by Sally Quinn
* * *
“I just can’t do it,” she said.
“Why not? You don’t owe the guy anything. What did he think you were going to do with the information—write it in your diary?”
“Because, Des, it could—no—would endanger his life.”
“Not even if we were talking Pulitzers?”
“No story is worth a person’s life.”
“What kind of journalist are you, anyway?”
She knew he was half-joking, but it annoyed her anyway. It was killing her not to at least follow up on the story.
“I’ve tried to think of some way to do it without identifying him. Maybe for the Sunday Magazine with fictitious names. Or maybe even fictionalize it.”
“Forget it. You could never do that.”
“Why not?”
“Because nobody would ever believe it.”
“The whole thing just bothers me. I feel like the guy made an ass out of me. Telling me all this stuff he knew I couldn’t or wouldn’t use. He was almost daring me to write it.”
“Hey, Sonny. Y’know what?”
“What?”
“I love you.”
“Why?”
“ ’Cause you’re tough.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“But not that tough.”
“Is that a compliment or an insult?”
“You guessed it.”
* * *
“I’m stuck.”
“What do you mean?”
“I can’t get the ending. Blocked.”
Des had called Sadie back after not having heard from her in several days.
“So what do you want to do?”
“I think I’d like to scrap it for now and try something else.”
“Any ideas?”
“I was kind of fantasizing about the idea of my leading a double life. Veep’s wife by day, cat burglar by night. How would I do it, what would it be like—that sort of thing.”
“It’s a great idea. Working out the logistics would be a challenge.”
“I haven’t worked it out. I mean I was just thinking about it yesterday, what a prison this is and how hard it would be to do anything without anyone knowing.”
“I’ve got an idea.”
“What?”
“Let’s have lunch.”
“What’s that got to do with my idea?”
“Alone.”
“I still don’t get it.”
“I’m talking about absolutely alone. No Secret Service, no stewards, no secretaries. Alone.”
“It’s not possible.”
“So we can scrap your fantasy. No literary value there. Moving right along…”
He was daring her, and she didn’t know whether she wanted to play or not. If she did, she wasn’t ready to admit it.
“No, no. You’re right, of course. It’s just that I can’t think now.”
“Call me when you can.”
* * *
It was Hugh, the gardener, who finally gave her the idea. She was talking to him about the spring planting. She had been consulting with him constantly since she got back in September, and their talks were the highlight of her day; the decisions she would make about the grounds would be so much more permanent than any to do with the interior, and she was taking it very seriously.
Hugh was tall and carrot-topped, with an innocent freckled face which made him look younger than he was. He was so friendly and sweet that she could hardly keep herself from patting his head. He was one of the few people she dealt with who seemed totally oblivious to her position. He appeared to like her for herself, and that made her feel comfortable. And since he was always the expert about gardening, he treated her like an equal. There was something about Hugh that made her want to confide in him, and they had developed a cozy, teasing relationship. Some days she was so eager to talk with Hugh that she would meet him in his van as it pulled into the garage off the kitchen to unload whatever surprises he had picked up for her that day at the nursery.
By the kitchen door to the garage was one of the many TV monitors that recorded the comings and goings of every member of the household. It was impossible to leave the house from any exit without being seen by the Secret Service.
The next time Hugh came, shortly after her conversation with Des, he brought her an especially prized Japanese maple, and she rushed out to meet him. They had walked the length of the yard discussing where to plant it.
“You’re getting so good you really should think about going into gardening,” he said.
“I would if I weren’t planning to be a best-selling novelist,” she said.
“You’re writing a novel, are you?”
“I’m thinking about it.”
“What’s it about?”
“It’s still a little vague, but I have this thought that it might be about a Vice President’s wife who leads a double life. A kind of spoof. But I’ve been trying to think how to get her out of here logistically, and I just can’t figure out a way short of being smuggled in and out in a trunk.”
“How about a garbage can?” Hugh grinned.
“You think that’s more appropriate,” she teased.
“More unlikely.”
“You have something specific in mind, I presume?”
“Actually, madam, I do. Come with me.”
They were enjoying their little jest as Sadie followed Hugh up the sloping lawn and over to the garage, where he kept his supplies. He opened the door to his van and pulled out two very large new green plastic trash containers.
“I brought these along today to collect the fall leaves. May I?” and he bowed.
Luckily she was wearing slacks, so she let him help her into the garbage pail and put the lid on. Then with seemingly little effort he lifted the pail up and slid it into the back of the van and closed the doors.
“Brilliant!” she cried, laughing, as she peered out the doors of the van.
She would dismiss the stewards early, or give them the day off on a holiday; have Hugh bring a garbage pail inside the house, where she would climb inside in the pantry; then he’d carry it out to the van. The Secret Service wouldn’t see her leave on the TV screen and they would assume she was in the house. Then Hugh would just drive out of the grounds and to her secret destination.
“Do I dare?” she asked, extricating herself from the garbage can.
“Now that you know it’s possible, how can you not?”
“Columbus Day. It’s next Monday. I’ll let the staff off and… oh, Hugh, could you possibly do it that day? I didn’t even think that it might be your day off too.”
“Are you kidding? For this I’d come back from vacation.”
“Okay, then: see you Monday. If it falls through I’ll call you.”
She raced upstairs to her second-floor sitting room and still out of breath, called Des at The Weekly. She was amazed at the physical reaction she had to him, to his voice.
“Let’s have lunch,” she said.
He was silent on the other end.
“Alone.”
* * *
L’Auberge Chez François was closed on Mondays. Des knew François from the old days when he had had a restaurant a block from the White House and near his office. It had been his hangout when he was working for The Boston Gazette. Now François had moved out into the Virginia countryside, past McLean, past Great Falls Park. Des didn’t get there often, but they were still buddies.
François would open the restaurant for them Monday; he would cook the lunch personally, and his wife would serve. No staff. All very discreet. They agreed that Hugh would take her to the Potomac overlook at George Washington Parkway and, dressed casually and wearing dark glasses and a hat to conceal her hair, she would get out and join Des in his car for the drive out to the restaurant. Everything was set.
The night before, Sadie lay awake, her mind racing. Every possibility for disaster arose.
The President would drop dead and Rosey would be President. They wou
ld look for her everywhere. It would be a major scandal. She would have Des ask François to keep a radio on.
Des would have a heart attack and they would have to call an ambulance. How would she get back?
She would have a heart attack. What would they tell Rosey?
By morning she was exhausted and desperate to get out of the whole scheme. It was insane. She couldn’t call Des. He was at Allison’s. She tried to call Hugh. He had probably gone to the nursery to pick up some plants. She went down to the kitchen. The house was empty. She couldn’t eat. She tried to read the paper. She couldn’t concentrate. She turned on the morning television shows. She turned them off.
She had a little talk with herself. What am I doing wrong? Nothing. I am just going to have lunch. Big deal. With somebody who’s going to help me with my writing. Privately. I’m trying out a plot angle. I am a person. I am not a slave to my country. I am not the Vice President. Why can’t I have a little freedom? Where is it written I can’t try to sneak out? I am testing the Secret Service. If I can fool them, then they’re not very secure. Anybody could. That’s it. I am testing their effectiveness. They will get in such trouble if I am found out. Toby, at least, is on vacation. He won’t get into trouble. I won’t get caught. If I do, it will be lucky it was something like this, not a serious breach of security. Besides, it’s not illegal. So why not?
It was a brilliant day. Bright and clear. And cool for mid-October. Indian summer hadn’t hit yet. She wore a deep blue-green suede outfit. The top was a sweater jacket which zipped up the front; the skirt, suede.
No jewelry.
She decided on rust leather flats; they might take a walk after lunch. And she took along a paisley shawl in case it got colder later in the afternoon. Not that she planned to spend that much time.
His car was waiting on the overlook. He was standing by the front, his foot on the fender, looking down at the view of the Potomac. The leaves all around were beginning to turn, with bursts of yellows and reds among the green. It was her time of year. He had on his corduroys. His hair was mussed as usual. They were both still tanned from the summer. There were no other cars. She saw him turn casually toward the van as it pulled in. She had stayed in the back during the trip.
Hugh helped her out. He and Des shook hands solemnly, like a father handing over his bride; then he drove away.
It was a little after twelve thirty. Their reservation was for one. She was wearing large dark glasses and an old rust-colored slouch fedora, wide-brimmed, which she pulled down even lower over her eyes. She tipped her head up slightly and smiled. He leaned over to kiss her cheek and the hat nearly fell off. They both tried to catch it, then both laughed, embarrassed.
She wanted to put off getting into his car, as though that were the final commitment. She suggested they look at the view. It was too risky, he said. She still made no move for his car, and a brisk wind caught her hat and blew it off, so that they both lunged for it and hit their heads together. They laughed again, and she sheepishly took her hat and climbed into the T-Bird, positioning the brim even lower over her eyes than before. Maybe she could just make herself disappear.
They pulled out onto the George Washington Parkway and headed toward the restaurant, driving in silence for a while. They were both awkward. Like teenagers on a first date. Sadie kept trying in vain to think of something to say.
He was the one who finally spoke.
“Well, you don’t look as if you just stepped out of a garbage can.”
“I should never have told you.”
“You had to. There can be no secrets between us.”
She blushed.
“Do you realize the power I have over the Vice President of the United States at this very moment?” he asked.
“Is that important to you?” He couldn’t tell if she was teasing.
“I suppose it must be. Otherwise it wouldn’t have occurred to me.”
“So now your fantasy is realized.”
“I thought this was your fantasy.”
“So it is.”
They drove along the winding roads, up and down hills, occasional patches of sunlight almost blinding them after they came up from a shaded part of the road.
“What’s Great Falls Park?” she asked finally, desperate for conversation, as they drove past a large sign to the right.
“It’s one of the most spectacular places you’ve ever seen. Beautiful river views. There’s another one, River Bend Park, which is beautiful too. But dangerous. There are a lot of drownings.”
“Why does anyone ever go there, then?”
“I guess danger excites.”
“Well, I certainly don’t understand it.”
“I think you do.”
He looked at her and smiled. She looked at him and felt her stomach drop.
The Auberge was enchanting and unexpected in a place so close to Washington. Close your eyes and you are in France. The entrance and the front room were dark, with little tables, red-flowered curtains, a large wheel lamp, plates on the walls, pine cupboards, and a large fireplace. A newer wing was glorious with large windows where sun splashed over the green pottery, the flowerpots, pretty lamps, and checked tablecloths. A table next to the window overlooked a lovely garden and the woods beyond.
François deliberately did not notice who she was. It was as if his family had been serving French monarchs and premiers and their famous mistresses for centuries. With a Gallic flourish, accompanied by dancing eyebrows and a profusion of compliments, he kissed her hand and led them to their table. He already had a bottle of dry white wine on ice next to the table, and after he had opened it he bowed deeply and sailed away. The chef d’oeuvre he was whipping up for them in the kitchen required his full attention.
Sadie giggled as he disappeared.
“Voilà!” said Des, with a sweeping gesture, imitating François.
She was touched by his vulnerability as he said it. He wouldn’t have learned French where he grew up. Rosey, of course, spoke excellent French.
“Do you speak French?” he asked, tentatively, when she didn’t say anything.
“A little. I learned it in school. But I’m self-conscious about my accent and I rarely try.”
“Chessy’s French was perfect,” he said. “Sonny’s isn’t bad.”
Why had he mentioned her name? The clouds covered up the sun for a moment. Not that he shouldn’t. But somehow, just for today, she wanted to believe they were alone.
Des poured the wine. She was surprised to see, when she took her glass, that her hand was shaking.
“Cheers,” he said, as he clicked his glass to hers.
They made small talk. He told her all about the good old days when they used to hang out at Chez François.
She didn’t hear a word. She kept watching his hands as they played with the bread crumbs on the table, watching his eyes as they sparkled when he laughed: mocking? serious? she couldn’t tell; his lashes as they swept his cheeks when he looked down. His lower lip was full and curved down at one end, so that he always had a sort of wry look about him, ready to smile or grimace. His jaw was square, and he worked it when he was silent as though he were chewing his thoughts.
She tried not to think what his mouth would feel like on her mouth, what his hands would feel like on her body.
She began playing with her bread crumbs.
“Washington isn’t the same anymore,” he was saying. He had put his in a pile, brushing them together.
“Why is that?” she forced herself to respond. She did the same with hers.
“Things aren’t as much fun. I don’t know. Maybe I’m just older. But there’s no excitement.”
As he said it he looked at her. Their eyes caught. He reached over and brushed her crumbs onto his. She was helping him put the piles together. Their fingers touched.
“Excitement is where you find it,” she said, and reddened.
“More wine?” Their hands pulled apart as he reached for the bottle and they both
sighed.
“I don’t know,” he said finally. “I feel bent out of shape. Maybe I’m just older. Or maybe it’s the Washington tilt.”
“All right,” she giggled. “What’s the Washington tilt?”
“Well, the Washington tilt is what happens to a person’s neck after he or she has lived too long in this city. It comes from going to too many dinner parties and tilting your head in a listening position to hear the important words of whatever important person you happen to be talking to. It usually begins innocently with something like ‘Tell me, Mr. Secretary,’ and then you tilt your head forward to listen or to appear to be listening. Before you know it, after so many evenings of tilting, you find that it’s difficult to hold your head up straight. Then wherever you go, people can tell right away that you’re a Washingtonian by the slight tilt to your head. It’s not great for the balance either. Too much tilt and walking a straight line becomes difficult. Tilting and slanting go hand in hand. It’s a dangerous disease for a journalist. It’s as dangerous as Potomac fever is for a politician.”
Sadie laughed. It wasn’t that she had forgotten how funny and sexy he was. It was just that she hadn’t allowed herself to remember.
“Have I got it yet?”
“No, and I hope you don’t. You have too pretty a neck to have it ruined that way.”
She could feel her face flush and her pulse beat a little faster. Her lips had gone dry. She licked them. She tried not to smile, but heard herself giggling again. She didn’t know what to say.
“You’re terrible,” she said.
He laughed.
“Have you got it?”
“Got it?”
“The tilt.”
“Only when I talk to you.”
She blushed again.
“You haven’t complimented me on getting out of the house,” she said. They were both concentrating very hard on his wine pouring. She wondered if his heart was pounding the way hers was.
“I would have expected nothing less. Besides, I’m a demanding editor. I want a story out of it. You have the Vice President’s wife out of the house to lead a double life. But what does she do?” He knew what he wanted her to say.
