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Authors: Elizabeth Adler
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cheerleader. Yes, I do play a good game of tennis. And no, I do not want to go back.”
Cal took a bite of delicious walnut bread. “Your family still out there?”
“My parents were divorced, I never knew my father. Mom died a few years ago.” She shrugged again. “There’s no real reason to go back. Home, you might say, is now the place I hang my hat—and that seems to be Washington.”
Her face had softened with sadness as she talked of her mother. Cal thought she must have been a very pretty little girl, every mother’s dream child, blond, blue-eyed, beautiful, and bright. “No eyes for New York?” he asked, “Big-time anchorperson, six o’clock news, top interviews, Barbara Walters …?”
She laughed. “I’m like you, politics is my game. I’m hooked on the White House and diplomatic missions and cover-ups in high places—sex and scandal in the seat of power. To me, Washington is as glamorous and exciting as Paris. Besides, I’ve got this great little house on N Street in Georgetown, right next door to one of Washington’s ritziest society hostesses. Of course she has eight bedrooms and a butler to take her tiny poodle for a walk and I only have one bedroom and a very large dog I have to pay a walker to exercise, but I live vicariously. I get to watch her guests arriving and I notice who leaves with whom. I’m no dummy,” she added with a wicked grin. “I’m the first to know if a scandal is brewing. It usually begins right on my doorstep.”
“Your family have money?” he asked, sampling the salmon approvingly.
She shook her head. “No money, at least not all the time. Mom worked every now and again. She was an actress. Sometimes there was a lot—sometimes nothing.”
They paused, forks in hand, looking at each other, liking what they saw. “And you?” she prompted. “What about your life?”
“Born in the Bronx, parents sold the house for a parking lot and made enough to move out to Fort Lee, New Jersey—their decision, not mine! I was a bright kid, I worked hard and got myself into Bronx High—one of the best schools on the East Coast. From there to Harvard—political science, and then the Kennedy School of Government. The rest you probably know.”
She nodded. “Okay. And now will the real Cal War-render please stand up?” He stared at her with surprised red-setter eyes.
“I mean, now I’ve heard your résumé …
but who are you?
Where do you live? What do you do when you are not at the White House? What do you like? What do you hate? What is the most important thing in your life—apart from politics, that is?” She waited for a moment and then added softly, “Is there a special woman?”
Cal looked at her in silence. “Oh, come on,” she murmured, “imagine we are in a Somerset Maugham novel, two strangers, stranded together in a storm, the only thing to keep them amused their life stories….” He was smiling now and she breathed a little sigh of relief; she wouldn’t want him to think that she was just a nosy TV reporter, snooping for a story.
“No
special
woman,” he said, “I just don’t have the time. Not that I would say no if someone ‘special’ ever came my way.”
His grin was engaging and she laughed. “That’s called ‘having your cake and eating it.’ I know, because I’m like you, just too busy.”
“I heard you were an honest woman,” he said, raisinghis glass in a toast. “To the special people who never come our way.”
“What motivates you, Cal?” she asked, sipping her champagne. “What makes a politician? Are you born to the role, like an artist or a musician? Or is it an acquired talent?”
He looked at her for a moment, deciding he liked her style. He said, “Now I see what makes you a good reporter. You know the right questions to ask to make your subject open up—and you put them in such a charming and flattering way, they can’t refuse to answer. I can’t claim to have ‘talent,’ but I guess I’ve always
Cal took a bite of delicious walnut bread. “Your family still out there?”
“My parents were divorced, I never knew my father. Mom died a few years ago.” She shrugged again. “There’s no real reason to go back. Home, you might say, is now the place I hang my hat—and that seems to be Washington.”
Her face had softened with sadness as she talked of her mother. Cal thought she must have been a very pretty little girl, every mother’s dream child, blond, blue-eyed, beautiful, and bright. “No eyes for New York?” he asked, “Big-time anchorperson, six o’clock news, top interviews, Barbara Walters …?”
She laughed. “I’m like you, politics is my game. I’m hooked on the White House and diplomatic missions and cover-ups in high places—sex and scandal in the seat of power. To me, Washington is as glamorous and exciting as Paris. Besides, I’ve got this great little house on N Street in Georgetown, right next door to one of Washington’s ritziest society hostesses. Of course she has eight bedrooms and a butler to take her tiny poodle for a walk and I only have one bedroom and a very large dog I have to pay a walker to exercise, but I live vicariously. I get to watch her guests arriving and I notice who leaves with whom. I’m no dummy,” she added with a wicked grin. “I’m the first to know if a scandal is brewing. It usually begins right on my doorstep.”
“Your family have money?” he asked, sampling the salmon approvingly.
She shook her head. “No money, at least not all the time. Mom worked every now and again. She was an actress. Sometimes there was a lot—sometimes nothing.”
They paused, forks in hand, looking at each other, liking what they saw. “And you?” she prompted. “What about your life?”
“Born in the Bronx, parents sold the house for a parking lot and made enough to move out to Fort Lee, New Jersey—their decision, not mine! I was a bright kid, I worked hard and got myself into Bronx High—one of the best schools on the East Coast. From there to Harvard—political science, and then the Kennedy School of Government. The rest you probably know.”
She nodded. “Okay. And now will the real Cal War-render please stand up?” He stared at her with surprised red-setter eyes.
“I mean, now I’ve heard your résumé …
but who are you?
Where do you live? What do you do when you are not at the White House? What do you like? What do you hate? What is the most important thing in your life—apart from politics, that is?” She waited for a moment and then added softly, “Is there a special woman?”
Cal looked at her in silence. “Oh, come on,” she murmured, “imagine we are in a Somerset Maugham novel, two strangers, stranded together in a storm, the only thing to keep them amused their life stories….” He was smiling now and she breathed a little sigh of relief; she wouldn’t want him to think that she was just a nosy TV reporter, snooping for a story.
“No
special
woman,” he said, “I just don’t have the time. Not that I would say no if someone ‘special’ ever came my way.”
His grin was engaging and she laughed. “That’s called ‘having your cake and eating it.’ I know, because I’m like you, just too busy.”
“I heard you were an honest woman,” he said, raisinghis glass in a toast. “To the special people who never come our way.”
“What motivates you, Cal?” she asked, sipping her champagne. “What makes a politician? Are you born to the role, like an artist or a musician? Or is it an acquired talent?”
He looked at her for a moment, deciding he liked her style. He said, “Now I see what makes you a good reporter. You know the right questions to ask to make your subject open up—and you put them in such a charming and flattering way, they can’t refuse to answer. I can’t claim to have ‘talent,’ but I guess I’ve always
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