Paris: A Love Story (20 page)

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I had already received another equally unexpected gift. The evening before I left New York for Christmas in Paris, I ran into a friend of Richard’s at a party. Mike Abramowitz told me he had dinner with my husband the night before he collapsed, on December 10, 2010. “He was his usual engaged self. For three hours Richard and I talked about every topic under the sun, from Afghanistan/Pakistan to Washington gossip. He spent a great deal of time talking about you,” Abramowitz said. “About his pride and his love for you.” Most important, Abramowitz said, “There was no sign of any illness at all when I dropped him off at your Georgetown house at ten-thirty. None.”

My final conversation with Richard—his call from the ambulance—was exactly twelve hours later.

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In 1995, shortly before we got married, Richard and I paid a call on one of his most revered mentors, Clark Clifford. One of the last of the great Washington Wise Men, whose biography Richard had coauthored, Clifford lived alone, on Rockville Pike, Maryland. We waited for him in the living room of his spacious colonial farm house. The once tall and imposing titan of Washington—President Truman’s confidant and LBJ’s defense secretary—descended the stairs with agonizing slowness. Bent over his cane, he made his way, one noisy step at a time. Peering up at us with his signature smile, his manners still impeccable, Clifford made it seem as if walking at 180 degrees to the ground was perfectly unremarkable. Afterward, Richard was quiet for a long time. Clifford sent us a beautiful silver caviar dish as a wedding gift, but by the time I wrote him a thank-you note, he had passed away.

Richard would not have easily borne such infirmity in old age.

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On New Year’s Eve, the whole family is gathered at my sister’s apartment. My brother, Andrew, is pounding out Neil Young’s “Harvest Moon,” a song I love, on the piano.

there’s a full moon risin’,

let’s go dancin’ in the light . . .

Because I’m still in love with you

I want to see you dance again . . .

An almost suffocating wave of sadness washes over me. I don’t want to spoil my family’s exuberant mood, nor am I able to articulate why grief should strike again, in the midst of so much warmth and love. A new year beginning pulls Richard farther away from me. It begins my second year without him, without us. I head quietly for the front door, and text them from the Métro that I am sorry, but I can’t do New Year’s this year.

I have no desire to reflect on the significance of the year ending—as I normally would. No wish to recall its surreal start, standing on the stage of the Kennedy Center, facing a sea of mourners, President Obama’s arm around me.

So I pretend it’s just another evening, and spend it alone. I make dinner for myself and watch Monty Python’s
The Life of Brian,
which always makes me laugh. An ordinary evening, as I begin a more ordinary life. I am barely awake when the church bells toll midnight.

The next morning, I stand in line for bread. My neighbors look much less rested than I. With his long face and flowing beard, the homeless man occupying his spot in front of the bakery is the image of an Old Testament prophet. This morning, he is wearing a blue T-shirt with a sailboat motif, and has a Christmas garland wrapped around his neck. To a captive audience of people waiting for their fresh baguettes, he expounds on President Sarkozy’s New Year’s Eve message. “He tried to sound optimistic,” the clochard says of the president, “but he was unconvincing. Nevertheless”—he looks straight at me—“I think we will have a good year.”