“I'm sorry to disturb you, Senator.”
She had been dreaming. Italy. Six. Sara. And always Harrison. “Yes. What's the matter?” Her efficient Senator side was awakened.
“A big summer storm with gale-force winds has moved in over the mid-Atlantic states. National Airport and Dulles are both closed. We can try to make it into BWI if you want, but it's risky. It's the inland turbulence from Hurricane Nan. We'd like to wait it out until morning.”
“Hurricane Nan? L-M-N-O-P, she played out the alphabetical order in which hurricanes were named. N. The next would be O. It could be Hurricane Ophelia.
“Yes, of course.” She didn't want to put Six's remains in jeopardy. “We'll wait until it's safe.”
“Probably not until morning, ma'am. I'll make some hotel reservations.”
Claire thought about Six, alone in the cargo hold. “I'll sleep onboard if you don't mind. I'll just need some tea and a blanket.”
The Harrimans’ pilot looked doubtful. Mrs. Harriman would never have slept aboard unless they squeezed in a four-poster draped in Porthault linens.
“Please. I don't want to leave my son's remains unguarded.” She leveled her violet eyes at him.
The former air force lieutenant snapped to attention. He would never leave a fellow soldier returning in a wood box alone, either. “Yes, ma'am. We'll all wait it out. I'll have sandwiches brought aboard.”
By seven A.M., the storm had dissipated and the still crisply uniformed captain informed Claire that they would soon be ready for takeoff. They were checking the fuel now. Robb went into the small private terminal for doughnuts and newspapers. He came back as white as a sheet. He leaned down toward Claire almost in apology.
“There was a terrible automobile accident last night.” He slipped to one knee. “The radio is reporting that Fenwick Grant was seriously injured … another report says he was killed in the storm on the Eastern Shore. And—this is none of my business, I guess, but I think you should know this, too. They're saying he was with that TV journalist Prudence Savage. She died too.” He held out his hand for her to hold.
She didn't need the comfort.
“My husband. And Prudence Savage. Killed? Together?”
Robb respected the way she held herself together.
“Could there be a mistake?” Did it have to be one of Grant's virtues?
“Not according to the early news reports.” His admiration for this remarkably strong woman was growing. She was beautiful in her composed, quiet way. Even in the hard glare of morning, after a night spent sitting on an airplane seat with her long legs folded under her. Why, half the gals he knew would have looked like hell. And been going to pieces.
“Are we going to be able to take off now?” she asked softly. She folded her hands and readied herself for what lay ahead.
The sun spilled onto the Pie, brighter after the series of roiling thunderstorms. Today the light was shining undiluted onto the freshly clustered beds of summer roses, black-eyed Susans, peonies, and sweet William that encircled HurryUp's garden of tranquillity like a charm bracelet. The waist-tall boxwood and carefully planted burst of Virginia wildflowers separated the clearing from the surrounding blue grass and the steep elderly trees whose leafy arches folded over them.
She listened as Sara read her poem and watched as little Violet and Dylan each showered a little shovelful of red clay over Uncle Six's grave. And Slim and Violet threw handfuls of sweet William and white rose petals. Claire felt a great wave of relief, content to let the others take the lead celebrating his memory and pouring their love upon the fresh grave at the top of the east corner of the Pie. Six's statue stood in the center of the circle like a heavenly imp, as much the handiwork of Sara as of the sculptor. The marble likeness was astonishing even down to the dimple in his cheek and the wink of mischief in the eye. What Sara had added to the body of the sculpture was the best of her flower-child whimsy. And the personality of Six, with sisterly love.
She had given him wings the spread size of Icarus's, only folded, the carved feathers acting as an eternal umbrella to shield the body of Six from the vicissitudes of the elements. She had found a way to protect him.
Finally, it was Claire's turn to approach Six's resting place.
“You are home, my darling.” She patted the headstone with one hand and Sara's shoulders with the other. The wind blew up, stirring yellow pollen from the golden sycamore tree under which mey stood, fluttering down upon them like gold caviar. The private little band of Six's celebrants—they numbered less than a dozen—formed a circle in the clearing and gave up a moment of silence. She wished Harrison had been able to attend. It would have meant so much to her. But Starling was seriously ill again—hospitalized in London— and Harrison was unable to leave her bedside. He had made sure to send the pocket watch that Six had always admired, however, the one Harrison had promised him when he was older. Claire laid it in the ground beside the blossoms. Finally the family clasped hands and sang Six's favorite hymn as they filed out of the garden.
Two days later, Claire trooped up to the Pie again, only this time shoulder to shoulder with the East Coast establishment and an assortment of Kennedys, journalists, the current president and several hopefuls, both political parties well represented. There were about two hundred folks in all, including the entire first string of the Washington Redskins. As it was still uncertain as to whom the childless Grant had left his empire, no one in the running wanted to snub the publisher's widow. She didn't bother with a veil, opting for a black Chanel and sunglasses, her official mourning suit that she wore to all the State funerals she was invited to attend.
She listened respectfully to the words of praise heaped upon her husband by the powerful and didn't mind when an uninvited photographer snapped her picture as she tossed her wedding ring into the ground after Grant's empty casket, a composed look of respect across her features. It wasn't anybody's business but hers and Anita's that only Grant's impressive public reputation was in the box being buried and that his ashes were sitting in a comely green spice jar between the fresh mint and oregano on her kitchen win-dowsill—where she could keep her eye on him.
Prudence Savage's funeral in her Ohio hometown was receiving a lot of ink, too. Every paper but Grant's was printing stories questioning what Grant was doing in the middle of the night on the Eastern Shore with the leggy young political star of television's 24 Hours.
Grant's papers all ran the single short quote from Claire delivered by her press secretary, Anita Lace.
“Senator Harrison deeply mourns the loss of her husband as well as her friend Prudence Savage. The two of them were hurrying to Claire's home from a meeting to welcome her back from a family business trip in New York.” When asked “What kind of meeting goes on with two people until two A.M. in an empty beach house?” Anita simply echoed Claire and uttered “Deep Throat” in her “Get it now, buddy?” confidential way.
“Who the hell is going to come forward and deny it? Deep Throat? What is he going to do? Jump out from behind his cover and identify himself to protect his reputation?” Anita argued. The “Deep Throat” spin on the matter of Grant and Prudence gave some color to the old story of a man caught cheating on his wife.
“Anyway, a lot of Democrats turned up at the Pie to mourn him.” Anita wiped a single tear away.
“He certainly was popular.” Slim wore a perky pillbox hat on her head.
Claire buried the empty casket with all the dignity she could muster. She presided over a postburial tea-and-bourbon reception back at the house, where she was overheard to say to a reporter, “I've been to a lot of teas in my day so I know a tempest in a teapot when I see one.” Cut Wrap. Lefty would have been proud of her. Rumors laid to rest.
In all the commotion she hadn't seen the New York Times obituary with its accompanying profile of the elegant older woman. Starling Endicott Fillmore Harrison of Newport, Rhode Island; Lake Como, Italy; and Tuxedo Park, New York, philanthropist and staunch supporter of the deco
rative arts and gardening, had died at her Italian villa after a long illness.
After the reading of the eighth draft of Grant's last will and testament, Claire discovered that she was rich. Not Harrison rich, but rich enough to name a wing for special diseases at Cedars-Sinai Hospital in L.A. for Lefty. This she did with pride. She carefully oversaw the building of a new airport in Loudoun County named for her latest late husband, Pulitzer Prize-winning publisher Fenwick Grant, out of the trust she presided over with his appointed board. She also picked out a distinguished drawing, a three-quarter profile, for the U.S. Postal Department when it issued a commemorative stamp in his honor. Violet, Billy, and Dylan got a kick out of sending their letters with Uncle Grant's picture on them. She sent a condolence note to Harrison and mailed it with the stamp. And after Claire added the first issue of the Grant stamp to her famous stamp collection, she closed the book on him.
EPILOGUE
It is beautiful that our lives coincided for so long.
—Simone de Beauvoir
Between us it was a question of an essential love.
—Jean-Paul Sartre
Claire pushed on her glasses, the line through the center dividing the lenses in two. The bifocals improved her vision for distance while allowing her to read the speedometer. She was in a hurry to get home. She'd tried not to exceed the speed limit; HurryUp had never sounded so appropriate.
Placing her high heels on the leather seat next to her, she slipped on her Belgian driving shoes, the ones with the rubber bubbles on the soles. Billy had gotten them for her with the inducement, “Gram, anybody hip is wearing these.” She loved being in the driver's seat by herself and had sent the chauffeur home. She figured she'd have enough attendants buzzing around as soon as she began the new job. After she was sworn in she'd be driven everywhere. Probably have those bothersome bodyguards with her as well. She couldn't wait to tell him the news. She wanted to be the first and hoped it hadn't been announced on television yet.
She wondered how her critics would respond to the new UN ambassador's resident houseguest. Ambassador-to-be, Claire Harrison smiled to herself.
As she crossed into Virginia and barreled on toward Middleburg, she noticed she'd picked up a police car. Dammit. Couldn't they see that her license plate was CALIFORNIA 1? She'd thought she was only ten miles over the limit. The whirling blue light pulled her over and both state troopers got out. Claire could see her reflection in Officer Beck's badge. And she could see herself more clearly in Officer Dey's Ray-Bans.
“I'm sorry, boys. I didn't—”
“Excuse us, Senator Harrison. We were just being neighborly. Both of us just wanted to congratulate you on your ambassadorship. Guy here heard it over his radio. We just wanted to wish you luck.”
“And warn you to be careful of those Russkies at the UN.” Guy tipped his hat to the popular senator.
“Well, that's really lovely of you boys.”
“Will you be wanting an escort or anything, Senator… Ambass—aw, geez, you'll always be Senator to us.”
“And home will always be HurryUp in Virginia.” She shook their hands, and then turned back to the road, and sped along. She was anxious to share her news with only one man.
She walked up behind him. His thick white hair was neatly combed, all except for the still-stubborn forelock in front. He was working on his latest book on the Middle East, sitting on the back veranda off his room. It overlooked the man-made lake they'd put in in late September. They called it Lake Como, just for fun.
She watched him lovingly for a moment before she slipped behind him, wrapping her arms around his neck and planting a kiss on top of his luxurious head of cloud-colored hair.
“Hello, darling. I'm home.”
“I heard your car drive up. Well, am I sleeping with an Honorable woman or not?”
“I'm Honorable. The Honorable Ambassador Harrison to you.”
“Now there are two Ambassador Harrisons in this house. It's going to get confusing around here.”
“It's always been confusing.” She smiled. But it had always been Harrison.
“I don't suppose you'd agree to marry me at last?”
Claire was close enough to him to smell her favorite cologne, a combination of English soaps, tweed, and his perspiration. “I'm already a Harrison. Who would I be then? Ambassador Harrison Harrison?”
From where she stood she could see his velvet suppers with little embroidered foxes at the foot of her bed. “We don't need marriage, darling. It would only confuse the grandchildren, who are your great-grandchildren.”
“I'd like to legitimize you, my dear.”
“Why mess with success, my love?”
“Why indeed?”
He must have been expecting her Senate confirmation. There was a gift box in the corner of her chair.
“Presents?” Her eyes turned the loveliest amethyst color when she was pleased.
“More like a medal.”
“Ooh, the Purple Heart. I've earned it.”
“No, a special medal. Only you could wear it.”
First the ribbon, then the pale blue box, then the tissue paper, and finally the gray velvet case. She smiled at him as she snapped open the ltd, prepared to like whatever he had selected.
“A leaping lizard! In diamonds.”
“Don't get cute, Ambassador, or I won't counsel you on foreign diplomacy.”
“We make quite an astonishing team, don't we, my love?”
“Would you like me to pin on your chameleon?”
Claire moved closer to Harrison, just a breath away, in response. She handed him the chameleon and lifted her left shoulder toward him.
He smiled as he pushed his fingers under her jacket.
“I tried to convince Tiffany's to design one that changes colors. They added a yellow diamond here and emeralds for eyes. A blue diamond on the tail—quite rare, I'm told. Evidently it was the best they could do.”
“It's charming. So this is what I am, is it?”
“If we don't know what we are, surely the people who love us do.”
“How beautiful.”
“The brooch or the sentiment?”
“You, my dear.”
And she kissed the man, the only man she had ever loved.
It had been a lifetime of waiting, but the man who had long ago captured Claire's heart now shared her bed, her days, and her future. They had survived the stormiest of seas, both apart and together. And both of them knew they were much better, even stronger, in one another's arms.
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The Chameleon Page 52
