by Bob Graham
From behind, he held her loosely around her waist. She eased back on his forearms, completely relaxed in his grasp.
Together they stepped out on the tile floor. They each toweled the other, but couldn’t wait until they were completely dry, as if all the time they had waited had built up in a pressure cooker. With their moisture dampening the bedsheets, they lay there together, absorbing the pleasure of their first intimacy.
Tony pulled back. “I have a condom.”
“No need,” Carol said. “I’m taken care of.”
That was a surprise.
“And I want you ‘just the way you are tonight.’” Feeling her insides throbbing, she whispered, “Tony, it’s been a long time since I felt for a man the way I do for you.”
He rolled over, his upper body supported with his left elbow. He held his position, gazing at her naked and glistening body. She was all his now. He kissed her, encircling her parted, moistened lips.
He climbed on top and entered her. Carol wrapped her legs around his thighs and pulled them up to his buttocks. The two of them were in complete harmony, moving in unison. After a passionate eternity of rhythmic plunging, they climaxed together. Then, still entangled, they rested.
They were sheltered in each other’s arms. The tension of a long day, tinged with sadness and travel weariness, had dissolved in each other’s embrace. Intertwined, they slept.
An hour later, Carol rose to use the bathroom. When she returned Tony was lying on his back awake. He reached out, pulled her toward him.
Their physical connections gradually became tenser, erotic. Their pace quickened. With Tony still on his back, Carol rolled on top, as if needing to assert her equality. Her breasts swayed before him, the rose further enflaming Tony’s desire as she guided him into her again. They made love until their mutual climax left them drained and exhausted.
This time, it was Tony who woke first. As he gazed at her sleeping form, he couldn’t stop thinking about that rose tattoo and yearned to know the story behind it.
JULY 22–23
Washington, D.C. ☆ The Lakes ☆ Tallahassee, Florida
As promised, Tony’s first call was to Samuel Shorstein. Informed that the assistant secretary was en route to an international conference on terrorist financing in Amman, Tony spoke with Shorstein’s deputy, John Oxtoby.
“I am generally familiar with Ms. Watson’s situation in Zurich. I’ve followed up on a directive from Secretary Shorstein Monday to the FBI legate in Bern.”
“What was his take?” Tony asked.
“Frankly, he thinks Ms. Watson might have overreacted and read more into the situation than was warranted. I understand this was one of her first assignments, maybe even one of her first foreign travels of any type. In a different culture innocent acts can be seen as threatening.”
“Mr. Oxtoby, Carol—I mean, Ms. Watson—may be a relative novice to foreign travel, but she is very levelheaded. Secretary Shorstein would not have given her this assignment otherwise.”
“Excuse my intrusion, Mr. Ramos, but do you have any form of relationship with Ms. Watson—a relationship that could affect your objectivity?”
Tony squirmed, his thoughts flashing back to last evening. “We are friends and have consulted on professional matters of mutual interest.”
“I’ll note your evaluation and ask the station in Bern to keep her file active. If anything pops up, Ms. Watson will be notified. Thank you for your interest.”
John Billington’s only instructions for his funeral had been to include “America the Beautiful” and end with a bagpiper, dressed in a blue and green tartan kilt, playing “Amazing Grace.”
The last notes of Billington’s first request hung in the humid afternoon air as Reverend Jeffrey Frantz, the family minister at The Lakes Congregational Church, led the overflow gathering of friends, political associates, and admirers in prayer. The Bangladeshi clerk at the store where the senator had bought his last two newspapers sat in a side pew, weeping while consoling her adolescent daughter.
By the time Laura arrived and squirmed uncomfortably into the end of the family pew, Reverend Frantz was beginning his eulogy. “You know, my friends, you can discern a lot about an individual from the stories others tell about him. So yesterday afternoon, when I met with Mildred Billington and four of her and John’s five daughters, I asked the girls—they’re certainly not girls anymore, though I’ve known them all since they were—I asked each of the daughters what story their mother told most often about their father. And you know what? They all agreed. It was about when the parents had first met.”
Laura glanced down the pew at her sisters, all of whom seemed engrossed in the story, their eyes forward to the lectern and not on her.
“Mildred Moore met John Billington as a freshman at the University of Florida. Struggling with a required course in the physical sciences, she had come on a warm October morning to the administration building in hopes of securing a tutor. By chance, John was leaving as she was walking up the stairs.
“He paused and introduced himself with a sincere, but unlikely-tobe-successful pickup line, ‘My name is John Billington. Usually students only come here when they’re in trouble; what’s your problem?’
“‘Geology,’ Mildred admitted. ‘I took the first test yesterday. It wasn’t pretty. My father told me to get a tutor. That’s my problem.’
“With the confidence of the mature sophomore, a quality of nonarrogant self-confidence that the voters in this state would soon recognize as the hallmark of a fine politician, John said, ‘I took that course last year. I got an A. In fact, I set the curve. I’ve got a heavy schedule this semester and in the fraternity, but I’d be happy to take a shot at helping you.’
“Mildred, tall and slender and striking, looked up at John, two steps above. She was impressed with his directness, even his bookish persona. She smiled. ‘You’ll be taking on a challenging proj ect,’ she warned him.
“‘I’ll give it my best,’ he replied. ‘The library, say around seven?’
“That encounter led to a better understanding of both sedimentary rocks and each other. Two years later, Mildred and John were married at the university chapel. That was forty-nine years ago, just one year short of half a century.”
Frantz paused a moment, smiled at the congregation and placed both hands firmly on the lectern, as if he were about to level with them.
“My friends, when you think about it, this touching story really summarizes the life of John Billington. He came upon a ‘constituent,’ he offered his help, he was taken up on that offer, and he delivered. And, of course, the story has a happy ending, because he was rewarded brilliantly for that willingness to help others; he was rewarded with the love of his life. I think we can all take a lesson from the life of John Billington. If you are always willing to help others, the rewards will come; you don’t even have to think about them.”
“And Mildred,” Frantz continued with a twinkle in his eye, “I’ll bet to this day you even still remember a little bit about geology.”
Laura glanced down the pew to see her mother nodding her head, her eyes bright with tears.
As the service ended, Mildred, nearly six feet tall and almost as imposing as the night she and John were married, maintained her gracious demeanor, accepting each of the congregants with respect and attention. Mourners passed, offering their condolences and admiration for the partnership she and the senator shared through all the vicissitudes of private and political life. Blessed with five beautiful daughters, their life had been a partnership of love, family, and politics.
Sensing her mother’s fatigue, Gwen gently took her by the arm and led her to a waiting limousine.
“Dear Gwen,” Mildred admonished, “these friends have come to pay their respects to Father and to see us. We can’t leave them standing in line.”
Laura wondered whether her mother was as haunted as she was that the driver who had taken her husband had so far gone undetected. The city, county, an
d state law enforcement agencies were all on the case and, since Billington was a former federal official, so was the FBI.
The limousine took them a mile to The Lakes Country Club for the reception. Her oldest sister, Gwen, told Laura that their mother normally came here to take the Cycle exercises, giving her mind an hour to take flight, to ponder and imagine. With her daily walks and attention to a low-fat diet, they helped maintain her strength and energy.
But Gwen said these last two days had drained Mildred. She had arrived at the Columbus Clinic directly behind the ambulance, had been at her husband’s side as he was lifted on the gurney and wheeled into the emergency room. Twenty hours later, still in her bloodstained blouse and jeans, she listened as the doctor told her John had passed.
As much as possible, Suzanne and Cissy had relieved her of the burdens of notification and preparation. But when they all returned to the house from the hospital, grief engulfed her. She was inconsolable, her sobbing interrupted by heaving and shaking. Dr. Neff, her longtime doctor, arrived to comfort her and, finally, to administer a sedative that sent her into fitful sleep.
On Tuesday morning, the six women flew in a chartered Saberliner to Tallahassee. The senator’s coffin had been placed in the rear baggage area. The selection of aircraft was fitting—the same one Billington had flown hundreds of hours as governor, including the flight from the capital to Key West in June of 1980, when he first encountered Tony.
At the state hanger of the Tallahassee Municipal Airport, the passengers and crew stood on the tarmac while the body was removed and placed in a hearse for the drive to the state capitol. Following protocol, the family stood at the main entrance to the marble rotunda as the coffin was placed on a bier for the twenty-four hours of public viewing.
For Mildred, the next hours were a gray blur. At the invitation of Governor Dorothy Ramirez and still under the effects of sedation, she retired to one of the guest rooms of the governor’s mansion. The ornate Persian rug in the foyer, the portrait of Andrew Jackson by the dining room entrance, and the silver punch bowl she had saved from expropriation by the U.S. Navy were all reminders of happy years.
A delegation of Senate colleagues who had flown from Washington joined another throng gathered at the oldest church in Tallahassee, the white antebellum First Presbyterian. Reverend Frantz again presided. This time the same muted-green-and-blue-kilted piper was joined by the Florida A&M University choir for “Amazing Grace.”
Except for “America the Beautiful” and the piper, Billington had left most of the planning and preparation for the hereafter to Mildred. She had decided they would be buried in Tallahassee amongst the oak trees of a cemetery downhill from the mansion. On many summer evenings they had strolled there, hand in hand, absorbing the soft breeze from the nearby gulf and the two hundred years of history locked in the headstones. Billington had made only one other request: that their plots be as close as possible to a former Senate colleague renowned for his storytelling. John had joked that he could listen to his tales through eternity and would never hear the same one twice.
The family filled the first two graveside rows of wooden folding chairs under a green tent. The public stood behind. Tony bowed his head as the final prayer was intoned and Mrs. Billington was assisted from her seat to a limousine for the short drive back to the mansion.
Tony fell in behind the five daughters walking up the hill to the reception. As Laura waited for others to pass at the corner across from her former home, her glance caught Tony’s notice. Laura was distinguished from her sisters not only by the style of her dress but also by her demeanor. It was as if she came from a different family. She walked with the pace and crossing step of a runway model.
They did not have the opportunity to speak until the reception was nearing its end. When most of the guests had gone, Tony made his way toward the Florida room that he knew had been Mrs. Billington’s dream. She paid the personal and political cost of the criticism for spending more than $100,000 of taxpayers’ money on what one legislator described as the First Lady’s “play pretty.”
Tony approached Laura. “My name is Tony Ramos. I was a staff assistant to your father when he chaired the Joint Inquiry on 9/11. He had an enormous influence on my life. He always treated us as colleagues and gave us his full respect. We admired him greatly and uniformly felt the year under his influence and leadership was one of the most formative experiences of our lives. Please accept my condolences.”
“Thank you,” Laura replied as if a queen addressing her subject. “He had many admirers.”
Kendall gave Tony a soft hug and said, “I know he would have appreciated your being here today.”
“I was supposed to be with him in The Lakes this weekend. He had invited me last Tuesday. I’m not sure why.”
Kendall asked, “Did you have any idea?”
“You must have known Mark Block, who asked that I extend his sympathy and regrets that he was unable to be here. Mark thought it probably had something to do with the Saudis. Your father was never satisfied with the way the White House kid-gloved their role in 9/11, and last week he wrote an op-ed in the New York Times suggesting they might be working on the bomb. I honestly don’t know what he had in mind.”
Noticing her mother sitting alone in the adjacent living room, Kendall excused herself. Laura motioned for Tony to take the vacated seat. “For the last several years my father and I had what you could call a distant relationship.”
“The senator occasionally mentioned an estranged daughter,” Tony said.
“I’m surprised he didn’t call me worse. He objected to my politics and lifestyle. I had long since rejected his liberalism and domineering paternalism.”
“Senator Billington was a strong man. He was comfortable in his own skin, but respected the views of others. That wasn’t the case between the two of you?”
Laura glanced down to check the buttoning of her blouse. “Not quite. But, although we were at the opposite ends of the political spectrum, I admired the genuineness of his commitments, wrongheaded as they were. It was his excessive control that broke our father-daughter relationship.”
She rose to look at a portrait of her father that hung with those of the other former occupants of the mansion. Turning back to Tony, she said, “Now the family is of one mind in our determination to find my father’s killers. You said you were in intelligence. Do you have a hunch?”
“No. I’m a State Department research analyst and spend most of my time following Afghanistan. If you are looking for a Sherlock Holmes, I’m not your man.”
He noticed the remaining guests were standing as Mrs. Billington expressed the family’s gratitude. Two of the middle daughters, Cissy and Suzanne, took her by the forearm and helped her toward the guest quarters. She held back in the Florida room to speak with Laura and Tony. Those remaining filed out the front door and into the saltwater breeze the Billingtons had so enjoyed.
At the guest room door Mildred Billington took Laura’s hands, “Laura, we’ve hardly spoken. I hope you’ll be here tomorrow.”
“Mother, this has been a very stressful few weeks. I’ve got to be in London day after tomorrow, so I can only stay until midday.”
With a sharp nod of her head Kendall directed Laura to the mansion’s front lawn. Amidst the magnolias and pine trees, Kendall released her frustration. “Where do you get off treating your mother with such disrespect? You may be a celebrity in your chic London circle, but here you’re a member of this family, and you have no right to treat us so cavalierly. We’ve all had just about enough of your disdainful mouth and pompous manner.”
“Listen, Kendall,” Laura shot back, “I didn’t cause any of this, I didn’t ask Daddy to freeze me out for ten years, I’m not the one who’s making judgments all the time—”
“I, I, I. It’s always about you, isn’t it Laura? And it’s always been that way. God forbid either Mom or Dad should show interest in one of us—you always had to grab the limelight. You know what? You’ve
been sucking all the air out of the room long enough. If you want to leave, then just get the hell out.”
“As usual, you’re misconstruing everything I’ve been saying.”
“Yeah? Well, maybe listen to someone else’s opinion for once in your life. And another thing: your father was a fine man; not perfect, but he always considered himself a public servant, and no one can say he wasn’t totally involved with the needs of his constituents and the needs of this family. You only wallow in vanity and whatever will advance your overweening ambition.”
“Whatever you say, Sis,” Laura responded wearily.
“I remember the first year we were here. It was the night before the execution of the first death warrant Daddy signed. It was a very difficult time for all of us with crowds for and against his decision straining against the fence over there.” Kendall gestured to the wrought iron enclosure that encircled the perimeter of the mansion. “He wanted to treat it with as much dignity as possible. And there you were on the balcony with a rope tied around your Barbie doll’s neck, jerking it up and down, taunting the crowd. You got what you wanted—your AP picture in every newspaper in the state. But the price was humiliation for your father.”
Inwardly, Laura cringed at the memory.
“He should have beaten your ass right then and there. If he wasn’t such a gentleman, maybe he could have knocked some sense into you before it was too late. And if on this day of remembrance of our father you cannot rise above self-absorption, go back to London tonight, and as far as I am concerned I hope it will be the last time I will be in your presence.”
With an angry toss of her brunette hair, Kendall strode back to the Florida room, where her mother was concluding her conversation with Tony.
