The President's Daughter

by Mariah Stewart

  "I'll look for you on Tuesday afternoon," she told him. "Now, don't hesitate to call if something comes up."

  "Nothing will come up," he assured her.

  Nothing was going to come up that would prevent his interview with Sarah Decker former First Daughter and sister to the man who would be president. Simon would be there, come hell or high water. She could bank on that.

  Simon was wondering how one might put a fresh spin on this well-known family as he drove the Mustang to Annapolis, then parked in front of the home of Sarah Decker and her husband, Rear Adm. Julian Decker. The newly retired Rear Admiral, Simon reminded himself as he followed the cobbled path to the front door of the handsome stone colonial home that sat on an impeccably landscaped lot.

  The door opened before he even lifted a hand to knock.

  "Mr. Keller?" Sarah Hayward Decker stood in the doorway, as perfect a creature as Simon had ever seen.

  "Yes." Simon nodded and smiled almost involuntarily. Clearly, photographs of the former First Daughter did not do justice to her delicate beauty. Pale blond hair to her shoulders, eyes of palest gray-blue, Sarah, in her mid-forties, could have been mistaken for a woman ten years younger.

  "You're right on time." She smiled pleasantly and gestured him to enter. "I appreciate that."

  "Thank you," Simon said as he passed her and stepped into the foyer.

  "Your coat?" She reached a hand for his topcoat, and Simon tried not to appear as awkward as he suddenly felt as he juggled his briefcase and attempted to remove his coat.

  "Thank you."

  "How about if I take that?" A still-smiling Sarah reached for the briefcase just as Simon managed to slip off the camel overcoat he'd bought the week before.

  Instead of the briefcase, Simon handed her the coat, and said, "Thank you," for the third time in almost as many seconds.

  Simon mentally kicked himself for sounding like an idiot.

  "Come on in through here," Sarah was saying as she led Simon down the hall to the back of the house. "I thought we'd sit in the sunroom to chat. It's such a lovely afternoon, so cheery and bright. I've been dying for some sunlight after this gray winter, haven't you? And what can I offer you? Do you prefer coffee or tea?"

  "Either would be fine." Simon followed her into a room that fairly burst with sunlight pouring in through windows that wrapped around three walls.

  "Or perhaps something cold?" Sarah Decker paused in the doorway.

  "Tea would be fine." He nodded.

  "I think I'll have tea as well, and a few of the raspberry shortbread cookies the housekeeper made yesterday," she said brightly. "That is, assuming that our daughter and her friends didn't finish them off last night."

  "This is a terrific room." Simon dropped his briefcase on the floor next to one of the high-backed wicker chairs that flanked a round table with a glass top.

  "Isn't it lovely?" His hostess beamed. "It was an old sunporch, but it needed such repair when we moved in. I spend so much time in this part of the house now. I have lunch here every day, overlooking the gardens."

  Clearly this was a woman's room, with delicate lace curtains tied back at all the windows, pale rose flowered wallpaper covering the one wall that wasn't windowed, and white furniture, all reinforcing Simon's first impression of Sarah Decker as a very soft, feminine woman.

  Sarah returned in minutes with a tray that held a teapot, two blue-and-white ceramic mugs with small matching plates, a sugar bowl, two spoons, several linen napkins, and a clear glass plate upon which a small mountain of cookies was stacked.

  She took the seat opposite Simon's. He had a feeling that the tray had been prepared and waiting in the kitchen.

  "Here you go," she said as she placed the tray in the center of the table.

  "Mrs. Decker—"

  "Sarah," she said as she lifted a mug, poured the tea, and offered the mug to Simon with one smooth, practiced movement. "Please call me Sarah. I'm feeling enough of the years, with my oldest daughter turning twenty in February and my youngest turning seventeen next week. And unless you object, I'll call you Simon. Is that all right?"

  "That would be fine."

  "We're really quite informal here, as you can see." She blessed him with a smile and stirred a touch of sugar into her tea.

  Simon had viewed countless film clips and photographs of the former First Family over the past week, but once again he acknowledged that none of them had really captured the beauty of the woman who sat across the table from him. Sarah Hayward had been a pretty teenager, but over the years she had grown quite lovely. Simon suspected there might be a bit of steel under all that softness, considering the sturdy New England stock she'd come from.

  "My mother said she had a pleasant conversation with you yesterday," Sarah said.

  "The pleasure was all mine. I'm looking forward to meeting with her. I'm guessing she was a formidable First Lady. In her own quiet way, of course."

  "My mother has been quietly formidable in every aspect of her life." Sarah laughed. "In every role she's played."

  "That's an interesting way to put it. Which do you feel was her best?"

  "Her best?"

  "Her best role."

  "Oh, that's easy." Sarah slipped several cookies onto a plate and passed it to Simon with a napkin. "Mrs. Graham Hayward was definitely the job she did best. Both before and after the White House."

  "And as a mother?"

  "She was wonderful. Loving. Supportive. Always on our side, mine and Gray's. When we had a problem, she helped us to find a solution. She taught us both that there were few situations in this life over which we could not gain a certain amount of control if we tried hard enough. She was also very understanding, always put our needs and our happiness first, regardless of what anyone else might think."

  "Such as ... ?"

  Sarah nibbled at the corner of her cookie. "Such as letting me stay at boarding school even after my father was elected."

  "That was important to you?"

  "It was at the time. I was thirteen when my father ran for his first term. My parents were gone for weeks at a time. After my father won the election, I begged to stay at school, to stay with my friends. My mother championed that for me, convinced my dad—and the Secret Service—that it could be done without taking any risks."

  "Do you feel you missed anything by living at school instead of in the White House? That had to have been a pretty exciting place."

  "Don't forget we had lived in Washington for twelve years. I started at Beaumont Academy when I was in grade school. School was a mere forty-five minutes— that's forty-five minutes in traffic—from Pennsylvania Avenue. I went back and forth whenever I wanted."

  "So you had the best of both worlds."

  "Exactly. I had a room there—after all, it was our family home—but really, when you live in the White House, everything happens around you." Sarah grinned. "There, it was never about me, you understand. It was always about my dad, which is how it should have been, of course, since he was the President. But as a teenager, I wanted to be the center of attention, too, you know. I guess everyone does at that age, at least to some extent. At school, everyone knew me and accepted me for what I was ... whatever that was back then. So I stayed at Beaumont during the week, but I spent almost every weekend with my folks and often brought a friend or five home with me."

  "I think I do recall reading something about slumber parties on the top floor of the White House."

  "Many slumber parties." Sarah's eyes danced. "Lots of loud music and having pizza delivered in the middle of the night. Lots of lectures from my mother the next morning. Just like any other teenager."

  "And from Beaumont you went to Brown?"

  "What Hayward did not go to Brown? Other than Mother and Jen, of course, since it was still all men then. But our Emily, Dad, Gray, my grandfathers on both sides . .. how far back would you like me to go?" Sarah laughed softly.

  "And your husband?"

  "Julian's dream had always been to
go to Annapolis, but of course he is from a navy family. He and his father both were in Vietnam, and his grandfather served in the South Pacific during the Second World War."

  "How did you meet?"

  "His younger sister; Carolyn, was a classmate of mine at Beaumont."

  "Ah, that's nice. Did you know, when you graduated, that you'd be sisters-in-law someday?"

  "Well, we didn't exactly graduate together. She, they—Carolyn and the others from my class—graduated a year earlier than I, since I took a year off in high school." Sarah hesitated slightly, then asked, "Had I mentioned that?"

  "No."

  "Oh. Well, I traveled a lot with my parents during what would have been my senior year—my dad had a lot of visits and such scheduled that year in Europe and several in South America, so we decided that I'd take that whole year off so that I could go with them. That was the biggest concession I made to being First Daughter."

  She smiled somewhat wistfully. "Of course, by the time I got back to school in the fall, all of my closest friends had graduated. And after college, well, we all settled in different parts of the country. Got involved in our own lives, our careers, our children. It seems that the only time I ever see my old friends now is at weddings and funerals. The last time, happily, was a wedding."

  "How long ago was that?"

  "Three or four years ago." Sarah sighed. "It's really a shame, but it seems that once your children hit a certain age, your life is no longer your own, between this activity and that. Although with Kirsten getting her driver's license in another week, I will have a few hours each day when I won't be on call."

  "Are you telling me that Sarah Hayward Decker, former First Daughter, is a soccer mom?"

  "Lacrosse mom," she corrected him good-naturedly. "This is Maryland, you know. We carry sticks down here."

  "I take it that both of your daughters play?"

  "Every chance they get."

  "And what is your husband doing now that he's retired?"

  "Has Julian retired?" She feigned shock. "I hadn't noticed."

  She laughed. "Actually, Julian has always been a bit of a secret scholar, so he volunteered to give a lecture class at the Academy this year. He's loving it to death. And he's busy writing, trying his hand at fiction. He's writing a mystery set here in Annapolis. And he is perfecting his golf game."

  "And you?"

  "I golf right along with him. I play tennis twice a week with friends. I joined a gym. Started lifting weights." She raised her right arm and pretended to flex a muscle. "Can't see much improvement, but then again, I've only been lifting for three weeks."

  "You don't strike me as the weight-lifter type."

  "Now, now, that is definitely not a PC remark, Mr. Keller." Sarah took a long sip of tea. "Though I admit that I only took it up because my doctor told me it was a good way to avoid osteoporosis and I thought, why not? I have no aspirations for bodybuilding, but I'm doing quite well. Gray's wife, Jen, is lifting now, too— she's becoming the real iron woman in the family. And I've even gotten Mother to lift a weight now and then, and though she won't admit it, she's building up a muscle or two herself. Not a ladylike endeavor in her circle, but there it is."

  "What are your best memories of the White House?" Simon asked.

  "Oh, the incredible food," Sarah laughed. "They had wonderful dinner parties and everyone would be beautifully dressed, long gowns and fantastic jewelry. Elegant people from all over the world. Ambassadors and princes. Movie stars and heads of state. It was like slipping into another world, those parties. And the White House at night, well, it was like a movie scene, only better, because it was real." She stood up and walked to a wicker armoire, opened the center doors, and scanned a stack of books. She withdrew one and tucked it under her arm.

  "Come sit on the sofa with me and I'll show you." She took a seat and patted the cushion next to her. She opened the book and held it on her lap.

  "See here," she said as Simon sat where she'd indicated. "Here's one of my old photo albums. Here's Barbra Streisand. And Paul Newman. An astronaut, I can't recall which one. Muhammad Ali..."

  Sarah's index finger touched one photo after another.

  "You're not in any of these," Simon noted.

  "That's because I took them all."

  "That was quite an opportunity for a teenager."

  "You're telling me."

  "It must have been fun," Simon murmured as she turned page after page of pictures of the rich and famous and important.

  "Playing amateur photographer?"

  "Being the daughter of the President of the United States."

  "Most fun I ever had," Sarah said softly as she returned the album to its place on the shelf and lifted another. "I loved being First Daughter every bit as much as my mother loved being First Lady."

  "Even though you preferred to live at boarding school?"

  "One had nothing to do with the other." Her words were crisp, not quite a snap, but it was, Simon realized, the first bit of real emotion she'd shown since he had arrived.

  "Do you have pictures from your trips abroad?" he asked, wondering what had caused the momentary pique.

  Sarah looked over her shoulder and paused, then turned back to the shelves, tapping her fingers on the nearest shelf as if hunting for something in particular. Finally, she pulled out an album that looked almost identical to the first.

  "I must have left that album at my mother's." She smiled warmly, the moment of tension having passed. "But this one has mostly pictures of my dad."

  She eased back onto the sofa.

  "See this one?" She turned the book toward Simon. "This is one of my most favorite photographs ever."

  "Who is the woman with your father?" Simon peered at the white-haired woman who stood smiling in the embrace of Graham Hayward in what was obviously the Oval Office.

  "That's Mrs. Carlyle, Dad's secretary. He loved this picture so much that he had it enlarged and framed and gave it to her when he left office. She was such a great lady." Sarah turned the pages, pausing to point out this dignitary or that celebrity she'd caught on camera so long ago.

  "Now, is that Miles Kendall?" Simon turned the album into the light to get a better look.

  "Yes. He was my dad's Chief of Staff." Sarah nodded. "And his best friend."

  "I understand he's been ill."

  "Yes. It's such a shame, really. He and Dad were best friends forever. And he was almost like a second father to me. Whenever my parents were out of town, he was the one I had to answer to. He stood in for my dad so many times." Sarah's smile was nostalgic. "He even taught me how to drive. It's just heartbreaking, the way ... well, the way he is now."

  "You visit him, then?"

  "No. I'm ashamed to say it, but no, I don't. The last time I saw Miles was right after they moved him to this new home. We all went together—Mom, Gray and Jen, and I. It was clear that the man we knew and loved was . .. well, just not there anymore. He didn't recognize any of us, and never spoke a word while we were there. It was very upsetting. Not very noble of me, but I just haven't been able to face going back."

  "Do you happen to know Kendall's nephew, the one who made the arrangements with the home?"

  "It was Dan ..." Sarah pursed her lips. "Dan ... I can't think of his last name. My brother might know, though."

  "I'll be seeing him soon, so I'll make a note to myself to ask."

  "You aren't thinking about going to see Miles, are you?" Sarah's eyes widened slightly.

  "Yes. After all, he was the confidant of a President."

  "I doubt that he remembers anything from that time, Simon. It's terribly sad, but I'm afraid it's true," Sarah said. The pages of the book of photos made a sharp snapping sound as she closed it and stood up.

  "Maybe I'll hit him on a good day."

  "I'm not sure he has any, anymore. But of course, you should check that out for yourself. And you might want to call first and save yourself the drive."

  "That sounds like good advice."
r />   After an awkward pause, the former First Daughter stood up, and Simon realized she was bringing the interview to a close.

  "Now, if there's anything else you need to know, any other questions you want answered, feel free to give me a call," Sarah said pleasantly, once again the charming hostess.

  "I may need one more interview," Simon said. He folded his notes into his briefcase and snapped the lid before standing up. "And as we discussed on the phone, I'll be faxing over a short list of questions. You don't have to answer all of them—this isn't a test—but if you could just add any thoughts you might have, I'd appreciate it."

  "Well, whatever you need." Sarah led him back down the hall to the front door.

  "I appreciate your time." Simon had started to extend his hand to hers when her phone rang.

  She startled, then laughed and said, "I'll bet that's Kirsten. I think I was supposed to pick her up after school today and it looks like I may be late."

  "Then I'll get out of your hair and let you go." Simon opened the door and took one step out.

  "Thanks for understanding. We'll talk again." She was still smiling as she closed the door and disappeared behind it.

  Simon slid the Mustang into the first open spot in the visitors parking lot and stared at the handsome mansion that, five years earlier, had been converted into St. Margaret's, a care facility for well-to-do seniors who could no longer live on their own. Some of the residents required only minimal assistance, while others—those who lived on the newly constructed lower level— demanded the highest level of concern from their caretakers. And these, the Alzheimer's patients, also paid the heftiest fees for the privilege of living here on the old estate at the top of the Patuxent River, midway between the nation's capital and the Chesapeake Bay. Patients such as Miles Kendall.

  Kendall must have seen it all back in the Hayward days, Simon thought, and if he could remember something of those days—even just the flavor of those times—Simon's book, newly titled Remember the Time: An Intimate Portrait of an American President, would be a fitting biography. The concept—to present the many faces of the man in the words of those who'd known him best—had come to Simon as he'd driven from Annapolis. After checking his watch and finding several hours left in the afternoon and realizing that St. Margaret's was a relatively short drive away, Simon decided on a whim to stop and see for himself just what the former White House aide did—or didn't— remember.