Happy Endings

by Sally Quinn

  “Excuse me, Des. But I haven’t done it before and it’s my wedding, too, and it is a big fucking deal.”

  “Oh God, I was afraid this would happen.”

  “You mean you were afraid that the bride might want a wedding? What an outrageous thing to want. What kind of a person would want to ruin a perfectly decent marriage with an actual wedding?”

  “I’m not saying that.”

  “Well, what exactly are you saying?”

  “I’m not good at this, Sonny. I’m not trying to be a hard ass. I’m not trying to deprive you of something that’s important to you, though I honestly didn’t think you would want a wedding. But I feel I owe you an explanation.”

  He poured each of them another glass of red wine. Then he took her hand and looked at her.

  “I love you, Sonny. Just know that.”

  She could feel herself wavering.

  “I’m Catholic.”

  “A lapsed Catholic.”

  “I’ve never bought this lapsed business. There’s no such thing. You can’t let it go. I’m not practicing in that I don’t go to Mass every Sunday, but I need a slow steady drizzle of Catholicism in my life to feed my soul.”

  She fell back in the chair. “I have to tell you, I’m stunned.”

  “I don’t talk about it. Mostly I don’t even think about it. It’s just there.”

  “What does that have to do with having a wedding?”

  “In the eyes of the Church I’m already married.”

  She started to speak but he interrupted her.

  “I’m legally divorced. But part of me believes it doesn’t count. I have seriously contemplated having my marriage to Chessy annulled or something.”

  “How could you even think of such a thing? How do you explain Fiona? Does she not exist or do you propose to make her a bastard overnight?”

  “Of course I’m not going to do it. I’m trying to give you some understanding of the depths of my feeling. A second marriage is hard for me. I’m going against everything I’ve been brought up to believe. I’m going to do it because intellectually I know it’s the right thing to do. But it ain’t easy.”

  “Intellectually? You’re going to marry me because intellectually you know it’s the right thing to do? Screw that, Des. What about emotionally? How do you think this makes me feel? It’s as if I’m dragging you into some horrible bondage. Well, I don’t want that.”

  “God, Sonny. You want to know how I feel and then when I tell you you get all bent out of shape. I’m trying to explain to you why I don’t want some big public wedding.”

  “Des, I’m not exactly asking for the National Cathedral and twelve bridesmaids. But I want our friends to be part of it. I’m happy and proud to be your wife. Either you feel that way about me or there’s not going to be a wedding. I can’t marry somebody who’s ashamed to be marrying me.”

  “Christ, you drive a tough bargain.”

  “I’m not angry. I’m just telling you how I feel.”

  “Why don’t we tell the man how we want our steaks and get another bottle of wine. I think this is a two-bottle night.”

  He dispatched the waiter, and turned to her, this time with amusement, but she sensed there was respect in his glance.

  “All right, Miss Sterling. What sort of a wedding would you like?”

  “I’d sort of pictured myself in a white silk suit. I’d like to get married someplace pretty like the living room of the F Street Club in front of the fireplace with about fifty or so friends, champagne, a small supper, and some nice music if we want to dance. And a cake at the end. With a bride and groom on top.”

  He had been listening approvingly until the cake. Then he winced.

  “That’s going too far.”

  “Give me a break, Shaw. It’s a wedding.”

  “Okay. Okay. A bride and groom on the cake. So who marries us?”

  “How about Judge Frankel?”

  “Okay, I’ll agree to all of that. It is a compromise. And I have one request, I’d like my brother, Martin, to say a prayer at the ceremony.”

  Her face fell. She sighed.

  “A priest saying a prayer at my wedding? God. What kind of prayer? I mean, I would feel so hypocritical being an atheist and having to listen—”

  “It’s my wedding, too. You don’t have to believe a word he says. This one is for me. I’ll ask him to write it himself.”

  “Okay, Martin will say a prayer.”

  Their dinner was served and they both dug in without saying a word to each other.

  “Compromise is so exhausting,” Allison said finally, with a mock sigh, and they both laughed with relief.

  “You know, you’re more trouble than any dame I could ever have hooked up with. Why do I do this to myself?”

  “Because everybody else bores your ass, that’s why.”

  “Is that it?”

  “Des, while we’re hammering out issues, can we get a few other things out of the way?”

  “Do we have to?”

  “This will only take a minute. Babies?”

  “How many?”

  “One.”

  “Okay, next.”

  “Does it have to be Catholic?”

  “I wish you could see the expression on your face,” he said, chuckling. “No. I believe the mother determines a child’s religion. I was never good at that. God knows what Fiona is.”

  “Two wedding rings?”

  “I’ve never worn a wedding ring in my life. It is the ultimate sign of the pussy-whipped male. I can’t believe that you really want me to wear one. Do you?”

  She thought about this for a moment, then smiled.

  “Actually, you’re right. I don’t want you to. It shows that I have the ultimate confidence.”

  “So that’s it, I hope. Mary and Joseph, I feel as if I’ve conducted the Arab-Israeli summit. Yet all I’ve done is negotiate with the future Mrs. Desmond Shaw.”

  “Uh, Des?”

  “Yes.”

  “There’s one more thing…”

  Dear Sadie,

  By now you’ve probably heard that Allison and I will be married today.

  I thank you for releasing me.

  I hope your guy knows how lucky he is. I hope he makes you happy.

  Give my “special friend” a hug for me.

  And one for yourself with more feeling than you know.

  Always,

  Des

  11

  “Blanche, it’s Sadie.”

  “Well, hey there, lady. Did you bring me back a gorgeous island native? Like the ones with the machetes and the sharks’ teeth hanging down on their bare bronze chests?”

  “Actually I was saving him for myself,” Sadie laughed.

  “Languishing on a tropical beach while I had to spend Christmas at Camp David with all of my horrible stepchildren. It was like being with the Beverly Hillbillies—and I should know.”

  Blanche tickled Sadie, but it was clear why she had a problem with the press.

  “So, did you have a great time?”

  “Actually, I did, believe it or not,” said Sadie. “I surprised even myself. There was a doctor there who was in the emergency room the night Rosey was shot.”

  “Oh, that sounds like fun.”

  “No. I mean, yes. He and his wife have kids the same ages as mine. They were with another couple. Michael Lanzer and his wife. He’s the head of the National Cancer Institute at NIH. I told you we ought to get ahold of him for the AIDS project.”

  “Oh yeah, the one who discovered that drug, what’s it called—AZT?”

  “I talked to him about the idea of AIDS being a project for you and he was interested. He has lots of ideas about things you could do. I really think this could be a great thing for you, especially with somebody like him. He’s extremely articulate and very funny. You’d love him and he would love you.”

  “Is he cute?”

  “He’s married.”

  “So, he’s that cute, huh? Nobody e
ver says ‘he’s married’ unless the guy’s real cute.”

  “Blanche.”

  She found herself becoming flustered. She couldn’t let Blanche detect how she felt about Michael. Maybe she had already.

  “I thought you might want to set up a meeting with him.” She was intent on being serious. “It’s been six months. You’ve got to get some project going.”

  “I know. I know. You’re right. Freddy’s been on my case, too. Okay, how do we do this?”

  “Why don’t I call him and tell him you’re interested. Then I’ll call your secretary and she can set something up with the three of us.”

  “Oh, you’re going to chaperone? Or am I the chaperone?”

  “Blanche!”

  “Don’t be so touchy. I’m just teasing.… A cute doctor? That doesn’t sound bad at all. What if he has AIDS? Did you think of that?”

  Sadie laughed in spite of herself.

  “You’re hopeless. Goodbye, Blanche.”

  * * *

  “May I speak to Dr. Lanzer, please, this is Mrs. Grey calling.”

  Why did she feel so guilty? The secretary didn’t even know she was the former First Lady. The secretary heard “This is Mrs. Grey calling,” not “This is Mrs. Grey calling. You know the former First Lady and I’m crazy about Dr. Lanzer and I intend to make mad passionate love to him and take him away from his adoring wife and destroy his family.”

  “Oh yes, Mrs. Grey. Dr. Lanzer said you might be calling. Just a moment and I’ll let him know you’re on the line.”

  What! Dr. Lanzer had told his secretary that she might be calling. What arrogance! What had made him so certain she might be calling? She had a good mind to hang up. At least that would force him to call her. But it was too late for that.

  “Dr. Lanzer will be right with you if you don’t mind holding for just a moment.”

  “No, that’s okay, that’s fine, thank you.”

  It seemed like five minutes before he came on the line. With no apology.

  “Hey, how are ya?”

  “Exhausted.”

  “Why?”

  He cared.

  “From the anticipation of waiting for you to come on the line.”

  “Happy New Year to you, too.”

  “Oh, yes. I knew there was something I’d forgotten to say to you.”

  Bring him back to the beach. Make him remember. He wasn’t going to get away with this clipped, professional, businesslike tone with her.

  “More than that, I hope.”

  Good. She had him back now.

  “Did you get my note?”

  “I did.”

  “Good.”

  There was a silence. She didn’t know how to keep him there. She couldn’t think of anything else to say.

  “I talked to Blanche Osgood this morning.”

  “About?”

  “Excuse me, you are the Dr. Lanzer who was at La Samanna in St. Martin last week, aren’t you?”

  “Oh, we’re going to play hardball today, are we?”

  “Well, I did talk to you at length about Blanche needing a project and how we had thought AIDS might be the perfect answer for her.”

  “I think I repressed it.”

  “Oh Michael.”

  “Why do I have a horrible feeling about this? That I’m being sacrificed to the First Lady for the good of the country. Why don’t you just take me up to the roof of the temple of the Sun God and put a dagger through my heart? It will be quicker and less painful that way.”

  She began to giggle.

  “Here you go.”

  “So. You talked to Blanche Osgood. And what did she say?”

  Sadie could barely stop laughing.

  “She wanted to know if you were cute.”

  “Cute! Cute? She wanted to know if I was cute? People are dying all over the country from this plague and she wants to know if I’m cute? Is this your revenge for La Samanna? The First Lady’s a disaster. Something has to be done about her. Sacrifice a Jew for the cause. No problem.”

  Sadie was laughing uncontrollably now.

  “You really turn yourself on, don’t you?” she said.

  “Not as much as you do.”

  He hadn’t meant to say that, she could tell. She didn’t respond. She just let it sink in. Torture him.

  “So,” he said, clearing his throat. “How do we proceed?”

  “Since I’m the unofficial sponsor of this project I thought you might like to invite me out to the NIH so that you could tell me something about what the institute does. We could talk about some of the possible ways Blanche could get involved. I think it would be better if you and I were united—”

  “This sounds dangerous.”

  She ignored him.

  “Anyway, I’ve got my calendar in front of me if you wanted to give me a date. I thought it would be nice if you gave me lunch.”

  “I haven’t had lunch with anybody in twenty years… where do you want to eat?”

  “How about in your office. Can’t we get them to bring a sandwich up or something? That way we won’t have to go out and be stared at.”

  “That’s fine.”

  “How’s Monday?”

  “Monday? Let’s see. I, uh, I guess Monday is fine.”

  “You don’t sound excited.”

  “Sorry. I have a very busy schedule. I have to be out of town two days next week and—”

  “I’m flattered that you’re able to work me in.”

  “My reluctance only reflects a healthy sense of self-preservation.”

  “Good. Then we have a mutual goal. I’ll see you at ten on Monday. Bye now.”

  * * *

  This was not at all how she had imagined their first conversation. He was like a different person on the phone. Nothing like the romantic he had been at La Samanna. There was no warmth in this Dr. Lanzer at all. Humor, yes. Reminiscent of the arrogance he had first displayed when she met him. But this humor was meant to intentionally erect a wall between them. The famous wall he had talked of on the beach. She thought the wall had come down. Or that he had scaled it. Now she found herself standing on the other side of it from him.

  She had found this magical person on the island. She had allowed herself to be vulnerable. She had trusted him to treat her gently. Now he was pushing her away. She had thought her attraction to him sexual at first, but over the week her feelings had grown so intense that she didn’t want only to make love to him. That was certainly something new. She had no idea who or what she was dealing with. She didn’t understand him or herself. On the beach one evening he told her about a saying of the Hasidic Jews: “While pursuing happiness we are in flight from contentment.” It sounded like something he was trying to convince himself of. Perhaps she represented happiness to him. Did Giselle represent contentment? He was drawn to happiness but the consequences were too frightening.

  It was so complicated. Any other man would have tried to make love to her. She knew goddamn well he wanted her. So why didn’t he try? Perhaps she should just leave him alone. But she couldn’t. She had Blanche and the AIDS thing to deal with. It was an excuse to see him again; it was a project for her. Finishing the novel she had started to write before Willie was born wasn’t possible now. She couldn’t concentrate. She needed to be around people.

  She needed to be around him. She couldn’t rid herself of the longing that overwhelmed her every time she thought of him, pictured him in her mind, remembered his voice, his touch, his kiss.

  * * *

  Her agents accompanied her up to the top floor of the Claude Pepper Building, through the wide glass double doors into the director’s office of the National Cancer Institute.

  Lanzer’s secretaries were standing by the door waiting for her arrival. One of them took her coat, the other ushered her into the conference room.

  “Dr. Lanzer is on the phone but he will be with you in just a moment,” she said.

  “Fine,” said Sadie. “Thank you.”

  The secreta
ry closed the door, leaving Sadie alone.

  She quickly took out a mirror and examined her face. She was pleased with the way she looked. She still had a blush of color from the tropical sun. Not too much makeup. This was a business meeting. Her simple black suit and white silk blouse with pearls would more than match his mood of the other day.

  Her palms were perspiring and her teeth were actually chattering. She sat down at the conference table, but she couldn’t sit still so she stood up and paced around the room.

  The secretary had left two steaming cups of black coffee in black National Cancer Institute mugs on the table. At the head of the table were two pads—one yellow, one white—with several sharpened pencils.

  On the wall on the cabinet was a sign that read: “What part of ‘no’ don’t you understand?”

  Was this a personal note to her?

  No, I will not have an affair with you. No, I will not fall in love with you. No, I will not leave my wife for you. No, I will never marry you. What part of no don’t you understand, you stupid shiksa?

  This was ridiculous. She was working herself up over nothing. She walked over to the blackboard at the other end of the room. On it were diagrams notated with “halogenated congeners of ddn: a new class of lipophillic prodrug”—completely undecipherable. So that’s who he was. No wonder she didn’t understand him. She would certainly never understand what he did.

  It was fifteen minutes after ten. She had been there at ten sharp.

  She walked over to the window. Directly across the street was Bethesda Naval Hospital and beyond was the Mormon temple, the silvery spires in contrast to the clear blue winter sky. Beyond that were rolling wooded hills all covered with powdery white snow. She shivered. Her body temperature still hadn’t adjusted to the freezing temperatures since she had returned from St. Martin.

  She looked up at the clock on the wall. It was twenty-five minutes past ten. Now she was beginning to get angry. She couldn’t help thinking that he was deliberately keeping her waiting. Just to show her he was not impressed with who she was.

  She walked over to the table and picked up a mug of coffee, putting in a little powdered cream and sugar. She’d wait five more minutes. She walked back over to the window and stared out at the spires of the Mormon temple again. It reminded her vaguely of the National Cathedral from that distance. It had only been six months since Rosey’s funeral.