Happy Endings

by Sally Quinn

  “I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean to keep you waiting.”

  “Your coffee’s getting cold,” she said.

  She could see he didn’t know how to greet her. He paused, then walked over to her and put out his hand.

  She looked at him, then withdrew beneath his gaze. She looked down at her hand gripping the black mug and transferred it to her other hand.

  “My hands are cold,” she said self-consciously.

  “I won’t respond to that.”

  He looked very appealing. He was wearing a blue buttoned-down shirt and tie with no jacket. His sleeves were rolled up and the hair on his arms was still slightly bleached from the sun. His eyes looked even bluer against his tan.

  “You look great,” he said.

  She was furious with herself for being so nervous.

  She turned to walk over to the table, clearing her throat.

  She sat down in her chair, leaned back, and crossed her legs. Maybe that would throw him off balance. Then they’d be even.

  “Have you come up with any ideas we might think about for our project?” she asked.

  “What do you mean ‘we,’ paleface?” he asked, laughing.

  “Oh, no, you’re not going to start that again, are you?”

  “Actually, I have,” he said. “Of course, it all depends on where you want to go with it.”

  He sat in the chair at the head of the conference table and he immediately got down to business.

  “What I would suggest,” he said, “is to use this opportunity to convey a message, to convey certain information, to simplify, to acquire enthusiasm. Get the First Lady to be an informed advocate for the institute. Adopt a mission. Reward excellence, commitment, achievements. The enemy here is ignorance. It is essential to convey how important this is. Make people aware that AIDS is occurring in children. Get her to take a tour of the AIDS unit at Children’s Hospital. Make people understand that we need to anticipate problems, identify problems.”

  She looked at his hands.

  “Now the issue is runaway children using sex to get money at risk for AIDS,” he was saying. His hands were arranging pencils in a neat row.

  “The recent emergence of crack shows women exchanging sexual favors for drugs, which exposes them to AIDS. The First Lady can speak out. Make it unfashionable for people to harbor discrimination about AIDS. Human nature can’t be changed. What can be changed is the guidance our leaders give us.”

  He glanced up at her, met her eyes, and immediately looked away. He caressed his coffee cup. He was so earnest she had no choice but to pretend to listen.

  “Everyone in Washington is so media hip that they deny or denigrate symbols of power or authority. They don’t abide by them, they don’t tap into where they are important. But symbols are important outside the beltway. You want the First Lady to feel affirmed by it, to lend support in discussions?”

  It was a rhetorical question. She knew it was a question only because she heard the inflection at the end of his sentence.

  She nodded. Now his hands were caressing his tie. Everything but her.

  “I think you ought to get the President to set up a special committee on AIDS, something a little different from what’s been done. This would be a committee of volunteers whose job would be to inform the public about all aspects of AIDS. Get him to appoint the First Lady as its chairperson. You be vice chair. Have meetings once a month. Get her to go around the country and give country music concerts to raise money for AIDS research and draw attention to the problem. It’s important to get people to contribute in a way that suits them. Don’t encourage her to try to be an expert on AIDS. She’s not—neither are you for that matter. That’s not to say that you two shouldn’t both be as informed as possible yourselves.”

  “Everything you say sounds brilliant. I’m sure the President and Blanche will think so too.”

  She smiled at him.

  For a moment it seemed he had lost track of what he was saying.

  “My job has three parts really. Running the institute, seeing patients, and running the lab. That’s the creative part. I have an intense feeling that our success or failure determines the pattern of death and suffering for people we don’t even know. Those are the consequences of not doing our job right. That’s reality. If we don’t do a good job people will die or suffer and won’t know why.”

  She had never heard a man talk that way about what he did. She couldn’t imagine a politician, or a journalist for that matter, speaking with such passion. It wasn’t that they didn’t believe in what they did, or that what they did wasn’t honorable, but that there was a different kind of commitment here. It was uncynical, a quality that was a hopeless impediment in the world of politics or journalism.

  She understood for the first time what people meant when they said the brain was the true erogenous zone.

  “I don’t have time to visit the clinic today but I’d like to take you over there sometime. I’m good with my patients. I care about them.”

  She didn’t say anything.

  “I’m a very good doctor, you know. I may not be very good at other things, but I am a good doctor.”

  He said this with a mixture of shyness and pride.

  Why was he telling her this? Trying to convince her? As if she needed convincing. She was so concerned about impressing him that it never occurred to her that he might actually want to impress her.

  “I’m sure you’re good at lots of things.”

  She hadn’t intended the double entendre, but they both flushed slightly.

  He stood up.

  “I’ve asked a few of our people to join us for lunch,” he said, looking out the window with his back to her. “I thought it might be good for you to get different perspectives on what we do here.”

  He was putting up more barriers between them. Another wall?

  Several men had appeared at the door of the conference room and Michael walked over to greet them, then introduced them to Sadie.

  The meeting was virtually over for her. She knew perfectly well that she would have to make the first move if she were to see him the next time. And the next. And the next.

  * * *

  “Des and Allison are getting married.”

  “I know. He sent me a note.”

  “Are you all right?”

  “I don’t know. I think so. Yes. Sure. I’m fine.”

  “Why?”

  “What kind of question is that, Jenny?”

  It was Sunday. Monica was off. Sadie and Jenny had walked Willie up to Montrose Park in his stroller. She had had to get out of the house. It was almost worse being the widow of an assassinated President than being the First Lady. Before she had been a celebrity, now she was some sort of sanctified object. People looked grim when they saw her.

  Georgetown was a small community and most people respected her privacy. She could put on pants, boots, a knit cap, a parka with a hood, and dark glasses and people wouldn’t necessarily recognize her as long as she stayed off the main streets. The park was empty. The day was overcast and cold and there was still a lot of snow on the ground. Willie was irresistible with those fat rosy cheeks poking out of his hood, romping in the snow, then running over for reassuring hugs before going back at it again.

  They had found a bench at the back of the park where they could see if anyone was approaching and keep an eye on Willie at the same time. The Secret Service agents, happy to get out, were throwing snowballs at Willie. Sadie had brought a thermos with some hot chocolate and they were sipping it when Jenny brought up the wedding.

  “You amaze me, that’s all,” said Jenny. “One minute you are desperate over Des. The next minute he’s getting married and you are totally sanguine about it. This is not the first time you have done this about-face with him. What’s with you, anyway? I thought you were madly in love with him.”

  “I was.”

  “So. What’s changed all that?”

  She debated whether to tell her about Mic
hael. What was there to tell? There must be something or she would be crushed about Des. Actually, she was dying to confide in someone. If she could confide in Jenny while she was having an affair as First Lady, she could certainly trust her now. Not that trust was the problem. In some ways, she just liked the idea of keeping Michael to herself. But she wasn’t going to. She knew it.

  “I’ve met somebody else.”

  “Oh?”

  “Speaking of which, he’s Jewish.”

  “Oh really?”

  “He’s five years younger.”

  “Great.”

  “He’s a doctor.”

  “A Jewish doctor, the worst kind.”

  “He’s married.”

  “On the oy vey scale of one to ten, this is a ten.”

  “I knew you’d approve.”

  “What are you going to do about it?”

  “Marry him.”

  Sadie smiled when she said it. She had meant it as a joke. But once the words were out it didn’t sound so funny.

  Jenny stared at her, then smiled and shrugged.

  “Mazel tov.”

  * * *

  This was going to be her first social outing in Washington since Rosey was shot. She found herself always thinking and even saying “since Rosey was shot” rather than “since Rosey was killed” or “since Rosey died.” Rosey had been shot and she didn’t want to forget it or to let anyone else forget it either. “Shot” was abrupt, violent, literal, shocking. When she said it people winced. She knew they would rather she used something more euphemistic. But euphemisms didn’t convey what she wanted to say. She remembered a sign at Dachau, the German concentration camp which she had visited on a trip to Europe. “Denket Daran.” “Think about it.” Remember it. The President of the United States, your President, my husband, my children’s father was shot. Assassinated. Think about it.

  Blanche had taken her up on the idea of having some small dinner parties upstairs in the family quarters. Make the first one a Valentine’s Day party, Sadie had suggested. Something very un-Washington, fun, and friendly. Sadie had given her a basic guest list of about forty people to cull from. She thought three or four round tables of eight would be about right. And a good mix. She had suggested that they take this opportunity to announce the President’s Committee on AIDS. She had also convinced Blanche that she ought to surprise everyone by singing a few songs for them. Invite the top male country singer and do a few duets. Then explain that she was going to start having concerts to raise money and awareness of AIDS. Sadie even jotted down a few ideas for Blanche to use for her remarks. She had persuaded Blanche to invite the Lanzers.

  Sadie had already introduced Michael to Blanche and the President. Freddy seemed satisfied that Blanche and Sadie were happy and arranged for Michael to meet with Freddy’s chief of staff. Blanche thought Michael “real smart” and “kind of cute” but pronounced him “not my type.”

  Sadie had planned on controlling the guest list, but it had gotten away from her. The Sohiers were her suggestion, as were the War-burgs. She had also suggested Worth Elgin, the editor of the Opinion section of the Daily, and his social-climbing wife, Clare. She had insisted on Lorraine Hadley even though she was on the wane. Gossip was still a large part of Washington and Lorraine a key purveyor.

  Senator and Mrs. Corwin would be crucial. He had banked his whole career on Defense but after glasnost, he had been quick to see that Defense issues were going to take a backseat. He had quickly adopted health care as his new issue. The new head of Health and Human Services was a woman, a doctor, and quite well thought of.

  The anchor of “Good Night,” Benton Halloran, was somebody who got around town, although he was known to have an alcohol problem.

  The whole point of the evening was to make Blanche look good.

  Unbeknownst to Sadie, however, Blanche had invited Foxy, who did not have the greatest press in Washington and who, as a bachelor attorney general, was clearly on his way to becoming an embarrassment to the administration. Foxy was bringing his new girlfriend, the second secretary at the Colombian embassy, Antonia Alvarez. Sadie had read about her in the Feature section of the Daily. Antonia was making quite a splash. She was the daughter of a very wealthy landowner in Colombia who had spent some time in Cuba in a period of revolutionary fervor before returning home to join the Foreign Ministry. Antonia was young, beautiful, sexy, and outspoken, which had gotten her a lot of publicity.

  Blanche had also invited Des and Allison. She would have no way of knowing about Sadie and Des. Nobody knew. Des was the Weekly bureau chief and a regular on the weekend Sunday morning talk show. Allison was the Daily’s national editor. They could influence a lot of people. If they decided Blanche was on the level, it would be a big help.

  Sadie tried to explain to Blanche that inviting Allison and Des to a small intimate party with Foxy and the Alvarez woman was inviting trouble. She was, in effect, serving up Foxy on a platter. They were not coming to the White House for a cozy evening. They were coming to get a story. They were good journalists, which meant they were killers. Nobody was safe around them, particularly not a man like Foxy who was not housebroken. And certainly not White Housebroken.

  Blanche was adamant. Freddy had insisted he couldn’t have a party where there would be country singers from Nashville, people who were friends of Foxy’s, and not have his old buddy. And Freddy was certain he could handle them. When Blanche told her Des and Allison were coming, Sadie had nearly dropped out of the party.

  It was Jenny who had talked her into going. Jenny had persuaded her that she was going to be running into them from now on and she might as well have the first time be in a controlled environment. Besides, Jenny had reminded her, Michael Lanzer would be there. Michael Lanzer, the man she would one day marry.

  * * *

  “You can’t turn down an invitation to the White House, Michael. You know that. It just isn’t done unless you’re making some grand gesture of political protest.”

  “But I don’t want to go to this dinner party.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I hate parties.”

  “You don’t hate parties. You love parties. You’re extremely gregarious.

  “Oh, I see. I love parties. Sorry. I must have gotten confused.”

  “C’mon, Michael, don’t be silly. This is serious.”

  Sadie was completely exasperated. Michael had gotten his invitation from the White House and had called her to complain. At least he had called her. It was, in fact, the first time. What she had to remember was that he was a married man. Still, she was used to getting what she wanted. It was frustrating and challenging at the same time.

  “You’re right, it’s serious. I’m serious. I don’t want to go.”

  “Look, you’ve gone to lots of parties. I’ve seen your picture in the feature section of the Daily several times at these cancer and AIDS benefits.”

  “Right. And it’s surrealistic. I feel like I’m external graft, some foreign transplant with all those Hollywood types. I’ve done that in one era and I don’t want to do it anymore. I didn’t feel genuine. There’s a certain artificial camaraderie, conviviality at these things.”

  “Michael, we’re talking about a few hours out of your life for a cause you care desperately about.”

  “A few hours. You just put your finger on it. I’ve got to prioritize. I can’t spend fifteen or sixteen hours a day here and then go out at night. Time is the most important thing I’ve got.”

  “There’s always the chance you might meet somebody interesting, learn something. Have you ever thought of that?”

  She was getting more frustrated by the minute, even though he was obviously enjoying their little sparring match.

  “Look, I just don’t feel comfortable in that role. So I meet some countess or some industrialist. So what? There’s nothing in that for me. If there were a group of scientists or clinicians or family support groups, then there’s some role for me.”

  “
Okay, Michael. What’s the real reason? Is it Giselle?”

  “Giselle has nothing to do with it,” he said curtly.

  “Well, then, what is it?”

  “You want to know what the real reason is. I’ll tell you what the real reason is: I hate, loathe, and despise wearing a tuxedo.”

  “Ha! I knew it. I knew it was something incredibly dumb.”

  “Dumb? You know what’s dumb? Having to buy one. What that meant to me was a demarcating line, a dividing point in my life, a symbol of change. I’d never owned a tuxedo. I’d always rented one for the rare wedding or bar mitzvah. Then after this AZT thing and this job I had to start going to these black tie parties. It gets pretty expensive to rent them and if you go to more than three a year you’re better off buying one. Then there are all the accessories. You have to understand, a tuxedo is not my uniform. A tie is as far as I want to go. With the exception of weddings and a few scientific awards ceremonies I rarely do anything I respect in a tuxedo. It’s kind of an indignity.”

  “I bet you look smashing in a dinner jacket.”

  “Don’t try that on me, Mrs. Grey.”

  “Let me try this one on you, then.”

  “It better be good.”

  “I need you. I’m asking you to go as a favor to me.”

  He could tell she wasn’t teasing anymore.

  “Why?”

  “Des and Allison will be there. They just got married.”

  “So I read.”

  “Please.”

  “Okay, you got me.”

  “God, you’re easy, Dr. Lanzer,” she said and hung up before he could respond.

  * * *

  Blanche had asked her advice about the seating, as with everything else. Sadie was a master at seating. Seating was everything. It was an art. Any diplomat would tell you that thoughtless seating has been responsible for starting wars. Lorraine would never forget, she told Sadie, the night the French ambassador stormed out of her house before dinner because he felt he had been insulted by his seat.