The Book of Fate

28

Right this way,” I say as I cup the elbow of the older woman with the beehive of blond hair and escort her and her husband toward President Manning and the First Lady, who’re posed in front of a floral bouquet the size of a small car. Trapped in this small anteroom in the back of the Kravis Center for the Performing Arts, the President looks my way, never losing his grin. It’s all the signal I need. He has no idea who they are.

I put it on a platter. “Mr. President, you remember the Talbots—”

“George… Leonor…” the First Lady jumps in, shaking hands and swapping air kisses. Thirty-four books, five unauthorized biographies, and two TV movies have argued she’s the better politician in the family. All the proof is right here. “And how’s Lauren?” she asks, pulling off their daughter’s name as well. That’s when I’m impressed. The Talbots aren’t longtime donors. They’re NBFs — new best friends, which is what we call the rich groupies who glommed onto the Mannings after they’d left the White House. Old friends liked the power; new friends like the fame.

“We just think you’re the greatest,” Mrs. Talbot gushes, her eyes solely on the First Lady. It’s never bothered Manning. Dr. First Lady has always been a part of their political package — and thanks to her science background, the better at analyzing poll numbers, which is why some say she was even more crushed than the President when they handed over their keys to the White House. Still, as someone who was with the President that day as he flew home to Florida, and placed his final call on Air Force One, and lingered on the line just long enough to say his final good-bye to the phone operator, I can’t help but disagree. Manning went from having a steward who used to wear a pager just to bring him coffee, to lugging his own suitcases back to his garage. You can’t give away all that power without some pain.

“What’m I, chopped herring all of a sudden?” Manning asks.

“What do you mean, all of a sudden?” the First Lady replies as they all cocktail-party laugh. It’s the kind of joke that’ll be repeated for the rest of the social season, turning the Talbots into minor wine and cheese stars, and simultaneously ensuring that Palm Beach society keeps coming to these thousand-dollar-a-plate charity shindigs.

“On three,” the photographer calls out as I squeeze the Talbots between the Mannings. “One… two…”

The flashbulb pops, and I race back to the receiving line to palm the next donor’s elbow. Manning’s look is exactly the same.

“Mr. President, you remember Liz Westbrook…”

In the White House, we called it the push/pull. I pull Mrs. Westbrook toward the President, which pushes the Talbots out of the way, forcing them to stop gawking and say their good-byes. True to form, it works perfectly — until someone pushes back.

“You’re trying the push/pull with me? I invented it!” a familiar voice calls out as the flashbulb pops. By the time I spin back toward the line, Dreidel’s already halfway to the President with a huge smile on his face.

Manning lights up like he’s seeing his childhood pet. I know better than to get in the way of that. “My boy!” Manning says, embracing Dreidel. I still get a handshake. Dreidel gets a hug.

“We wanted it to be a surprise,” I offer, shooting a look at Dreidel.

Behind him, the honcho line is no longer moving. Over the President’s shoulder, the First Lady glares my way. I also know better than to get in the way of that.

“Sir… we should really…”

“I hope you’re staying for the event,” Manning interrupts as he backs up toward his wife.

“Of course, sir,” Dreidel says.

“Mr. President, you remember the Lindzons,” I say, pulling the next set of donors into place. Manning fake-smiles and shoots me a look. I promised him it was only fifty clicks tonight. He’s clearly been counting. This is souvenir photo number 58. As I head back to the line, Dreidel’s right there with me.

“How many clicks you over?” Dreidel asks.

“Eight,” I whisper. “What happened to your fundraiser?”

“It was cocktails. We finished early, so I figured I’d come say hello. What happened with the gossip columnist?”

“All taken care of.”

A flashbulb pops, and I grab the elbow of the next honcho, an overweight woman in a red pants suit. Falling back into old form, Dreidel puts a hand on the shoulder of her husband and motions him forward.

“Mr. President, you remember Stan Joseph,” I announce as we drop him off for click number 59. Whispering to Dreidel, I add, “I also snagged Boyle’s London address and his last request from the library.”

Dreidel picks up speed as another flashbulb explodes. He’s half a step ahead. He thinks I don’t notice. “So what was on the final sheet?” he asks softly.

As I turn back to the honchos, there’s only one person left in line. One click to go. But when I see who it is, my throat constricts.

“What?” Dreidel asks, reading my expression.

I stop right in front of our final honcho, a young redhead in a modest black suit. Dreidel goes to put a hand on her elbow to escort her forward. She brushes him off and puts a hand on his shoulder. “Just the people I’m looking for,” she says proudly. “Lisbeth Dodson—Palm Beach Post. You must be Dreidel.”