Happy Endings

by Sally Quinn

  She didn’t know why she had exploded about the Osgoods. She didn’t hate Blanche at all. She thought she was tacky but she sort of felt sorry for her. It was Freddy she wasn’t crazy about.

  Her anger at Rosey was pouring out of her and everyone was suffering because of it, even her children.

  “I’m sorry, Cotes. It’s just that, I don’t know. It’s too soon. It’s too hard. Can’t they go to the congressional service later? I need just one private family moment for myself before it all goes public. They’re not my family. They’re not close friends. They’re political. It isn’t fitting. I’ll do it all according to protocol after this morning. But I need this morning, please.”

  “I’ll tell the President myself.”

  He started to walk out of the room, then turned to her.

  “Sadiebelle,” he said.

  “Yes?”

  “I hate to tell you this, but you have a run in your stocking.”

  She glanced down at her black stocking and saw the dreaded white line running up the side of her leg. Her face began to crumple. Without warning she felt herself going to pieces. She started to cry, burying her face in her hands.

  “Oh my God, Des, what am I going to do? I don’t have another pair. I never wear black stockings. I don’t own any. I have three more days of this and no black stockings. I can’t bear it.”

  She was sobbing so hard that Cotes could hardly understand her. He walked over and put his arms around her, rocking her back and forth until she quieted.

  “It’s all right. It’s okay. I’ll send somebody to get you a dozen pairs right now. Don’t worry. We’ll take care of it. It’ll be just fine.”

  Finally she pulled away.

  “I’m sorry again,” she said. “I really am a basket case, aren’t I?”

  He looked down at her and smiled sympathetically.

  “Sadie,” he said, almost apologetically.

  “Yes?”

  “My name is Cotes.”

  4

  What struck Allison when she walked in was how silent the newsroom was. It was 5:00 P.M., closing in on deadline, a time when the entire paper is normally in a frenzy. Yet there was an eerie hush, broken only by the occasional sound of a ringing telephone.

  She found herself almost tiptoeing across the room to the managing editor’s office. She knew protocol demanded that she see the executive editor, Alan Warburg, first, but Walt Fineman was her friend. She walked with such determination that the colleagues she passed barely had time to nod to her. She would see them later. She needed Walt right now.

  When he saw her he leaped up from his desk and ran toward her taking her in his arms and crushing her till she could barely breathe. She could hear him stifle a sob.

  “I’m sorry,” he said finally, letting her go. He wiped his eyes, then put his arm around her and led her to the sofa. She found herself losing control and bit down on her lip to stop it. Not in the newsroom.

  “It’s okay, Sonny. Everybody’s doing it,” he said.

  “What happened, Walt? Jesus, what happened?”

  “We don’t know any more than we did last night. Some nut case. A Vietnam vet who used to be with White House communications. Got fired for his drug problem and wanted to punish the President. Tapped into their private phone line, monitored their activities. Rented an apartment behind Lorraine’s house and wasted him on Sadie’s birthday.”

  “It can’t be that simple.”

  “We think it is. But the conspiracy theorists are still crawling out of the fucking woodwork. The usual liberal media stuff. Don’t want to look too closely because the assassin was antiwar, anti-Vietnam.”

  She hesitated before she asked the next question. Trying to be as casual as she could.

  “How’s Sadie taking it?”

  Walt looked at her carefully, then looked down. She wondered if he knew.

  “Hard. She’s pretty broken up, actually. I’ve talked to Jenny a couple of times. Funny, I never really thought the Greys had that great a relationship.”

  “Wonder what Jenny’s going to do now?” She wanted to change the subject.

  “I’m afraid she’s going to ask for her old job back on the national staff.”

  “What will you do?”

  “You can’t go home again, Sonny. Not after you’ve been the First Lady’s press secretary. You’re tainted.”

  “They do it all the time at the New York World.” She was halfhearted about her old best friend.

  “Yeah, and look what happens. The revolving-door policy just doesn’t work very well. Their allegiances are confused. She ought to go into PR.”

  Allison shivered. That was the kiss of death for a true journalist.

  They were silent for a moment. It only made the silence of the newsroom more noticeable.

  “I can’t believe how quiet it is,” she said.

  “It’s been like this. And everybody’s being so nice. Even Muchnick sent out for coffee and sandwiches.”

  “Sterling, you’re back!” Alan Warburg said as he walked into Walt’s office.

  Allison, guilty, jumped up from the sofa.

  “Alan, I was just coming in to see you.”

  “Sure, sure. I get no respect around here.”

  Normally brittle and tense, the executive editor seemed gentler than Allison had ever seen him. She put out her hand to shake his, but as he grabbed it he embraced her with his free arm. The hug brought tears to her eyes, as it did to his.

  “It’s a bitch, huh?” he said.

  “Oh Alan, it’s just so horrible.”

  “Well,” he said stiffening, “we’ve got to get on with the show. What are you up to, Sonny? Muchnick tells me you flew over with Tennant. He’s one of the pallbearers. Did you get anything?”

  “Background. Nothing for a story. He’s pretty broken up, too. Muchnick will probably take my head off.”

  “Not today. He’s a pussy cat. What about your godfather? Surely he’ll be here. All the former Presidents are coming. We don’t have a confirm on him though. It’ll be hard for him in that wheelchair.”

  “Jesus, I forgot to call him. I’ll do that right now. Aunt Molly just had heart surgery so she won’t be coming.”

  “Well, you obviously need to keep an eye on the Brits. But I think you’d be more valuable to us at the White House right now. You know all the players. Are you and Cotes Tennant pretty tight?”

  “I think he’ll keep me informed.” There was something about Alan’s question that seemed a little too personal. Maybe it was her imagination. She hadn’t had much sleep lately and wasn’t going to get much in the next few days either.

  “Good. Well, you’d better get over there. We’re almost on deadline.”

  “I need to make a quick pass through the newsroom to check in and get a fill. Then I’ll call Uncle Rog. Then I’ll go over to the White House.”

  She was talking to Walt as Alan walked out of the office.

  “Sonny,” said Walt.

  “Yes?”

  “Des will be there.”

  * * *

  The White House press room had changed since she’d been away. Gone were the filthy suede sofas and chairs that had been at least comfortable and where the regulars had hung out. They had been replaced with blue folding theater chairs with the names of the major papers and networks marked on them. They were lined up to face the dais.

  The place was packed. It was hot and humid and smelled of too many damp bodies. The unusually dry July Washington weather that had allowed Lorraine to have cocktails outside had reverted to the familiar swamplike mugginess that was summer in the nation’s capital. There were so many people coming in and out of the press room that somebody had just propped the door open so the overworked air-conditioning was hardly cooling the room at all. People were sprawled in the theater chairs, cameramen were dozing on the raised platform at the end of the room where their equipment was set up, ready for the occasional announcements, bulletins, and briefings. In contrast to the
Daily’s newsroom the noise was deafening. Reporters shouting at press aides, cameramen and technicians shouting at each other, people yelling at editors on the telephones, everyone’s tempers frayed trying to get the story and get it out. In the back, where some of the major papers had their cubicles and the networks had their mini-booths, the place was also in chaos. It was 6:00 P.M., deadline for the news broadcasts, too. The door to the tiny ladies’ room was locked. One of the TV reporters had holed up inside to do her hair and makeup in time for the broadcast. Several women were pounding on it in outrage, telling her to get out. In the small room beyond, where the food machines were squeezed in between extra camera equipment, there were empty coffee cups, candy wrappers, and plastic bags strewn around on the few tables and on the floor. If one didn’t know the President had been assassinated the day before, there was certainly no evidence of it here.

  Even though she had had dinner on the plane, Allison was suddenly hungry, and she also realized that she was beginning to have a hangover. There was hardly anything left to eat in the food machines. A bruised apple and a bag of pork rinds. She put her money in the machine and stood for a moment, unable to make a decision. She knew she should have the apple but she really wanted…

  “Oh, go ahead. Have the pork rinds.”

  There it was. That sensation in her gut just hearing his voice. She had hoped it might be gone. She didn’t want to look at him, afraid of what she would see, would feel.

  She pressed the knob for the apple and it fell into the bin in front of her.

  She picked it up, polished it against her skirt, held it up as if to take a bite, and turned to look at him triumphantly.

  “That’s my girl.” It was his dazzling grin that got her.

  “Bastard.”

  “And they’re off…”

  Before she could respond they both noticed people rushing from their cubicles in the back up to the front room where George Manolas, the President’s press secretary, had appeared at the lectern for an announcement.

  They both stopped what they were doing, ran into the front room, took places standing against the wall since the Daily and the Weekly seats were taken by the correspondents who regularly covered the White House. They all took out their notebooks and waited.

  Manolas stood quietly in front of the crowd as people found places. His eyes were red and swollen, his face grim, but he seemed relatively composed.

  Looking at Manolas forced reality on everyone and the room became still, almost as if people had stopped breathing.

  “As you know,” he said, clearing his throat, “the assassin was killed and we have no new information on him since we last spoke. The plans for the funeral are progressing. The President’s body…” his voice broke slightly. Several of the journalists wiped tears away as they tried to take notes. “… has been autopsied and has just been brought into the East Room to lie in state. I don’t need to tell you that today’s Fourth of July activities across the nation were canceled. The First Lady and the family are gathering in the family quarters where they will be dining alone tonight. We’ll be passing out schedules as plans are firmed up. But briefly, tomorrow, Monday, there will be services in the East Room for the family and close friends, then for members of Congress and the administration, then for members of the diplomatic corps. Tuesday the body will lie in state at the Capitol, and Wednesday is the funeral. Right now it has not been decided whether the President will be buried in his family plot in Richmond or at Arlington Cemetery. Any questions?”

  The room erupted in shouts, everyone was on deadline now. Some were running for phones without even waiting for details.

  “What’s the magazine doing?” Allison asked Des.

  “We’re holding the issue until tomorrow. We have to go a day late. Those little fuckers on duty last night didn’t bother to show up for the pool with the President. There was no press there when he got shot, only a photographer. They really got caught with their pants down this time.”

  “Are you serious?” She paused. “I don’t know why I sound so surprised. The magazines skip the pool all the time on weekends. They were bound to get caught sometime. But the President gets shot and there’s no pool, my God. What about the networks?”

  “Nobody.”

  She looked at Des in amazement. Amazement at her ability to compartmentalize. One minute she was weeping over the assassination of her friend, the President of the United States, the next her heart was pounding at seeing Des again after almost two years, the next she was a hard-core professional, oblivious to anything but THE STORY. Maybe that was what had been wrong with their relationship in the first place. Maybe that was why he had left her.

  He was taking notes and she studied him almost clinically for several moments. Damn him, he looked better than he ever had. There was more gray, but it only served to soften his wavy black hair. Maybe a few more laugh lines around the eyes, but nothing diminished those long lashes and that insolent twinkle. He had a sexy mouth. Sensuous. And a strong jaw, good teeth. Her eyes moved down to his wrinkled navy linen blazer, loosened tie with… without a spot! That was an improvement. And could that bold striped shirt be an old British one she had given him? Somewhat frayed around the white collar but his one concession to decent dressing. His hands were her favorite thing about him. They were short and square and tanned. Very masculine. She didn’t have to see his body to remember it. Broad shoulders, a hairless muscular chest, and the greatest ass on any man she had ever seen.

  He looked up from his notebook and caught her eye.

  She blushed. She could have killed herself. Giving him the edge.

  “Remembering what a great ass I have, Sterling?”

  “Actually, I was remembering what a pain in the ass you were, Shaw.”

  “Ah, how I’ve missed you, Sonny.”

  They looked at each other directly for the first time. She couldn’t tell whether he was joking or not. He knew it, too. She just smiled an enigmatic smile.

  “Des, I’ve got all I need and I’m walking back to the bureau, coming?

  A tall, dark-haired, attractive young woman in her early thirties walked up to Des and spoke to him, completely ignoring Allison. Her tone was overly familiar, Allison thought. It was obvious that she had something going with him or thought she did.

  “Julie Fensterer, Allison Sterling,” he said, stepping back a little, as though he expected the two of them to tear into each other.

  Julie Fensterer stopped dead and turned to look at Allison. What Allison saw in her eyes was fear. Julie quickly checked Allison out and what she saw did not alleviate her apprehension.

  “I’ve read you for years,” she said. “You’re the reason I decided to go to journalism school.”

  Allison suddenly felt old, but she refused to respond to Julie’s subtle dig. Des looked relieved.

  “Why don’t you go on ahead, Julie,” he said. “It’s going to be tight tonight. I’ll be along shortly.”

  Julie flushed. She glanced at Allison, then back at Des, then reluctantly she said, “Fine,” stuffed her tape recorder in her bag and started out the door.

  “What are your plans?” he asked Allison.

  “I’ve got to talk to Manolas briefly, then I’m going across the street to Blair House to see Uncle Rog. Apparently he’s just arrived. I’ve promised Cotes Tennant I’d have a drink with him at the Hay Adams later.”

  “You’re not filing?”

  “I’ve already called in some stuff on the Brits for foreign. The Opinion section wants me to do a piece. I told them I’d think about it. I just don’t feel like writing anything, though. I’ve been away too long. And I feel so conflicted about Rosey in so many ways.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  His jaw hardened and his eyes welled up. She was afraid he was going to cry right there in the midst of all the pandemonium. She could feel herself start to break down. There were so many emotions to deal with between them. It was too much.

  “I gotta get out of
here,” he said. “I’m losing it.”

  He turned and walked quickly out the door and up the walkway toward the gate. It was twilight, and though it was still uncomfortably hot and muggy it had cooled down in the time she had been in the press room. The TV crews were still standing in front of the White House doing their standups. Allison followed Des almost to the gate before they were alone again.

  “Des?”

  “I’d like to see you, Sonny.”

  He wasn’t kidding this time.

  “What’s your schedule?”

  “Call me when you’ve finished with Tennant. I’ll be at the bureau all night. Maybe we can get together for a drink then?”

  It wasn’t a command. Still, she hesitated. Even after all this time, just having a drink with him would be putting in for more pain than she needed. She could see that already.

  “I don’t know, I…”

  “Please.”

  “Okay.”

  He squeezed her arm. His eyes were still filled with tears as he turned and walked away.

  * * *

  The bar at the Hay Adams Hotel, across Lafayette Square from the White House, was packed. Even so you could have heard a pin drop. People sat in corner banquettes, on sofas and chairs in small clusters whispering to each other as they might have done in a funeral home. There was no one to disturb, but it didn’t seem to matter. The bar was a fitting room to mourn. In faux olde English, with dark wood paneling, antlers, tapestries, and heavy paisleys, it lacked only suits of armor for the final touch. A pianist normally serenaded the guests, but there was none this Sunday summer Fourth of July.

  Allison was seated in a corner by the fireplace. Cotes hadn’t arrived yet so she ordered a light beer.

  Her visit with Uncle Roger at Blair House, where all the former Presidents were staying, had depressed her. As if she wasn’t depressed enough already. He was still in terrible shape nearly four years after the stroke that had forced him to turn the presidency over to Rosey. His left arm and leg were still partially paralyzed and he spoke with a slight slur. She had had a quick bite with him but he had tired so easily, she decided to leave him so he could get a good night’s sleep. Rosey’s death had hit him very hard. He had broken down more than once while they talked, finally pushing his tray aside, unable to eat. He had been asked by Sadie to join the family for the first service in the East Room and he had insisted that Allison come along for moral support.