Regrets Only

by Sally Quinn

  “I guess I didn’t really get that far,” she lied.

  François brought a delectable fish mousse for the first course, followed by a veal roast in chanterelles. Salad and cheese. They had switched to a Beaujolais. The conversation was going slowly; both were uncomfortable and stilted, two people on Novocaine, numbed by desire. There were great pauses as they ate or stared out at the park and commented once more on the beautiful day. All the clever things Sadie had imagined they would talk about seemed to escape her.

  All of the witty things he was supposed to say did not materialize.

  The pear Hélène was superb. The wine was light and smooth, the sun bright, the espresso strong.

  They lingered over the espresso, talking in starts. A little of her school years at Smith, his in Boston; a little about the South; something about journalism, travel, food, friends. Pleasant but disappointing.

  Then it was three thirty. She had told Hugh to meet her at four at the overlook. That would give them time for a walk, she’d thought, but now it was too late. They thanked François profusely. Des fought gamely for a check, and François presented one in the end. She didn’t feel as guilty leaving as she had coming in. Nothing had happened. Des, who had been almost impudently suggestive in their conversations before, had not even once intimated anything.

  She felt let down as they drove back down the hilly roads. The morning had been full of promise. Of what she didn’t know. Now the day was over, the promise unfulfilled.

  “This has been so pleasant,” she said halfheartedly, as he stared ahead. A knot in her stomach was tightening. She had somehow let it—let him—get away.

  “We must do it again sometime,” he said.

  “Oh, no. I don’t think so. It’s much too risky.”

  “I don’t see why. All we did was have lunch.”

  It sounded like an accusation. She could feel herself sinking into a depression. “Alone,” she said in self-defense.

  Just as she spoke, Des wheeled the car so quickly that she slid over to his side, falling against him.

  Then they were careening down a dark, bumpy narrow road toward the river, past houses and tennis courts peering out from the woods, then past thick oak and hickory trees which shaded the road into dusk. He seemed so grim and so determined that she was afraid to speak.

  The patches of sky, which had been so clear and pure and sunny, suddenly seemed ominous as clouds wafted over the sun and a wind swept up from nowhere. The road was deserted as they pulled into an entrance to a park with a small guardhouse and drove down to the edge of the river facing several tiny islands that were being assaulted by the rough, swirling rapids.

  Her mouth was dry and her throat closed. There was something violent about the way he pulled the car into the space, slammed on the brakes, and turned off the ignition.

  “What?” she finally managed.

  He reached over and took her mouth in his, and then everything was a swirl of arms and hands and her skirt was up and she was moaning and he was inside her and she was grasping at him and he was coming and so was she and she stopped breathing.

  They sat silently in the darkness afterward, breathing now, heavily at first, then more slowly.

  “Jesus” was all he said finally as he looked at his watch and turned on the ignition.

  She didn’t move as they pulled out of the parking place.

  Driving back up the road, she tried to repair the damage. Luckily, it was dark. She prayed Rosey wouldn’t come home early. It was after five.

  Neither of them spoke until they were at the overlook.

  Hugh was standing by the van looking worried.

  Des maneuvered his car as close to the van as possible and waited for Hugh to open the back door. He leaned over across Sadie to open the door for her to get out. She looked down at his hand. They had not looked at each other since the river.

  As she was getting out of the car, Des reached for her hand in what seemed like a belated farewell as he mumbled, under his breath, “I’ll call you.”

  * * *

  When she finally took his call, it was more than a week later.

  “I’d like to see you again,” he said softly.

  “I’ve decided to give up the idea of writing for now,” she said, as though she were talking to an editor. “I’ve really got so many responsibilities. The National Trust for Historic Preservation, Planned Parenthood, and there’s so much entertaining. And then the children will be home for Thanksgiving—”

  “Sadie.”

  “Yes.”

  “I want to see you.”

  “No.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Yes, you do.”

  “Look, I know it’s risky but—”

  “Des.”

  “We could work out a way—”

  “No.”

  There was such a firmness in her voice that he knew it was pointless to argue.

  “Well, then, let me know if you decide to resume your writing.”

  “I’ll call you.”

  CHAPTER 7

  She could hear Des’s key in the latch downstairs. Now the tree was lit, the fire was going, the wine and caviar were out, she looked beautiful, and she had a choice, she told herself. She could start a fight and ruin the evening. Or, she could make it a happy evening.

  She decided she would not let him know how angry she was. Better to say nothing.

  Des came bouncing upstairs full of good spirits, his face flushed from the cold; no packages under his arms—empty-handed, she noted. It annoyed her to see him so gay. Something in her wanted to give him some bad news.

  “Baby, don’t you look gorgeous!” he said.

  He walked over to the sofa, pulled her up in his arms, looked lovingly down at her, and began to kiss her, first in little bites on her lips, then her cheeks, then her neck. “Jesus, what a piece of ass you are.”

  His hands ran down her back. He squeezed, then moved his hand up and around her waist and kissed her again, a long and loving kiss.

  She could feel herself giving in. God, she loved him so. Her acquiescence made her angry at herself, then at him. She felt helpless. She wanted to keep her eyes closed and just never think about anything again. He was kissing her and she was moving her body into his, warm and supple; she was giving in. How could she be mad at him? Wasn’t this better than those other empty Christmases?

  “Don’t you want some caviar?” she murmured in between kisses.

  “Caviar! Why didn’t you say so? And here we’ve been wasting all this time kissing.”

  “Your choice: caviar or me?”

  “The hell with that; I’m having both. But I think I’ll save the best till last. Where’s the caviar?”

  He went over to the bar, poured himself a glass of Irish, then sat down and dug into the caviar.

  “How do you like the tree?”

  “Oh, it’s gorgeous, sweetheart.” He barely glanced at it.

  “It was a nightmare out there on the streets, trying to buy things today.”

  “Ummmm.” He was munching another spoonful of caviar.

  “The lights got tangled. I almost called you at the office and asked you to come home and help.”

  “Probably a good thing you didn’t. I was tied up with the cover story on the Middle East. Seems like everything went wrong at the last minute. Some of our files from different correspondents didn’t jibe. We had to get all of them back to check. The State Department is stonewalling, really laying a load on us. That John T. is a shrewd fucker. But I’ll tell you, there’re going to be some unhappy people around the White House come Monday. Christmas or no Christmas. They are so confused. The right hand doesn’t know what the left hand is doing.”

  She was interested in spite of herself.

  “I hate to say it, babe, but your Uncle Roger is not handling this one very well. He can’t seem to get control of his people. The factionalism at the White House, especially among the top-level staff, is the worst I’ve ever see
n. If he doesn’t call all those guys in and read them the Riot Act, and soon, he’s going to be in deep shit. People just don’t feel he’s in charge. And he won’t get rid of the losers. They’re the ones who are causing the most dissension. Naturally, John T. Hooker is making the most of it. He’s throwing kerosene on the situation every chance he gets.”

  “I know, I know,” said Allison. “I just don’t want to hear it, I guess. As if it weren’t bad enough, I think Aunt Molly is drinking too much. She hardly even goes out of the White House now, and every time she does the staff is half crazed that she’ll do or say something wrong.”

  “That’s a story, isn’t it?”

  “It’s all yours, sweetheart,” she said with some sarcasm. “It would make a great lead story for The Weekly. You could even put your byline on it. I give it to you. And believe me, it’s accurate. You don’t even need to verify your sources.”

  “Now, don’t get huffy. All I said was it’s a story.”

  “It sounds a little like you expect me to write it.”

  “Hey, why are you so defensive? I only made an observation. You’ve got a real hard-on tonight. What’s your problem?”

  “Do you really want to know?”

  “Sure.”

  “I’m angry, that’s what.”

  “No kidding. Why don’t you give me a break and let me know what it is that I’ve done? That way maybe I can feel guilty.”

  “I’m pissed off at you.”

  “You just said that. Why are you so pissed off at me is the question.”

  She poured herself a glass of wine before she spoke.

  “I am pissed off at you for several reasons.”

  He decided to wait. Obviously she had an agenda.

  For some reason she was most annoyed with him for not going with her to get the tree. It baffled her that it mattered so much. It was, after all, no big deal. It was just a stupid tree. Maybe it had something to do with domesticity and his not really being involved in her life. If it was about something like that, she didn’t want to deal with it. She would wait to mention the tree. She would bring up the Kimballs. That was something he could understand. For that matter, it was something that she could understand.

  “I am annoyed at your attitude toward Aunt Molly and Uncle Roger,” she said finally.

  “And just what is my attitude toward them?”

  “You’re always making fun of them. I have to tell you it really upsets me. They are my family, you know. In fact, they’re really the only family I’ve got now that Nana and Sam are gone. I’m not all that close to them anymore and he is the President and we are journalists and he hasn’t been a smashing success. But there are ways you could criticize them without somehow making me feel personally responsible. I mean, what if your parents were in the White House?”

  “Oh, come on, Sonny, that’s ludicrous. You can’t possibly equate the two. Jesus, I hate to argue with you. My parents are irrelevant. I don’t want to talk about them.”

  “These people are the closest thing I have to parents in my life. I can criticize them, but it hurts when you do. Especially the way you do. Uncle Roger may not be the greatest President the country ever had. But he is not an evil man. And he is a lot better than the one we just got rid of.”

  “Sonny, I’m sorry if I have seemed to ridicule the President. But I’m not even sure you are right that he is better than our last President. Roger Kimball is really hurting the Democratic Party. I like Kimball. You know I do. I like your Aunt Molly, too, for that matter. But I do not particularly admire Kimball as a politician or as a leader. He has terrible judgment about people, he has the worst Cabinet ever picked by any Democrat in history, and he is not a leader. He may have been a brilliant professor of history and government at the University of Colorado. He was obviously a popular Governor, but he just doesn’t cut it as President. Now, I think he has a wonderful sense of humor and he is a kind and decent man. He has been good to you, and for that I love him. But I can’t go any further than that. It also makes me a little nervous for you professionally. I don’t like the situation you’re in. I feel uncomfortable for you about it, and for me, if you want the truth. Even though you’ve been taken off the White House, you’re still covering pressure points. It’s too close. I’m not sure you wouldn’t be better off on some other beat. Maybe you should take off and write a book while he’s in office. I don’t know. It’s tough, I admit. I sympathize with you. But you put in for it, kid. You can’t ask me to live with you and be truthful and then not tell you how I feel.”

  Allison had not bargained for this lecture. He had put her on the defensive now.

  “Listen, Des,” she said. “You’re not hearing what I’m saying to you. I don’t mind you criticizing the President of the United States. I don’t even mind that you criticize my godfather. What I mind is the way you do it. The incessant put-downs and wisecracks. It hurts my feelings when you do it in public. And the thing that outrages me is that you do it half the time by telling stories that you wouldn’t even know unless I had told you or unless you had been around him.”

  “That’s bullshit, Sonny. He’s a big boy. We’re both journalists. He knows perfectly well that nothing the President of the United States says or does is off the record. That just goes with the territory. Everything is fair game. He’s not a stupid man. If he thinks that what he says to us isn’t out on the streets in twenty-four hours, then he’s dumber than I think.”

  “Is everything your parents say to us fair game?”

  “For Christ’s sweet sake, will you leave my poor parents out of this! They have nothing to do with what we’re talking about.”

  “Well, you’re just not fair or realistic.”

  “It’s you who’s not realistic. The President is the President. He is different. It’s open season. Ask any journalist in this town.”

  “Oh, am I ever sick of all these pious journalists! Every single one of them has got some conflict of interest. I could sit down and name them all. Some politician from their home state, somebody’s wife’s best friend who is now in high office. And the worst are these guys who’ve fucked every secretary of every candidate and every politician in town and then cry Conflict when I cover the Presidency. We both know three guys for sure who screwed Uncle Roger’s secretary during the campaign, not that that takes a whole lot of talent. I’m sick of standards that apply to me as if I were some special case. But what am I supposed to do? Leave town? Well, I don’t care what they say, I’m goddamn well not going to. I’m going to stay here and do what I do.”

  “Calm down, baby. You know perfectly well that a lot of it has to do with jealousy. You’re too much. You’ve got it all. They can’t stand it.”

  “But Des, you’re one of the ones. Even if you don’t always say so, you’re always implying that I should have written something negative about Uncle Roger. Even Aunt Molly. And yet none of you does it. Most of the White House press corps just do nothing but suck up to the President all the time. The Daily has probably been tougher on him than any other paper, and partly that’s due to me. I don’t just get handed stories on a platter either. Those guys over there are terrified of me. They’re afraid if they talk to me I’ll tell Kimball that they’re leaking to the press. I have to tell you, Des, that I resent the fact that you think my job is a piece of cake because I’ve got access. Every time I’ve gotten a good story you’ve managed to raise your eyebrow just a little.”

  He knew perfectly well that she was right. He did resent her access. And it had been a little embarrassing for him occasionally when The Daily had come up with one good story after another that The Weekly had had to credit to it. He had taken his share of kidding from the guys about being beaten out by his girlfriend. The kidding was tinged with a little hostility, and the implication was always there. He felt conflicted about his own reactions. On the one hand, he resented being made to look silly. He didn’t want to have to compete with Allison, and he really didn’t want to have to lose out to her or
to answer to the New York office for not having stories she had. On the other hand, it upset him when people implied that she had a conflict or that her credibility was in question at all. He knew how careful she was, and how diligent. He had to spend a lot of time defending her, which he did willingly and with some ferocity, but once they were alone together, his frustrations got the better of him and he lashed out. He never told her about the arguments. He didn’t want her to feel any more torn than she already did, but he took it out on her. He didn’t mean to.

  He didn’t want to discuss it anymore. Besides, it was time for the seven o’clock evening news broadcast, and since they had come home from work early they could watch it together, something they almost never had the chance to do.

  He got up from his seat, poked at a log, went over to the bar and poured himself another Irish whiskey neat, and flicked on the TV set.

  “I gather that is your way of saying you don’t have anything more to say on the subject?” she said.

  “It is my way of saying I want to watch the news,” he said. “I always watch the news at the office, and I’d like to see it now.”

  “There’s hardly ever anything on the news that they don’t pick up from the paper that day except for breaking stories.”

  “Not to mention that everybody’s on deadline at the paper at that time anyway.” He laughed. “Jesus, you newspaper people are such snobs about TV.”

  “Good evening,” said the anchorman. “Today President Kimball responded to reports of a staff shakeup at the White House. In a statement issued by his communications adviser, President Kimball denied that there was any truth to the persistent rumors that he would replace his Chief of Staff with his domestic adviser. He also denied any evidence of a rift between the two men.…”

  “Martin Spence reports from the White House,” the anchor continued.

  “The communications adviser insisted today that President Kimball has no intention…”

  “Well?” asked Des, looking at Allison.

  “Well what?”