Windmills of the Gods (13 page)

One day Mary saw him having lunch with Colonel McKinney. They were engaged in an earnest conversation, and Mary wondered how close the two men were.
Could they be old friends? And could they be planning to gang up on me? I’m getting paranoid
, Mary told herself.
And I’m not even in Romania yet.

Charlie Campbell, head of the Senate Foreign Relations Committee, hosted a party in Mary’s honor at the Corcoran Gallery. When Mary walked into the room and saw all the elegantly gowned women, she thought:
I don’t even belong here. They look like they were all born chic.

She had no idea how lovely she looked.

There were more than a dozen photographers present, and Mary was the most photographed woman of the evening. She danced with half a dozen men, some married and some unmarried, and was asked for her telephone number by almost all of them. She was neither offended nor interested.

“I’m sorry,” she said to each of them, “my work and my family keep me too busy to think about going out.”

The idea of being with anyone but Edward was unthinkable. There could never be another man for her.

She was at a table with Charlie Campbell and his wife and several people from the State Department. The conversation turned to anecdotes about ambassadors.

“A few years ago in Madrid,” one of the guests recounted, “hundreds of rioting students were clamoring for the return of Gibraltar in front of the British embassy. As they were on the verge of breaking into the building, one of General Franco’s ministers telephoned. ‘I’m deeply distressed to hear what’s happening at your embassy,’ he said. ‘Shall I send more police?’ ‘No,’ the ambassador said, ‘just send fewer students.’ ”

Someone asked, “Wasn’t it Hermes who was regarded by the ancient Greeks as the patron of ambassadors?”

“Yes,” came the rejoinder. “And he was also the protector of vagabonds, thieves, and liars.”

Mary was enjoying the evening tremendously. The people were bright and witty and interesting. She could have stayed all night.

The man next to her said, “Don’t you have to get up early for appointments tomorrow?”

“No,” Mary said. “It’s Sunday. I can sleep late.”

A little later, a woman yawned. “Excuse me. I’ve had a long day.”

“So have I,” Mary said brightly.

It seemed to her that the room was abnormally quiet. She looked around, and everyone seemed to be staring at her.
What on earth
—
?
She glanced at her watch. It was two-thirty
A.M.
And with horror she suddenly remembered something Stanton Rogers had told her:
At a dinner party, the guest of honor always leaves first.

And
she
was the guest of honor!
Oh, my God
, Mary thought.
I’m keeping everybody up.

She rose to her feet and said in a choked voice, “Good night, everybody. It’s been a lovely evening.”

She turned and hurried out the door, and behind her she could hear the other guests scrambling to leave.

Monday morning she ran into Mike Slade in the hallway. He grinned and said, “I hear you kept half of Washington up Saturday night.”

His supercilious air infuriated her.

She brushed past him and went into James Stickley’s office.

“Mr. Stickley, I really don’t think it would serve the best interests of our embassy in Romania for Mr. Slade and me to try working together.”

He looked up from the paper he was reading. “Really? What’s the problem?”

“It’s his—his attitude. I find Mr. Slade to be rude and arrogant. Frankly, I don’t like Mr. Slade.”

“Oh, I know Mike has his little idiosyncrasies, but—”

“
Idiosyncrasies?
He’s a rhinestone in the rough. I’m officially requesting that you send someone else in his place.”

“Are you finished?”

“Yes.”

“Mrs. Ashley, Mike Slade happens to be our top field expert on East European affairs. Your job is to make friends with the natives. My job is to see to it that you get all the help I can give you. And his name is Mike Slade. I really don’t want to hear any more about it. Do I make myself clear?”

It’s no use
, Mary thought.
No use at all.

She returned to her office, frustrated and angry.
I could talk to Stan
, she thought.
He would understand. But that would be a sign of weakness. I’m going to have to handle Mike Slade myself.

“Daydreaming?”

Mary looked up, startled. Mike Slade was standing in front of her desk, holding a large stack of memos.

“This should keep you out of trouble tonight,” he said. He laid them on her desk.

“
Knock
next time you want to come into my office.”

His eyes were mocking her. “Why do I get the feeling you’re not crazy about me?”

She felt her temper rising again. “I’ll tell you why, Mr. Slade. Because I think you’re an arrogant, nasty, conceited—”

He raised a finger. “You’re being tautological.”

“Don’t you dare make fun of me.” She found herself yelling.

His voice dropped to a dangerous level. “You mean I can’t join the others? What do you think everyone in Washington is saying about you?”

“I don’t really care what they’re saying.”

“Oh, but you should.” He leaned over her desk. “Everybody is asking what right you have to be sitting at an ambassador’s desk. I spent four years in Romania, lady. It’s a piece of dynamite ready to explode, and the government is sending in a dumb kid from the sticks to play with it.”

Mary sat there listening, gritting her teeth.

“You’re an amateur, Mrs. Ashley. If someone wanted to pay you off, they should have made you ambassador to Iceland.”

Mary lost control. She sprang to her feet and slapped him hard across the face.

Mike Slade sighed. “You’re never stuck for an answer, are you?”

The invitation read: “The Ambassador of the Socialist Republic of Romania requests your presence for cocktails and dinner at the Embassy, 1607 23rd Street, N.W., at 7:30
P.M.
, Black Tie, RSVP 555-6593.”

Mary thought of the last time she had visited that embassy and what a fool she had made of herself.
Well, that won’t happen again. I’m past all that. I’m part of the Washington scene now.

She put on one of the new outfits she had bought, a black cut-velvet evening dress with long sleeves. She wore black silk high-heeled pumps, and a simple pearl necklace.

Beth said, “You look prettier than Madonna.”

Mary hugged her. “I’m overwhelmed. You two have dinner in the dining room downstairs and then you may come up and watch television. I’ll be home early. Tomorrow we’re all going to visit President Washington’s home at Mount Vernon.”

“Have a good time, Mom.”

The telephone rang. It was the desk clerk. “Madam Ambassador, Mr. Stickley is waiting for you in the lobby.”

I wish I could have gone alone
, Mary thought.
I don’t need him or anyone else to keep me out of trouble.

The Romanian embassy looked completely different from the last time Mary had seen it. There was a festive air about it that had been totally missing on her first visit. They were greeted at the door by Gabriel Stoica, the deputy chief of mission.

“Good evening, Mr. Stickley. How nice to see you.”

James Stickley nodded toward Mary. “May I present our ambassador to your country?”

There was no flicker of recognition on Stoica’s face. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Madam Ambassador. Please follow me.”

As they walked down the hallway, Mary noticed that all the rooms were brightly lighted and well heated. From upstairs she could hear the strains of a small orchestra. There were vases of flowers everywhere.

Ambassador Corbescue was talking to a group of people when he saw James Stickley and Mary Ashley approach.

“Ah, good evening, Mr. Stickley.”

“Good evening, Ambassador. May I present the United States ambassador to Romania?”

Corbescue looked at Mary and said tonelessly, “I am happy to meet you.”

Mary waited for the twinkle in his eye. It never came.

There were a hundred people at dinner. The men wore dinner jackets and the women were beautifully gowned in dresses by Givenchy, Oscar de la Renta, and Louis Estevēs. The large table Mary had seen upstairs on her earlier visit had been augmented by half a dozen smaller tables around it. Liveried butlers circled the room with trays of champagne.

“Would you like a drink?” Stickley asked.

“No, thank you,” Mary said. “I don’t drink.”

“
Really?
That’s a pity.”

She looked at him, puzzled. “Why?”

“Because it’s part of the job. At every diplomatic dinner party you attend, there will be toasts. If you don’t drink, you’ll offend your host. You have to take a sip now and then.”

“I’ll remember,” Mary said.

She looked across the room, and there was Mike Slade. She did not recognize him for a moment. He was wearing a dinner jacket, and she had to admit that he was not unattractive in evening clothes. His arm was draped over a voluptuous blonde who was about to fall out of her dress.
Cheap
, Mary thought.
Just his taste. I wonder how many girl friends he has waiting for him in Bucharest?

Mary remembered Mike’s words:
You’re an amateur, Mrs. Ashley. If someone wanted to pay you off, he should have made you ambassador to Iceland.
The bastard.

As Mary watched, Colonel McKinney, in full dress uniform, walked up to Mike. Mike excused himself from the blonde and walked over to a corner with the colonel.
I’m going to have to watch them both
, Mary thought.

A servant was passing by with champagne. “I think I
will
have a glass,” Mary said.

James Stickley watched her as she drank it down. “Okay. It’s time to start working the room.”

“Working the room?”

“A lot of business gets done at these parties. That’s why embassies give them.”

Mary spent the next hour being introduced to ambassadors, senators, governors, and some of Washington’s most powerful political figures. Romania had become a hot ticket, and nearly everyone of importance had managed to get an invitation to the embassy dinner. Mike Slade approached James Stickley and Mary, holding the blonde in tow.

“Good evening,” Mike said genially. “I’d like you to meet Debbie Dennison. This is James Stickley and Mary Ashley.”

It was a deliberate slap. Mary said coolly, “It’s
Ambassador
Ashley.”

Mike clapped his hand to his forehead. “Sorry.
Ambassador
Ashley. Miss Dennison’s father happens to be an ambassador too. He’s a career diplomat, of course. He’s served in half a dozen countries for the last twenty-five years.”

Debbie Dennison said, “It’s a wonderful way to grow up.”

Mike said, “Debbie’s been around a lot.”

“Yes,” Mary said evenly. “I’m sure she has.”

Mary prayed she would not be seated next to Mike at dinner, and her prayers were granted. He was at another table, next to the half-naked blonde. There were a dozen people at Mary’s table. Some of them were familiar faces she had seen on magazine covers and on television. James Stickley was seated across from Mary. The man to Mary’s left spoke a mysterious language that she was unable to identify. To her right was a tall, thin, middle-aged blond man, with an attractive, sensitive face.

“I am delighted to be your dinner companion,” he said to Mary. “I am an ardent fan of yours.” He spoke with a slight Scandinavian accent.

“Thank you.”
A fan of my what?
Mary wondered.
I haven’t done anything.

“I am Olaf Peterson. I am the cultural attaché from Sweden.”

“I’m very happy to meet you, Mr. Peterson.”

“Have you been to Sweden?”

“No. To tell you the truth, I really haven’t been anywhere.”

Olaf Peterson smiled. “Then so many places have a treat in store for them.”

“Perhaps one day the children and I will visit your country.”

“Ah, you have children? How old are they?”

“Tim is ten and Beth is twelve. I’ll show you.” Mary opened her purse and took out snapshots of the children. Across the table, James Stickley was shaking his head disapprovingly.

Olaf Peterson examined the snapshots. “They are beautiful children!” he exclaimed. “They take after their mother.”

“They have their father’s eyes.”

They used to have mock arguments about which one of them the children resembled.

Beth is going to be a beauty, like you
, Edward would say.
I don’t know who Tim looks like. Are you sure he’s mine?

And their play-argument would end in lovemaking.

Olaf Peterson was saying something to her.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I said I read about your husband being killed in a motor accident. I am sorry. It must be very difficult for a woman to be alone without a man.” His voice was filled with sympathy.

Mary picked up the glass of wine in front of her and took a sip. It was cold and refreshing. She drained the glass. It was immediately refilled by a white-gloved waiter hovering behind the guests.

“When do you take up your post in Romania?” Peterson asked.

“I was told we’ll be leaving within the next few weeks.” Mary picked up her wineglass. “To Bucharest.” She drank. The wine was really quite delicious, and everyone knew that wine had a low alcohol content.

When the waiter offered to fill her glass again, she nodded happily. She looked around the room at all the beautifully dressed guests speaking in a dozen different tongues and thought:
They don’t have banquets like this in good old Junction City. No, sir. Kansas is as dry as a bone. Washington is as wet as a
—
what was Washington as wet as?
She frowned, trying to think.

“Are you all right?” Olaf Peterson asked.

She patted him on the arm. “Great. I’m just great. I’d like another glass of wine, Olaf.”

“Certainly.”

He motioned to the waiter, and Mary’s wineglass was refilled.

“At home,” Mary said confidentially, “I never drank wine.” She lifted her glass and took a swallow. “In fact, I never drank anything.” Her words were beginning to slur. “That doesn’ ‘clude water, of course.”

Olaf Peterson was studying her, smiling.

At the center table, Romanian Ambassador Corbescue rose to his feet. “Ladies and gentlemen—distinguished guests—I would like to propose a toast.”

The ritual began. There were toasts to Alexandros Ionescu, the President of Romania. There were toasts to Madam Alexandros Ionescu. There were toasts to the President of the United States, and to the Vice-President, to the Romanian flag and to the American flag. It seemed to Mary that there were thousands of toasts. She drank to every one of them.
I’m a ‘bassador
, she reminded herself. ‘
S my duty.

In the middle of the toasts, the Romanian ambassador said, “I am sure we would all like to hear a few words from the United States’ charming new ambassador to Romania.”

Mary raised her glass and started to drink a toast, when she suddenly realized she was being called upon. She sat there for a moment, then managed to get to her feet. She stood up, holding on to the table for support. She looked out at the throng of people and waved. “Hi, everybody. Having a good time?”

She had never felt happier in her life. Everyone in the room was so friendly. They were all smiling at her. Some were even laughing. She looked over at James Stickley and grinned.

“It’s a great party,” Mary said. “I’m delighted you could all come.” She sat down heavily and turned to Olaf Peterson. “They put somethin’ in my wine.”

He pressed her hand. “I think what you need is a little fresh air. It is very stuffy in here.”

“Yeah. Stuffy. To tell you the truth, I’m feelin’ a li’l dizzy.”

“Let me take you outside.”

He helped Mary to her feet, and to her surprise, she found it difficult to walk. James Stickley was engaged in an earnest conversation with his dinner partner and did not see Mary leave. Mary and Olaf Peterson passed Mike Slade’s table, and he was watching her with a frown of disapproval.

He’s jealous
, Mary thought.
They didn’ ask him t’ make a speech.

She said to Peterson, “You know his problem, don’ you? He wan’sa be ambassador. He can’t stand it that I got the job.”

“Who are you talking about?” Olaf Peterson asked.

“‘S not importan’. He’s not importan’.”

They were outside in the cold night air. Mary was grateful for the support of Peterson’s arm. Everything seemed blurred.

“I have a limousine here somewhere,” Mary said.

“Let’s send it away,” Olaf Peterson suggested. “We’ll go up to my place for a little nightcap.”

“No more wine.”

“No, no. Just a little brandy to settle your stomach.”

Brandy. In books, all the sophisticated people drank brandy. Brandy and soda. It was a Cary Grant kind of drink.

“With soda?”

“Of course.”

Olaf Peterson helped Mary into a taxi and gave the driver an address. When they stopped in front of a large apartment building, Mary looked at Peterson, puzzled. “Where are we?”

“We’re home,” Olaf Peterson said. He supported Mary as she stepped out of the taxi, holding on to her as she started to fall.

“‘M I drunk?” Mary asked.

“Of course not,” he said soothingly.

“I feel funny.”

Peterson led her into the lobby of the building and rang for the elevator. “A little brandy will fix you up.”

They stepped into the elevator and he pressed a button.

“Did you know I’m a toeteetler? I mean—teetotler?”

“No. I did not know that.”

“‘S’s a fact.”

Peterson was stroking her bare arm.

The elevator door opened, and Peterson helped Mary out of the elevator.

“Did anyone ever tell you your floor’s uneven?”

“I’ll have it taken care of,” Olaf promised.

He held her up with one hand while he fumbled for the key to his apartment and unlocked the door. They stepped inside. The apartment was dimly lit.

“‘S dark in here,” Mary said.

Olaf Peterson took her in his arms. “I like the dark, don’t you?”

Did she? She was not sure.

“You are a very beautiful woman, do you know that?”

“Thank you. You’re a beautiful man.”

He led her to the couch and sat her down. She was feeling giddy. His lips pressed against hers, and she felt his hand sliding up her thigh.

“What’re you doing?”

“Just relax, darling. It’s going to feel lovely.”

It
did
feel lovely. His hands were very gentle, like Edward’s.

“He was a won’erful doctor,” Mary said.

“I’m sure he was.” He pressed his body against hers.

“Oh, yes. ‘Never anyone needed an operation, they always asked for Edward.”

She was lying on the couch on her back, and soft hands had pushed her dress up and were gently massaging her. Edward’s hands. Mary closed her eyes and felt his lips moving down her body—soft lips, and a gentle tongue. Edward had
such a gentle tongue. It was blissful. And she wanted it never to stop.

“That’s so good, my darling,” she said. “Take me. Please take me.”

“I will. Now.” His voice was husky. Suddenly harsh. Not at all like Edward’s voice.

Mary opened her eyes, and she was staring into the face of a stranger. As she felt the man start to thrust inside her, she screamed, “No! Stop it!”

She rolled away from him and fell to the floor. She stumbled to her feet.

Olaf Peterson was staring at her. “But—”

“No!”

She looked around the apartment wildly. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I made a mistake. I don’t want you to think I—”

She turned and ran toward the door.

“Wait! Let me at least take you home.”

She was gone.

She walked down the deserted streets, bracing herself against the icy wind, filled with a deep, bruising mortification. There was no explanation for what she had done. And there was no excuse. She had disgraced her position. And in what a stupid way! She had gotten drunk in front of half the diplomatic corps in Washington, had gone to a stranger’s apartment, and had almost let him seduce her. In the morning she was going to be the target for every gossip columnist in Washington.