them on it, just as the shattering of glass signaled the welcome arrival of her Secret Service detail.
Ten minutes later, a handkerchief wrapped securely over the superficial wound on her arm, Sunday was on the phone to a totally unnerved ex-president of the United States.
“I’m fine,” she said for the fifteenth time, “just fine. And Tommy is fine, too. Lillian West is in a straitjacket and on her way out of here. So stop worrying. Everything has been taken care of.”
“But you could have been killed,” Henry said, not for the first time. He didn’t want to break the phone connection. He didn’t want to let his wife stop talking. This had been too close. He couldn’t bear the thought that he might ever
not
be able to hear her voice.
“But I
wasn’t
killed,” Sunday said briskly. “And, Henry, we were both right. It was definitely a crime of passion. It was just that we were a little slow in figuring out
whose
passion was the cause of the crime.”
They All Ran
After the
President’s
Wife
“I t’s the Oval Office calling, Mr. President.”
Henry Parker Britland IV sighed. “Do not go gentle into that good night,” he thought. Marvin Klein, his longtime right-hand associate, still seemed incapable of calling his successor, the current president of the United States, anything other than “the Oval Office.”
The call came as Henry was seated at his desk in the library of Drumdoe, his New Jersey country home. The late afternoon winter sun was filtering through the tall leaded-pane windows and shimmered over the satiny paneling of the magnificent Gothic Revival decor. He’d set out to work on his memoirs but realized with a start that he had been daydreaming. Sunday, his bride of less than a year, and a member of Congress, was in Washington, and Henry had found himself wishing away the next three days until she would be here with him again.
As always, his thoughts of her were filled with longing. Sunday — surely no one person could really be that beautiful, that intelligent, that witty, that compassionate. There were times when he truly felt that he must have dreamt her into existence. His Sunday: the slender, blond congresswoman, who on an impulse he had chosen to flirt with at his last reception in the White House, just before leaving office after his second term. With an unconscious smile, he recalled her calm, reproachful response.
“Ahem. The Oval Office, Mr. President,” Klein insisted, effectively breaking his reverie.
Henry picked up the phone. “Mr. President,” he said warmly.
He could envision Desmond Ogilvey — Des, as he was known to friends — seated at his desk, scholarly in his appearance, with his shock of white hair, his long, lean frame erect, his sober dark blue suit and tie.
He knew his former vice president had never forgotten the fact that nine years ago Henry had plucked him from the relative obscurity of being a congressman from Wyoming by choosing him to be his running mate. It was a decision challenged initially by the media, many of whom called it a gamble.
“To you it may be a gamble,” Henry had replied, “but to me, this is a man who has served in Congress for ten terms, who has been quietly responsible for some of the most effective legislation passed by the last ten Congresses. It is my firm conviction that if I am elected by the voters, and if anything were to happen to me during my time in office, then I will go to my Maker knowing that the country I love is in the worthiest hands I could have found for it.”
Realizing that the silence that followed his greeting was stretching out unusually long, Henry spoke again: “Des?”
“Mr. President,” Desmond Ogilvey replied, but there was none of the usual jocularity in his tone.
Henry instantly realized that this was not a social call, and cut immediately to the chase. “What’s wrong, Des?”
Again a pause. Then, “It’s Sunday. Henry, I’m sorry.”
“Sunday!”
Henry’s breathing
Ten minutes later, a handkerchief wrapped securely over the superficial wound on her arm, Sunday was on the phone to a totally unnerved ex-president of the United States.
“I’m fine,” she said for the fifteenth time, “just fine. And Tommy is fine, too. Lillian West is in a straitjacket and on her way out of here. So stop worrying. Everything has been taken care of.”
“But you could have been killed,” Henry said, not for the first time. He didn’t want to break the phone connection. He didn’t want to let his wife stop talking. This had been too close. He couldn’t bear the thought that he might ever
not
be able to hear her voice.
“But I
wasn’t
killed,” Sunday said briskly. “And, Henry, we were both right. It was definitely a crime of passion. It was just that we were a little slow in figuring out
whose
passion was the cause of the crime.”
They All Ran
After the
President’s
Wife
“I t’s the Oval Office calling, Mr. President.”
Henry Parker Britland IV sighed. “Do not go gentle into that good night,” he thought. Marvin Klein, his longtime right-hand associate, still seemed incapable of calling his successor, the current president of the United States, anything other than “the Oval Office.”
The call came as Henry was seated at his desk in the library of Drumdoe, his New Jersey country home. The late afternoon winter sun was filtering through the tall leaded-pane windows and shimmered over the satiny paneling of the magnificent Gothic Revival decor. He’d set out to work on his memoirs but realized with a start that he had been daydreaming. Sunday, his bride of less than a year, and a member of Congress, was in Washington, and Henry had found himself wishing away the next three days until she would be here with him again.
As always, his thoughts of her were filled with longing. Sunday — surely no one person could really be that beautiful, that intelligent, that witty, that compassionate. There were times when he truly felt that he must have dreamt her into existence. His Sunday: the slender, blond congresswoman, who on an impulse he had chosen to flirt with at his last reception in the White House, just before leaving office after his second term. With an unconscious smile, he recalled her calm, reproachful response.
“Ahem. The Oval Office, Mr. President,” Klein insisted, effectively breaking his reverie.
Henry picked up the phone. “Mr. President,” he said warmly.
He could envision Desmond Ogilvey — Des, as he was known to friends — seated at his desk, scholarly in his appearance, with his shock of white hair, his long, lean frame erect, his sober dark blue suit and tie.
He knew his former vice president had never forgotten the fact that nine years ago Henry had plucked him from the relative obscurity of being a congressman from Wyoming by choosing him to be his running mate. It was a decision challenged initially by the media, many of whom called it a gamble.
“To you it may be a gamble,” Henry had replied, “but to me, this is a man who has served in Congress for ten terms, who has been quietly responsible for some of the most effective legislation passed by the last ten Congresses. It is my firm conviction that if I am elected by the voters, and if anything were to happen to me during my time in office, then I will go to my Maker knowing that the country I love is in the worthiest hands I could have found for it.”
Realizing that the silence that followed his greeting was stretching out unusually long, Henry spoke again: “Des?”
“Mr. President,” Desmond Ogilvey replied, but there was none of the usual jocularity in his tone.
Henry instantly realized that this was not a social call, and cut immediately to the chase. “What’s wrong, Des?”
Again a pause. Then, “It’s Sunday. Henry, I’m sorry.”
“Sunday!”
Henry’s breathing
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