Regrets Only

by Sally Quinn

  “I wonder what the hell was wrong with Roger. He just didn’t look himself tonight.”

  “I don’t know,” said Sadie softly, her voice edged with trepidation, “but you may be President sooner than you thought.…”

  * * *

  Reynolds and Melanie Durant always had the brunch the day after the Gridiron show. Their McLean estate, Fairview, overlooking the Potomac, was a perfect setting. It was across the river from Washington yet still part of the capital’s power center, removed yet central. One could stand back from the fray at Fairview. Durant was an old Gridiron member, and he had been an influential figure in Washington since the days when very few journalists were either socially or professionally acceptable. He had money and power, he had used them judiciously, and he had survived.

  Reynolds was tall, slim, white-haired, and genteel and had a Southern accent which could have been produced only in North Carolina. His wife was equally Southern, with short cropped blond hair and pale blue eyes which she used to advantage. Together they managed to make all of their guests feel secure; more than secure: they made their guests feel as if they were at exactly the right place. People never went to the Durants’ and wondered if they were missing something better. The Durants’ brunch was the social apex of Gridiron weekend. Not everyone was invited. Those who were went. It was that simple. After the brunch there was the Gridiron show late Sunday afternoon downtown for wives and other friends who had not been invited to the big night. It was like going to a Saturday matinee. Sort of warmed-over and flat, but better than nothing. Most of the women were thrilled to be asked, not quite focusing on the fact that now that women were allowed as members and guests, to be invited for Sunday afternoon was a hideous insult.

  Most people had had a few Bloody Marys or Bloody Bulls at the Durants’, though, so they could plow their way through the Sunday-afternoon show with relatively little pain.

  A Bloody Mary was not going to cheer up Allison. She was in a terrible mood. She was depressed and bored and conflicted about everything, and she couldn’t for the life of her figure out why she had come to this party. She had been appalled by the show the night before. It was so dumb. How could grown men, and lately a few women, behave that way? Except for the principle of the thing, she couldn’t imagine ever having wanted to picket the Gridiron Club. And she had to admit that it hadn’t been the greatest of evenings for her. First, seeing Des had been a major setback. It was beginning to dawn on her that he might be attracted to someone else. Then there was Sadie Grey being the big star. Finally, Uncle Roger’s queer behavior had worried her terribly. She had tried calling the White House this morning to talk to either Uncle Roger or Aunt Molly, but the butler had told her that they had visitors and couldn’t be disturbed. She wondered whom they could be entertaining on a Sunday morning. There had been nothing on their official schedule; but she relaxed, figuring that if he was well enough to entertain, he must be feeling better.

  When Jed had suggested she go with him to the Durants’ brunch, she had just laughed. “Enough is enough, Jed.”

  Jed wouldn’t be put off by her sourness. He was still flushed with success. “Sonny, you’re not a quitter. You haven’t really done the Gridiron unless you’ve gone to the Durants’ brunch. Besides, I hear the President may come. And you’re a working girl. You didn’t get much done last night. You might be able to pick up something at the lunch.”

  It was true she hadn’t really done any productive work the night before, and the Gridiron was always a good opportunity. The question was, Would going to the Durants’ be good for her professionally? Professionally the answer was Yes. “Yes,” she had told Jed. “I’ll go.”

  * * *

  Rosey was in an odd mood. Even though she knew he was proud of her, she wondered if it wasn’t hard for him to swallow the fact that his wife had been the center of attention the night before.

  “I’ve got too much work to do to go to this Durant thing,” he said. “I’ve still got all the briefing papers from the meeting with the Russians in New York, and I’ve got to get that done tomorrow before I see the President.”

  “How is the President?” asked Sadie, lifting her eyes just slightly over her teacup.

  “I called over there,” Rosey said, avoiding her eyes. “Or rather I had Everett call over there, on some pretext that if the President would like to discuss the Russian papers with me I was available. I told Everett to tell them the press would be all over us Monday after the strictures of the Gridiron were lifted. Though I can’t believe for a moment that ‘No journalists are present’ actually sticks. Those guys were working that hall the way I work a country barbecue.”

  “Well, what did they say?”

  “Everett says Kimball has visitors this morning and can’t be disturbed.”

  “I’m sure that was bad news for Everett,” said Sadie, the sarcasm barely veiled.

  “Bad news that he’s got visitors?”

  “No, bad news that he’s well enough to have visitors.”

  “That is a mean thing to say.”

  She knew she was provoking him, but she couldn’t stop herself. She chose Everett as her instrument.

  “Why don’t you want to go to the Durants’ lunch?”

  “What the hell has that got to do with anything, Sadie? You’ve done nothing but have at me lately.”

  His tone had become more serious, almost pleading rather than angry. She looked over at him in the easy chair in their upstairs sitting room. He was wearing his pale gray silk pajamas and his gray wool monogrammed bathrobe. His hair wasn’t combed and he hadn’t shaved yet. They were having their leisurely Sunday-morning breakfast, reading the papers and chatting.

  She was guilty. Her attraction to Des had made her want to find fault with Rosey. Rosey was hurt. It made her feel even worse. She got up to go to him. She wrapped her arms around his neck, burying her head in his chest.

  “I’m sorry, darlin’,” she said. “I’m truly sorry. It’s just that you’ve hurt my feelings recently, implying that I can’t do anything right, and your staff, Everett in particular, has done a good job of making me believe that I’m a detriment to you. So now suddenly I’ve had a little boost and you seemed to resent it. I can’t help thinking if you’d made a brilliant speech last night you’d want to go to the Durants’ today.”

  “I didn’t realize you felt that way,” said Rosey softly. He really was a pushover when she set her mind to it. “Let’s make a pact not to hurt each other’s feelings anymore—okay, sweetheart?”

  “Okay. It’s a deal. Now will you go to the Durants’? It’s really important to me, Rosey.”

  He hesitated.

  “Nothing will make you look better than to seem to have a good sense of humor. The exasperated husband unable to control the little woman. What man in America, what voter in America wouldn’t identify with you?”

  * * *

  It was unseasonably warm for March. The temperature was over seventy degrees, and the sun sparkled over the Durants’ terrace and the river below. By the time the Vice President and his wife arrived, the terrace was nearly packed. As they approached, everyone applauded, and Sadie had to cover her eyes from the glare to make sure they were applauding her. Rosey put his arm around her and beamed. In her two years in Washington Sadie had never really felt as if she belonged, but suddenly today she knew she was home. Washington had been a foreign capital. Today she owned it. It felt good.

  Allison and Jed arrived late. There had been a query from New York about the bureau’s file on Roger Kimball’s meeting with the Soviets, and he’d had to get his staff to do some more reporting. He was disappointed to be late to the Durants’ brunch. Everybody in town would be there. The rules weren’t as strict about “no journalists present” as they were at the Gridiron, and a reporter could get in some good work. He had complained on the way over to the Durants’ house, hidden away up a long driveway behind tall trees.

  “I hope everybody isn’t gone by the time we get there.
If there is anybody who knows what the hell is going on with the Soviets I’ve got to get to them. Our file isn’t complete, and nothing is coming out of the White House. The place is like a fucking morgue over there this morning. You can’t get through to anybody.”

  Allison was preoccupied. After she had called the White House she had relaxed a bit, but then she had begun to worry again. The butler had sounded odd. She hadn’t really believed the “visitors” story. Just before Jed arrived to pick her up at Olive Street, she had called back. She had asked for Aunt Molly, telling the butler, whom she knew fairly well, that it was rather urgent.

  He had sounded agitated and mumbled something about how Mrs. Kimball was unable to come to the phone. He hadn’t mentioned visitors.

  “Raymond,” said Allison, trying to sound as firm as possible. “I want you to tell Aunt Molly”—she deliberately said Aunt Molly—“that I’m worried about Uncle Roger and I’m calling to see if he’s all right. I’m going to give you a telephone number where I can be reached if there is any problem. Please tell her to call me as soon as she can.”

  “Yes, ma’am, Miss Allison,” said Raymond, as polite as a thirty-year retainer could be. “I’ll surely tell her.”

  The acknowledgment in his tone of voice scared her, but he had worked at the White House too many years to let on anything. He was discreet. It was that discretion which had kept him his job.

  When Allison and Jed arrived at the Durants’, most people had gotten their plates and were seated everywhere on the floor, around tables set up on the terrace, and at special tables set up inside. Allison was too worried to eat, but she had not mentioned anything about her phone calls to Jed, who had only inquired in the most perfunctory manner about the President and then lost interest.

  Allison spotted the Greys out on the terrace surrounded by admirers. They were among the few who hadn’t gotten their plates. Allison decided to stay inside and circulate around the living room.

  Reynolds Durant saw her standing by the French doors. He slipped his arm around her waist and whispered, “What’s a pretty girl like you standing here all alone for? Won’t you let a Southern gentleman fetch you something to drink?”

  Allison smiled. Reynolds was one of the few men who could call her a girl and make her smile.

  “Oh, thanks, Reynolds,” she said, “I think I’ll just have plain tomato juice. I had enough wine last night to last me a month. One doesn’t really have much choice at the Gridiron, does one?”

  She didn’t want to offend him either. She said it gently.

  “You don’t have to be tactful with me, dear girl. The Gridiron is a frightful bore. But how can you abolish an institution that makes so many people feel important in a city where they’ve come because they need to feel important? If I had my druthers, I’d never go to another bloody Gridiron dinner again. But I guess in my old age I’m just a coward. It’s easier to go along than to revolt. But if I were you, dear girl…” He smiled, just a hint of mischief in his eyes.

  “You. It was you,” she said.

  “I’m afraid so. Just testing your mettle. Just wondering if you were the woman I thought you were.”

  “I hope, then, I won’t disappoint you when Jed reports back to the committee that I won’t be joining up.”

  “You will delight me and confirm my highest suspicions. That you are a no-nonsense woman.”

  “And that I can’t sing or dance.”

  “You’ve done all right so far,” he said. That, from Durant, was the highest praise. Her talk with him had made her feel better. She had gone to the Gridiron to break out of her state of self-pity and to give herself confidence, and she had only ended up being hurt by Des and upstaged by Sadie, not to mention disappointed in Jed.

  “You know, Allison, you are one of the best reporters in Washington. I know how hard it has been for you the last two years with your godfather as President. It has hindered you a great deal and has caused you a lot of problems. I just want you to know that I’m one person who believes you have handled the situation and yourself impeccably. You have been beyond reproach, and for that you should be commended.”

  She leaned over and kissed Reynolds Durant. “Oh, Reynolds, you don’t know how I needed that. It has been awful. And the irony is that some people envy my position and resent it. You don’t know how many times I’ve wished that he weren’t President or even, and it makes me feel guilty even to say it, how I’ve often hoped he wouldn’t run again.”

  “I don’t mean to upset you, Allison,” said Durant, “but Roger didn’t look at all well last night. I was worried about him. Do you know how his health has been recently?”

  “He has seemed very pressured lately,” said Allison. “But he’s been under a lot of stress. I know Aunt Molly is not holding up well either.”

  Allison wasn’t talking out of school. Durant was an old friend of the Kimballs’ and knew more about their problems than Allison did. He made it his business to know Presidents intimately, and he also made it his business to be discreet about them.

  “Excuse me, Mr. Durant,” the waiter was saying as he leaned toward them, almost whispering. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but there is a call for Miss Sterling. It’s from the White House.”

  Allison could feel her heart in her throat. She didn’t say a word for several moments as she tried to catch her breath.

  Durant could see the fear on her face. He took her hand and stood up, pulling her up with him. He thanked the waiter, dismissing him with a nod.

  “You’ll take it upstairs. I’ll come with you. Were you expecting a call?” His face had gone white too.

  She nodded. They headed up the carpeted stairs and into Durant’s upstairs study. “I left this number for Aunt Molly,” she muttered, then stood before the phone, staring at the flashing light on the hold button.

  Taking a deep breath, she picked it up. A voice told her to hold. Finally Aunt Molly came on the phone.

  “Oh, Sonny,” she said. Allison thought she was going to faint.

  “What is it, Aunt Molly? What’s wrong?”

  Durant looked ashen now. He put one arm around Allison’s shoulder to steady her.

  “Roger has just had a stroke. He’s paralyzed on one side of his body. They don’t know whether or not he’s going to make it.” She broke down.

  “Oh, my God. Oh, my God,” said Allison.

  “What is it, for God’s sake? What’s the matter?” said Durant.

  “It’s Uncle Roger,” she gasped. “He’s had a stroke. He’s paralyzed. They don’t know whether he’ll live.”

  “Sweet Jesus,” said Reynolds. “Somebody better get to Rosey Grey.”

  “Do you want me to come over?” said Allison into the phone.

  “Yes—oh, please, honey, please come. Come now. The doctors are all here. They’re going to have to make an announcement fairly soon. I’ve tried to persuade them to hold off. They don’t know I’m calling you.”

  “I’ll be there as soon as I can,” said Allison. “I love you, Aunt Molly.”

  Durant had rushed down the stairs, almost tripping, he was going so fast. Several guests were leaving and they tried to stop him to thank him for the party, but he brushed them aside, leaving them staring after him. He ran out to the terrace and saw several Secret Service men conferring quietly with the Vice President. Rosey was getting the same message.

  “The President, Rosey—it’s the President,” Durant whispered as Grey looked up at him, stricken. Several people turned toward them, and as they saw the expression on the men’s faces they hushed their conversation. “The President,” said Durant very softly. Rosey nodded, then walked quickly inside to the telephone as Secret Service agents waited to escort him to the White House.

  Rosey turned back to where Sadie had been standing with the rest of the crowd in suspense on the terrace, to see that she was now being brought inside.

  “We have to get to the White House right away,” he whispered as she approached. “We have to leave
now.” And he grabbed her by the arm.

  “Wait, wait,” said Durant to Rosey. “You must take Allison Sterling. Molly just called her. Molly wants her with her. You must take Allison.”

  One of the agents went upstairs and got Allison, who was still sitting on the bed, and led her down the stairs and out to the Vice President’s limousine.

  Allison got in first, then Rosey, then Sadie. They nodded at one another. Then, all three staring out the windows in silence, the limousine sped along Chain Bridge Road, over Chain Bridge, up through Georgetown, down Pennsylvania Avenue, and up to the South Gate of the White House.

  CHAPTER 12

  It was three in the morning. Again. She still hadn’t slept through a single night, and Rosey had been President for two months.

  Everything had happened so quickly, and it hadn’t been the way she had imagined it. When she had allowed herself to think about it, it had been a remote fantasy—living in the White House, bands playing, flags waving, heads of state in and out, fabulous parties. Instead, it was terrifying and lonely. She couldn’t leave the house. Everything was a major production. Shopping? Forget it. You could stop in unannounced with your phalanx of twenty Secret Service, but by the time you had finished greeting the shop owner, nodding and smiling to customers, and being stared at, all you wanted to do was leave. It was easier to get people to bring things to you than to go out. Even going to a restaurant for lunch was a major production.

  So she had friends in to lunch. At least, everybody was dying to come to lunch at the White House. After only these few months, she felt so claustrophobic that she woke up in a cold sweat. One night she had wandered through the second-floor hall that served as the family living room, into the oval reception room, and out onto the balcony overlooking the Washington Monument and the Ellipse. There was a full moon, and the city shimmered with a luminous glow. She had never seen anything more beautiful. She leaned against the tall white pillar on the balcony in her pale peach wrapper and began to weep. She put her arm over her mouth and nearly bit it to muffle her racking sobs. She couldn’t remember ever having felt this frightened, this alone. She understood what it must feel like to be imprisoned. It wasn’t just the physical confinement. That would have been enough to depress her desperately. It was her relationship with Rosey. Would it be different if she were passionately in love with her husband? She didn’t know, but she thought it might at least be bearable. She had once read an article in some women’s magazine about a First Lady, she couldn’t remember which one. What she loved best about being First Lady, this President’s wife said, was the fact that her husband worked right there at the White House. All she had to do was walk down the hall to see him. They had never spent so much time together in their lives, and she had never been happier.