I Do Solemnly Swear (10 page)

Kate examined one of the original Bellangé chairs positioned beneath the portrait. She was tempted to sit in the chair but felt it would be sacrilegious in some strange way. Much of the furniture in the White House was like artifacts in a museum, meant only to visually appreciate but never touch. She moseyed into the Red Room, a sitting room decorated with French and American mahogany furniture. She eased her weary bones onto the red Empire sofa. Awestruck by the historic memorabilia surrounding her, she imagined how many former presidents, diplomats, and members of royalty had sat where she rested right now. She laid her head back, her eyelids heavy as concrete. How had her marriage gotten to such a hopeless state? She glanced at her wedding ring and thought about the day Peter had proposed.

***

It was a typical Sunday afternoon. Kate had invited Peter to the White Stallion Ranch to celebrate the first anniversary of their meeting. Their relationship had stagnated; it had become routine and boring. Kate, in her infinite optimism, was hoping that a romantic dinner and a heartfelt talk might jump-start the failing relationship. She had an eerie feeling about today; something extraordinary was going to happen.

They’d just finished dinner. Maria had the weekend off, and Kate’s father was in Chicago. After piling the dishes in the sink,
Kate cuddled up next to Peter on the sofa in front of the fireplace. Peter exhaled an I-ate-too-much sigh and discreetly loosened his belt buckle. Kate grasped his hand.

“I can’t believe it’s been a year,” she said.

“Time sure flies when you’re having fun.”

“Is that what we’re doing, Peter?”

He slid his hand between her legs and squeezed her inner thigh. “What’s the matter?”

She wanted to tell him that she needed more, that the relationship was in limbo. But didn’t he know? Couldn’t he
feel
the void? She didn’t want to pressure him, but...

“There’s something missing, Peter. We need to find a balance between independence and permanency. I’m just not sure what that is.” “Kate, I’m in love with you. If I haven’t made that clear, I’m sorry.” He eased off the sofa as if he’d just had back surgery. He grabbed the fireplace poker and rearranged the crackling logs. When he sat down, he slid his arm around her shoulders.

“You have no interest in children, Kate. Told me repeatedly that kids are the only reason to marry. Has that changed?”

“I’m not sure, Peter. At this point in my life, I don’t know what the hell I want. But I can tell you this, being a mother wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world.”

He moved his head toward her and kissed her cheek. “Want to make love?”

Don’t ask! Sweep me away, Peter. Carry me into the bedroom.
Take
me!

She nodded yes, but her heart told her no.

He stood and extended his arm; Kate could see a fever of excitement stirring in his wide-open eyes. Like an obedient child, she grasped his hand. A lingering scent of charred apple wood followed them into the bedroom. She’d seen this play before. It
was a script from which he never improvised. She stood facing him and watched him undress. She searched her senses, quietly desperate to be filled with desire. Kate wanted to be aroused; she ached to have her gut explode with passion. But she felt no fire in her belly. Physically, she believed that Peter did his best to satisfy her. Emotionally, however, he fell short.

With his boxer shorts still on, he pulled down the comforter and hopped into bed. He rolled to his side, dug his elbow into the pillow, and propped his head up with his right hand. “Care to join me?”

It wasn’t quite a Don Juan invitation. She’d given up on the Gothic-novel lovers who naive little girls dream about, the bloodpumping, heart-pounding, sweaty palms kind of romance.

With each piece of clothing peeled from her body, Kate could feel his penetrating stare. She’d never felt comfortable with any man seeing her naked. As her bra fell to the floor, she turned away and strategically shielded her breasts with her forearms. The troublesome left breast was always there to taunt her. Even though it never seemed to bother Peter—not once did he ever mention it—she still felt overwhelmingly self-conscious. With a fluid motion, she slid under the covers.

He didn’t kiss her, stroke her hair, or make love to her with words. Peter didn’t understand enticement or foreplay. Nor did he comprehend the magic of eye contact. After a one-year relationship, Kate grudgingly accepted the fact that Peter would never comprehend that a kiss—long, hot, breathless—was the fuel that ignited all lovemaking, every nerve ending inflamed by the simple pleasure of a kiss. How many times had she given him a guided tour of her body? How many times had she stressed the importance of foreplay? How many times had she told him that
she wanted a partner who understood the difference between a sprinter and a long-distance runner? He just didn’t get it.

He slipped off his boxers and gently moved his body on top of her. That was the one thing she’d always loved about Peter. He always seemed conscious of her comfort and was never overly aggressive. Kate closed her eyes. It was a union for which her body was not quite ready. She kept her eyes shut, and her mouth searched for his, hoping he’d at least kiss her. His only interest was orgasm.

Another world record.

When he finished, he kissed her forehead. “How did I do?” he asked.

This was always his after-sex question. She wanted to be totally truthful, but when she had tried this approach in the past, it only served to frustrate her and make him feel inadequate. He did manage to give her some physical pleasure, but it was little more than a teaser. “You did great, honey.”

He rolled off her and smiled broadly, obviously satisfied that he was a great lover.

The aftermath was always the same. She lay motionless, trying to focus on a spot in the center of the colorless ceiling, trying to make sense of their relationship. She could hear his rhythmic gasps. Soon he’d be snoring.

At times like this, secret thoughts were jarred loose from the private caverns in her mind. Babies. Skin soft as a lambskin glove. Talcum powder. Johnson’s shampoo. Ivory soap. The clock was ticking, hammering. But her battery was almost dead.

“Will you marry me?” he whispered, his words crashing through the silence of night. “I know that I don’t always show my true feelings, Kate. Maybe all men are built this way. But you are the love of my life, and I want to wake up next to you every morning and see that beautiful smile.”

She could not have been more shocked if she stuck her finger into a live light socket. It was a question that carried with it a series of complicated thoughts. A fading vision of a white knight, a distant fantasy of motherhood, flashed in her mind. If she believed for one minute that, somewhere in the world, a mysterious stranger was waiting to sweep her off her feet, she might have turned down his proposal.

Maybe marriage will solidify our relationship. Maybe things will change. Maybe it will help advance my political career.

Logic overcame her instincts. Like so many unfulfilled women, Kate settled for the consolation prize before there were no prizes to be had, before Mother Nature and gravity did what they did best to middle-aged women.

“Yes, Peter. I
will
marry you.” As the words reluctantly slipped off her tongue, a feeling of anxiety overwhelmed her.

He kissed her on the lips for the first time that evening, and like in the past, her heart did not feel what she desperately wanted it to feel.

***

Kate sat forward and shook her head. She looked around the Red Room, feeling disoriented. The muscles along her shoulders tightened, reminding her why she sat alone at five thirty a.m. From the beginning, Kate thought, their marriage had been an arrangement, a merger, two mismatched people hoping to beat the odds and make something out of nothing. It had been an unsteady foundation upon which a secure relationship could not be built.

Maybe that’s why things are crumbling
.

She stood and stretched, reaching for the fifteen-foot ceiling. When her mind was more alert, she walked into the West Wing, her body feeling as if she were trudging through mud. She wanted to check her calendar to prepare for another turbulent day. As
Kate reached for the doorknob, a voice echoed from down the hall. McDermott’s door was ajar. She stood in front of his office and listened.

“...he arrived a few hours ago. Yes. I wouldn’t worry about it. It’s just a matter of time. I’ll keep you posted.”

Who was he talking to? What did it all mean? Kate wasn’t yet sure if McDermott was totally on her team. Under the circumstances, an unexpected visit might answer a lot of questions. She wanted to rush inside, catch him off guard, examine his eyes. The eyes never lie. But what would it accomplish? Right now, she needed a long shower and a pot of coffee.

As she walked up the stairs, his words echoed in her mind:
It’s just a matter of time
. Was he implying that it was just a matter of time before she resigned? What else could it mean?

She remembered that her dad would arrive on Saturday. His timing couldn’t be better.

Hoping to rouse her senses, Kate struggled through the coldest shower she could endure. But after ten minutes, she realized that nearly freezing her body wasn’t the remedy she’d sought. She towel-dried her hair, wrapped a terry robe around her shivering body, and shuffled barefoot toward the kitchen. Walking down the long hallway, she could smell hazelnut coffee. Oh, how she needed coffee! Because Kate rarely ate breakfast, the service staff didn’t begin their day until eight a.m. But it was standard procedure for Adelina Menendez, the housekeeper and a vivacious Brazilian redhead, to make an early visit just to brew Kate fresh coffee. She grabbed the Krups carafe, poured herself a mugful, and drank it black. Unlike most mornings, when one cup got her going, today she guzzled a second, and third, cup of strong coffee.

While sitting at the table, mulling over her agenda for the day, Kate could feel the coffee launch an unfamiliar assault against her stomach. It wasn’t indigestion or heartburn, more like a sharp cramp focused around her navel. It couldn’t be her period, she thought, it was more than two weeks away. It had to be the black coffee. She tried to get up, but a fierce pain folded her in half.
Slowly, with great care not to stand upright, Kate eased off the chair. Slightly bent forward, she gripped her stomach with both hands and struggled toward the nearest bathroom. In the medicine cabinet, she fumbled for antacids. By chewing four Tums, twice the recommended dose, Kate hoped to counteract the hostile caffeine. A shade of relief came quickly, but the cramp would not subside. Suddenly, she could feel a welling current of vomit churning in the back of her throat.

The pain deepened further.

David Rodgers. The jellyfish poison. The symptoms
.

Fraught with panic and utter misery, she fell to the floor. Her first frenzied thought was to yell for help. But when Kate opened her mouth, all she could elicit was a guttural moan.

What Kate needed was a doctor. Or maybe a priest.

***

When Adelina Menendez tiptoed into Charles McDermott’s office, he was pacing the floor, sucking on a Lucky Strike. She locked the door.

“I’ve been waiting for you,” he said. “Did anybody see you come in?”

“I do not think so.”

“What do you mean, you don’t
think
so?”

“No one saw me.”

“Are you
sure
?”

“Yes. Yes. I am positive.”

Charles assumed a familiar position on the leather sofa. He didn’t have to say a word.

Her generous lips curled to a smile. She unbuttoned the front of her light-blue dress, slipped it off her shoulders, and let it slide down her bronze body. It caught on her hips so she wiggled it to the floor.

Adelina’s full breasts heaved out of the black lace bra. McDermott fixed his eyes on her skimpy thong panties. He adored garter belts and stockings. She stepped out of her shoes and ambled over to him. With a naughty smile, she knelt on the floor in front of him. She grasped his knees, spread his legs apart, and licked her ruby-painted lips.

McDermott unbuckled his belt, pulled down his zipper, and rested his head against the back of the sofa. He clutched a handful of her curly red hair and closed his eyes.

Adelina Menendez took him to that special place.

***

By the time Dr. Weinberg arrived, Kate had vomited three times, and the pain had been reduced to a dull ache. Had it not been for the housekeeping staff, Kate might still be lying on the bathroom floor in agony. Albert Cranston and six Secret Service agents fastidiously searched drawers, inspected cupboards, and tried to find anything out of the ordinary. They confiscated the remaining brewed coffee and sent it to the lab.

Kate lay on the yellow sofa with a wet washcloth pressed against her forehead. With her other hand, she rubbed her stomach. Dr. Weinberg and Cranston stood over her.

“How do you know it wasn’t poison?” Kate asked.

Dr. Weinberg handed her samples of Tagamet from the supply in his black bag. “If it were, Madam President, I’d be calling Leonard LaPlant’s office.”