not a damned thing we can do for
them."
7
AMY BERNARD TAPPED HER TEETH with the earpiece of her
half-glasses. She was mulling over the neatly typed memo that the caterers had
presented to her suggesting the menu for the state dinner for the King and
Queen of Spain. Her social secretary, Millicent Hartford, stood behind her,
looking over her shoulder.
"Vol-au-vent Maryland, gigot d'agneau aux flageolet, épinard à la crème, mousse aux concombre," Amy read aloud. "But it's for the King of Spain, my dear." For
obvious reasons, Miss Hartford inspired in her these little antique pirouettes
of language.
"The King adores French food," Miss Hartford
said. "And the Queen's favorite color is yellow." Which explained the
choice of yellow roses, yellow tablecloths and napkins, and the use of the
dinnerware with the yellow trim.
"Will she wear a yellow ribbon?" Amy asked,
knowing she would not get a smile from the impassive Miss Hartford, the
quintessential snob, which was exactly why she hired her when Paul was elected.
And she had bagged the real thing. Miss Hartford had, as they say, impeccable
breeding. Even Amy's smart-ass needling had no apparent effect on Miss
Hartford. The woman was impervious, also extremely knowledgeable and efficient,
shouldering a burden that had devastated many of her predecessors.
Earlier, Amy had suggested a main dish of chicken à la king
as appropriate thematically. Miss Hartford had ignored her remark completely.
She made a mental note to convey the story of her suggestion to Paul, complete
with Miss Hartford's grand duchess expression.
Even after three years, Amy dreaded preparations for a
state dinner. The pomp and formality were just too incompatible with her Middle West pass-the-plate, meat-and-potatoes upbringing.
"And here is the seating list," Miss Hartford
said, providing a white board with eighteen tables of ten simulating their
placement in the State Dining Room and including a five-table spillover into
the Red Room. It was Amy, over Miss Hartford's and the White House chef's
objections, who had insisted that more than the usual 128 be invited. When
neither of them would back down, she simply ordered all state dinners to be
prepared by an outside caterer.
She knew the significance of symbols to a politician. An
additional forty at a state dinner meant, somehow, that the Bernards were more
open and democratic. Indeed, the very act of insistence gave her a rare sense
of victory over Miss Hartford's obnoxious surety. As for the White House chef, he
was quickly replaced.
From each of the circles indicating tables, rays of
penciled names emanated. Amy contemplated the names, impeccably placed by Miss
Hartford with an eye for protocol and a commonality of interest. Having won the
main issue, she felt she could surrender with dignity to all the others and she
demurred to the superior social knowledge of Miss Hartford. In her heart, she
knew, it was a Pyrrhic victory. Miss Hartford was invariably correct.
The guests, despite the claim that they came from all walks
of life, were, unquestionably, the elite superachievers of America, most of whom knew their manners, which seemed to matter most to Miss Hartford.
"You seem to have thought of everything, Miss
Hartford," Amy said, mentally going through her closets, waiting for the
last detail to be "suggested" by her nibs.
"I do believe the white dress with the yellow sash
would go well with the flower arrangements, which will have white
accents."
"The one with the open back?"
"That one."
Although it did not exactly plunge, it showed just enough
flesh to expose her to the judgment of that brooding man whose eyes would peer
down at her from over the mantel in the State Dining Room. How could she
explain to anyone, especially Miss Hartford, that Mr. Lincoln's somber gaze
made her uncomfortable? She heard a sound, wondering if it was her own groan of
concern.
"Yes?" Miss Hartford asked.
"Why can't..." she began, groping for a
them."
7
AMY BERNARD TAPPED HER TEETH with the earpiece of her
half-glasses. She was mulling over the neatly typed memo that the caterers had
presented to her suggesting the menu for the state dinner for the King and
Queen of Spain. Her social secretary, Millicent Hartford, stood behind her,
looking over her shoulder.
"Vol-au-vent Maryland, gigot d'agneau aux flageolet, épinard à la crème, mousse aux concombre," Amy read aloud. "But it's for the King of Spain, my dear." For
obvious reasons, Miss Hartford inspired in her these little antique pirouettes
of language.
"The King adores French food," Miss Hartford
said. "And the Queen's favorite color is yellow." Which explained the
choice of yellow roses, yellow tablecloths and napkins, and the use of the
dinnerware with the yellow trim.
"Will she wear a yellow ribbon?" Amy asked,
knowing she would not get a smile from the impassive Miss Hartford, the
quintessential snob, which was exactly why she hired her when Paul was elected.
And she had bagged the real thing. Miss Hartford had, as they say, impeccable
breeding. Even Amy's smart-ass needling had no apparent effect on Miss
Hartford. The woman was impervious, also extremely knowledgeable and efficient,
shouldering a burden that had devastated many of her predecessors.
Earlier, Amy had suggested a main dish of chicken à la king
as appropriate thematically. Miss Hartford had ignored her remark completely.
She made a mental note to convey the story of her suggestion to Paul, complete
with Miss Hartford's grand duchess expression.
Even after three years, Amy dreaded preparations for a
state dinner. The pomp and formality were just too incompatible with her Middle West pass-the-plate, meat-and-potatoes upbringing.
"And here is the seating list," Miss Hartford
said, providing a white board with eighteen tables of ten simulating their
placement in the State Dining Room and including a five-table spillover into
the Red Room. It was Amy, over Miss Hartford's and the White House chef's
objections, who had insisted that more than the usual 128 be invited. When
neither of them would back down, she simply ordered all state dinners to be
prepared by an outside caterer.
She knew the significance of symbols to a politician. An
additional forty at a state dinner meant, somehow, that the Bernards were more
open and democratic. Indeed, the very act of insistence gave her a rare sense
of victory over Miss Hartford's obnoxious surety. As for the White House chef, he
was quickly replaced.
From each of the circles indicating tables, rays of
penciled names emanated. Amy contemplated the names, impeccably placed by Miss
Hartford with an eye for protocol and a commonality of interest. Having won the
main issue, she felt she could surrender with dignity to all the others and she
demurred to the superior social knowledge of Miss Hartford. In her heart, she
knew, it was a Pyrrhic victory. Miss Hartford was invariably correct.
The guests, despite the claim that they came from all walks
of life, were, unquestionably, the elite superachievers of America, most of whom knew their manners, which seemed to matter most to Miss Hartford.
"You seem to have thought of everything, Miss
Hartford," Amy said, mentally going through her closets, waiting for the
last detail to be "suggested" by her nibs.
"I do believe the white dress with the yellow sash
would go well with the flower arrangements, which will have white
accents."
"The one with the open back?"
"That one."
Although it did not exactly plunge, it showed just enough
flesh to expose her to the judgment of that brooding man whose eyes would peer
down at her from over the mantel in the State Dining Room. How could she
explain to anyone, especially Miss Hartford, that Mr. Lincoln's somber gaze
made her uncomfortable? She heard a sound, wondering if it was her own groan of
concern.
"Yes?" Miss Hartford asked.
"Why can't..." she began, groping for a
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