“Grant.” All the unspent passion and sexual energy of the hours with Harrison underscored her greeting. “We must talk.”
Her fur flew open as she put one hand on her waist, revealing her well-kept body beneath her skimpy slip. In one gesture, Grant switched on the lamp and sat upright. Anger, embarrassment, and amusement rippled through his expression.
“Are you nuts, Claire? What's happened? China's invaded us while I was sleeping? What? What?”
“I think we should get married.”
“What?” There was still sleep to be rubbed out of his eyes. It was three o'clock in the morning.
“Weren't you proposing last week when you said we were the perfect power couple?”
“Yes, but—”
“Move over. I accept.”
HurryUp
Of any stopping place in life, it is good to ask whether it will be a good place from which to go on as well as a good place to remain.
—
Mary Catherine Bateson
O
vernight, Claire stopped being perceived as a sightseeing tourist and became a bona fide Beltway player. After two years of hard work legislating social reform and harder work opening the doors to Washington's all-boy inner sanctum, Claire's foray into politics was instantly legitimized with a pair of “I do”s. Claire was now one-half of this company town's hottest power couple, prominent enough to rate editorial page punditry. The
Congressional Record
depicted her in its political cartoons as a women's-libbing bulldog, while the
Post's
cartoonist had satirically drawn her as Grant's “pet poodle.”
Claire and Grant laughed at the high-level gossip they sparked over the late fireside suppers they shared.
“I'd understand all the curiosity if I were a cabinet member or spying for Russia.” She dropped two sugar lumps into his coffee. “But all this commotion just for being a lowly congresswoman? What is the fascination in two mature, ordinary people settling down together?”
Grant grinned lopsidedly at his bride. “We're neither ordinary nor particularly mature. If I weren't sleeping with you, I'd be rooting through your garbage looking for gossip to print about you.” He leaned over to kiss the inside of her wrist, a grin as wide as the Potomac reshaping his mouth.
Claire winced. Some of the past was just too raw to be reminded of.
“No you wouldn't. You're a gentleman. And becoming quite a good husband.”
“A rank amateur at it. I'm a newspaper fellow first. You just understand me so well. That's what's so terrific about you. You never sulk when I stand you up for Kissinger.” He winked at her, half closing a flirty eye. “I feel as if I just joined the most elite men's club in the world: the Husbands of Claire Club.”
Claire put down her fork in mock protest. This man who possessed fistfuls of power and smarts could sometimes have the maturity level of a boastful teenager. Somehow, though, they were making it all work out very nicely. She raised her wrist to meet his lips.
Amazing, Claire thought, how since she had taken not just her second congressional oath but her fourth marital vow, how much faster her phone calls got returned these days and how she suddenly rated a choicer hook in the Capitol cloakroom. All this in the bra-burning age of feminism. She sighed. Even old Senator Pines, the bigoted octogenarian who chaired the Committee on Child and Welfare Reforms, had stopped greeting her with a booming “Helloooo, Congresslady Hollywooood. Don't our gams look gooood today!”—at least to her face. As the Hollywood Widow she'd usually cringed whenever she found herself sharing the Russell Building's dinner mint-sized elevator with the southern senator and his vexing prejudices. “A hundred years behind the times,” she'd exclaimed to Grant. “He belongs in a curio shop, not Congress!” Pines and Claire had crossed sharp swords with unendearing regularity. But now she suddenly rated a hearty handshake—and a fair hearing on her Head Start and hot-lunch programs, one of which had just passed the Senate. And it was simply because Claire shared a pillow with the owner of the most influential paper in the senator's home state.
Yes, marrying Grant had been the correct career move. Her union with the owner of the country's second most influential newspaper was a good one in her mind, even if with their busy schedules and her frequent trips to California to visit her constituents it wasn't always a toe-warmer. Being Harrison's mistress—a second time—well, that would have been unthinkable. Though those pretty thoughts still danced through her brain when she wasn't careful. Probably they always would. This husband she had was a handful. Dashingly handsome, self-absorbed, the one-man think tank sitting across from her each morning over orange juice and seven newspapers ground his teeth in his sleep and often awakened with a guilty look on his face. As if he, too, might have been dreaming about someone else.
Will you never stop marrying men you don't love?
Harrison had written to her on the stationery, which bore his name as a head, that accompanied her wedding gift. But the problem was, if it was love, it could be only Harrison. And if it couldn't be Harrison, it would always be somebody almost like him. In her matrimonial laundry list there was the boyish soldier with the same name, followed by the Italian pirate who shared Harrison's financial acumen, succeeded by the kind man who shared his insight, and now Fenwick Grant, who simply looked like him, all their shortcomings coming out in the wash. Claire was careful not to ascribe too many Harrison-like qualities to her cocky newspaperman husband. If she were back in Hollywood, she would never have cast him in the Harrison part.It would be like Cary Grant playing Moses. She giggled at the thought.
Claire reined in her horse. She was out riding the trails at HurryUp. After four years of marriage, she and Grant had settled into a pleasant routine. It was only when she was alone or in the company of an old friend like Pam that she allowed Harrison into the conversation.
Always Harrison. She sighed to the lace frost on the December trees that lined the path.
“Harrison's always the same,” Pamela Harriman, Claire's red-haired riding companion, echoed. “You'd think the man would have a bald spot like Averell by now or use a cane. Even have a cataract. But no, he's a silver-haired Adonis. We saw him out in New York at the Whitneys’. Starling was home with that ridiculous Nile fever, ailing as usual. Creatures like her have no genetic stamina. If she was a horse, they'd shoot her.” It was obvious that Pam had no patience for sickness. “He was quite elegant in his English bespoke suit. Dark blue with a wide chalk stripe. So very Harrison.”
Pamela sat perfectly straight astride her horse, the top of her velvet helmet peeking over her horse's ears. She looked handsome in her tan jodhpurs, polished J. Lobb black boots that came to just below the knee, and a tweed riding coat cut to accommodate her ample bosom—the bosom that Slim half-joked had been pointed like a Holland and Holland big-game hunting rifle at the world's richest men.
Her red flame of hair was cupped around ears that listened only selectively, and a line of freckles stubbornly crossed the delicate bridge of her nose. Some indication of the lady's own tenacity. At fifty-four, she still possessed a girlishness that glimmered through her cool, hard shell. Claire still considered Pam more of a fellow traveler than a friend, as they had very little in common except for the number of old skins they had shed.
“Averell's putting me on the board of Braniff. He thinks I should know more about the business of money.”
“I think you've managed very well without an M.B.A.,” Claire deadpanned, wishing that someone with a sense of irony, Auntie Slim perhaps, were along for the ride.
Pam possessed a vague air of disconnectedness, seeming to suffer separation anxiety whenever she was even more than a foot or two away from her husband. Having finally landed her married lover from thirty years before, she held on to him as tightly as if he were a young stallion from her stables instead of a hard-of-hearing eighty-two-year-old geezer. She had practically rescued him from the grave, Claire marveled, reviving him into marriage where, in a growing collection of homes, she took such good care of him that he was miraculously invigorated and revitalized. Like an old oak that had suddenly sprouted a new branch. Pam often referred to Averell as “me Governor,” as if bestowing his old title on him elevated
her
a step up in the life she'd built on borrowed prestige.
The two horses halted at a fallen tree on the trail.
“Women with important husbands have so many hurdles to jump.” Pamela Churchill Hayward Harriman spoke from experience. She led the way over the dead wood with her high-stepping horse. She had brought her own costly thoroughbred with her for the weekend. Even though she was now married to a vastly wealthy political emissary, she still referred to herself as Winston Churchill's daughter-in-law, glowing in the reflection of history's giant hero the way other women clipped on a pair of bright earrings.
“You're so clever, Pammie. You should write a book. Sort of a survival manual.”
Advice for the Other Woman,
Claire thought as she posted expertly. Claire sat as lightly in her saddle as if she had been born to it. With each new success of her own, her confidence grew.
It amazed Claire that this woman, who had been surrounded by so many great men, had never ventured out with a career agenda of her own or been bitten by her own bug of ambition. She had settled instead for spousal or mistress duty serving gift-bearing titans of all sorts.
“What is Grant giving you for your birthday? Averell gave me a plane,” Pam said flatly, as if receiving an aircraft was like getting a toaster. “You know, dear, you really have nothing to show for all your marriages.”
“I have my daughter. And my politics. Not to mention my adorable grandbabies. And a very bright future.” Claire brushed off Pam's remarks like evaporating snowflakes.
“But where are your financial assets?”
“Oh, Pam. I don't think like you.”
“Well, you should. Money matters.” Pam pondered this needlepoint-pillow philosophy for a minute. “A woman with property is twice as enticing. Especially as she gets a little age on her.” Pamela cleared her throat like a prim schoolteacher. “Remember the last three times you entrusted your finances to your husbands? You can't add up zeros! Put some property in your name. Especially since you're married to such a handsome scoundrel. You thought you were well off with young Harry. Not to mention Duccio. And this is a big birthday. You should become a woman of property now. You're turning fifty.” She punched the number out as if she were keeping score.
“Thank you, Pam. I have two whole days to go before I have to deal with being half a century old.” She had winced this morning when she'd combed six new silvery hairs into her chignon.
“You should be in crisis
now.
Then you'll be over it by the party.” Pragmatic Pam was humorless, but she always made Claire laugh, even if she had to giggle behind her gloved hand.
The party was set for Saturday, and all of the Washington establishment elite was invited. Claire was using her birthday as an occasion to bronze their social status the way Sara had bronzed Dylan's baby shoes, solidifying political and journalistic alliances. The crowd was going to be stellar.
“I'm doing the seating tomorrow. Any preferences?”
“Just seat me with Averell. At the head table. By the way, are you having Charity Foxley?” There was a gossipy glint in Pam's eyes.
“Why, yes. She's a neighbor out here. Grant rides with her. She's the best jumper in the country.” There was no jealousy in Claire's velvet voice.
“So I've heard.”
“She's an Olympic equestrienne.”
“How patriotic of you. A ribbon winner. You're more broad-minded than I.” Pam ran her horse's reins firmly through her fingers. “Young women who hang around stables too long get very frisky. You can't have that much horse flesh between your legs all day without getting aroused.”
“What are you trying to tell me?” Claire's baser instincts raced to the surface.
“I wouldn't have her to my house. Or on my horse.” She raised an auburn-tinted eyebrow. “Even if Averell were a hundred and two years old. Well, I must canter off, dear, back to your guesthouse. The Governor will be awakening from his nap in a few minutes and I like to be the first thing he sees when he opens his eyes.” Her smile was quick and crisp.
With an expert if graceless movement of her custom-booted foot, she turned her mount back to HurryUp's stables, maintaining her peculiar warmthless smile and leaving Claire alone with new doubts to add to her sudden terror about turning fifty. Claire was glad to see her go. Until Claire had had this little trail talk with Pam, she thought she and Grant were having a perfectly adequate marriage. So why should she let Pam plant a dirty seed of doubt? From where she sat, her domestic garden was all abloom.
She made a mental list of their exterior good points.
The Fenwick Grants were lionized by the East Coast establishment. The recklessly handsome publisher and his glamorous congresswoman wife had become the darlings of the political, social, and journalistic set in the same short time it took the Watergate burglars to bumble into Democratic National Committee headquarters. In no time at all, Claire had skillfully passed two school integration votes and co-authored a bill on affirmative action. Grant's newspapers had come in a close second to Kay Graham's
Washington Post
on the Watergate coverage, hard on the heels of Kay's foot soldiers Bob Woodward and Carl Bernstein. They had both excelled in their worlds, even though Grant was growing obsessively preoccupied with catching up to the competition, often forgetting he had another wife besides his work. But that was the price of power, Claire knew. Her husband spent longer and longer hours toiling in his office, often arriving at one of their famous Georgetown suppers on Q Street, coat in hand, like a tardy guest At 10:45, when Grant lifted his glass to toast his guest of honor, he usually had one eye on his Cartier tank watch. As everyone inside the Beltway knew, official Washington dinner parties ended promptly at 11
P.M
.