had turned her down. Elizabeth
pressed the button, and a solemn bell tolled somewhere inside the
imposing house. A trim man in a tuxedo opened the door. He helped with
her coat and glanced outside expectantly, looking for her partner. "I'm
alone tonight," she said self-consciously, then immediately regretted
it. She thought, I don't have to explain myself to a fucking butler. The
butler informed her that drinks were being served in the garden. She
followed the center hall into the house. French doors gave onto a
magnificent terraced garden. Gas heaters burned the chill from the
autumn night air. Elizabeth stepped outside, and a waiter presented her
with a glass of cold Char-donnay. She drank half of it very quickly. She
glanced around at the other guests and felt even more embarrassed. She
was surrounded by the elite of Washington's Republican establishment:
the Senate majority leader, the House minority leader, a smattering of
lesser members, and the upper echelon of the city's lawyers, lobbyists,
and journalists. A famous conservative television commentator was
holding forth on the banks of the lap pool. Elizabeth awkwardly drifted
into his orbit, clutching her wine like a shield. Beckwith was in
trouble, the commentator pronounced, because he had betrayed the Party's
conservative principles. His audience nodded slowly; the Oracle had
spoken. Elizabeth glanced at her watch: eight o'clock. She wondered
whether she could make it through the evening. She wondered who would be
the first to comment on the fact she was alone. Someone bellowed her
name. She turned in the direction of the sound and saw Samuel Braxton
floating toward her. He was a brilliant and ruthless lawyer, warehoused
inside a lineman's body gone soft with age and prosperity. His latest
acquisition, a big-breasted blonde named Ashley, hung on his beefy arm.
She was wife number three or number four; Elizabeth couldn't recall for
certain. They had sat next to each other at a dinner party while she was
still Ashley Dupree, waiting for her divorce to become final so she
could "make an honest man of Samuel." She was Huntsville rich. Her
family made money from horses and from cotton, some of which was stuffed
inside her head, masquerading as a brain. She suited Braxton's needs
perfectly: an upper-class pedigree, money of her own, and the body of a
Playboy centerfold despite her respectable thirty-eight years. "Where's
your husband?" Braxton asked loudly. "I wanted to show off Ashley."
The Oracle stopped speaking, and his audience turned to hear her answer.
"He was called out of town suddenly on business," Elizabeth said. She
felt her face flush, despite her lawyerly effort at courtroom composure.
The lying was the hardest part. It would be so much easier if she could
tell the truth just once: The President is about to order air strikes
against the Sword of Gaza, and my husband works for the CIA, and he
couldn't exactly leave work this minute to come to this ridiculous
dinner party. Braxton made a show of looking around the garden at the
other guests. "Well, Elizabeth, you do seem to be in the minority here
tonight. If I'm not mistaken, you're the only card-carrying member of
the Democratic Party in the room."
Elizabeth managed a careful smile. "Believe it or not, Samuel, I'm one
of the few people who actually likes Republicans."
But Braxton didn't hear the crack because he was already looking past
her at Mitchell Elliott, who had just entered the garden. Braxton
jettisoned Ashley and floated through the guests toward his most
lucrative client. For the next half hour, Ashley and Elizabeth discussed
horses and the benefits of personal trainers. Elizabeth listened
politely while she finished her first glass of wine and quickly drank
another. Shortly before nine o'clock, Elliott asked for everyone's
attention. "Ladies and gentlemen, the President is about to address the
nation. Why don't we hear what he has to say
pressed the button, and a solemn bell tolled somewhere inside the
imposing house. A trim man in a tuxedo opened the door. He helped with
her coat and glanced outside expectantly, looking for her partner. "I'm
alone tonight," she said self-consciously, then immediately regretted
it. She thought, I don't have to explain myself to a fucking butler. The
butler informed her that drinks were being served in the garden. She
followed the center hall into the house. French doors gave onto a
magnificent terraced garden. Gas heaters burned the chill from the
autumn night air. Elizabeth stepped outside, and a waiter presented her
with a glass of cold Char-donnay. She drank half of it very quickly. She
glanced around at the other guests and felt even more embarrassed. She
was surrounded by the elite of Washington's Republican establishment:
the Senate majority leader, the House minority leader, a smattering of
lesser members, and the upper echelon of the city's lawyers, lobbyists,
and journalists. A famous conservative television commentator was
holding forth on the banks of the lap pool. Elizabeth awkwardly drifted
into his orbit, clutching her wine like a shield. Beckwith was in
trouble, the commentator pronounced, because he had betrayed the Party's
conservative principles. His audience nodded slowly; the Oracle had
spoken. Elizabeth glanced at her watch: eight o'clock. She wondered
whether she could make it through the evening. She wondered who would be
the first to comment on the fact she was alone. Someone bellowed her
name. She turned in the direction of the sound and saw Samuel Braxton
floating toward her. He was a brilliant and ruthless lawyer, warehoused
inside a lineman's body gone soft with age and prosperity. His latest
acquisition, a big-breasted blonde named Ashley, hung on his beefy arm.
She was wife number three or number four; Elizabeth couldn't recall for
certain. They had sat next to each other at a dinner party while she was
still Ashley Dupree, waiting for her divorce to become final so she
could "make an honest man of Samuel." She was Huntsville rich. Her
family made money from horses and from cotton, some of which was stuffed
inside her head, masquerading as a brain. She suited Braxton's needs
perfectly: an upper-class pedigree, money of her own, and the body of a
Playboy centerfold despite her respectable thirty-eight years. "Where's
your husband?" Braxton asked loudly. "I wanted to show off Ashley."
The Oracle stopped speaking, and his audience turned to hear her answer.
"He was called out of town suddenly on business," Elizabeth said. She
felt her face flush, despite her lawyerly effort at courtroom composure.
The lying was the hardest part. It would be so much easier if she could
tell the truth just once: The President is about to order air strikes
against the Sword of Gaza, and my husband works for the CIA, and he
couldn't exactly leave work this minute to come to this ridiculous
dinner party. Braxton made a show of looking around the garden at the
other guests. "Well, Elizabeth, you do seem to be in the minority here
tonight. If I'm not mistaken, you're the only card-carrying member of
the Democratic Party in the room."
Elizabeth managed a careful smile. "Believe it or not, Samuel, I'm one
of the few people who actually likes Republicans."
But Braxton didn't hear the crack because he was already looking past
her at Mitchell Elliott, who had just entered the garden. Braxton
jettisoned Ashley and floated through the guests toward his most
lucrative client. For the next half hour, Ashley and Elizabeth discussed
horses and the benefits of personal trainers. Elizabeth listened
politely while she finished her first glass of wine and quickly drank
another. Shortly before nine o'clock, Elliott asked for everyone's
attention. "Ladies and gentlemen, the President is about to address the
nation. Why don't we hear what he has to say
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