The Willard

by LeAnne Burnett Morse

  The staff was handling her luggage as they always did as she and Chase proceeded to her accommodations. Olivia was a frequent and very high-profile guest of the hotel and her billing was always handled between her assistant and the front desk. Only a few steps from the elevator, Chase stopped with her outside the double doors to her usual suite.

  “It’s so wonderful to have you back with us, Olivia. Please do call upon me if there is anything at all that I can do for you,” he said as he opened the door and held it for her to walk through.

  “It’s so good to be back, Edward. It feels like home,” Olivia said as she took the key from him. There was no exchange of tip at that point. Olivia was extremely generous with all the staff who served her at the hotel and she quietly arranged for their gratuity when she checked out each time. It was a pet peeve of hers to see people in service treated like servants and she felt that passing a few dollars from hand to hand was demeaning. Her way was better, she was sure of it. And the staff seemed to love it. They were all happy to see her in the hotel.

  Edward let himself out of the grand suite and walked to the elevator. Without a doubt he was always glad to see Mrs. Fordham, but he couldn’t shake the guilty feeling in the pit of his stomach. He knew something she didn’t, that this trip would be different than the others. But it had to be her. He had wrestled with the decision and determined it simply had to be her. She could do the job. And she, maybe more than anyone, would appreciate the opportunity, once it was all over of course. Sometimes he really disliked his job. Edward stepped into the elevator still telling himself she would appreciate the opportunity.

  It wasn’t home but it had really grown on her over the past few years. Olivia always stayed in the Jefferson Suite when she was at the Willard. It was easy to forget one was in a hotel in this suite. It was really more like an apartment and much bigger than many New York apartments she had seen. From the double door entrance she stepped across the black and white checked marble floor of the sunlight-flooded foyer to the hall table where she laid her purse and checked her makeup in the mirror. You could use a touch-up old girl, she said to herself. A lovely powder room was behind her in the foyer but she didn’t go in. It would be used by her guests during her stay. Taking a right off the foyer brought her to the bedroom with its cherry bed and separate sitting area. The wall of windows faced out onto Pennsylvania Avenue, the National Mall, and the Washington Monument. The bedroom had an elegantly appointed bath and dressing room and she knew the staff would have her things expertly arranged shortly. Crossing back though the foyer she entered the first parlor. This was the room she would use the most. It had ample seating, all in reproductions of furnishings found in the White House in shades of red and gold, and a flat screen television centered on a wall of built-in cabinetry. There was also a desk conveniently placed near the windows with the same view as the bedroom. Further into the suite was the second parlor, this one slightly smaller and more formal. She would host her highest profile guests here for tea as it was nearest to the dining room. A second marble-floored area led to the exquisite oval dining room, which faced 14th street at an angle that allowed for a view all the way to the Capitol. The room seated 8–10 for dinner in total elegance. Beyond the dining room was a butler’s pantry with a separate entrance and a second bedroom that could be included if needed. All in all, it was more than 3,000 square feet of supreme luxury and the staff’s impeccable service made it even more special because anything Olivia or her guests could possibly need was only a phone call away.

  The bellman and two maids arrived to unpack her things. They were familiar to her as they normally worked exclusively for Mrs. Fordham when she was in residence. She asked them about their families and told them how happy she was to see them before taking some papers from her bag and sitting down at the desk in the first parlor.

  She had several invitations that were awaiting responses. In her youth, Olivia had loved to attend parties. Now it was more of a chore with her beloved Robert gone. He had kept her entertained by whispering in her ear all the juicy gossip surrounding the biggest names in business and government as they endured the long evenings. He had told her who had skeletons in the closet, who was sleeping with whom, and who was just plain in the closet altogether. He had a gift for finding the humor in every situation and she missed having him with her. But the parties were important to her work. All were benefits for causes she supported. Only rarely did she attend a party that didn’t have a cause attached to it. While she was in town for the week she would attend four galas where she would be presenting checks totaling nearly thirty million dollars. But that wasn’t the main reason she had come. Beginning first thing in the morning she would host representatives of the Smithsonian Institute and diplomats from around the world here in her suite to put the final touches on the ceremony planned for the end of the week. At the event, an announcement would be made that the Robert L. Fordham Institute would be making a donation of $500 million to open a new museum under the auspices of the Smithsonian. The Fordham Museum of Philanthropy would be a combination exhibition and working center for charitable giving. It would showcase not only the work of large-scale philanthropists like the Fordhams, the Astors and the Gateses, but also the impact of grassroots fundraising and charity by everyone from children to church groups to corporations. Olivia dreamed it would stand as a beacon to the importance of voluntary giving with a global reach.

  She finished her RSVPs and handed them off to a hotel courier to be hand delivered. The staff had finished unpacking her belongings and one of her regular maids had left a silk dressing gown on the bed for her. She knew Mrs. Fordham liked to relax when she arrived. Olivia changed clothes and hung her lavender suit in the closet. On cue, room service delivered her afternoon tea and she settled onto the sofa with a cup of Earl Grey and her datebook. She had a leather appointment book, also Hermes, that had been a gift from Robert years before. She carried it everywhere with her even though she used a smartphone for everything else. Her appointments, like her thank you notes, were handwritten. She liked paging through to see where she was going and where she had been. She checked the date, March 1. She had a great deal to do before the event on the fifth. In years past, she would have booked appointments for the afternoon of her arrival but at age seventy-one she simply didn’t have the stamina for it. She finished her tea and went to the bedroom for the afternoon power nap that had become a regular habit for her the year before. She found that it gave her the energy she would need for the long evenings of charity events and it helped keep her mind sharp.

  As she drew the drapes she thought for the millionth time what a beautiful view the room had. She never tired of looking at it. Olivia approached her naps as temporary stops so she never turned down the linens. She reclined on top of the white duvet and pulled the throw blanket over her. She let her mind wander over the details she still needed to arrange, but before long sleep claimed her as it did every afternoon, no matter how busy she was.

  When she awoke half an hour later she didn’t feel as refreshed as she would have liked. Traveling was beginning to take more of a toll on her, but she wouldn’t allow herself the indulgence of any more time in bed.

  She got up and went back to the windows to open the drapes. As she reached for the pull cord she heard a loud noise that was so out of place it startled her. It reminded her of the sound of old car horns from the early 1900s. Ahruuuuuuuga! That thought had just crossed her mind when she pulled back the blackout drape and looked down onto Pennsylvania Avenue. The honking continued as a traffic jam had developed at the corner of 14th Street. Traffic jams in Washington were as common as lobbyists, but Olivia Fordham had never seen one made up entirely of Model Ts.

  CHAPTER 6

  CATHERINE PARKER

  1865

  The carriage Mr. Chase had arranged for Catherine didn’t take her to the offices of an international business law firm. It was apparent right away that the only business that seemed to matter in this town was the kind
that got worked out on the battlefield. Soldiers were everywhere in their blue wool uniforms. As they marched she could see the weariness in their steps. The carriage stopped in front of a lovely three-story townhouse and the driver helped her down.

  “Whose house is this?”

  “I’m sorry, ma’am, I don’t know the answer to your question. I was given this address and told to drop you off here.” He held out a piece of paper and when she saw the address written on it she was confused. It was the address of the law firm she was supposed to visit. She had researched the firm well and had seen photos of their posh, modern offices with stunning views of the Capitol. Looking toward the Capitol she could tell it was the same basic view, but this was no office building. She told the driver to wait and walked to the front door. Reaching up, she knocked loudly with the brass doorknocker that was shaped like a lion with a giant ring in his mouth. When no one answered she started to turn back toward the driver and that’s when she saw it. There was a name on a placard beside the door.

  Lawrence Cameron, read the name. Catherine’s head swam as she tried to make sense of that name, at that address, and the realization that she was supposed to meet with Lawrence Cameron IV at that very same address this morning before the whole world had gone topsy-turvy. The carriage driver looked concerned as his passenger walked slowly out of the gate with a glazed look on her face.

  “Miss, would you like to go back to the hotel?”

  Catherine didn’t answer. She turned without a word and began walking down the street, leaving the driver to wonder if the young lady had seen a ghost.

  The rutted streets made for a difficult crossing. As if it hadn’t been hard enough maneuvering into the old-fashioned clothes and fastening the tiny buttons on the shoes that were in the closet of her hotel room, now Catherine had to dodge the tripping hazards of the dirt roads while trying to keep her skirt out of the muddy pits that seemed to be everywhere. It was too much for her mind to take in to figure out how all this was happening. One thing she had been sure of right away: the corset hanging in the closet wasn’t going to get any use if she had her way.

  After reading the name on the house she had taken off walking aimlessly. She’d been walking for some time and just taking in what she saw. She walked to the White House and was surprised at how small it looked without the east and west wing additions. Even more shocking was the casual way people came and went from the mansion with no discernible security to stop them. She got a closer look at the Washington Monument and found that her eyes had not deceived her when she had looked out her hotel window. It was short and stubby and there were hundreds, if not thousands, of cattle grazing in the field around it. The smell was terribly unpleasant and Catherine used the white handkerchief she had found in the tiny purse that had also been in her closet. She vaguely remembered that purses like this were called reticules.

  What a random and utterly useless fact to recall. I have no idea what’s going on with the world or my own life but I know this thing is called a reticule. Perfect.

  Catherine walked and walked until her feet were sore and she was no closer to understanding anything that was happening. She thought perhaps she’d had a medical crisis and was in a coma. Maybe it was a long and detailed dream like Bobby Ewing had on Dallas. There weren’t any good explanations and she was about to give up and head back to the hotel when she heard a commotion coming from an alley.

  “Well, I don’t care for your attitude either, missy, and I was just doing this as a favor for Minnie Maxwell anyway. I can’t for the life of me figure what she sees in you, but she got it in her head that you were somebody worth knowing. Well, Minnie can just find something else to brag about to those gossipy, bandage-rolling biddies!”

  The screaming woman laid the whip on her horse’s back and her carriage raced out of the alley and nearly over the top of Catherine, splashing her with muddy water.

  The woman who had been on the receiving end of the screaming diatribe saw what happened and disappeared into a doorway in the alley. A moment later she came running out with towels and did her best to clean up the mess that Catherine had become.

  “I’m awfully sorry you were caught up in our little drama.” The woman spoke with a lilting voice. It was a captivating sound. She was dressed in a fine gown of heavy emerald green fabric that might be better suited for evening, but she carried off the look with ease.

  She looks a little like Scarlett O’Hara after she made a dress of her mother’s drapes. Excellent, another useless recollection. Reticules and drapes.

  Catherine could see faint lines around the woman’s eyes, which were deep pools of amber-flecked brown. There was a quiet maturity about her that was strangely soothing. She looked at Catherine and saw the tears that threatened to spill from her eyes. “There, there dear; it’s just a little dirt and grime. A girl can’t spend time in a city like this and not get her pantaloons a little muddy, now can she?”

  Catherine was taken with her kindness, but the ordeal of the afternoon had caught up with her and she was at a loss for words. The woman seemed to take her silence as proof that some delicate female sensibilities must have been offended because she led Catherine to a stoop and told the skinny girl who had followed her from the alley to run and get her salts.

  “I’m not going to faint,” Catherine finally managed to say. “I’m just a little overwhelmed.”

  “Yes, I can see that. Is your husband nearby?”

  “My husband? I don’t have a husband.”

  “Your driver, then?”

  Catherine stared blankly at the woman.

  “Ma’am, I can tell from your appearance that you’re a lady so I’m sure you aren’t here in this part of town by yourself. You must be in shock. Where is your carriage?”

  “I walked here from the hotel,” Catherine said.

  “What is the name of your hotel?” the woman asked.

  “I’m staying at the Willard.”

  “Ah, the Willard brothers run a fine establishment. I’m staying there myself. Shall I see you home, then? Edward can help us sort everything out,” the woman assured her.

  “Edward?”

  “Yes my dear, Edward Chase. He’s the concierge. I’m sure you met him when you checked in.”

  “You know Mr. Chase?”

  “Of course.” The girl returned with the smelling salts and the woman said to her, “Go and tell Desmond to bring the carriage. We’ll be going to Mr. Willard’s for the evening. And bring my bag and green wrap.”

  For the first time since she woke up from her nap, Catherine began to hope that everything was about to get straightened out.

  This woman knows the concierge! I don’t have the slightest clue how that can be, but finally I can get some answers.

  “I’ve been so rude,” the woman said. “I haven’t inquired of your name or introduced myself. I’m Laura.”

  “My name is Catherine Parker.”

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Parker. Here is my driver now. Let’s get you back to the hotel and into some clean clothes. I believe you’ll feel much better when you’ve had a chance to freshen up.”

  Laura, you have no idea how much I hope you’re right.

  CHAPTER 7

  TOM KELLY

  1962

  The driver opened the door for Tom after a ride of about a minute. There was no traffic jam this morning and as he stepped onto the sidewalk he found he was indeed looking at a guard station just outside the White House. The guard seemed to expect him and after a few cursory security checks he was handed off to a harried-looking staffer who had either slept in his clothes or not slept at all.

  He was rushing Tom down a hallway and into the West Wing. Before he could catch his breath he heard his escort speak.

  “This is Tom Kelly, Mrs. Lincoln.”

  The dark-haired woman barely glanced up as she worked the blinking phone lines, but he noticed she gave a barely perceptible nod toward a door Tom had seen in photos. He knew that door led
to the Oval Office. His escort opened the door a crack and after a short pause said, “He’s here.” The door opened wider and Tom Kelly found himself looking into the world’s most famous office space. A file folder was passed from a man seated with his back to the door to another man who ran it over to Tom’s escort and as quickly as the door had opened, it closed and once again they were walking quickly down a hallway.

  “Read this,” the escort said, handing Tom the file. “Talk to no one in this room about it. He doesn’t want you to be influenced by anyone else’s thinking until he can hear from you directly.”

  Tom entered a room with a long conference table surrounded by chairs, one of which was taller than the others. The Cabinet Room.

  Around the table was an array of tired-looking men in shirtsleeves devouring reports and filling ashtrays with nubs sucked clean of their nicotine loads. There was little talking, but the frenetic atmosphere of the room was electric. There was volatility in this room. And anxiety. And fear.

  Tom pulled out a chair and started to read.

  CHAPTER 8