Shining Through (31 page)

couldn’t see that my eyes had filled up. And not breaking into tears during work was a monumental effort. We’d sit in the car a day or two later, everything seemingly friendly and jolly again.

Edward would smile, say, Excuse me, and bury himself in a report. I’d gaze out the window and be overcome by sadness, which seemed stupid—even to me—because Edward, having blown off steam, seemed to have no recollection of the incident that still had the power to make me feel cold, alone, without hope.

Well, this definitely was one of those incidents. Pete drove around to the back entrance of COI headquarters—we never used the front—and Edward got out of the car. I slid across the seat to follow him upstairs, and he slammed the car door in my face. Then he hurried through the cold rain into the building.

Pete sat straight in the front seat, silent. He was Edward’s man. I never knew what he listened to or what he thought.

“See you later, Pete,” I made myself say.

“Okay.”

So I took a deep breath, stuffed my pad and pencil into my pocketbook and got out of the car. The rain had turned to sleet, and it pelted my face and dripped down my neck. I stood there shivering. Then Pete pulled away, and the tires spun out a thick spray of dirty, icy water all over my stockings.

I had a choice then: to do what I wanted to do or what I ought to do. So I didn’t stand there in the sleet and sob. I said, “Oh, shit!” and kicked a puddle of freezing water with one of my new suede shoes. Okay, maybe I had tears in my eyes when I did it.

But then I went back to work.

The Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor on December 7, 1941, a Sunday, and everybody in Washington kept asking everybody else: Where were you when you heard the news?

“Where were you when you heard the news?” Edward Leland’s latest lady asked John. Her name was Felice Benedict, and someone at the party at Edward’s house had whis-230 / SUSAN ISAACS

pered that her father was Granville Publications and her former husband was Benedict Aluminum, who was now married to Pendleton Timber’s widow.

“Where were you?” John asked, smiling back at her, thereby avoiding either a lie or the truth, which was that we were doing it on the floor in the living room, with the New York Philharmonic on the radio as background music, when an announcer broke in, proclaiming: “Ladies and gentlemen, the Japanese have bombed Pearl Harbor! I repeat…” For an instant we lay frozen in a position not appropriate for a momentous public event.

Then, as we pulled apart, I said, Oh, my God, it’s happening, and John said, I’d better get to the office and see what the cable traffic is. Where are my pants?

“I was at home—in Florida,” Felice answered. She stood close enough to John to get a good view. She appreciated quality; you could tell from her expensive perfume and the emerald on her right hand, so big it looked like half a broken beer bottle. “I have a little place down in Palm Beach where I spend the winter. I was enjoying a peaceful Sunday…or so I thought.” But although she stood close to John, she stood closer to Edward. Whatever Edward had seemed to be what she wanted. Felice withdrew a cigarette from a gold case, and before she could flick her gold lighter, five men’s matches and lighters rushed forward to meet at the cigarette’s tip. She chose Edward’s. “I was listening to the Philharmonic broadcast—”

“So was I!” John cut in.

“Weren’t you absolutely
jolted?
” she asked. He sure was, I thought.

“Stunned,” he agreed. A waiter in a white jacket put a round silver tray right by his hand, and John picked up a cheese straw.

It was December 12, the Friday night after Pearl Harbor, and we’d all been invited to Edward’s house to celebrate going to war.

That sounds horrible, twisted even, but it wasn’t. I think almost all of us there had felt that someday we’d have to SHINING THROUGH / 231

fight to stop Hitler, stop the spread of his evil, and now, finally, we could. The day before, Germany and Italy had declared war on the United States, and Congress had responded with declar-ations of its own—and voted as well that American troops could be dispatched anywhere in the world.

The waiter swiveled toward me and I took a cheese straw. I’d been wondering what dinner at Edward’s would be like, since I couldn’t exactly imagine him basting a leg of lamb. We’d been working at a killing pace all that day, and if John hadn’t told me about the invitation the night before, I wouldn’t have had a clue that Edward—who was keeping me and two other secretaries, borrowed from the Justice Department, busy—was hours away from having company. I kept waiting for him to tell me, Call my housekeeper and remind her to wash off the water-cress—
something
to show he was aware he was having a gang over for a meal.

But when we got to his house, a beautiful old brick place that had to be the ultimate example of some sort of Great American Architecture, in, naturally, Georgetown, I saw that there had been no need to worry; it had all been taken care of. Cooks, waiters and a butler were busy creating perfection, and all it had probably taken was one phone call to some Rich Persons’ Whims Agency. Dinner for ten at eight-thirty on Friday, Edward would have said, and they’d have said,
Of course
, Mr. Leland. You can rely on us.

“And now the Italianos and the Nazis,” Felice said. She pronounced Nazis the way Winston Churchill did: Nazzies. “All in one week! Did they declare war on us because they’re friends of the Japs, Edward?”

“Yes, but I think there’s probably more to it.”

“Oh, there’s always more to everything with you.” She sent him a meaningful smile, then took a deep drag on her cigarette.

Felice Benedict sounded like all of Edward’s women, with that slow, smoky upper-class voice. She looked like them too, in that she had a hairstyle that would remain 232 / SUSAN ISAACS

unmoved in a hurricane, perfect, chiseled features and a posture that suggested a spine of steel. But she was older than the others—closer to fifty than forty—and flashier.

Not that Felice chomped on gum and had a skirt slit up to her thigh. But she had a big bust and a small waist and wore a figure-hugging bright green knit dress that flashed Go! She touched Edward as often as she could—smoothing back a supposed out-of-place hair, reaching into his vest pocket to look at his watch—and in case anyone didn’t know what the score was, she’d said, My God, it’s nippy! a half hour earlier and then added, I’ll get my shawl. It’s with my things, upstairs. Upstairs, of course, were probably a few guest rooms—and Edward’s bedroom.

Well, no one really thought she’d come to Washington to stay at a hotel and visit the National Gallery, but Mrs. Something Weekes, whose husband, Norman Weekes, was, despite some ridiculously confusing title, one of COI’s top spy coordinators, had pursed her thin lips in disapproval as she’d watched Felice’s bright green backside disappear up the stairs.

I have to admit that for that instant even I had felt my face get hot with embarrassment, because Felice drew arrows and flashed blinding lights around her private life. Where I came from, people didn’t do that. (For that matter, where she came from they didn’t, either.)

All the other women John and I had seen Edward with were so classy and fashionable they’d looked like beautiful heads plopped on top of Parisian dresses, with no human body inside.

But despite her aristocratic accent, her emerald, her ropes of pearls and her little place in Palm Beach, which probably had fifty-six rooms and was right on the ocean, Felice was more than just a well-dressed set of cheekbones; she let you know she was female—and doing female-male things with Edward.

John had once told me that Edward was quite a ladies’ man.

I’d said, You’re kidding! No, John went on, he always has someone. He spoke carefully, analytically, as if he was dealing with a fascinating legal concept instead of Edward SHINING THROUGH / 233

Leland’s sex life. You see, he explained, by the time, um, Ed’s wife died (the “um” was because he was on the verge of saying

“Nan’s mother”), he’d established himself as, well, as quite important, both socially and professionally. He was therefore
extremely
eligible. And aside from his obvious credentials, he has a way with women. I must have made a face, because John added, Sophisticated women. So all along, he continued, Ed’s been inundated—he’s had more women than he knew what to do with. All wealthy, all intelligent, pleasant, pretty, chic. And because the supply was so abundant, his demand seemed to diminish. Do you understand? Someone perfectly suitable was always available for…whatever he was interested in at the moment. He had no particular need for anyone permanent.

But what about love? I asked. He must have been so lonely after his wife died. And he was young. Didn’t he want someone?

He had the law, John declared. You have the law, I said. It never got in your way. John sighed: Ed had responsibilities to Nan. Come on, I interrupted again, don’t tell me he couldn’t find time to get married because he was so busy making chocolate pudding and tying Nan’s little shoelaces. Great men, John humphed, don’t concern themselves with conventional domestic matters.

But it looked to me as if Felice was looking for something nice and conventional, and I wished her well. She had a nicer nature than the others. For instance, she didn’t ignore me. She’d actually talked to me. “Tell me, Linda, were you listening to the Philharmonic too?”

“Well, I was in the room, but I’m not the music lover John is.

I was probably reading the paper or something.”

“Your favorite boss”—she took Edward’s hand—“was in New York, you know.” I nodded. “Listening to the New York I-think-the-Giants playing football with people from Brooklyn. Can you imagine? But the announcement didn’t come as a shock, because he’d already gotten a call from Donovan and Roosevelt over an hour earlier.” Edward stood there, his hand in hers, looking amused and, I thought, a little charmed 234 / SUSAN ISAACS

at her name-dropping. “He was on the telephone after that, but kept the football game on for God-knows-what reason. Probably to listen to all those masculine grunts of agony. So coarse, but that’s what men like, don’t you think?”

“Maybe I just wanted to hear the news when it came over the radio,” Edward suggested.

Felice gave him an aren’t-you-clever smile. Then she took my arm, said, “Girl talk,” to Edward, and led me over to the couch.

She sat right beside me and took a deep breath, as if getting ready to give a prepared speech. She delivered it fast: “Linda, dear, Edward has such respect for you. I
know
you’re his right hand.” I knew she wanted something, and it wasn’t to give me a prize as Washington Secretary of the Year. I felt a little ill at ease, but it must have been harder for her; she rubbed her cigarette case between her palms as if it would warm her hands. “I hate to intrude on—oh, Linda, you know—the relationship between a private secretary and her employer.” She was so nervous, swallowing too often, fiddling with her cigarette case, crossing and recrossing her legs, that for a minute I thought I’d gotten her wrong. Maybe what she was after was government secrets. But then, one look at her, chewing off her dark lipstick, and I knew she wasn’t looking for Germany or Italy or Japan.

Her long fingernails, the exact same color as her lips, tapped out a nervous rhythm on the gold case. “You know what they say,” she murmured. “A man has no secrets from his valet. But we’re so modern nowadays, it should be: no secrets from his secretary.” She eyed my wedding ring. “Oh, not that you’re just a secretary.”

“Felice,” I broke in, “I really don’t—”

“I’m not going to ask you about the others. If there are others.”

Her voice had a tiny question mark at the end, but I pretended not to hear it. “I was just curious if he ever—oh, you know—ever mentioned me.”

I shouldn’t have looked up that second, because my sixth sense was poking me in the ribs, telling me that Edward was looking right at me. But naturally I did, and there he was, carrying on a deep and serious conversation with Norman SHINING THROUGH / 235

Weekes, getting a fresh drink from the waiter—and still managing to take in everything going on between Felice and me.

“I’m not asking
details
,” Felice said softly. “That wouldn’t be right.”

Edward was giving us one of his unreadable stares, but I knew him well enough to read it anyway. He was something less than delighted at Felice’s “girl talk” with me. If I could read between the lines, it said: Keep your mouth shut. But what was I going to tell her? That the most personal Edward ever got with me was when he’d climb into the car on a Monday and say: Did you have a nice weekend?

“Felice, I only know him in a business way. As his secretary—and as John’s wife.”

“But surely he
must
have said something….”

I made a big deal of glancing over to Edward, but she was too intent on our conversation to pick up the hint. “I’m asking because—you see—I’ve grown quite attached to him.” She put a beautifully manicured hand on mine; veins stood out, prominent and pale blue against the deep green of the emerald.

“I’m sure he’s attached to you,” I said. I wanted to give her something because, well, she loved him.

“He’s mentioned something?” She was so overjoyed.

“No.” Her face fell. “But you know Ed. He’s…he plays things close to the vest.” She smiled and nodded. “But he wouldn’t have asked you here, with all this…this war fever, unless he wanted your company. I mean, it’s a crazy, hectic time. He must feel so comfortable…”

I could hardly hear her. “I’m afraid I presented myself as something of a
fait accompli
, my dear. You see, I turned up on his doorstep Tuesday evening. I’d just thought, well, with all this tumult, it would be great fun to be at the center of things.

I hoped he wouldn’t be…irked. And he didn’t seem to be.”

Just then I glanced up, and there was Edward standing before us. Irked. His hands were jammed into the pockets of his trousers, and his dark eyebrows were drawn together, shading his eyes; even though I couldn’t see them, I knew 236 / SUSAN ISAACS

they weren’t twinkling. Still, as he held out his hand and pulled Felice up from the couch, his expression eased. The scowl passed.