lunches of fresh crab salad and tropical fruit and played backgammon in a beachfront cabana .
Sources. She wondered about that—a former aide, a disgruntled ex-staffer, someone who’d been fired or not promoted fast enough? She moaned out loud—but softly, so that Clarissa and Derek wouldn’t hear her—and clicked through the story until she found a picture of the woman, Joelle. She stared for a long moment, looking at the tiny image, wondering what Richard saw in this other woman, an ordinary woman, pleasant-looking enough, a hopeful, happy expression as she gazed up at Richard. What struck her immediately was the resemblance. When she and Richard had met, that was how she’d looked: big-busted, heavy-hipped. Back then, she’d favored necklaces of colorful beads that she bought on street corners in New York, and cheap, dangly earrings that usually ended up tangled in her hair. She’d drunk wine from bottles with screw-tops, and she’d been a social smoker of cigarettes and an occasional smoker of pot. She’d had a closet full of black tights and bright skirts, fringed scarves, tunics and peasant blouses to wear with them. She’d pull her curls off her face and twist them in a knot skewered with a pencil. Wild child , Richard had called her, cupping her head and pulling her into a kiss.
She and Richard had met in law school. There were twenty-three women in their class of one hundred and seventy, a group that included a future first lady (her husband, the future president, had been a year behind them). Among her classmates, Sylvie had been, if not royalty, then at least someone with a reputation, the daughter of Judge Selma Serfer, who’d once taught at Yale and who returned each year to lecture the 3-L’s on gender and the law. Richard had a reputation, too. He’d played football back in Harrisburg and Penn State, and was tall and well muscled, with a shock of unruly brown hair. He was obviously smart—anyone at Yale would have to be. But Richard did not cultivate the air of bemused indifference that most of the other boys worked hard to achieve. In class, while they leaned back in their chairs, legs stretched presumptuously in the aisles, cuffs unbuttoned and frayed, he’d be bent over his notebook, scribbling frantically as if intent on getting every word down, his jacket hung neatly on the back of his chair and his plaid shirt buttoned to the throat. When the professors asked for volunteers, his hand shot up, his sleeves exposing an inch or two of knobby white wrist … but when he talked, his voice was low, and warm, and persuasive. He was never flustered, never unprepared, and seemed to relish the attention that Sylvie dreaded, and which she constantly received.
The professors would always find her, homing in on her face amidst the rows of students. They’d make a point of reading her name out loud, savoring the syllables. “Ms. Serfer,” they would say, teeth buzzing over the “Mzz.” “Any insight you can offer us on Griswold v. Connecticut ?” She’d answer correctly. Sometimes she’d even get a little sassy. Asked if she’d read a certain opinion, she’d say, “Well, my mother wrote it,” and pause before adding, “so, no.”
In their first year of law school, Sylvie had dated a few of those cool, indifferent boys. Neil was a New Yorker whose parents knew hers, who’d been at Columbia while she was at Barnard and who seemed more interested, Sylvie ultimately decided, in a merger than a romance. (When Neil had shown up at their ten-year reunion with a male ballet dancer he’d introduced as his partner, she hadn’t been entirely surprised.) Then there was Evan, who had pale skin and a beautifully molded throat, who’d dressed so handsomely and had such a nice way about him that it took her months to notice that he didn’t seem as interested in the specifics of Sylvie’s life as he did in whether her father might be in need of new in-house counsel.
Richard had arrived in New
Sources. She wondered about that—a former aide, a disgruntled ex-staffer, someone who’d been fired or not promoted fast enough? She moaned out loud—but softly, so that Clarissa and Derek wouldn’t hear her—and clicked through the story until she found a picture of the woman, Joelle. She stared for a long moment, looking at the tiny image, wondering what Richard saw in this other woman, an ordinary woman, pleasant-looking enough, a hopeful, happy expression as she gazed up at Richard. What struck her immediately was the resemblance. When she and Richard had met, that was how she’d looked: big-busted, heavy-hipped. Back then, she’d favored necklaces of colorful beads that she bought on street corners in New York, and cheap, dangly earrings that usually ended up tangled in her hair. She’d drunk wine from bottles with screw-tops, and she’d been a social smoker of cigarettes and an occasional smoker of pot. She’d had a closet full of black tights and bright skirts, fringed scarves, tunics and peasant blouses to wear with them. She’d pull her curls off her face and twist them in a knot skewered with a pencil. Wild child , Richard had called her, cupping her head and pulling her into a kiss.
She and Richard had met in law school. There were twenty-three women in their class of one hundred and seventy, a group that included a future first lady (her husband, the future president, had been a year behind them). Among her classmates, Sylvie had been, if not royalty, then at least someone with a reputation, the daughter of Judge Selma Serfer, who’d once taught at Yale and who returned each year to lecture the 3-L’s on gender and the law. Richard had a reputation, too. He’d played football back in Harrisburg and Penn State, and was tall and well muscled, with a shock of unruly brown hair. He was obviously smart—anyone at Yale would have to be. But Richard did not cultivate the air of bemused indifference that most of the other boys worked hard to achieve. In class, while they leaned back in their chairs, legs stretched presumptuously in the aisles, cuffs unbuttoned and frayed, he’d be bent over his notebook, scribbling frantically as if intent on getting every word down, his jacket hung neatly on the back of his chair and his plaid shirt buttoned to the throat. When the professors asked for volunteers, his hand shot up, his sleeves exposing an inch or two of knobby white wrist … but when he talked, his voice was low, and warm, and persuasive. He was never flustered, never unprepared, and seemed to relish the attention that Sylvie dreaded, and which she constantly received.
The professors would always find her, homing in on her face amidst the rows of students. They’d make a point of reading her name out loud, savoring the syllables. “Ms. Serfer,” they would say, teeth buzzing over the “Mzz.” “Any insight you can offer us on Griswold v. Connecticut ?” She’d answer correctly. Sometimes she’d even get a little sassy. Asked if she’d read a certain opinion, she’d say, “Well, my mother wrote it,” and pause before adding, “so, no.”
In their first year of law school, Sylvie had dated a few of those cool, indifferent boys. Neil was a New Yorker whose parents knew hers, who’d been at Columbia while she was at Barnard and who seemed more interested, Sylvie ultimately decided, in a merger than a romance. (When Neil had shown up at their ten-year reunion with a male ballet dancer he’d introduced as his partner, she hadn’t been entirely surprised.) Then there was Evan, who had pale skin and a beautifully molded throat, who’d dressed so handsomely and had such a nice way about him that it took her months to notice that he didn’t seem as interested in the specifics of Sylvie’s life as he did in whether her father might be in need of new in-house counsel.
Richard had arrived in New
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