Calamity at the Continental Club

by Colleen J. Shogan

  “This is our main dining room. We serve lunch and dinner daily, except for Sunday, when we host our legendary champagne brunch. Will you be joining us for brunch? I believe your reservation is only for tonight and Thursday evening.”

  I suppressed a scowl. When we’d entered into negotiations concerning the Mayflower gathering—akin to the Paris peace talks—I’d held my ground and insisted we return to Arlington on Friday. Clarence had been a convenient excuse. After all, he could only survive Meg’s inferior dog handling skills for so long.

  Doug answered, “Only two nights. We don’t know if we’ll join the others for Sunday brunch.”

  What was he saying? I’d agreed to Friday and that was it. I shot him a stream of daggers, but Doug refused to let them hit the mark. I was not happy. Just because I’d promised to play nice in the sandbox didn’t mean the rules went out the window.

  Bonnie was oblivious to dissension amongst the troops. “You must attend if at all possible. It’s divine.” She looked pointedly at me. “We serve delicious champagne with brunch.” Props to Bonnie. She’d read me like an open book.

  She shuttled us inside an area adjacent to the main dining room called the MacArthur Room. With a sweep of her arm, she explained enthusiastically, “This is where Sunday brunch is served. We have every possible entrée, along with carving, omelet, and dessert stations.”

  Doug’s eyes lit up. We both liked to eat, and normally Bonnie’s passionate endorsement would have sold us both. But there was no way I was agreeing to extend our visit until Sunday.

  Doug must have finally caught my groove. “We’ll have to see. Thank you very much for showing us around.”

  Bonnie nodded. “I’ll take you to our bar and the outdoor seating where your parents are enjoying cocktails.” She fell into lockstep with Doug, leaving me to trail behind. Still, I had no trouble hearing their conversation.

  “Aren’t you a tenured history professor at Georgetown, Dr. Hollingsworth?”

  Ugh. I hated it when people called Doug “Doctor.” Anytime he saw blood, Doug ran faster than a NFL running back headed for the end zone. To me, the title “doctor” should be reserved for medical doctors.

  Doug nodded, which spurred Bonnie on. “I don’t represent the admissions committee, but given your considerable achievements at a young age, I believe membership in the Continental Club would be attainable.”

  Doug’s face lit up. This wasn’t my scene, but once again, I’d done my homework. The club was a bastion of the Washington D.C. elite. Several social clubs of its kind existed within the city, each with its own flavor and notoriety. The Continental Club attracted the cerebral, smarty-pants crowd.

  The exchange between Bonnie and Doug continued. She was laying on the hard sell, and Doug ate it up. Finally, we reached the bar, and my mood instantly improved. First, that meant drinks were in order, and I certainly deserved one. Second, the bar area met my standards. It had a rustic, hunting cabin feel to it, with high-backed booths and stately wooden tables. Unlike most popular bars in Washington D.C. or the inner suburbs, there was no annoying gaggle of twenty-somethings lined up trying to get the server’s attention. Instead, two eager bartenders smiled and quickly asked for our order.

  After Bonnie left, Doug asked me if I’d like a drink.

  “Yes, and I’d prefer a stiff one.”

  The bartender closest to me laughed. I immediately liked him. At least someone had a sense of humor.

  “Two gin and tonics, please, with Hendrick’s, if you have it.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Doug added, “You can put it on Winston and Buffy Hollingsworth’s tab.”

  After the friendly bartender handed the drink over, I took a sip. It was perfect. Maybe the next few days wouldn’t be so bad.

  “Thanks so much. What’s your name? I’m Kit Marshall. We live in Arlington but we’re staying here with my future in-laws for the Mayflower Society meeting.”

  “My name is Charles. I hope you enjoy your stay.” He winked at me.

  “If you keep making me drinks like this, it will certainly help.”

  Charles laughed. “I’ll be here, and I’m happy to assist.” Then he added, “Good luck, Ms. Marshall.”

  As I turned to walk outside, I noticed a dartboard on the wall. It seemed out of place, since there was no room in the tiny bar to play the game. I pointed to the board and asked jokingly, “Does this help you pass the time?”

  Charles shook his head. “It’s a new addition. Like many items inside this building, it was a gift from a member. According to the donor, this dartboard was used at Camp David by several presidents.”

  I raised my glass in acknowledgment and followed Doug to the rear of the bar area. Beautifully adorned glass doors led to the outside courtyard.

  The Hollingsworths were sitting at a large table, each sipping from a martini glass. They weren’t teetotalers, thank goodness. As soon as Buffy saw us, she jumped up. “Doug, you finally made it!”

  I stood awkwardly behind Doug as his parents made a fuss over him. Buffy turned to me. “Kit, it’s so good to see you. Congratulations! Let me see your ring.”

  Before I could demur, she grabbed my left hand and shoved it under her nose for a closer look. There was nothing ostentatious about my engagement ring, a simple one-carat diamond in a modern halo setting. Doug could afford a ring three times its size, but flashy wasn’t my style.

  Buffy grabbed the reading glasses around her neck and put them on. Her silence was telling, along with the disapproving wrinkle of her nose. After a long moment, she couldn’t hold her tongue. “Doug, why didn’t you consult with us? We have plenty of jewels in the Hollingsworth family collection that would have been suitable for an engagement ring.”

  We were off to a fantastic start. Doug ran his hand through his hair, a telltale sign of stress. “I wanted to shop for the ring myself. You don’t approve?”

  Buffy let go of my hand. “Lovely, darling. Not traditional, of course. I suppose that’s the contemporary style.” She returned to her seat and took a long sip of her martini.

  Winston grinned, enveloped me in his arms, and guided me to a chair. “Don’t mind her, Kit. She’s just excited to plan a wedding.”

  He’d managed to confirm my deepest fear. Still, I remained quiet and took a seat. After giving me a look that could only be interpreted as a veiled warning to remain calm, Doug took a seat.

  As Doug and his parents caught up on news of the never-ending successes of the extended Hollingsworth clan, I studied my future in-laws. In their mid-sixties, they had accepted their age with the grace and poise that considerable wealth provides. Buffy had embraced the trendy gray hair color phenomenon. Her chin-length locks were a silver hue that made her appear sophisticated rather than old. She’d paired a springy pastel suit, likely Chanel, with a pale yellow silk scarf and earth-toned makeup. Winston was no slouch, either. Of course, he wore an impeccably tailored suit. I’d never seen Doug’s father in anything other than a suit. Hopefully he didn’t wear one to bed. He’d perfected the distinguished gentleman lawyer look decades ago and wasn’t messing with it.

  Just as I was mentally preparing myself to rejoin the conversation, Buffy exclaimed, “Grayson!”

  A tall man approximately the same age as my in-laws strode toward the table. He returned the greeting, “Buffy and Winston! Delighted to see you.”

  Buffy sprang to her feet and gave Grayson a polite hug. My future father-in-law remained silent. I couldn’t help but notice that he stayed in his seat, and that a flash of annoyance tightened his features.

  “Grayson, you’ve met Doug. He’s a historian at Georgetown, remember?”

  Doug stood to shake his hand. Grayson huffed, “I suppose we have a true professional gracing our presence for the next couple of days.”

  Doug narrowed his eyes but said nothing. Instead, Winston piped up, “That’s right, Bancroft. Might be a good reason for you to stop talking and start listening. You might learn something.”


  Grayson tittered. “Now, Winston, there’s no need for that. We’re all here to learn, and I’m sure your son will be a valuable addition.”

  Grayson turned his gaze to me and offered his hand. “And who is this lovely creature?”

  I squirmed uncomfortably. “My name is Kit, and I’m Doug’s fiancée.”

  Grayson kissed my hand lightly. “Enchanting. At least we know the young Hollingsworth has good taste.”

  Never one to take a backseat to anyone, Buffy interrupted. “Grayson, will you sit and have a drink with us before dinner?”

  “Unfortunately, I cannot. Duty calls, and I must attend to numerous details before we begin our proceedings. I shall look forward to seeing you shortly.” With that, Grayson hustled back toward the entrance to the indoor bar area.

  My plan for the next couple of days was to speak only when spoken to, but curiosity had already gotten the better of me. “Who was that?”

  Doug answered, “Only one of the richest men in the Washington D.C. area. Grayson Bancroft, who owns Bancroft Multimedia, plus a dozen other investment companies. His net worth is in the billions.”

  “Billions? Like with the letter ‘B’?” I asked.

  “You got it,” said Doug.

  Buffy broke in, “He’s also the president of the Mayflower Society. We’ve known him for decades, haven’t we, darling?”

  Winston huffed. “Unfortunately. The man is insufferable.”

  Buffy wagged a finger at Winston. In a scolding tone, she said, “Winston, stop it. Everyone knows you want to be president of Mayflower.”

  He grumbled, “Fat chance. He’ll never give it up, even on his deathbed.”

  Doug raised his eyebrows and tried to suppress a smile. “Father, this is the most annoyed I’ve seen you in years.”

  Finishing off her martini, Buffy said, “He’s frustrated. What Winston wants, Winston gets. Except when it comes to Grayson Bancroft. He’s tried to wrestle the presidency of the Mayflower Society away from him for years, but it’s impossible.”

  Winston’s face fell. “The man has more money than God,” he explained, “so the other members of the Mayflower board don’t see any reason for him to give up the chair. There’s no way I can compete.”

  “That’s life, my dear. You’d best roll with it.” To me, Buffy said, “Kit, I’m such a fool! This ridiculous business with Grayson distracted me.”

  She reached underneath the table and rifled through her large leather shoulder bag. I strained to see the Louis Vuitton label. They’d just returned from a week in Paris, and the purse had likely been a prized acquisition from her one-woman invasion of the Champs Élysées.

  Buffy’s eyes lit up as she proudly spread several glossy magazines on the table. “I’ve been doing my research.”

  Like a Floridian caught in a snowstorm, I froze. Did Buffy want us to page through these publications together so we could plan the wedding? The promise to behave myself suddenly seemed impossible.

  After a long moment, Doug cleared his throat, signaling me to respond. I mustered a shaky smile. “Um, thank you. I’ve been so busy with work, I haven’t had a chance to begin planning.”

  Buffy nodded sympathetically. “Just as I thought. You work too hard, Kit. Hopefully some day that will change.” She gave me a knowing look.

  This conversation had gone from bad to worse. The wedding planning was the tip of the iceberg. Apparently Buffy also engaged in career counseling.

  “Not anytime soon, I’m afraid. My job on Capitol Hill is rather demanding.”

  Buffy ignored my comment. Instead, she opened up the Town & Country wedding issue. “What do you think of this color scheme for a fall wedding?”

  Doug must have sensed it was high time we broke up our little cocktail party. “Plenty of opportunities to toss around wedding ideas in the coming days. Right now, we’re due upstairs for dinner.”

  Saved by the bell known as Doug. I mouthed thank you to him as we walked inside.

  He pulled me close and whispered, “These next couple of days are going to be murder.”

  If he ever grows tired of being a history professor, Doug might just have a future as a psychic.

  Chapter Three

  Back inside the mansion lobby, we climbed a winding staircase, past a gallery adorned with gorgeous portraits and artwork. From there the staff pointed us in the direction of our dinner. I nudged Doug. “What’s inside that room?” I pointed to a large ballroom entrance slightly to our left.

  “Don’t know.” He looked nervously toward the stream of fellow Mayflowers headed into our assigned room.

  “Let’s check it out. It’ll only take a second.” I grabbed his hand and pulled him along.

  The Continental Club staff glanced our way, but said nothing.

  “See, they don’t care if we check it out.”

  We walked into a huge ballroom that could only be compared to the palace at Versailles. We were both awestruck by the regality of the space, with its floor-length mirrors, sheer curtains, ceiling murals, and crystal chandeliers. The room stood empty for the evening, yet it didn’t take much to imagine how impressive it would look for a formal event. Suddenly, it hit me. The Continental Club looked familiar because it was a landed version of the Titanic. I could almost imagine Leonardo DiCaprio holding out his hand, asking Kate Winslet for a dance across the beautiful hardwood floor.

  “May I help you?”

  Not one to tolerate stragglers, Bonnie had tracked us down. I’d take the heat for this one. “I caught a glimpse of the entrance to this room, and I couldn’t resist a peek.”

  To my surprise, Bonnie didn’t appear one bit upset. In fact, she sounded excited. “It’s hard to pass up a chance to admire our ballroom. It recently received a million-dollar renovation. Now it looks exactly like it did in early twentieth century.”

  “It certainly does,” I said.

  “What do you use this room for now?” Doug asked.

  “Musical concerts, formal dances, and receptions.” Then she added, “Plus private events, like weddings.” She gave me a knowing glance.

  That figured. Bonnie was in on the gig. She knew the Hollingsworths were checking the place out for our future nuptials. The baroque ballroom was beyond impressive. Yet not exactly what I’d envisioned for my wedding.

  Bonnie’s last comment spurred Doug into action. “Thank you for showing it to us. We should join the others for dinner now.” He put his hand on the small of my back and guided me out of the room.

  We walked down a short hallway and entered a wood-paneled dining room. Five tables were draped with crisp white tablecloths and adorned with ornate china and crystal glassware. Other Mayflower Society attendees were milling about, and a waiter offered me a glass of champagne.

  “We won’t go thirsty,” I muttered to myself.

  “No, indeed.” I turned around to face the deep baritone voice.

  “Sorry, I didn’t know anyone was listening. My name is Kit Marshall.”

  I extended my hand, and my eavesdropper shook it politely. “Frederick Valdez. Here’s sage advice for you. Someone is always listening.”

  Winston must have overheard the last line. After a hearty chuckle, he joined our conversation. “You would do well to heed Frederick’s words. He’s made a fortune as an early designer of cellphones.”

  Now I got the joke. “I should know better. Where I work, the walls have ears. So do the doors, elevators, and pretty much everything in between.”

  “My future daughter-in-law is a Capitol Hill staffer,” Winston explained.

  Frederick, who I guessed was in his early fifties, leaned closer. “Now I’m interested. Maybe this soiree won’t bore me to tears after all.”

  “You have to excuse Frederick. He’s not much of a history fan,” said Winston.

  I was intrigued. “Then why on earth would you subject yourself to days of lectures and tours?” Certainly a man of Frederick’s station in life had other options for entertainment.

>   The non-antiquarian sighed. “It’s an easy explanation. My wife Lola is a history buff. We attend every year because she enjoys it so much.”

  “Did someone say my name?” A woman roughly the same age as Frederick entered our circle. She had on a flowing pastel blouse and matching skirt better suited to a ’70s revival of Hair than the Continental Club. Dangling feather earrings completed the hippie chick look. My black Macy’s pants and matching blazer seemed boring in comparison. I owned seven similar outfits, the Washington D.C. version of a mandatory Catholic school uniform. Hillary Clinton wasn’t the only one with an extensive pantsuit collection.

  Winston gave our new visitor a hug. “Good to see you, Lola.”

  After introductions had been made, Lola smiled warmly at me. “I hope to hear all about your work in Congress, especially since you’re now in the employ of that vibrant young woman from North Carolina.”

  She must have noted the surprise on my face. Leaning closer, Lola lowered her voice, “Winston keeps me informed about your career. He’s actually quite proud of you. Thank goodness we have a Democrat in that House seat.” She sipped her champagne and ran her empty hand through her free-flowing blonde hair.

  Despite her attempt to keep our conversation private, nothing escaped her spouse’s ears. “Please, Lola. Stop with the politics. We don’t need to hear your leftist views right before we eat.”

  “You don’t share the same beliefs,” I commented.

  Before Frederick or Lola could respond, Winston interjected, “That’s an understatement!”

  Lola laughed. “My husband’s pro-business, anti-tax beliefs are a constant source of entertainment for me.” She wove her right arm around his waist and gave him a squeeze.

  Frederick said, “She’s right. There’s never a dull moment.”

  Grayson Bancroft’s booming voice filled the room. “Ladies and gentleman, I hope you have enjoyed the cocktail hour. Please find a seat so we can begin this evening’s dinner.”