Happy Endings

by Sally Quinn

  Dr. Biondi puffed up like a peacock.

  God, men were so easy.

  “May I return the compliment by saying that you’ve put together a brilliant conference. And I happen to know it was you who put it together. We are all so lucky to have you on our team, someone with your clout, not to mention brains and beauty.”

  He was playing right into her little act.

  She bestowed a radiant smile on Dr. Biondi and then, almost as an afterthought, turned to Michael.

  “Michael,” she said flashing him another equally impersonal smile. “We’re so pleased you could be here today, too. Everyone is looking forward to hearing you.”

  She forced herself to meet his eyes. The pain she saw surprised her. She had expected him to be amused at her little performance despite himself. Yet there was no twinkle, no humor in the black despair she saw.

  He didn’t respond and she couldn’t immediately force her eyes away from his. The three stood there in awkward silence.

  “Well,” said Biondi a little too jovially, turning to Michael. “I guess congratulations are in order. Doris tells me that Giselle is expecting. They don’t call you ‘The Lance’ for nothing, eh, Lanzer?” He chortled at his own wit.

  She could hear the sound of her own breath. She knew she looked shocked, but she couldn’t help it. There was nothing that could have prepared her for this. His expression changed to anguished apology.

  “Oh, yeah,” he said. “We, uh, I mean, I didn’t realize Giselle had told people.”

  “Oh, sorry,” said Biondi. At last he was uncomfortable. “I didn’t realize it was supposed to be a secret.” He glanced uncertainly at Sadie and then back to Michael. “I guess I shouldn’t have shot my mouth off like that.”

  “No, no, it’s all right,” muttered Michael. “It’s just that it’s, well, it’s awfully early. Just under two months and…”

  He stopped. The timing was not lost on Sadie. Christmas week. He had made love to Giselle the week she got back from France. The week he had told Sadie he loved her, the week she had given herself to him, the week she had dared to hope they might have a future together.

  Giselle was pregnant. He was going to be a father again. She knew how seriously he took family. He would never leave her. Never leave his newborn child. It was over.

  She had to say something. She couldn’t just stand there staring at him. Biondi would notice.

  “Oh Michael, how wonderful for you,” she said finally, amazed at how calm her voice sounded. “I’m sorry if I seem a bit surprised.”

  “Doctors do have extracurricular activities, too, Mrs. Grey,” said Biondi with a lascivious expression.

  “In any case…” she dismissed him, “I’m very happy for you. Please give Giselle my congratulations.”

  She barely made it away from them and over to Blanche next to the coffee table. She was horrified. She had to regain control but she was on the edge of losing it completely.

  “Come over to the window with me,” she whispered to Blanche.

  They walked over to the glass wall facing the State Department. Outside the wind was blowing the lifeless dead branches of the trees. What was left of the muddied brown leaves on the ground were swirling through the air. It seemed desolate, just the way she felt. “Désolée,” the French would say; Giselle would say. “Je suis désolée.” “I am desolate.”

  “Are you okay?”

  “I’m just, something just reminded me of Rosey,” she lied. “It still happens sometimes. It catches me off guard. I’ll be fine. Really. Just stay here with me a minute.”

  She got out a tissue and surreptitiously wiped under her eyes so as not to smear her mascara as she watched the gray metaphor for her life out the window. Melodramatic, but that’s how she saw it.

  They were signaling that the conference was to resume. She took a deep breath and walked back through the crowd, up the stairs, and to her seat, smiling and nodding at people as she went. The show must go on.

  Michael had already taken his seat at the table in the center of the horseshoe. Something about his confident, cocky air suddenly infuriated her and all the sorrow she had just felt turned within seconds to a white rage.

  How dare he do this to her? He had taken her when she was most vulnerable and toyed with her, played his stupid mind games with her, lured her into his culture and then rejected her in the cruelest manner. It was inexcusable. Hatred for him welled up in her for his having used her, taken advantage of her, humiliated her. All she could think of now was that she wanted to do the same to him. Now. Right this minute.

  Michael’s talk was on sources and budgets for new vaccines that were already on the market and those that were being developed. It was comprehensive and well delivered, if not particularly sexy or controversial. She had had a pretty good idea from his staff what he would be talking about.

  She had not told them certain information she had been given from one of her FDA sources. There had been lethal side effects because of toxicity in a new AIDS vaccine being tested in what was called the Alpha Omega project. People had died. She had not intended bringing it up at the conference because it had not been checked out, and she didn’t have any idea whether Michael knew about it or not. She had planned to discuss it with him afterward.

  She had just changed her mind.

  When Michael finished, she waited as he fielded a number of respectful questions, then she raised her hand.

  He looked surprised, then apprehensive. After a moment he nodded. “Mrs. Grey?”

  “Are you aware of the Alpha Omega project?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is that going according to plan?”

  “To the best of my knowledge.”

  “Have you shared with the committee everything you know about it.”

  “To the best of my ability.”

  “Isn’t it true,” she asked, taking on the harsher tone of cross-examination, “that there have been twenty deaths associated with this experimental drug?”

  He looked as though she had slapped him. He turned red. “I would say the number is closer to five.” His voice was tight.

  “So you did know about it?”

  “We have heard there were problems. There has been no concrete evidence that the deaths are directly related to the drug.”

  “Why didn’t you bring it up?”

  “We are still trying to check it out. We felt it would be irresponsible and alarmist at this time to make that information public.”

  His teeth were clenched now. Only his eyes reflected the hurt. The atmosphere in the room was tense. The only sounds between the questions and answers were nervous coughing, the rattling of papers, and the clicking of the photographers’ flashbulbs.

  “Wouldn’t you say, then, that this problem has been a big setback to the program?”

  “No, not really. We are moving along as planned. Unexpected delays or problems do not change the fundamental mission.”

  “Thank you, Dr. Lanzer.”

  There was another long silence as Michael stood up, gathered his papers, and strode away. Only she saw him turn as he got to the door. She thought he mouthed something to her but she wasn’t sure. He seemed to be asking, “Why?”

  * * *

  “Sadie Grey, you’re just as skinny as an ole rail, you bitch. How do you do it? Oh God, just look at these damn thighs. I’ll never get rid of this. The good Lord is making me pay a mighty high price for my glorious tits.”

  Sadie laughed in spite of herself. Blanche was going through her usual exercise lament. It was a running commentary about her behind and her thighs. Sadie was used to it by now. Several months ago the two of them had taken up exercising together in the third-floor solarium of the White House with a personal trainer, a bossy woman in her early forties named Ricky who had obviously been a WAC drill sergeant before she got into the fitness biz. The aerobics class usually lasted between thirty and forty-five minutes, depending on how long they could take Ricky. Then they would dismiss her
and do spot exercises while they gossiped.

  Sadie looked forward to this little break whenever she could, which was usually a couple of times a week, depending on everyone’s schedules. She loved getting the workout and she loved being up in the solarium.

  Being in the solarium allowed her to daydream about her life before, with Rosey, with Des, with Michael—as painful as it was remembering them, it was better than the stark loneliness she felt now. It reminded her of Des and the first time they had made love in the White House. He had been doing a cover story on her for the Weekly and came to interview her. She had set up the interview in the solarium so they could have privacy. Somewhere down deep she must have suspected that something like that might happen. It had happened only once before, when Rosey had been Vice President and she and Des had had lunch. They had made love surprisingly, unexpectedly, completely carried away by passion in the front seat of his car at Great Falls overlooking the water. She had refused to see him again after that, so frightened was she of her own lack of control and the potential consequences of such an act. The interview in the solarium had been the first time they were together alone since they had made love in his car.

  She could still remember feeling overwhelmed by him that day in the heat of summer, sipping lemonade and watching the back of his hand, wishing he would caress her body with it. She had been utterly reduced to helplessness, unable to resist even if she had wanted to. All those years being married to Rosey and having an unsatisfactory sex life, she had devalued in her own mind the importance of his love for her. With Des the sex had been spectacular. His love for her turned out to be secondary. Since Rosey had died she had had neither and though often she thought she would crawl the walls if she had to stay celibate, she found she could relieve the tension and satisfy herself if she had to. It was the lack of love that had gnawed at her soul. Michael had given her that love. Then he had taken it away. He had totally crushed her spirit.

  Michael had been different. With Des it was sheer reckless abandon and obsessive behavior. With Michael it had been deep and true and measured and totally thoughtful.

  Michael. She didn’t want to think of him. Why did his face, his name, his voice pop into her head with such maddening regularity. She had even thought of going to a hypnotist to help her forget him, put him out of her mind. She couldn’t bear thinking about him. It hurt too much. And the idea that Giselle was pregnant… a nightmare she could never have anticipated.

  “Sadie. You’re in such a dream world. What are you thinking about? I know you haven’t heard a word I’ve said. What’s the matter with you? You’re losing weight, you’ve got your head in the clouds. I think I recognize the symptoms. Are you in love, girl?”

  Blanche was scrutinizing her. She couldn’t get away with much around Blanche, at least in the female department. That was her field. Blanche knew about boys and girls, the birds and the bees, and that was all she really wanted to talk about. Girl talk.

  Sadie blushed.

  “Sure, Blanche. With one of my Secret Service agents. They’re the only men I ever really get to see.”

  She thought she had recouped nicely. Blanche was thrown off the track.

  “Well, we’re just gonna have to fix that. We’ve got to find you a boyfriend. You’re too young to go without sex this long. It’s been a year and a half. It’s not good for your complexion.”

  Suddenly her expression changed from one of animation to sadness and she stroked her cheeks absentmindedly.

  “Come to think of it. My complexion doesn’t look so good these days either.”

  Sadie was glad to take the attention off of her own sex life, or lack thereof. Nobody knew, obviously, about Michael except for her agents. And they didn’t really know. It was just too private. For one thing, it wasn’t about sex as much as it was about love, and that surprised her.

  “Well, we know in your case it can’t be from lack of sex, Blanche.”

  Blanche was solemn for a moment, trying to decide whether or not to confide in Sadie.

  “Don’t be too sure,” she said. Then, without warning, her face cracked and she began to sob.

  “Blanche? Blanche, what is it? What’s the matter?”

  “Oh Sadie, I’m so scared. I’m just so terrified.”

  “What is it? Tell me. Has there been a threat on Freddy’s life?”

  “No, no,” said Blanche.

  “Well, what then?”

  “It’s Freddy. He hasn’t made love to me, hasn’t touched me since last summer. He’s even had a bed put in his study and he sleeps there. He won’t look at me and he’ll barely talk to me. I don’t know what the matter is, Sadie. And I’m afraid to think about it.”

  Sadie had felt a foreboding ever since Michael had been to the White House. She had never been able to get him to talk about it.

  “When was it that he stopped, Blanche? Do you remember exactly?”

  “Yes.”

  She looked directly at Sadie for the first time.

  “When?”

  “When Michael came to see him.”

  “Oh, Blanche.”

  Blanche buried her head on Sadie’s shoulder and the two of them sat there on the floor of the solarium in their leotards while Blanche cried.

  “What about you, Blanche? Have you been tested?”

  “Yes. I’m fine—so far.”

  “Has Freddy said anything to you about this?”

  “No. I’ve begged him to tell me what’s the matter, but he just says he’s got some problems he has to work through and it doesn’t have anything to do with me. I’ve even asked him if he was having an affair with anybody else just to see if I could prod the truth out of him, but he’s just stonewalling me.”

  “Have you talked to Michael about it?”

  “I can’t. I’m too scared about what he’ll tell me. As long as I don’t have to hear it I can pretend it isn’t happening.”

  There was something about Blanche’s story that didn’t ring true, but Sadie decided to let it go. Blanche was too upset. That was genuine.

  “You’ve got to, Blanche. This is not just your problem. You’ve got to be able to plan. Michael is in a horrible position if what we suspect is true. He has to honor Freddy’s privacy if that’s what Freddy wants. But Freddy has a greater responsibility here. You have to talk to Michael.”

  “Well, I had just about worked myself up to do it when I heard about Giselle.”

  “You mean that she’s pregnant?”

  “You mean you haven’t heard?”

  “Heard what?”

  “Giselle lost the baby.”

  “Oh God!” Her heart was beating so fast she knew Blanche must hear it. “Poor Michael.” Did she sound convincing?

  “That’s not the worst of it.”

  “Oh?”

  “Giselle has left him and gone back to France. I hear it’s for good.”

  * * *

  This time she was not going to lose him. This time she was going to do it right.

  She had to make him understand that not only did she love him but she could bridge any gap between them.

  Jenny had been a help, but she was Jewish the way all the Jews she knew were. Not very. As far as Jenny was concerned, Michael could have come from another planet. She needed someone to explain him to her. She needed a rabbi.

  Rabbi Benjamin from the Washington Hebrew Congregation would be happy to see her. Jenny had called and made the appointment. The former First Lady, she explained, had a family matter she needed to discuss.

  It was mid-March, Saint Patrick’s Day. Ironic. Going to see a rabbi about your Jewish lover on St. Patrick’s Day. Des’s favorite holiday. Why did everything always remind her of somebody? She felt like a computer. Press a button and out came a preprogrammed memory designed to cause pain.

  It was freezing cold, and sleeting, the way it always was on St. Patrick’s Day. Weather designed for big pots of corned beef and cabbage, Irish stew, thick soda bread and steaming mugs of Irish coffee. B
ut she had to get the Irish Catholic thing out of her head. She was on her way to see a rabbi. She had to think lox and bagels, kosher pickles and cheese blintzes.

  It was a Reform synagogue so she didn’t have to worry about wearing the wrong thing or spilling chametz all over the floor or touching the candlesticks. She only had to worry about how to explain to the rabbi why she was there.

  Once she met him she realized she needn’t have worried.

  Daniel Benjamin was great. Short and dark-haired with an engaging smile, he was adorable, funny, smart, and sensitive. She would have no trouble confiding in him. Within five minutes she felt as if he were her best friend.

  His office was a small room in the back of the temple with a large glass window looking out on the icy bleak day. They sat in two comfortable chairs in a corner, close enough to have an intimate conversation.

  She didn’t quite know how to begin, because she didn’t really know why she was there, what she wanted from him.

  He immediately put her at ease.

  “You seem a little nervous,” he said reassuringly. “You shouldn’t be. You’re not going to do anything wrong or say anything to offend me. I promise you. You have some family situation you want to discuss,” he said. “So who doesn’t. You’ve come to the right place. Tell me anything. Ask me anything. I’ve heard it all. Nothing will surprise me.”

  She laughed and relaxed even more.

  “That’s almost a challenge, Rabbi Benjamin. Now I feel as though I’ll have to come up with something that will shock you.”

  “Daniel. Call me Daniel, please. If you’re going to tell me something that incredible we should at least be on a first-name basis.”

  “Well, then, I guess I should drop the ruse that I want to talk about a family problem.”

  “Good idea for starters. It will save time.”

  He leaned back in his seat and studied her, making a frank appraisal of her.

  “I’m in love with a Jewish man. He’s recently unmarried.”

  Well, it wasn’t a total lie.

  “He’s from an Orthodox background but I don’t really know what kind of a Jew he is. He’s not really religious; he’s a physician, a scientist. But culturally he’s very Jewish. We’ve had a brief affair. He’s in love with me, too. But he’s told me he doesn’t want to see me again. He feels the differences between us are too great. I don’t feel that way and I want to make him understand that we can bridge those differences.”