Balance of Power

NINE

"I've checked the Saturday of Labor Day weekend," Kit Pace said to Lara. "In terms of television, it might seem pretty good for a wedding—no conflicts with major sports events, no big network specials. But that's because the networks know better: who wants to be inside watching television on the last weekend of summer?"

With a sense of resignation, Lara looked at the others. They sat in the yellow Oval Room of the President's private residence: Kit, Kerry's press secretary; Clayton; Connie Coulter, a savvy young public relations expert Lara had asked to become her press secretary; and Francesca Thibault, the White House social secretary. Kerry sat next to Lara; the others, sworn to secrecy, were the planning group for their wedding. At Lara's insistence they had chosen Sunday afternoon—with its diminished scrum of reporters outside the West Wing—for their first meeting.

"It doesn't matter," Lara answered blithely. "We're planning on a two-line announcement: 'The President and his fiancée, Lara Costello, were married today. Ms. Costello plans to keep her name.' "

"Three lines," Kerry amended. "You can add 'The happy couple is honeymooning at an undisclosed location.' "

Kit's smile was tentative, as if she were worried that, beneath the levity, Lara was drawing a line. "Are you two planning on a second term?" she inquired dryly. "If so, to affirmatively include the country in your wedding would be absolutely unifying."

Lara managed to smile. "I'm all for unity," she said. "My modest hope is for a wedding somewhat more subdued than halftime at the Super Bowl. Consistent with the wishes of the media, Kerry's political advisors, and the Democratic National Committee."

The wry edge in Lara's tone elicited, from Kit, a sympathetic shake of the head. "During the transition," she responded, "I had a meeting with my predecessor. He'd run a computer search to identify the subject on which he'd gotten the most inquiries. The winner—by over ten times more than the war in Kosovo—was the President's acquisition of Frisky, his Boston terrier. The questions included whether Frisky would get spayed, and the existence of protective measures to keep him from disemboweling the First Lady's pet Siamese.

"Your wedding, it goes without saying, is somewhat bigger than the acquisition of a dog . . ."

"I'll take that as a compliment," Lara interrupted with a smile.

"Lara," the President informed Kit, "is wondering whether Frisky at least got to keep his job."

Kit threw up her hands in mock dismay. "Welcome," she said, "to the theater of the absurd."

Dark, elegant, and dangerously thin, Francesca Thibault hastened to infuse a note of seriousness. "The challenge," she interjected, "is to have a public event which is true to who you are.

"This is not an old-fashioned society wedding. You and the President are the American meritocracy. So we can style it as a private event— scaled down, with a touch of informality; a wedding party comprised of friends and family; and a larger reception to include the guests we just can't do without."

"Can we 'do without' guests who actively hate us?" Lara asked.

"Not really," Clayton answered, deadpan, "but we can probably set a quota."

"Jokes aside," Connie Coulter said to Lara, "the composition of the guest list is important. It can't be so big that an invitation is meaningless or so political that it looks crass."

"But what is 'it'?" Lara asked. "A wedding, or our reception?"

"A White House wedding," Francesca Thibault answered firmly, "whatever the guest list." Turning to the President, she said, "The last time a President married at the White House was almost ninety years ago, and that was Woodrow Wilson . . ."

"A White House reception," Clayton corrected. "The wedding should be in a Catholic church."

Lara glanced at Kerry. "Clayton," Kerry told her baldly, "wants to clean up my problems with the Church. Until the annulment, I was a divorced, pro-choice opponent of prayer in public school, whose selection for Chief Justice is absolute anathema to the Catholic hierarchy. And, in particular, to Cardinal McKiernan, the archbishop of this diocese."

"It's not just the hierarchy," Clayton said to Lara. "Last November, Kerry only carried fifty-two percent of the Catholic vote. The bloodbath over making Caroline Masters Chief Justice—after she ruled in favor of late term abortion—has made those numbers even worse."

The lightness of spirit Lara felt had vanished. As the others did not, Clayton knew of her abortion: to the extent he could, he was trying to inoculate Kerry against scandal by cloaking their marriage in the blessings of the Church.

"What about St. Mathew's?" Francesca Thibault asked. "Where the President goes to Mass. It's a magnificent structure . . ."

"Which," Kit interjected, "would televise beautifully."

Lara glanced at the others, then at Kerry last, and saw his look of reflection. Clayton, too, looked at Kerry before speaking to Lara. "Cardinal McKiernan," he told her, "would see it as a tribute. So would Catholics nationwide."

"So would everyone," Kit told the President. "Suppose we have pool coverage only, and a stationary camera . . ."

"What's to keep them," Kerry interjected, "from treating it like the New Hampshire primary? While Lara and I are repeating vows, CNN is saying, 'Our instant tracking polls are showing that the President's numbers among Catholics are up seventeen percent.' Just how exploitative do we want to look?"

"We can set the ground rules," Kit answered. "We can even select the commentator. We've got the leverage here."

"What about still photographs?" Lara suggested. "Won't that be enough?"

"It's not the same," Kit insisted. "This isn't about show business, or even politics. It's a unique moment in American history, and Americans will want to share it. Please consider giving them that."

There was silence, and then Francesca Thibault spoke. "What about a small wedding at St. Mathew's?" she asked. "Televised with dignity. Then a larger but still manageable reception at the White House, with the White House photographer and perhaps our own video crew. Elegant tents on the South Lawn, dancing in the East Room."

"With a mariachi band?" Lara asked.

Only Clayton did not smile. "Actually," he said, "that's not such a terrible idea."

Connie Coulter gave Lara a quick glance. "We can only avoid a charge of elitism," she argued, "by including the American people. But we can't let in random tourists—in the age of Mahmoud Al Anwar, that would be a Secret Service nightmare. One could argue that televising the wedding is more intimate and meaningful than televised toasts and dancing."

Listening, Lara felt the wedding slipping away from her in the cross current of advice. "Who would officiate?" Kit was asking. "Cardinal McKiernan?"

"My old parish priest," Kerry said promptly. "Father Joe Donegan."

Clayton raised his eyebrows. "Isn't that the cardinal's call?"

"I'm the President, Clayton. Vince McKiernan can pass out wafers."

Clayton smiled at this. "A simple nuptial mass," Francesca Thibault offered, "with tasteful liturgical music."

Kit glanced at Lara. "Who might be in the wedding party?"

"Beautiful people," Francesca suggested dryly, "without a hint of scandal."

"My college roommates," Lara said. "Anna Chen from NBC is one of my closest friends. My sisters, of course."

Kit gave an emphatic nod. "That's great. The media, including the Spanish language media, will want them before the wedding . . ."

"Oh, absolutely," Lara said with mock sincerity. "Hispanics and women carried California. And who better to help with Catholics than my family?"

"They're part of who you are," Kit answered. "It's your burden, Lara, to be more popular than the President."

"We're all proud of Lara's family," Kerry interjected. "But having them with us is enough. We don't want anyone to use them."

Lara touched his arm. "For Kerry's sake," she told the others, "I'll do my part. I'll learn to live with becoming 'Lara Costello Kilcannon.' I'll even consider television. But about my family, I want everything—and I mean that—to go through Connie and me."

"Of course." Clayton said this so quickly that Lara wondered if he and Kit had used her family as a cat's-paw, hoping for other concessions to political practicality. Like a televised wedding at St. Mathew's.

"Concerning the gown," Francesca Thibault suggested brightly, "this is a chance to put your stamp on contemporary fashion. But the designer has to be an American—perhaps Vera Wang or Carolina Herrera . . ."

* * *

When the meeting was over, Clayton asked to speak to them alone.

"About the honeymoon," he observed, "isn't Martha's Vineyard too much of a privileged enclave?"

"We like it," Kerry answered crisply. "Sorry, pal, no Yellowstone. Or pup tents with mosquito nets."

Clayton's smile came and went. "The other thing is Lara's sister. Joan."

"What about Joan?" Lara asked.

Clayton turned to her. "For a week now, the President's managed to keep her problems quiet. But once the media knows you're getting married, there'll be more focus on your family—including your brother-inlaw. Your chances of keeping that from becoming public will diminish day by day.

"Imagine some tabloid story two days before the wedding—embarrassing your family, sapping some of the joy out of what, for them and all the rest of us, should be a wonderful day . . ."

Listening, Lara imagined Joan's sense of betrayal. "We're trying to protect her, Clayton."

"Then talk to her about a carefully managed disclosure, sooner rather than later. Perhaps softened with a broader message on combating family violence."

Lara stared at him. Glancing at her, Kerry said softly, "Remember my mother? You know how I feel about this."

Clayton was unflinching. "What happened to your mother ended twenty-five years ago. You're President now and the media's very different. You won't be able to control this."

"We can damn well try," Kerry told his closest friend. "Beginning with you."