I called Violet immediately after she left.
“You’ll never guess who was just here,” I said, feeling a vague sense of unease.
“Corinna Huff,” Violet said without missing a beat.
“How did you know?”
“Because she called me up and wanted to see me. But I didn’t think it was seemly of me to talk to her, so I told her to call you. I hope you gave her an earful.”
That’s the thing about Washington: you never know when you’re being used.
Ten days later, Corinna Huff’s article appeared on the front page of the Style section. Once again, there was a large picture of Cynthia standing in front of a great Washington institution—only this time, instead of the Kennedy Center, it was the Folger Shakespeare Library. Silhouetted against the elegant Art Deco neoclassical building, Cynthia stared defiantly at the camera. With her arms crossed in front of her and her chin angled upward, she resembled a defending champion on the eve of a title bout. The headline read: “Much Ado About Rinehart.”
The peg for the article was the firestorm brewing around Cynthia’s ten-million-dollar donation to the Folger Shakespeare Library. The rumors were true. Cynthia was threatening to withdraw the grant because the Folger had refused to use the funds as Cynthia wished them to. She was demanding the creation of a Rinehart Room, devoted to writers, artists, and film directors of her choosing. The trustees had earmarked the money for other projects, especially “Picturing Shakespeare,” the expansion of their online image database of ten thousand drawings, prints, and photographs relating to Shakespeare and his era.
Cynthia’s argument was that anyone who gives money to an institution should have a say in how said money is used. The Folger’s position was that dealing with the preservation and dissemination of all the priceless books and materials already in their possession was a full-time project. They didn’t need another room.
Douglas Reed, the president of the Folger, described by Corinna as “a soft-spoken, scholarly man,” was quoted as saying simply, “There has obviously been a very deep misunderstanding.”
Corinna went on to chronicle the origins of Cynthia’s fortune and her cometlike ascendancy to the top of Washington society through her unparalleled philanthropy. Nothing new there. But then the article got into dicier stuff—like how Cynthia had bought Gay Harding’s house and allegedly got into a dispute with her decorator over charges she refused to pay. That decorator would be me! And how she used her foundation’s plane for pleasure junkets and personal errands. She apparently sent the decorator who replaced me on a trip to the Maastricht Art Fair to buy antiques and pictures for her house.
The article chronicled Cynthia’s early friendship with the Boltons, stating that Cynthia had originally approached Grant Bolton, “the president of the Potomac Bank and the scion of one of Washington’s most generous and private philanthropic families,” to seek his advice on matters relating to her foundation and which institutions and projects she should support. She described Violet as “a major rung on the social ladder,” who took Cynthia under her wing and introduced her to many powerful and important people in Washington.
Corinna went into the scandal in some detail.
“Shortly after Mr. Bolton was honored at one of Ms. Rinehart’s Golden Key dinners, he left his wife of fifteen years and took up with Ms. Rinehart. They have not tried to keep their relationship a secret. On the contrary, Ms. Rinehart and Mr. Bolton have become a power couple around town. She recently gave Mr. Bolton a birthday party at the Freer and Sackler Galleries, which drew a stellar crowd.”
Then the piece got really delicious. It went into the whole thing about the Kennedy Center and how Cynthia didn’t have to fork over the money until Congress matched the funds. And the million dollars she did give every year in a separate grant was used primarily for lavish parties “rather than any enrichment or support of the arts.” An unidentified source was quoted as saying Cynthia used these “often inappropriate and over-the-top events to further her influence by entertaining important people and garnering a lot of publicity.”
Corinna had somehow gotten hold of the lavish invitation to the Golden Key Awards Dinner, which she described as “a giant fold-out card flecked with red velvet and embossed with gold and silver lettering.”
Marge Horner, bless her heart, was quoted as saying: “When I received it, I thought it was an invitation to the opening of a bordello!”
An “unnamed source” at the Kennedy Center called Cynthia “a philanthropic philistine, with a corrugated tin ear.” It didn’t take a genius to figure out that that “source” was Leonid Slobovkin, the disaffected conductor whose job was now in jeopardy. And although Kyle Michaels, the brilliant and popular artistic director of the center, diplomatically observed that Cynthia’s “supreme generosity outweighed any other considerations,” even he mentioned that she was sometimes perceived to have “a slightly misshapen agenda.”
Corinna listed several examples of how Cynthia had pledged money, only to renege later after she had garnered publicity, given a party, or made an important new contact. “Sources close to the investigation” mentioned Constance Morely’s Childhood Lupus Foundation as a case in point. I figured those sources were me and Constance herself.
A famous actor who was a recipient of a Golden Key Award was quoted as saying, “She courted me like crazy until I finally accepted the dinner. Presents, phone calls, trips, the whole nine yards. Halfway through that evening, I looked down at this big gold key hanging around my neck, and thought, ‘What the hell am I doing here?’”
It was a scathing profile. But if you really want to hang someone in print, make the noose out of their own words.
Corinna interviewed Cynthia herself and the article was peppered with her quotes. Cynthia admitted that her newfound celebrity was “sweet revenge for all the years of drudgery and being dismissed.” She said that philanthropists were “the new rock stars of the planet.” She said that her purchase of Gay Harding’s house was like “the passing of the torch.” She said that people were just jealous of her because she had raised “the giving bar” to a new height, which now meant that everyone had to “dig so much deeper into their old-fashioned pocketbooks.”
“People hate parting with money,” she was quoted as saying. “It’s the reason philanthropy still isn’t commensurate with the vast fortunes that have been made in this country in the past twenty years. I made a lot of money, but instead of spending it on myself, I created a foundation to give it away. I’ve given away tens of millions of dollars and done a lot of people a lot of good.”
However, the last line was the coup de grâce. After Corinna inquired whether Cynthia was using her foundation’s money to pay for some of the perks she personally enjoyed, Cynthia said: “Everything I do is aboveboard. There are strict rules governing foundations, and I abide by every single one of them. If people don’t like the way I spend my foundation’s money, they can take it up with Congress!”
That same afternoon, Senator Grider issued a statement: “I’m Congress, and Ms. Rinehart can take it up with me!”
You could almost hear the scaffold trapdoor drop.
Chapter 37
Violet was ecstatic about the article and about Senator Grider’s response.
“You have no idea how many people dislike this woman,” she said when I spoke to her. “And now they’re all coming out of the woodwork, I’m thrilled to say.”
Violet and I both agreed that Grant would never in a million years be able to withstand the heat. He was so squeamish when it came to his image in the community that even if he were still madly in love with Cynthia, he’d have to give her up after this. We got a good laugh over what his parents were thinking after having embraced Cynthia so quickly.
“I bet I’m looking pretty darn good to Rainy again,” Violet said with more than a little satisfaction.
Two days after the article appeared, Constance Morely invited me and Violet to a ladies’ lunch at the British Emb
assy. I was surprised, because ambassadorial wives are scheduled within an inch of their diplomatic lives. It’s rare they can make time for a small private meal on such short notice.
It was a hot, sunny July day. Violet and I arrived together. Araminta Upton greeted us and showed us outside to the grand Palladian stone portico overlooking the sprawling back garden of the embassy. Nouria Sahala and Peggy Myers were standing on the terrace, enjoying mint iced teas with our hostess, Lady Morely. We all exchanged cordial hellos. Though it was extremely nice to be there, I kind of wondered why we’d all been asked. My tacit question was answered a few minutes later when Corinna Huff walked out and joined us on the patio.
Corinna, who thrived on the controversy her articles created, looked positively radiant that day. Controversy became her. The fact that her article had stoked the wrath of Congress was a crowning peacock feather in her cap.
Luncheon was served in Lady Morely’s private dining room, just off the main hall. The square white room had been used as an office by the former ambassador’s wife. Constance made it into more of a sitting room, easily converted to a dining room for small lunches and dinners. We were halfway through the first course of asparagus vinaigrette when Constance got the ball rolling.
“Corinna, any word from Ms. Rinehart about your article?” she inquired in her soft, pretty voice. She sounded as innocent as a Wordsworth poem.
We all perked up like prairie dogs, eager for Corinna’s answer.
“I hear she’s none too pleased,” Corinna said with an air of pride.
“I can tell you who’s really upset,” Peggy said.
“Who?” we all said in bright unison.
“Marge Horner,” Peggy replied. “Marge told me you misquoted her, Corinna.”
Corinna laughed. “Sorry, Marge, it’s on tape. You can’t have your quote and deny it too.”
“What did Marge say exactly? I forget,” I said, not forgetting at all, but rather wishing to pay Marge back for the mean and calculating way she’d broken the news to me about Bob and Melody.
“Oh, you remember, Reven,” Violet said. “She described those hideous invitations to the Golden Key dinner as looking like invites to the opening of a whorehouse.”
“Bordello,” Corinna corrected her. “And she made some other snide comments about Ms. Rinehart that I didn’t print.”
“Like what?” I asked.
“Oh, just stuff.”
“Come on, Corinna. For heaven’s sakes, don’t go discreet on us now,” Violet pressed her.
It wasn’t like Corinna to be shy. But she was clearly hesitant for some reason.
“Inquiring minds want to know,” I said.
“Yes, we’re all friends here. Consider this room a tomb, ladies. Nothing goes beyond it,” Constance assured her.
Corinna sighed. “It’s not that, it’s…Okay, I warned you. Marge said that it was amazing how Grant Bolton followed Cynthia around like a lapdog, and you could practically see his tongue drooling.”
Corinna flung Violet an uneasy glance. No one quite knew where to look.
“Oh, my God, why didn’t you put that in, Corinna?” Violet shrieked with glee.
“I was trying to spare certain people’s feelings,” Corinna said, pointedly. “Always a mistake.” She popped an asparagus into her mouth.
“Well, that was nice of you. But I really wish you’d used it,” Violet said. “If Grant saw that in print and thought people were talking about him that way…? He’d have a heart attack, believe me!”
“And it couldn’t happen to a nicer guy,” I added.
Everybody laughed, and the tension was diffused. But I saw that Violet’s laughter was forced. I knew she still cared for Grant, even though she pretended not to.
“I didn’t put a lot of other stuff in either,” Corinna said, pausing for effect. You could have heard a crumb drop.
“Such as?” Peggy asked.
“She rents her jewelry,” Corinna announced to collective gasps.
“Don’t tell me those klieg-light earrings she wears all the time aren’t hers?” I said.
“I do believe they belong to Pearce’s in New York, and she rents them on a year-round basis. But I only got this from one source, so I couldn’t use it. And did you know that she’s Pianissimo’s biggest customer? She sends their scarves and cashmere slippers to people at the drop of a name,” Corinna said.
“Those slippers aren’t cheap. Rolly loves them,” Peggy said.
“The real question is, does she charge all this stuff to the foundation?” Corinna said. “’Cause if so, it’s bye-bye, Cynthia…. But Reven, you probably know more about this than any of us. What does your friend Senator Grider say?”
Everyone knew I was seeing Grider. People just assumed we were having an affair. I didn’t dispel that notion because in Washington, it’s always good for people to think you have intimate friends in high places. Violet knew the truth, of course, which was that Zack and I enjoyed each other’s company, but there wasn’t much else going on.
“I really haven’t spoken to him since your article came out. He’s talked more to the press than he has to me. But you all know he’s got a bee in his bonnet about foundation abuse. So if she’s done things she shouldn’t have, fasten your seat belts,” I said.
“I tried to interview him, but no dice,” Corinna said. “I also happen to know that Ms. Rinehart is getting tired of Washington. She’s referred to it as being ‘too provincial.’ She may be headed for New York or L.A.”
“Not with Grant, she’s not. Rainy would kill him,” Violet said under her breath.
Nouria Sahala had been uncharacteristically silent for most of the lunch. She’d had a discreet chat on her cell phone, arranging some fête at her embassy, from the sound of it. But other than that, she’d sat quietly, soaking up what the rest of us were saying without contributing any tidbits of her own. I knew she was a friend of Cynthia’s, and it occurred to me she might be offended by our conversation. I wondered if she was keeping her mouth shut out of respect for her pal. However, as dessert was being served, Nouria weighed in with one of those sentences that immediately grab attention.
“You know, I used to like Cynthia,” she began. The conversation stopped dead. We all leaned toward her like flowers toward the sun. She went on. “Yes, I thought she was a bit pushy, and yes, she was a bit full of herself. But let’s face it, there are a lot of pushy people who are full of themselves in Washington.”
“They hold the majority,” Violet said.
“Being Otanni, I’m very loyal.” She paused. “But, honey, cross me and you’ve had it,” she added.
We all nodded; it was so true. Nouria had a reputation for defending her friends when it was inconvenient or even dangerous for her to do so. She famously excluded anyone who attacked a pal of hers. She twisted the famous old Arab proverb, “The enemy of my enemy is my friend,” into her own Nouria-esque variation: “The enemy of my friend is my enemy.”
She went on: “The other night, when Cynthia came to my reception for our foreign minister, she didn’t behave at all well. First, in my opinion, it’s very bad form to criticize the hostess in her own house. A guest who does that is really not possible.”
“Yes, I think we can all safely agree with that,” sniffed Constance Morely.
Nouria spoke a fluent, staccato English. No one was eating the raspberry mousse dessert for fear of missing so much as a syllable.
“So Yasmin, the wife of our foreign minister, who is a very old and dear friend of mine, came over to me during the party and pointed to Cynthia and asked me who she was. When I told her, she made a face, you know? I know Yasmin so well. I said to her, ‘Why are you asking?’ And Yasmin looked me right in the eye and said, ‘Nouria, is this woman supposed to be a friend of yours?’ And I said, ‘Yes, you know, she’s not a great friend, but she is a friend.’ So Yasmin looks at me and says, ‘No, she’s not.’ Just like that! And I said, ‘What do you mean?’ Well, apparently, that night Cy
nthia was going around saying that my chocolate fountain was tacky. Can you imagine? She said to Yasmin that it was ‘too Willie Wonka’ for an embassy. And Yasmin said to me, ‘And what the hell is Willie Wonka?’”
When our collective laughter had died down, Nouria added, “Let me tell you something, girls. You don’t criticize a hostess in her own house no matter what you think. That’s the last time Cynthia Rinehart ever sets foot in our embassy. Ever!”
“She’ll never come here again either,” Constance said.
Violet leaned in and whispered to me, “Grant’s such a rabid Anglophile. He’d die if they thought he’d been banned from the Queen’s soil.”
We had coffee out on the terrace. The mood was jubilant. There’s nothing like a good dishy ladies’ lunch. We all said good-bye and thanks to Constance, feeling as if we’d just had the full treatment at a rejuvenating spa. As Violet and I were walking out, Nouria pulled us over into the ballroom behind one of the large ocher faux marble columns so she could talk to us alone.
“Violet, I wanted to tell you something,” Nouria began in a low voice. “I didn’t want to say it in front of the others, but I think I can say it in front of Reven because I know you two are best friends.”
“Absolutely. Reven’s like my sister.”
“Okay. So…Grant asked about you at my party.”
Violet flushed. “What did he say?”
“He wanted to know if you were coming.”
“Oh.” She deflated. “That’s probably just because he didn’t want to run into me.”
Nouria shook her finger at Violet. “No, no, no! Trust me. He was looking for you. He was anxious to see you.”
Mortal Friends Page 26
