The Book of Fate

30

Mr. President, you remember Ms. Dodson… columnist for the Palm Beach Post,” Wes said mid-handoff.

“Lisbeth,” she insisted, extending a handshake and hoping to keep things light. She glanced back to Wes, who was already pale white.

“Lisbeth, I would’ve gotten your name,” Manning promised. “Even if I don’t know the donors, only a fool doesn’t remember the press.”

“I appreciate that, sir,” Lisbeth said, believing his every word, even as she told herself not to. Could I be more pathetic? she asked herself, fighting off a strange desire to curtsy. Sacred Rule #7: Presidents lie best. “Nice to see you again, sir.”

“Is that Lisbeth?” the First Lady asked, knowing the answer as she moved in for her own cheek-to-cheek hug. “Oh, you know I adore your column,” she gushed. “Except that piece when you listed how much Lee was tipping local waitresses. That one almost had me take you off our invite list.”

“You actually did take me off,” Lisbeth pointed out.

“Only for two weeks. Life’s too short to hold a grudge.”

Appreciating the honesty, Lisbeth couldn’t help but smile. “You’re a smart woman, Dr. Manning.”

“Dear, we’re the ones who’re supposed to be currying favor with you — though I will say you can do better than silly little squibs about what people are tipping, which, let’s just admit, is below you.” Slapping her husband on the arm, she added, “Lee, give the girl a nice quote about cystic fibrosis research so she can do her job.”

“Actually,” Lisbeth began, “I’m just here…”

“We should get you onstage, sir,” Wes interrupted.

“… to see your right-hand men,” Lisbeth added, pointing at Dreidel and Wes. “I’m doing a piece on loyalty. Thought maybe I could grab their quotes and turn them into superstars.”

“Good — you should,” the President said, putting an arm around Dreidel. “This one’s running for Senate. And if I still had the keys… he’s Vice President caliber.” The President paused, waiting for Lisbeth to write it down.

Pulling a notepad from her overstuffed black purse, Lisbeth took the cue and pretended to scribble. Over her shoulder, she could feel Wes seething.

“Don’t worry,” Lisbeth said to Manning. “I’ll take it easy on them.”

“Mr. President,” a throaty female voice called out as they all turned to the middle-aged woman in the designer suit and matching designer hairdo. As honorary chairperson for the Cystic Fibrosis Foundation, Myrna Opal tapped her diamond Chopard watch, determined to keep the program running on time. “I think we’re ready, sir.”

The instant the President took his first step toward the stage door, Wes fell in line right beside him. “Wes, I’m fine.”

“I know, but it’s…”

“… less than ten feet to the door. I’ll make it. And Dreidel — I hope you’re at my table later.”

He says the words while looking at Wes. In the White House, they used to follow etiquette and make sure the President was always sitting next to whomever he needed to be near. For four years, he didn’t pick his tablemates. These days, he no longer bothered with political favors. It was the only perk of losing the White House. The President could finally sit next to the people he liked.

“Just make sure you get these nice cystic fibrosis folks in tomorrow’s column,” the First Lady added, motioning to Lisbeth.

“Yes, ma’am,” Lisbeth blurted, never taking her eyes off Wes. He’d been around the world’s best politicians for almost a decade, but he still was a novice when it came to hiding his own emotions. Nose flaring… fists tight… whatever he was burying, it was eating him alive.

“This way, sir,” one of two Secret Service agents said, motioning the President and First Lady toward the stage door. Like mice behind the piper, the cystic fibrosis chairperson, and PR person, and fund-raising person, and photographer, and remaining honchos all fell in line behind them, an instant entourage that sucked every straggler from the room.

As the door slammed behind them, the quiet was overwhelming. To Lisbeth’s surprise, Wes wasn’t the only one to stay put. Dreidel was right next to him, a warm grin on his face.

“Come… sit,” he offered, pointing to three empty seats at the cloth-covered round table that was used as a sign-in desk. Lisbeth obliged but wasn’t fooled. Fear always brought out kindness. And if the hotshot state-senator-to-be was anxious, her B+ story just became an A-.

“So how’d the birthday party planning go?” she asked, pulling a seat up to the table.

“The what?” Dreidel asked.

“For Manning’s birthday,” Wes insisted. “Our meeting this morning…”

“Oh, it was great,” Dreidel insisted, repatting the part in his hair and readjusting his wire-rim glasses. “I thought you meant my fundraiser.”

“Figure out where you’re gonna have it?” she added.

“Still deciding,” Wes and Dreidel said simultaneously.

Lisbeth nodded. These guys were White House trained. They weren’t falling for minor-league tricks. Better to go in soft. “C’mon, didn’t you hear what the First Lady said?” she asked. “Adores the column. I’m not here to drink your blood.”

“Then why’d you bring your cup?” Dreidel asked, pointing with his chin at her notepad.

“That’s what’s scaring you? What if I put it back in its holster?” she said, reaching under her seat and tucking the pad and pen back in her purse. Still bent over, she looked up, struggling to keep eye contact. “That better?” she asked.

“I was joking,” Dreidel said, clearly playing nice. Without a doubt, it was his secret they were smuggling.

“Listen, fellas,” Lisbeth begged. “Before you get all— Damn, sorry about this…” Reaching into the jacket pocket of her black suit, Lisbeth took out her cell phone and hit the Receive button. “Hey, Vincent… Yeah, I just… Oh, you’re kidding. Hold on, gimme a sec,” she said into the phone. Turning to Wes and Dreidel, she added, “Sorry, I gotta take this… it’ll just be a minute.” Before either of them could react, Lisbeth was out of her seat, speed-walking toward the main door. “Just watch my purse!” she called back to Dreidel and Wes, shoving her shoulder into the door and crossing into the ornate chandeliered lobby of the Kravis Center. With a tight grip on her phone, she pressed it to her ear. But the only things she heard were the voices of the two young men she’d just left inside.

“You told her we were party planning?” Dreidel hissed.

“What’d you want me to say?” Wes shot back. “That I was trying to save what was left of your marriage?”

Sacred Rule #8: If you really want to know what people think about you, leave the room and listen to what they say. Lisbeth learned this one the hard way on the Palm Beach party circuit, when a local socialite paid a parking valet $1,500 to eavesdrop on Lisbeth’s conversation with a confidential source. A week later, Lisbeth saved the $1,500 and simply signed up for two separate cell phones. Today, cell phone A was in her purse, back with Wes and Dreidel. Cell phone B was pressed to her ear. When she put her notepad away, all it took was the press of a button for A to speed-dial B. One faked important call later, Sacred Rule #8 proved why it would forever be in the top ten.

“But if she finds out about Boyle…” Wes said on the other line.

“Easy, poppa — she’s not finding out about Boyle,” Dreidel shot back. “Though speaking of which, tell me what you found…”

Alone in the lobby, Lisbeth stopped short, almost falling out of her scuffed high heels. Boyle? She looked around, but no one was there. They were all inside, lost in the hum of An Evening with President Leland F. Manning. Lisbeth could hear his voice rumbling off the main stage. A rush of excitement flushed her freckled cheeks. Finally… after all these years… an honest-to-God A+.