by Josie Brown
Now, we’ll never know who has the microdot.
“For now, Carl Stone stays in his position as Director of Intelligence.” His tone says it all: case closed.
“Despite all you see before you?” Jack asks. “Even the part where the new Director of Intelligence molests Donna on the Metro, then admits to several terrorist acts, and threatens to throw innocent people in jail for his own treasonous acts if she doesn’t kowtow to his blackmail?”
I’m about to say something, but Ryan catches my eye. He knows I’m embarrassed by Jack’s outburst.
Jack ignores my frown, though, as he waits for Lee’s answer.
Lee pauses before giving it. His tone is not defensive, or an angry one. His words are cautious. “The web feed you provided me also showed Mrs. Stone holding a knife to her husband’s neck, leading me to believe she is quite capable of taking care of herself. Their mutual dislike and anger issues aside, for various reasons Mr. Stone will stay in his current position. But, thank you, for your concern.” Lee rises.
Talk about a broad hint.
We all stand. When Jack puts out his hand, Lee takes it. “Mr. President, whatever he has on you, we can take care of it.”
“Acme’s plate will be kept quite full, believe me.” From the sadness in his eyes, I don’t doubt that in the least. “Nonetheless, I appreciate your concern.”
When he turns to say goodbye to me, it’s with a slight bow. No handshake, no peck on the cheek. Our mutual admiration society is officially over.
At least as far as I’m concerned.
None of us speaks during the long walk through the West Wing, and back out onto Pennsylvania Avenue. I’m sure Ryan is thinking of all the work that will be needed to put the office back together. Jack is angry and frustrated because, once again, Carl has slipped through our grasp.
As for me, I’ll be relieved to get home.
Well to Hilldale, anyway. Where we’ll live while we’re rebuilding our house will be a whole other matter.
I wonder how Dominic will feel about hosting us? We had to put up with his lordly airs when he stayed as a guest in our home, while his was being renovated. It’s time he returned the favor.
I don’t know who to feel sorrier for—him because he’ll be in a constant state of worry over the proximity of the children to his antiques, or the kids, for having to tiptoe through that mausoleum he calls a home.
I’ll make it up to him with my cooking. He’ll grouse about getting love handles, even as he takes third helpings.
At the same time, I’ll worry about the number of martinis I’ll be downing during what Dominic calls “tea time,” but hey, playing bartender is one of the few things he does very well.
Just like old times—when we thought Carl was dead and buried.
If only that were the case.
Chapter 18
Heaven Can Wait
“The likelihood of one individual being right increases in direct proportion to the intensity with which others are trying to prove him wrong.”
—James Mason, as “Mr. Jordan”
Don’t believe everything you see on the screen. From plot and dialogue to location and lip lock, it’s all an illusion, meant to transport you out of the here-and now, into a wish-I-were-there fantasy. Here are three perfect examples:
Example #1: The stars aren’t really as pretty as they look on the big screen. Spend just twenty minutes in a make-up trailer and you’ll realize that the dewy skin on your favorite actress isn’t God’s gift to her, but a touch-up with an airbrush brandished by the skilled hands of the make-up artist she has written into every film contract she’s ever signed.
You too deserve your own on-call make-up artist, who will keep you ready for your close-ups for all the many soirees on your calendar. It would behoove you to keep such a person on retainer, even if it means whittling down your child’s college tuition account to pay his fee. Better yet, send your child to beauty school, and you’ve killed two birds with one stone!
Example #2: The sets are never as intricate, or as humongous as you’d imagine. Sometimes the furniture is the weight of kindling, and the sets are no more than well-painted cardboard flats. At other times, you’re looking at computer-generated imagery (CGI), which means the actors are emoting in front of a large flat green screen.
You might also consider a CGI stage as your living room! By filling it with various photos, you can change your furnishings as quickly and as often as you like. And since it doesn’t really exist, it will be so much easier to clean.
Example #3: Actors may have great chemistry on screen, but that doesn’t mean they even like each other once the director calls out, “Cut!” Sure, they seem to be all hot and heavy with each other when the cameras are rolling, but more than likely she’s holding her breath because of his bad breath, and he’s thinking about the real love of his life—his boyfriend.
In other words, the man at your side is the true happily ever after in your life, so give him a big meaningful kiss—
But first, pop a breath mint. Illusions in the real world have to be done on a budget.
The veranda of Chateau Fleming—Dominic’s nickname for his Hilldale mini-mansion—encircles the whole house, providing shade in the hot Southern California sun at all times. I’ve been out here since sunrise staring out at the hills that encircle our little hamlet…I’ve been out here for so long that my cup of coffee is already cold.
That’s perfectly fine by me, even if it is cause for concern to Dominic’s valet, Giles, who hovers just out of view in case I come to my senses and actually demand a spot o’ hot.
As tempting as Willow’s Malibu place is to Jack and me, while school is in session, the kids would much rather hang here, so Dominic is crashing there.
In fact, he’s taken Willow up on her offer to train her in martial arts. I have a feeling she’s got a few tricks up her sleeve he’ll appreciate, too. Hopefully they will have changed the sheets before we’re ready to check it out for ourselves.
Lee Chiffray was good to his word. Acme is flooded with work. Both Dominic and Jack are on overnight assignments.
I’ve begged off since Jack and I have been home, which is going on two weeks now. I love doing nothing. Let others take on the weight of the world. I am perfectly content to get back to my baking and gardening. Perhaps I’ll take up knitting and scrapbooking, too—
Oh, who in hell am I kidding?
Pakistan is in turmoil. The Middle East is a boiling pot. China is the US financial markets’ puppet master—
Doesn’t anyone give a damn?
And to top it all off, the Hilldale Elementary School auction still needs its big get-everyone-to-bust-out-of-their-Spanx item: dinner at the “Western White House,” which is what the media has dubbed Lion’s Lair, Lee and Babette’s eighty-six-room palace on the hill.
Snore.
Both happen to be back in Hilldale. In fact, according to the Los Angeles Times, Lee is using his birthday as an excuse for a four-day weekend.
To justify the time off, he’s meeting with a few international dignitaries and attending a fundraiser or two.
Which reminds me: I’m to meet with Miss Darling in half an hour. As the elementary school’s auction chairman, I’m to give her an update on auction item donations and ticket sales, both of which have been lethargic, at best. Apparently I’ve yet to be embraced by the yummy mommies who run Trisha’s school.
Or maybe my reputation precedes me—not as described in my rap sheet that can be found on the FBI’s Most Wanted list, but by what is whispered by Cheever’s mother, Penelope, and the rest of her middle school posse.
Poor Miss Darling. If she had turned me in back then, she’d have the reward money, and the school would never have to do another auction again.
All the more reason this event has to be a success.
I force myself out of the settee and head out the door.
Miss Darling waits until we’ve gone over all the logistical details of the event
before she asks, “So, have you followed up yet on asking the Chiffrays about the auction prize?”
How do I break the news to her that I no longer have, or want, anything to do with Lee?
For my own wellbeing, I have to let her down. “Sorry, no can do,” I tell her.
“But Trisha and Janie are the closest of friends,” she murmurs.
“Yes, well, that’s true for the girls, but Babette and I have never been close.”
“I know for a fact that President Chiffray remembers the school quite fondly,” she counters.
She’s right. He’s already sent a hefty donation for the math and science fund.
She smiles knowingly. “And he thinks fondly of you too, I might add.”
I can feel the heat crawling up my neck. I force myself to smile. “Miss Darling, were you to ask Babette directly—or the president, for that matter—I’m sure you’d get the gift.”
“That’s the whole point. I’ve sent a handwritten letter already, to both of the Chiffrays.” She sighs. “But I’m getting nowhere.” She shakes her head sadly. “They both know you, and they know you’re chairing this event. Wouldn’t they be offended if you didn’t reach out to them?”
She’s got a point.
What do I have to be afraid of, anyway? For one thing, Lee owes me.
I nod. “Okay, I’ll see if either of them will take my call.” I fumble for my car key. “But please don’t be too disappointed if I also hit a brick wall.”
She pats my arm. “Donna, I can tell you already that you won’t. You’re one of the most diligent parents I know.”
I wish I had her confidence in me.
More importantly, I wish I had her confidence in Lee Chiffray.
Here’s hoping he doesn’t disappoint Miss Darling as much as he’s disappointed me.
Chapter 19
All the President's (Wo)men
“It involves the entire U.S. Intelligence Community. FBI…CIA…Justice…it's incredible. …It was mainly to protect the covert operations. It leads everywhere. Get out your notebook. There's more. Your lives are in danger.”
—Hal Holbrook, as “Deep Throat” in All the President’s Men
Is your heart palpitating because you’re THIS CLOSE to one of your favorite actors of all time? Here are some quick etiquette tips in the art of the autograph:
Tip #1: Don’t ask if you’re in a lavatory of any nature. It doesn’t matter if it’s the restroom at the Ritz, the Staples Center or the Oscars, one of you will be doing something the other won’t want to see or hear—let alone come in contact with a pen or paper from the other, while doing so.
Tip #2: Don’t ask if you’re on the movie set with him and he’s going through his actor’s prep in order to get into character—especially if he’s a serial killer, because you’re giving him the perfect reason to wring your neck.
Tip #3: Don’t ask if he’s in an argument with his significant other. However, if it leads to a break-up and the actor is looking for a shoulder to cry on, bare yours—or better, your chest—and hand him a pen.
“Yes, the president has been expecting you,” Lee Chiffray’s secretary replies crisply, when I call to make an appointment. “In fact, he’s asked me to block out a half-hour, starting at four o’clock today.”
He’s expecting me? How audacious is that?
The manners drilled into me by mother come to mind. Always a lady, even under pressure. You catch more flies with honey than vinegar.
In this case, my father’s lessons also apply: Keep your gun cocked and loaded—but don’t fire until you see the whites of their eyes.
Figuratively speaking, of course.
“I’ll be sure to be prompt. I know he keeps a pretty tight business schedule,” I say sweetly, then hang up.
I win at this war of misplaced trust if I get him to agree to the auction prize. I lose if I show anger.
My greatest weapon is my indifference.
When I arrive, I’m shown into the study. He doesn’t keep me waiting long. California agrees with him. He’s only been here two days, but apparently, it’s been long enough for him to acquire a healthy tan and sun-bleached hair, his surfer boy good looks roll back his age once again and belie his position as leader of the free world.
Ken and Barbie are both living in the White House.
All weekend, photographers have been standing on the sidewalk flanking the fence around Lion’s Lair’s private golf course, a nine-hole course. They are still far enough away that they have cameras with telephoto lenses to capture his perfect golf swing, and the admiring glances of foreign dignitaries and the business movers-and-shakers who make up each day’s foursome.
One of today’s players is the Yemeni president. I still cringe at the memory of my role in the theft of his country’s greatest antiquity.
Thank goodness that little caper will never get out. Being the cause of an international incident? I could likely kiss my pardon adios! Or in this case,ma`a as-salāma.
Lee is all smiles as he walks into the room. When he comes over to greet me, he leans in so that our faces are close enough for a friendly kiss. I counter his move by leaning back, offering my hand instead.
When our eyes meet, I see the disappointment in his. That’s okay. This is one emotional minuet I’ll be sitting out. My dance card is full, thank you very much.
“Welcome home, Mr. President.”
Hearing the sincerity in my voice, his shoulders relax a bit. “Thank you, Donna. You’re the perfect welcoming committee.”
Why should he be nervous? It’s I who comes, wide-brimmed straw hat in hand. It’s a pale yellow, and matches my favorite yellow polka-dot dress.
“I hope Babette and Janie are well. I’m sure Trisha will be happy to see Janie, if it can be arranged before you head East again.” I don’t like the way he’s staring at me, as if I’m the one who got away.
Well, I guess I did, thanks to him.
“You look like spring,” he says finally.
“It’s always spring in Orange County,” I counter.
“You love taunting me, don’t you?” His flirtatiousness is delivered with a raised brow.
“I wouldn’t dare,” I murmur. “I may end up in jail.”
His smile fades. “That’s not fair, Donna.”
I shrug. “You’re right. It wasn’t. I’ve got the presidential pardon to prove it.”
“And yet, you still don’t forgive me.”
“If you say yes to the auction gift of a dinner here, with the winner, we’ll call it even. Agreed?”
He laughs. “You’re on—as long as you rig it so that you win.” He motions me to sit on the settee by the fireplace.
Instead of taking the chair beside it, he eases in beside me.
He’s taking me at my word. He’s been getting off easy all his life. Why should this be any exception?
“The school will write in any contingencies to the gift. I’m sure the winners would appreciate a photo taken with you and the First Lady—”
“Whatever you want. You can arrange the details with my secretary.” He doesn’t rise. He’s not acting like the Commander-in-Chief.
“But of course. Well, thank you again for your generosity to the school—”
“I owe you an apology,” he interrupts bluntly. “You’re right. Carl is a terrorist, and needs to be locked up.”
Duh, yeah.
“Explain to me, then, Mr. President, why did you champion him for the directorship?”
“You know, you can call me Lee in private.”
“But…it’s no longer proper that I do so.”
“You’re right, Mrs. Stone. It isn’t. However, if you keep talking to me as if I’m some sort of statue, I’ll know I’ve lost your friendship.”
Is that what we are, friends?
Should I need to ask, it’s proof he’s right.
With Carl sitting in high cotton, I need all the friends I can get—especially this one.
“No—Lee, you hav
en’t lost it.” I take a deep breath. “Now, answer my question.”
He looks away for a moment. When our eyes meet again, the dread I see in his face makes me so sad. “I met Carl during the negotiations for Global World Industries’ purchase of Breck Industries. As the executor of Jonah’s trust, he negotiated the deal on Babette’s behalf.”
“I see. Go on.”
“As you know better than anyone, Jonah’s participation in the Quorum was covered up from the public. The only knowledge I had of the entity known as the Quorum was through its joint ventures with Breck Industries. One of those ventures was Fantasy Island. I found out later it was Jonah’s personal playground.”
I snicker. “Oh, it was more than that.”
“Yes, when the time was right—that is, when he knew it would ruin GWI should the word get out—Carl took great joy in revealing its original name—Misfit Quay, and the fact that Jonah’s porn site, The Island of Misfit Sluts, was run from there, as well as the fact that the women he used were slaves, and snuffed out.” He shakes his head angrily. “I was able to convince him to use the island for legitimate purposes. GWI agreed to underwrite Fantasy Island for Boarke. What we didn’t know is that the Quorum was paying him to house political prisoners in the basement of the Hunt Club, right there on the island.”
“When did you find out Boarke was using the prisoners as human prey?”
He shrugs. “I guess I found out around the same time you did—while I was vacationing there with Babette. I found it odd that one of our pilots had disappeared. Battoo led me in the right direction.” He turns to face me. “It was a nightmare of an investment for GWI. To find out the true purpose of the resort—”
“Including the Quorum’s goal of testing a lethal plague virus on the prisoners?”
He nods. “Yes, that, too.”
Suddenly, I remember Trisha spelling the word Quorum—something she claims she learned from Babette. “Lee, I have to ask you: do you think Babette knows the true mission of the Quorum?”
