that wrenching letter in October. He had responded with the short note that said he was trying to sort things out and that Allison was returning in November. The plan was for her to move in with him. He didn’t know what to do about Allison and their wedding plans. He was agonizing about her, about Willie. He would write again, he had said. He cared deeply for her, for his son. Time only made his dilemma more painful. He signed it “Love, Des.”
She hadn’t written back. What was she supposed to say? Oh great, take your time. Don’t worry about us. There was no question that Des’s reaction to her and to Willie had slowed her down. She didn’t feel guilty about trying to renew her relationship with Des. She told herself she had done it for Willie. In some way, too, Rosey had given Des his blessing by acknowledging that Willie was Des’s child on his deathbed.
Rosey. Her feelings about him were so confused. She had tried so hard after she got pregnant with Willie and broke off with Des. She did love Rosey. She was content with him. What was so hard to accept, even now, was that she had never really been in love with him. There was never the passion she had felt with Des.
Her emotions now were so erratic—one minute she missed Rosey terribly and didn’t want to go on living, the next she longed for the kind of romantic relationship she never had with him. The ambivalence was not new—no wonder Des was wary of her.
At first she had been angry and hurt by Des. But the more she thought about it, the more she realized that he had every right to feel the same way. She had left him. She had his baby and never told him. He tried to make a life for himself, her husband was shot, and then she wanted him to give up everything for her. That wasn’t fair. But if she couldn’t blame Des, who could she blame? How could she deal with her pain without somebody to lay it off on? Maybe the answer was to deal with it. Get on with it. Rosey would have wanted it that way, as they say. But would Rosey have wanted it that way? Probably. He was a bigger person than she. He wouldn’t want her to be unhappy. The fact was that the sooner she pulled herself together the better it would be for Willie.
She had done nothing but cry for six months. It was time to stop.
* * *
They had a round table on the terrace overlooking the ocean. The manager had taken the table in front of theirs as protection against the unlikely gawker or autograph seeker. The Secret Service agents were at the next table.
La Samanna prided itself on being safe for celebrities and guarded their privacy as if they were heads of state. There were several other well-known people there this Christmas—a Hollywood producer, a rock singer and his entourage, a tennis star. They all avoided each other as if they were invisible, as the protocol required.
When they walked out onto the terrace she felt everyone trying hard to keep from looking. Most had succumbed and were peeking around their menus. She didn’t mind, really. She looked great and she wanted people to see that she wasn’t the pathetic widow. She knew she had to walk a fine line about her bereavement. She couldn’t appear too happy. It was too soon. People wanted and expected her to be brave and courageous in the face of tragedy. The black dress she had chosen was subdued but sexy. It was a way to say she was still mourning but ready to go on living.
The waiter opened the champagne. Sadie lifted her glass to her family.
“Here’s to a great Christmas vacation, everyone,” she said, taking a sip.
They did the same.
Outland eyed her strangely.
“What’s the matter, darling?” she asked.
“You look… different, Mom, that’s all,” he said. “No. You’re acting different.”
“How?”
“You seem, sort of… well, I don’t know… sort of happy.”
She smiled.
“Well, I feel sort of happy tonight. We’re still sad about your father, of course. I’ll always be sad. But I look around this table and I see that I have so much to be thankful for.”
The two young guests were silent, awed by the intimacy.
“I feel happy that we have each other and that we’re alive. I’m going to try very hard not to be sad for you all. You don’t need a mother who drags you down and makes you feel guilty for having a good time. I’m determined we will have a great vacation. Okay?”
“All right!” said Outland, raising his glass. “Here’s to Mom. The greatest—”
“Don’t say anything nice about me,” she interrupted, “or I’ll cry and that will destroy the whole thing.”
They all laughed.
“Here’s to all the girls we’re going to love in St. Martin,” said Outland, lifting his glass to his roommate.
“I can’t believe I’ve raised a male chauvinist pig for a son,” said Sadie.
“Oh, please,” said Annie Laurie. “This is a two-way street, you know,” and lifted her own glass. “Here’s to all the men we’re going to love in St. Martin,” she added. She and her friend toasted each other and giggled.
“I’ll drink to that one,” said Sadie playfully.
They were starting on their second bottle of wine and chattering happily away. Willie had fallen asleep in Monica’s arms. Sadie was more relaxed than she had been in months. She wasn’t paying attention to anyone around them. Then she saw one of her Secret Service agents get up and block the path of a man heading over to their table. At first she assumed it was an autograph seeker or a well wisher. She started to turn back to the table when she recognized him. It was one of the doctors who had operated on Rosey at George Washington Hospital.
She felt sick to her stomach. This ma
n had come out of the operating room to tell her her husband was dead. Dr. Sokolow, with the sympathetic face, the worried eyes, was heading her way to destroy her happy mood, her first night of vacation. What she really wanted was to have the agent pick him up and fling him off the side of the terrace over the rock cliff and down into the water.
“Dr. Sokolow,” she said, smiling to alert the agent that it was all right. “How wonderful to see you.”
He looked relieved and grateful that she had called off her agent.
“Mrs. Grey, how are you?”
That look. They all had it when they spoke to her. That sad look. The Bereaved. We mustn’t expect too much of the bereaved. There was something so demeaning about it, belittling, as though she were demented. They all meant well. They had her best interests at heart, but it was as if Sadie Grey had totally disappeared and they were talking to some cutout replica. Nobody saw her as a real person anymore. They all treated her with deference when Rosey was Vice President. When he became President it only got worse. Now it was in the realm of the ridiculous. It was as if she had become some sort of spiritual goddess, a sacred totem in which they placed their concerns and fears. She had always found it burdensome, but never so much as after Rosey was killed. Mostly it upset her. Tonight, oddly, it only tickled her. She had to resist the urge to laugh.
“I couldn’t be better, Dr. Sokolow. I’m here for the Christmas vacation with my children and their friends. We’re having a wonderful time.” She saw the look of surprise and quickly turned to introduce him to the children before he saw her smile.
“Won’t you sit down?” she offered without enthusiasm.
“No, no thanks,” he said. “I didn’t mean to intrude. I’m having dinner with my wife and another couple we’re vacationing with. I just wanted to come over and say hello.”
“Well, then, it’s nice to see you.” Her tone was polite, if slightly dismissive.
“Perhaps you’d like to join us for a drink one evening? We’re here until after New Year’s.”
“Thank you. That might be nice,” she said.
“Actually, our son is at Harvard and the Lanzers’ son and daughter are both at Harvard. They’re here with us,” he said, looking at the kids. “Or rather, they flew down here with us. We haven’t seen much of them since we got here. Perhaps you kids might like to hook up with them. They seem to have discovered all of the island’s hot spots. Mrs. Grey, we’d love to have you join our party any time.”
“That’s terribly nice of you,” said Sadie. She wondered how many more times she was going to say “nice.”
“I’ll let you finish your meal,” he said, smiling as he walked away.
Sadie tried to turn discreetly to see who he was with. She couldn’t manage it without seeming too obvious. All she could see were two dark-haired women laughing hysterically, their attention directed to the other man at the table. She couldn’t see his face, but he had sandy-colored hair and was gesturing animatedly, clearly entertaining them. She turned back to her children forlornly.
“Don’t worry, Mom,” said Outland. “We won’t abandon you.”
* * *
The next day, Christmas Eve, Sadie spent buried in her novel, although she did take a long walk on the beach with Annie Laurie. She had always had a rather strained relationship with her daughter, particularly since Annie Laurie entered adolescence. She was her father’s daughter. She looked like him, talked like him, thought like him. Rosey had worshiped her. Outland, on the other hand, was her child. He took after the McDougalds. He looked like her. His hair was black, not auburn, but he had her turquoise eyes and dark eyelashes. With Rosey gone she felt closer to Annie Laurie than she ever had. She could feel, too, that her daughter wanted to be closer. Sadie was her only parent now.
They never discussed Rosey. They talked about clothes and hairdos and college. But she was beginning to feel an intimacy that had never been there and it made her happy.
They had another pleasant dinner on Christmas Eve before the kids all went out on the town. They had finally met the Sokolow and Lanzer children on the beach. Sadie went to her room to devour another novel.
On Christmas Day, except for “Merry Christmas” in the morning, there was no mention of the holiday. Presents had been exchanged in Washington and strict pacts had been made prohibiting more.
It was Willie’s birthday, though, and that made it special for everyone. As if to erase Christmas, they made a big deal over him with lots of presents and balloons and streamers. The ice cream and cake would be for later that afternoon to string out the celebration.
Before lunch she gave Willie Des’s mitt. He immediately put it on his hand. Outland picked up a ball and threw it to Willie. Willie caught it and yelled with delight, then seemed to lose interest in his other gifts.
When they went up for lunch, Willie insisted on wearing his mitt and held on to it all the way up to the terrace. Sadie wished that she had never given it to him. She had wanted to put everything out of her mind, and seeing Willie with the mitt reminded her of Des.
It was another cloudless day. The water was calm and clear, the waves gentle. There was a big buffet lunch with cold lobsters and salads. They sat at the same table and the kids went to get her a plate so she wouldn’t have to stand in line.
She saw Dr. Sokolow’s party at the buffet. The sandy-haired man was quite attractive. She had the feeling that she had met him before.
Outland carried Sadie’s plate, followed by three young people, the Lanzer and Sokolow children. He introduced them to Sadie and they returned to their parents’ table.
“We were thinking about going with them tonight to the other side of the island for dinner, but we didn’t want to leave you alone,” said Outland. “Dr. Sokolow says they would love you to join them for dinner. Would that be okay? I mean, we don’t have to. It’s no big deal.”
Sadie’s heart sank. She wasn’t ready for this. She really didn’t want to have dinner with strangers, but she couldn’t ask the kids to stay with her. She knew it wasn’t all that much fun for them. And she really didn’t want to eat alone in the villa. That would be too depressing. After being alone most of the day she needed a break.
“Yes, of course, it would be fine,” she replied.
“Great,” said the kids, and Outland went over to the Sokolows’ table to break the news. Dr. Sokolow immediately offered to escort Sadie up to the bar for a drink before dinner.
“That won’t be necessary,” she said. “I’ll just meet you at the table. Around eight-thirty?”
She was nervous. She didn’t know these people. She really wasn’t in the mood to make conversation. The only thing she had in common with the doctor was Rosey’s death. She had been lulled into contentment and security by her little cocoon of family plus the sun and sand and water. Now she would have to gear up, be on stage, although the idea of adult conversation was not unappealing.
* * *
She did not want to look like a widow. She wanted to look pretty and sexy, but she had to be careful about that, too.
Turquoise. That would be appropriate. A good Caribbean color. An ankle-length jersey skirt and pullover. She hated to have to plot every move, every costume, as though she were about to perform, but that was her life now.
She was ready shortly before eight-thirty. She must have gone back to the bathroom ten times to check her mascara, her lipstick, take another hit of breath spray, brush her hair. It was stage fright.
Dr. Sokolow, “Sid, please,” sat her between himself and the sandy-haired man. He introduced Sadie to his wife, Judy, and then to Michael Lanzer. Lanzer’s wife wasn’t there.
Michael Lanzer stood up to shake her hand and looked at her directly, something most men never did. He was even better-looking up close. He had remarkable blue eyes, a square jaw, and high cheekbones lending him almost oriental or Indian features which belied his coloring.
Unlike most men who looked at her, his gaze was inquisitive, challenging.
&nbs
p; “Isn’t your wife joining us?” Sadie asked as he held her chair.
“She’s not feeling well. Some kind of Caribbean bug.”
“Oh dear, I hope it’s nothing serious,” she said, searching for something to say. “At least you have a doctor here in case she really does get sick. I gather the medical care on this island is generally not the best.”
“Dr. Lanzer is one of the great doctors in the country,” said Dr. Sokolow. “He’s head of the National Cancer Institute at the NIH. Perhaps you’ve read about him. Dr. Lanzer developed the drug that slows down the effects of the AIDS virus.”
“Oh, Dr. Lanzer, of course. I’ve read about you. I was just talking about you the other day…”
“I hope it won’t be the last time,” he said with a mischievous smile.
She looked at him startled.
Was there something flirtatious in his tone of voice or did she imagine it? It was not possible. Nobody flirted with her. Certainly not now.
The wine steward had brought a bottle of red wine and Sid Sokolow turned to her.
“Will you do the honors?”
“Certainly.” She nodded. She hated this ritual of tasting the wine. It made everyone uncomfortable and insecure except for true wine connoisseurs or snobs. She was always afraid, though she knew wines, that she would fail to detect a deficient wine and someone else would have to send it back.
She held the glass to her nose and sniffed, then swirled it around. It smelled odd and when she tasted it there was no doubt it had gone bad.
“Uhhhhh,” she said, making a face unintentionally. “I’m afraid it’s no good.”
“Certainly, Madame,” said the sommelier and whisked the bottle away.
“It was to the uh, I mean, I was talking about you to…”
“You don’t need to explain,” Lanzer said. He was still smiling.
She was blushing. God. She hadn’t blushed in so long she wasn’t sure that was what she was doing.
