by Kathi Koll
As our monthlong vacation neared the end, I announced to Don that I never wanted to be in that house again. A few days later, I looked outside and spotted him on the veranda in a rather intense conversation with a woman I’d never seen before. “Who was that?” I asked when she left.
“She was the owner’s secretary,” he said with a broad smile. “I just made an offer on the house.”
“What?” I said. “Weren’t you listening to me earlier? I don’t ever want to step foot into this place again. Why would you make an offer on it?”
“It’s the perfect time,” he said. “The reputation of the robbery is bringing down the home’s value, and it will be a great investment.” That was Don, ever the real estate guy. Much to his chagrin, the owner would never sell that place, robbery or no.
Our last day was bittersweet. We had spent so many wonderful times there over the years with family and friends. I think our hearts were really in the place, but after all the drama, I was ready to move on to another spot and make new memories. Hopefully ones without danger and drama. Before leaving the house for the last time, Don stood on the little chair and looked into his hiding spot one more time. “Son of a gun,” I heard him yell. “The money’s back.”
Driving up the driveway, we waved goodbye to the staff for what we thought was our last time. On the way to the airport, we relived each moment. Don felt both the carjacking and house robbery were connected inside jobs. He also believed that the staff probably split the money from the sale of the jewelry, but whoever had the cut in his cash above the door felt guilty or scared and returned it. I guess I’ll never know, but Don convinced me to go back. Kind of like getting back on a horse again, and we had many more wonderful years there—minus the drama that is now part of the folklore of the village.
On the homefront, there was more excitement in store. Luckily for us, though, it was excitement of a different kind. I’ve had an interest in politics since a rainy day in 1976 when, at the young age of twenty-five, I was chosen at the local courthouse in Springfield, Missouri, to be a state delegate representing Ronald Reagan for President.
He didn’t win that year, but the excitement for the process of the caucus and of the campaign were contagious.
Don had been involved with the elections of former Presidents Nixon, Reagan, Bush 41, and Bush 43. He actually built President Nixon’s Presidential Library and, along with two other friends, bought The Western White House from him when President Nixon decided to leave California. From lively dinner discussions about who should be the next president to an emotional visit from Nancy Reagan shortly after her husband’s death, Don’s stories of times spent with former presidents are fascinating and could fill their own book.
During the 2000 campaign of former President George W. Bush, I surprised Don one day by saying, “Guess who’s coming for dinner next week.”
He was pretty shocked when my answer was Laura Bush.
“Wow, Kathi,” he said. “Good for you.”
Don, Laura Bush, and Kathi
I had offered to do a small fundraising dinner in her honor, and to my delight, I received a call from Jack Oliver, who at the time served as the national finance director for then-Governor Bush’s presidential election, giving me the green light. The dinner was in our garden in Beverly Hills for twenty guests and turned out to be one of those magical California evenings we all pray for. Perfect weather, clear skies with a view beyond the towers of Century City to the Pacific Ocean, along with a breathtaking sunset of bright oranges and pinks silhouetting the mountain range across the canyon from our home. All of this as the first course was being served. The date was September 13, 2000.
As Mrs. Bush was leaving my home she said, “What a beautiful evening this was. If I’m lucky enough to move into the White House, it will be my turn to entertain you. Please do let me know if you’re ever in DC.”
Soon after winning the election, President Bush appointed me to the Board of Trustees of The John F. Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts, which meant I was going to be in Washington on a regular basis.
Within a few months, I was in DC for my first Kennedy Center meeting and decided to take Mrs. Bush up on her offer. I called the White House and left word with her assistant that Don and I were in town and would love to see her. Word came back that she’d love to see Don the next time, but she was hosting a small ladies’ luncheon in honor of the Queen of Thailand, and she would be delighted for me to attend. And if I could make it, would I please come early so we’d have a chance to visit.
I was a wreck choosing what to wear.
I was directed to enter the White House by way of the long driveway winding through the South Lawn. My heart was racing. I had absolutely no idea what to expect. I was escorted into the Diplomatic Receiving Room where I was then taken to an elevator that carried me to a small vestibule outside the living quarters.
I wasn’t sure what to do when the doors opened. The gentleman who had operated the elevator through many administrations said, “Go ahead. You’re invited, aren’t you? Just walk up to the door.”
The door was ajar a bit. I wasn’t sure whether I should knock, walk in, or just say, “Yoo-hoo, I’m here.” All of a sudden the door opened and there was Mrs. Bush. I’m sure she sensed my nervousness. With perfect decorum, she immediately put me at ease by giving me a hug and then a little tour as we waited for the other guests to arrive. “Kathi,” she asked, “how do you like the tiger print fabric I’ve put on this small sofa? My mother-in-law can’t believe I chose it.”
“She got to decorate the way she wanted when she lived here,” I said with a sly grin. “It’s your turn now, and I think it’s fabulous.”
The other guests, including Condoleezza Rice, started arriving. When it was time to be seated, I thought there might be a mistake on the seating chart. I decided to wait till everyone else was seated to find the one empty seat left. There I was, next to Condoleezza Rice and one seat away from Mrs. Bush. I’ve never been one for “ladies’ luncheons,” but this one was one I could have repeated. The White House. The Guests. Me. What in the world was I doing there?
I wanted the afternoon to last forever, but as the saying goes, “All good things must come to an end.” Mrs. Bush walked with us into the vestibule to say good-bye. As I stepped into the elevator my heel wedged down into the track making it impossible for the door to close or for any of us, including Condoleezza Rice and the Queen’s assistant, to leave. I subtlety tried to pull my shoe out, but to no avail. I’m sure not more than a minute passed by, but the silence, the looks and my imagining the White House engineer arriving to pull my shoe out of the track was giving me true anxiety. I quickly slipped my bare foot out of my shoe, got on my knees and pulled my heel out of the track. Mrs. Bush was smiling as the door closed. The other ladies were looking at me in silence.
“Whew, do you know what a close call that was?” I said. “The President almost had to go door to door all over Washington to see whose foot would fit into this shoe.” The silence was broken and everyone started laughing.
I was fortunate that Mrs. Bush invited me to join her in the private quarters a number of times, including once with just her and her mother. Each time I would receive an invitation, Don would remind me how involved he had been throughout the years with former presidents and had never been invited to the private quarters. “Don’t worry. I get it; I’m working on it,” I told him.
In October of 2005, I was once again in DC for a Kennedy Center meeting. Don was home in California. I called Mrs. Bush’s office when I arrived to see if she could meet me at a restaurant for lunch the following day. Word came back she’d love to get together, but would it be OK if I came to The White House? It would be less complicated for her. Since it had been my invitation, and I looked at it as if I were the hostess, I took a stab with a little white lie, and said, “That would be great, but Don’s joining us, so I hope it’s OK if he comes too.”
Word came back, “Mrs. Bush would love to see
Don.”
“Don,” I quickly called home, “get on a Red Eye. You’re in for lunch at The White House tomorrow.”
He arrived early the next morning raring to go. I loved being the one with experience this time as we approached 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. “Don, first we’re going to go into The Diplomatic Receiving Room. Follow me, Don. The elevator is over here, and Mrs. Bush will be waiting for us when we walk into a small vestibule.” I was driving him crazy, but I also knew he was loving every moment of it and getting a kick out of me.
“Did I happen to mention I invited the President too?”
“What?” He said with unquestionable shock in his voice. “How could you invite the President of the United States to lunch at the White House?”
“Well, the way I look at it, I’m the hostess, and what’s there to lose? I was only being nice asking. And who knows, maybe he’s like the prom queen who no one ever asks out, and he’s just going to be having a peanut butter and jelly sandwich at his desk. All he has to say is no.”
We stepped out from the elevator, and right on cue, Mrs. Bush was waiting to greet us. Her warmth and easy manner immediately made us feel welcomed, and within minutes she made us feel like she was the lucky one to have us.
The President arrived. He said he was so happy we got word to him that we were going to be there. I quickly glanced over at Don, eyebrows raised with a wide-eyed smile. We followed the two of them to the small sitting area under the famous arched window that looks towards The Old Senate Building. The conversation flowed easily from trivia to politics to the President saying, “Prince Charles is coming next week and I’m going to be seated next to Camilla. What in the heck am I going to talk to her about?”
“Don can coach you,” I quickly answered. “He’s been seated next to her a number of times and has really enjoyed her.”
The President looked at me and said, “How is it that you two have been hanging around them?” I shrugged my shoulders, looked around the room and with a big smile replied,
“Well, look where we are today, who would have guessed”
“You have a point there,” he said, shaking his head and laughing.
4
THE DAY MY WORLD STOOD STILL
“Rock bottom became the solid foundation in which I rebuilt my life.”
—J. K. Rowling
October 27, 2005—the day that changed everything. The peak of the mountain—or was it the bottom of the sea? I had two lives with Don, and this day was the dividing line.
Every moment of that day is etched into my memory, starting with waking up in Don’s arms. We had a habit of sleeping nose to nose with my leg wrapped around him, like two pieces of a puzzle never to be separated. He slowly started kissing me, distracting me from my scheduled appointment with the subcontractors I was about to meet but quickly forgot. It was a way we started many mornings, but this one wasn’t like others. I distinctly remember thinking at the time that something was really different. What was it?
Our lovemaking had always been as good as my imagination could take me, but this morning was special. It was better than I could ever possibly imagine. It wasn’t the mechanics; it was something much more. Every nerve in my body felt completely loved. I didn’t want it to ever end. Life couldn’t be this good. How could I be this happy? Feel so in love? As we quietly rested in one another’s arms, I glanced out the window and spotted a boat cruising by. The early morning light on the bay sparkled through our partially opened blinds, and I could hear the soft sounds of seagulls in the distance. My thoughts drifted to how ideal my life truly was. I didn’t want the moment to pass, but true to form, Don sprang up and was ready to get on with his day.
Whether or not the housekeeper was coming, our normal routine was to make our bed together. This was Don’s habit, probably starting with his prep school days at Harvard Military School where, as a Prefect in charge of younger classmates, he always won the prize for best-kept dorm room. The teachers didn’t know his room was merely a “set.” He found a shed behind the school where he convinced his classmates to “keep their shit” so their room always looked perfect. Those early days instilled in him an unbreakable habit of beginning the day with a perfectly made bed. We actually had fun standing across from each other and taunting one another about whose side looked better or who could finish faster.
Over a breakfast of scrambled eggs, I reminded Don that we were meeting the contractor next door to start remodeling the home we had recently purchased. I waited patiently while Don read the paper before I brought up a few remodeling questions. Originally when buying the house, Don’s intention was to tear it down and build something new. Normally I would have loved that idea, but this home was built in 1927 and had an impossible-to-replace uniqueness. We had agreed that we would do some minor changes, live in it for a year, and then decide to keep it or scrap it. I secretly felt that that was Don’s idea of quieting me down and during that year he’d slowly work me over with new house plans. Knowing this was in the back of his mind, I figured he’d be conservative on some of the remodeling decisions. I wanted this to be a fun experience for both of us, so I said slyly, “Don, can you just say yes?”
“What do you mean, Kathi?” I wasn’t asking with the intention of taking advantage of him, but I didn’t want us to start out bickering over little things like cabinet knobs.
“Please just say yes.” OK, I admit, I sounded like a little girl.
“Go next door while I finish the paper,” he said, ignoring my pleas. “I’ll do the dishes and meet you in twenty minutes.” Obviously he just wanted to finish reading without listening to my chatter, and the dishes were a small price to pay.
I met the team upstairs in what was to be our new master bedroom. It was long and narrow, and it was closer to the bay than most homes along the strip because it was built before the city setback rules. With windows on three sides, the view was unobstructed and gave the feeling of perpetually living on a boat. The carpet had already been pulled up, and the guys were eager to get started. All of a sudden, I heard the front door fling open and the sound of Don running up the wooden stairs. He burst into our room, all energy and enthusiasm. After shaking hands with the men, he picked up a hammer and threw it into the wall. “It’s my tradition when starting a new home,” he explained with a broad smile in response to the contractors’ startled looks. “It’s the same thing I’ve always done ever since building my first home in the early ’60s with my cousin, Kenny Koll. I even did it in the custom home I built for my friend The Duke—that’s John Wayne.”
There was a moment of stunned silence.
“Well, I’ve got to get to the office. You guys work with Kathi.” He looked toward me with a twinkle in his eyes. “And by the way, yes.”
“What does yes mean?” one of the guys asked imitating his tone.
“She knows,” Don replied, never taking his eyes off mine.
That bittersweet morning was the last time I saw Don as the man I knew on “the front side of the fence.”
Don and I had planned an intimate dinner party for that evening at our home in Beverly Hills with our friends Susie Egans and the late, great Jerry Weintraub, the famous Hollywood producer. Jerry’s list of interesting friends could fill a book, and we loved that our names were among those he held dearest. Don first met Jerry years earlier when they were amongst the first members to serve as President Reagan’s presidential appointees to the Board of Trustees for The Kennedy Center in Washington, DC. They came from very different worlds, but bonded through mutual admiration for one another and a similar zest for life. We had recently run into Jerry, and he and Don talked about how fun it would be to rekindle their friendship. This was to be their reunion dinner and the path to a new friendship between Susie and me. Secretly, I had hoped we’d receive a last-minute call from Jerry pleading for us to include his pals George Clooney and Brad Pitt. Sadly, I was the one making the last-minute call.
I left Newport early to prepare our home in Beverly H
ills for our little party. Traffic on the 405 between Newport Beach and Los Angeles was backing up, so I called Don to suggest leaving his office a little early to avoid the gridlock. Within minutes, he called me back and said, “I think you better call Jerry and cancel tonight.” Don was the last one to ever cancel an engagement at the last minute, unless there was a darn good reason.
“Why?” I asked, more surprised than concerned at that point.
“I’m not feeling well,” he said. “I’m feeling kind of punk.” We had been in Scotland a few weeks earlier, and he hadn’t felt well on the trip. He thought it was the flu and just couldn’t seem to kick it.
“What are your symptoms?”
“Half of my face feels numb,” he said. “My balance is off, and I’ve been slurring some words.”
My heart sank, and my panic spiked. “Don, do you think you’re having a stroke?” He said he didn’t know but was about to leave for the hospital with his son-in-law.
A stroke had always been Don’s biggest fear. Both his father and sister had died from them during their fifties, and Don battled the aching dread he would succumb to the same fate. He visited his doctor regularly, took prescribed medications, exercised with a trainer most mornings, and did everything he thought would help to avoid what he felt would one day be his demise. Sure enough, his actions and attention to health helped him live more than two decades longer than his father and sister. We often talked about the difference it made in our lives to lose family so young. We had to become stronger because they were no longer there for us to lean on.
He stayed on the phone with me while I raced off the freeway to turn around and head back south. He sounded OK, and as he spoke, I kept thinking this had to be a false alarm. He’d be fine. He was just being overly cautious. If there were a problem, surely everything would be OK because he was getting to the hospital within the crucial first three hours. He said he’d call me as soon as he registered, knowing it would be tough for me to get there beforehand with traffic. What normally could be a two-hour drive at rush hour took me only forty-five minutes. I’m a fast driver, but this time I broke all the rules—not only speeding, but also taking the carpool lane alone. Those forty-five minutes seemed like hours. I was so scared I wouldn’t get to him in time for whatever was going to happen.