The Chameleon (67 page)
She listened respectfully to the words of praise heaped upon her husband by the powerful and didn't mind when an uninvited photographer snapped her picture as she tossed her wedding ring into the ground after Grant's empty casket, a composed look of respect across her features. It wasn't anybody's business but hers and Anita's that only Grant's impressive public reputation was in the box being buried and that his ashes were sitting in a comely green spice jar between the fresh mint and oregano on her kitchen win-dowsill—where she could keep her eye on him.
Prudence Savage's funeral in her Ohio hometown was receiving a lot of ink, too. Every paper but Grant's was printing stories questioning what Grant was doing in the middle of the night on the Eastern Shore with the leggy young political star of television's
24 Hours.
Grant's papers all ran the single short quote from Claire delivered by her press secretary, Anita Lace.
“Senator Harrison deeply mourns the loss of her husband as well as her friend Prudence Savage. The two of them were hurrying to Claire's home from a meeting to welcome her back from a family business trip in New York.” When asked “What kind of meeting goes on with two people until two
A.M
. in an empty beach house?” Anita simply echoed Claire and uttered “Deep Throat” in her “Get it now, buddy?” confidential way.
“Who the hell is going to come forward and deny it? Deep Throat? What is he going to do? Jump out from behind his cover and identify himself to protect his reputation?” Anita argued. The “Deep Throat” spin on the matter of Grant and Prudence gave some color to the old story of a man caught cheating on his wife.
“Anyway, a lot of Democrats turned up at the Pie to mourn him.” Anita wiped a single tear away.
“He certainly was popular.” Slim wore a perky pillbox hat on her head.
Claire buried the empty casket with all the dignity she could muster. She presided over a postburial tea-and-bourbon reception back at the house, where she was overheard to say to a reporter, “I've been to a lot of teas in my day so I know a tempest in a teapot when I see one.” Cut Wrap. Lefty would have been proud of her. Rumors laid to rest.
In all the commotion she hadn't seen the
New York Times
obituary with its accompanying profile of the elegant older woman. Starling Endicott Fillmore Harrison of Newport, Rhode Island; Lake Como, Italy; and Tuxedo Park, New York, philanthropist and staunch supporter of the decorative arts and gardening, had died at her Italian villa after a long illness.
After the reading of the eighth draft of Grant's last will and testament, Claire discovered that she was rich. Not Harrison rich, but rich enough to name a wing for special diseases at Cedars-Sinai Hospital in L.A. for Lefty. This she did with pride. She carefully oversaw the building of a new airport in Loudoun County named for her latest late husband, Pulitzer Prize-winning publisher Fenwick Grant, out of the trust she presided over with his appointed board. She also picked out a distinguished drawing, a three-quarter profile, for the U.S. Postal Department when it issued a commemorative stamp in his honor. Violet, Billy, and Dylan got a kick out of sending their letters with Uncle Grant's picture on them. She sent a condolence note to Harrison and mailed it with the stamp. And after Claire added the first issue of the Grant stamp to her famous stamp collection, she closed the book on him.
It is beautiful that our lives coincided for so long.
—
Simone de Beauvoir
Between us it was a question of an essential love.
—
Jean-Paul Sartre
C
laire pushed on her glasses, the line through the center dividing the lenses in two. The bifocals improved her vision for distance while allowing her to read the speedometer. She was in a hurry to get home. She'd tried not to exceed the speed limit; HurryUp had never sounded so appropriate.
Placing her high heels on the leather seat next to her, she slipped on her Belgian driving shoes, the ones with the rubber bubbles on the soles. Billy had gotten them for her with the inducement, “Gram,
anybody
hip is wearing these.” She loved being in the driver's seat by herself and had sent the chauffeur home. She figured she'd have enough attendants buzzing around as soon as she began the new job. After she was sworn in she'd be driven everywhere. Probably have those bothersome bodyguards with her as well. She couldn't wait to tell
him
the news. She wanted to be the first and hoped it hadn't been announced on television yet.
She wondered how her critics would respond to the new UN ambassador's resident houseguest. Ambassador-to-be, Claire Harrison smiled to herself.
As she crossed into Virginia and barreled on toward Middleburg, she noticed she'd picked up a police car. Dammit. Couldn't they see that her license plate was
CALIFORNIA
1? She'd thought she was only ten miles over the limit. The whirling blue light pulled her over and both state troopers got out. Claire could see her reflection in Officer Beck's badge. And she could see herself more clearly in Officer Dey's Ray-Bans.
“I'm sorry, boys. I didn't—”
“Excuse us, Senator Harrison. We were just being neighborly. Both of us just wanted to congratulate you on your ambassadorship. Guy here heard it over his radio. We just wanted to wish you luck.”
“And warn you to be careful of those Russkies at the UN.” Guy tipped his hat to the popular senator.
“Well, that's really lovely of you boys.”
“Will you be wanting an escort or anything, Senator… Ambass—aw, geez, you'll always be Senator to us.”
“And home will always be HurryUp in Virginia.” She shook their hands, and then turned back to the road, and sped along. She was anxious to share her news with only one man.
She walked up behind him. His thick white hair was neatly combed, all except for the still-stubborn forelock in front. He was working on his latest book on the Middle East, sitting on the back veranda off his room. It overlooked the man-made lake they'd put in in late September. They called it Lake Como, just for fun.
She watched him lovingly for a moment before she slipped behind him, wrapping her arms around his neck and planting a kiss on top of his luxurious head of cloud-colored hair.
“Hello, darling. I'm home.”
“I heard your car drive up. Well, am I sleeping with an Honorable woman or not?”
“I'm Honorable. The Honorable Ambassador Harrison to you.”
“Now there are two Ambassador Harrisons in this house. It's going to get confusing around here.”
“It's always been confusing.” She smiled. But it had always been Harrison.
“I don't suppose you'd agree to marry me at last?”
Claire was close enough to him to smell her favorite cologne, a combination of English soaps, tweed, and his perspiration. “I'm already a Harrison. Who would I be then? Ambassador Harrison Harrison?”
From where she stood she could see his velvet suppers with little embroidered foxes at the foot of her bed. “We don't need marriage, darling. It would only confuse the grandchildren, who are
your
great-grandchildren.”
“I'd like to legitimize you, my dear.”
“Why mess with success, my love?”
“Why indeed?”
He must have been expecting her Senate confirmation. There was a gift box in the corner of her chair.
“Presents?” Her eyes turned the loveliest amethyst color when she was pleased.
“More like a medal.”
“Ooh, the Purple Heart. I've earned it.”
“No, a special medal. Only you could wear it.”
First the ribbon, then the pale blue box, then the tissue paper, and finally the gray velvet case. She smiled at him as she snapped open the ltd, prepared to like whatever he had selected.
“A leaping lizard! In diamonds.”
“Don't get cute, Ambassador, or I won't counsel you on foreign diplomacy.”
“We make quite an astonishing team, don't we, my love?”
“Would you like me to pin on your chameleon?”
Claire moved closer to Harrison, just a breath away, in response. She handed him the chameleon and lifted her left shoulder toward him.
He smiled as he pushed his fingers under her jacket.
“I tried to convince Tiffany's to design one that changes colors. They added a yellow diamond here and emeralds for eyes. A blue diamond on the tail—quite rare, I'm told. Evidently it was the best they could do.”
“It's charming. So this is what I am, is it?”
“If we don't know what we are, surely the people who love us do.”
“How beautiful.”
“The brooch or the sentiment?”
“You, my dear.”
And she kissed the man, the only man she had ever loved.
It had been a lifetime of waiting, but the man who had long ago captured Claire's heart now shared her bed, her days, and her future. They had survived the stormiest of seas, both apart and together. And both of them knew they were much better, even stronger, in one another's arms.
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is the author of two bestselling novels:
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She has been a contributing editor to
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and is nationally recognized for her fund-raising and civic work. Sugar Rautbord lives in Chicago, where she is active in high society, heads a consulting firm, and is constantly reinventing herself.
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