glass of cold Chardonnay. 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 before dinner?”
Elizabeth followed the crowd into the large living room. Two giant-screen television sets had been wheeled in. The dinner guests clustered around them. Tom Brokaw was chatting on one, Peter Jennings on the other. Finally, the shots dissolved and a grim-faced James Beckwith was staring into the camera.
Paul Vandenberg didn’t believe in public displays of stress, but tonight he was nervous and it showed. This one had to be perfect. He sat with Beckwith in makeup and reviewed the address one last time. He stared at the television monitors to make sure the shot was perfect. He ordered a run-through on the TelePrompTer to make
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 before dinner?”
Elizabeth followed the crowd into the large living room. Two giant-screen television sets had been wheeled in. The dinner guests clustered around them. Tom Brokaw was chatting on one, Peter Jennings on the other. Finally, the shots dissolved and a grim-faced James Beckwith was staring into the camera.
Paul Vandenberg didn’t believe in public displays of stress, but tonight he was nervous and it showed. This one had to be perfect. He sat with Beckwith in makeup and reviewed the address one last time. He stared at the television monitors to make sure the shot was perfect. He ordered a run-through on the TelePrompTer to make
Similar Books
