The Chameleon (26 page)

Sometimes the things she did were of a more personal nature. She would happily make sure his cigar pouch was replenished, pushing the Havanas into place one by one, or simply add lighter fluid to the silver ribbed lighter that carried his monogram, a gift from Ophelia.

Today, sitting rod-straight on the edge of her chair, wearing one of her custom signature suits, Claire had only to wave a folder and lift an eyebrow to get his attention. They had their own silent language by now. Once she knew she had his attention, a fact no one else could detect, she slowly raised a manila folder with a blue sticker to her shoulder, indicating that the text of his prepared remarks was now obsolete.

A flurry of new telexes had turned their latest figures upside down, and if Harrison was to keep the public confidence alive on the president's behalf, he couldn't be a day late in the updates delivered at this news briefing.

Harrison understood her movements immediately. What others saw was the aristocratic war materials czar, one of the president's chief advisers, quietly acknowledging the elegant young woman in a superbly cut suit and a string of pearls worn short. What they didn't see was him ad-lib his speech until the folder would be handed to him by Tom or a page, as she never stepped on the podium herself; until he had the proper corrections about the latest supplies and delivered the war news in his serious, undramatic way. She would stay in her seat and listen, feeling his sincerity and solemnity quiet the room as he spoke. He would single out a particular face in the audience, and by explaining his case to that single individual, hold the rest of the room.

She marveled at how in his quiet way he was imposing and commanded not only silence among the unruly press corps, but also respect. Sitting straight-backed on the edge of her chair, her legs crossed at the ankles, her hair softly arranged around her heart-shaped face, Claire was as in awe of Harrison's talents as if he had been Frank Sinatra crooning at the mike to the bobby soxer she could have been. As Tom hurriedly entered the room, head down, with mimeographed sheets of the immediate changes to hand out to the newspaperpeople, he looked from his boss to Claire and stifled a frown. Was he the only one of them who could see what was happening?

“You did wonderfully well. I expect we'll have national coverage of the war materials czar's encouraging remarks.” Claire spoke with quiet adulation. “And then the war materials czar can push Ford and Chrysler to full capacity.”

Harrison leaned his head in her direction as she whispered the names of the three newly appointed heads of the latest alphabet agencies, who were walking directly toward them in the congressional hallway. Then Harrison held out his hand in greeting, calling each new face by name as they approached him.

Claire spoke softly into his ear, a private reminder even Tom couldn't hear as he closely flanked Harrison's other side, but Harrison was nodding and almost cracked a smile. In a normal voice Claire continued, “The president's secretary called and asked if you might join him for a quiet supper tonight. E.R.’s away. The Red Cross trip. She's in uniform this time and the soldiers are loving it. Shall I see if Ophelia wants to join you?” Her eyes were pooled in sincerity.

“Ophelia's with Eleanor. Boarded the train at the last minute. She's in a Red Cross uniform too.” It was impossible to detect either sarcasm or disappointment in his flat tone. “But tell them yes and that I'm bringing the other Mrs. Harrison.”

“Oh, how very nice of you to include me. Thank you. Perhaps Anna can come as well.”

Claire had cultivated her new voice to perfection, a soft voice that reeked of culture, refinement, and while not exactly Vassar or Franklin's Hyde Park, it was a lovely patois of all the best places but did not tether her to any particular geography. Her newsy chatter that she stored up to amuse Harrison was now delivered in a musical medley of twangy midwestern clarity with certain phrases elongated in Tuxedo's high-tea tony vowels. She had observed that in Washington a quality voice could cover a mountain of misinformation.

Claire and Tom had to hurry to keep up with the agile Harrison as they climbed a steep well of white marble stairs and followed after his trim figure until he darted into the offices of the senator from Michigan. They walked on, just the two of them, to the parking area, Claire turning a head or two as they hurried down the Capitol steps. One step from the bottom she turned to Tom and asked, “Who's Lucy Mercer?”

“Why?”

“She's lunching with the president today.”

Tom looked around the white-stuccoed driveway and the park beyond to see if any temporary recruiting booths hadn't sprung up nearby. He suddenly felt an urge to join the army, just to be somewhere safe. He could see clearly now. He jammed his hands into his trouser pockets as he walked in long strides with his head down, just like he was looking for land mines ahead. And then he told a startled Claire the story of President Roosevelt and his great love affair with Lucy Mercer.

It was an oysters-and-bourbon kind of evening. There were candles on the table, which was set with the floral presidential china, and a second course of roasted beef and wine. But it wasn't the food or the flowers that mattered. It was the gay, romantic mood that pervaded the room.

“Watch
me.
It's better to use your fingers and let the little suckers just slide down your throat.” The president demonstrated his oyster technique with flair.

“Franklin, show us again.” Lucy Mercer spoke in a soft, husky voice underscored with mirth. “It takes a former secretary of the navy to know the best way to swallow a fish.”

“Yes, that's me. Poseidon of the sea!” FDR flashed his famous grin.

The president seemed to have lost twenty years in as many hours. Where two nights before Claire and Harrison had sat up with Eleanor and the president as he fought a fever, tonight FDR had the look of a young man refreshed. Lucy Mercer Rutherfurd was seated to his right. Eleanor's chair was left empty, but it was obvious to everyone there that the president's old flame was the reason for the color in his cheeks. Lucy's grace and beauty belied her years, and her easy laugh and comfortable silences made the room feel like all the windows had been thrown open to let the springtime tumble in.
She
was the perfume that was scenting the room.

The president himself had picked Lucy up at the station. Anna had made the arrangements, betraying her mother unthinkably, and Claire, observing the look of puppy love on the president's face, wondered at it all. So the man who was the moral beacon for a nation, Eleanor's husband and the father of five, whose fireside wisdom inspired millions and who just days before had begun his unprecedented fourth term in office, was a man just like any other, with the same back-street desires of a Cyrus Pettibone.

“If Franklin hadn't been so politically ambitious, he probably would have divorced Eleanor for Lucy.” Tom's gossipy words rang in Claire's ears. “His mother threatened to disinherit him if he did. That would have cost him not only all the money, but his beloved Hyde Park and his career as well. It cost him plenty anyhow. Even though he promised Eleanor he would never see Lucy again, they say the marriage has never been the same.”

Claire looked over at the elegant, well-bred Mrs. Rutherfurd, with her exquisite manners and skin the color of freshly fallen snow. Her fair complexion was accentuated by the black lace cowl circling her long neck, a subtle reminder of her recent widowhood. Speculation aside, Anna assured her that Lucy Mercer Rutherfurd had genuinely grieved for the much older, wealthy man she had married on the rebound.

“Lucy, do you mind if I tell that story about the time we motored up to Allegheny?”

She shook her head, never taking her eyes off him.

Reserved in a soft, feminine way and wearing a lovely smile, Lucy seemed to relax the president with her very presence. Claire hadn't heard that jovial bellow in a long time. Lucy Mercer was tonic. Above all, she was a good listener, even when it was apparent that she was hearing a story for the umpteenth time. It almost made it easier for her to laugh in just the right places. Claire noticed how opposite she was from the vital Eleanor. Lucy Mercer sat listening raptly to FDR, never once interrupting him whether he was talking about vermouth or Vermont, on which both subjects Eleanor held dissenting opinions. And when the man who had lost his waning appetite called out for seconds, Claire was sold. She realized that in her gentle way, Lucy was more alluring than any woman she had ever encountered. For some men, a great listener was as enticing as a great pair of legs.

She also realized that there were two kinds of women in the world: the Eleanors and the Lucys. Violet was an Eleanor and Slim a Lucy, but which one in this time and in this place was Claire? She blushed. Was it possible to be a little bit of both? Franklin was now telling the story about a weekend drive they had taken together, years ago, before she was even born. It kindled a hint of fire in Lucy's warm blue eyes, but it was a flame that sparked only for Franklin. And while she politely engaged her other dinner companions in conversation from time to time, her attention was on FDR and undivided.

Claire leaned over to Harrison to see if he too had fallen under Lucy's spell.

She had developed a sensitivity for reading his moods. But all she picked up tonight was the pleasure he was taking in seeing his great friend buoyant again and almost carefree. It made her smile.

Relieved, Claire picked up the coffeepot to refill Harrison's cup just as he reached over to fill it himself. Their fingers touched and one or the other let them linger lightly for a moment, although they didn't look at one another.

Their closeness to each other had become casual and familiar. But somehow the accidental contact seemed different in this candlelit setting. Tonight when Harrison had leaned over to speak quietly into her ear, a simple act he had done a thousand times before, she could feel his warm breath on the back of her neck and it disquieted her.

Their wineglasses refilled, an unusual occurrence at the White House, Franklin toasted his guest. Anna hesitated but for a moment before lifting her glass. Her eyes met Claire's in a look that said “I'll do whatever I have to do to keep my father well. Whatever it takes,” apparently even if it meant arranging lighthearted evenings with a woman her mother despised.

Claire felt ashamed that she had even questioned her friend's judgment. She appreciated the tremendous risk Anna took when she conspired to bring Lucy into her mother's house, and how crushed Eleanor would be if she knew.

“To bombs and liaisons!” said the president, and they all raised their glasses.

And anyway, Claire thought, sipping her wine, who was she to criticize? How many times had she run interference for Slim and Cyrus? Had she forgotten that it was Slim who had taught her to “take love where you find it”?

When Claire said good night to the president, he hugged even her in a rare embrace, his strong upper body enfolding her from his armless wheelchair, so great was his exuberance.

“It was lovely to meet you, my dear.” Lucy's handshake was wraithlike and fleeting, as if she were a merry ghost they had all dreamed up.

Franklin's gay mood was affecting them all like a third glass of champagne. The festive high accompanied Harrison and Claire out the door and down Roosevelt's private elevator. But when Harrison reached for her elbow to help her into the car, he took it with such force that she thought about making a wisecrack that escorting a lady home was not a contact sport. She didn't because that was a joking-Eleanor thing to say and she was still in the Lucy Mercer moment.

As they sat in the front seat together, Harrison at the wheel, it occurred to Claire that going back to the hotel alone, just the two of them, something they had done hundreds of times before, suddenly felt awkward. Ophelia seldom spent the night at the Willard anymore. She traveled a lot with Eleanor now. Tonight they were in New York for a meeting of the European Children's Refugee Fund along with Mr. Marshall Field IV, who was president of the organization. The two women would be staying over at the apartment Eleanor kept for herself in Greenwich Village.

Harrison seemed to be deep in thought. He drove almost too fast down Pennsylvania Avenue; for once the traffic was unusually light.

Claire broke the silence. “Anna told me tonight that it looks like Stalin will be bringing his daughter to Yalta, too.” The Yalta conference was in February, in less than a fortnight, and the allied leaders were meeting in Russia for crucial talks. Harrison had planned to take Ophelia, but with Churchill, Roosevelt, Stalin, and Averell Harriman all bringing their daughters, it was turning into a girls’ international slumber party. Ophelia complained that she wanted no part of it, and so Claire was substituted.

“I'm going to call State again tomorrow and see if I can get that itinerary out of them. As I understand it, the Russians keep changing the schedule. February in Russia. Whose idea was that? Do you suppose we'll be dressing for dinner or just dressing to stay warm?” Claire turned to Harrison and whimsically fought off an imaginary chill.

As the car pulled under the canopy of the hotel, the light illuminated Claire's face in the darkness. Harrison was staring at her as if he were seeing her for the first time.

Claire shifted in her seat self-consciously and then moved to her side of the door.

He stiffly handed the keys to the doorman, letting Claire fend for herself, and as they walked to the elevator, he stopped at the desk to check his messages. There were half a dozen. Harrison flipped through them as they rode up in silence. Turning the key in the door to their room, he switched on the ceiling lights as she crossed the living room to relight the fire. Having stirred the flame, she stood warming her back, ready to fix him a nightcap, or take dictation, or whatever would drive away the problem that was obviously distracting him. He hadn't said a word to her since they'd left the White House.

“Shall I put up some coffee for us?” She let her overcoat fall to the couch as she knelt down to pick up the new message that had been slipped under the door. She was unprepared for what happened next. Harrison stepped between her and the door and lifted her by her shoulders. For a crazy minute she couldn't tell if he was drawing her closer or pushing her away.