The President's Daughter (4 page)

Dina downed the last now-cold bite of rotini just as the alarm on her watch alerted her to the fact that it was coming up on seven. If she was to be in town in an hour, she needed to get into the shower now. She closed her file, took the dishes into the kitchen to rinse, then locked the back door before heading up the narrow stairs to her bedroom, where she stripped off her work clothes. As she hastened toward the bathroom, she caught a blurred glance in the mirror of her tall, lean body, her robe slung over her shoulder. Even to herself, she appeared to be hurried and just a little haggard. She turned on the shower and worked the elastic and pins out of her dark hair and hoped that a few minutes under steaming water would revive her.

All too soon, the hot water started to lose pressure, and Dina knew it would take another ten minutes for it to get back up to speed. She turned off the shower and stepped out onto the thick cotton rug that covered the cold tile and dried her hair quickly. Dressed in khakis and a blue sweater, she grabbed her jacket, her purse, and the yellow file of sketches she’d prepared, then headed out the door. It would only take five or so minutes to drive into Henderson proper, but she did want to catch Don Fletcher as early as possible.

A light snow had started to fall, and the front steps were already beginning to slick. She climbed into her Explorer and drove past the greenhouse, then the shop, and finally through the small parking lot.

Dina passed by the ancient apple orchard, the acres of Christmas trees, accelerating as she passed the farmhouse, her thoughts focused on the reflecting pool she had in mind for the new park and who among the volunteers she might talk into digging it.

Dina’s meeting with the volunteers took less than an hour, and she was anxious to get home and crawl into bed.

The whole drive home, Dina’s mind was occupied with work. Perhaps, when Polly was ready to take on more responsibility with the shop, she might have a little bit more time for herself and the things she liked best about the business. The prospect of spending more time on the design end of the business cheered her. She pushed open the door and stepped into the quiet of the narrow front hall, the only sound the bubbling from the fish tank in the living room.

Less time in the shop would give her more time, too, maybe, to spend out at the trade school, where there were so many students willing to learn the basics of landscaping, as she’d discovered through her volunteer work there.

Less time in the shop would mean she could almost—maybe—have a life apart from her work.

Fancy that,
she thought wryly as she locked the door behind her and hung up her jacket.

She toed off her boots and left them near the door, pausing to flip through the day’s mail. A few bills, a catalog or two, and a card from a friend who’d just returned from a honeymoon in Hawaii, complete with a photo of the happy couple, who sat at a table in a restaurant, leis draped around their necks. The camera had caught them gazing into each other’s eyes rather than at the photographer, and their love for each other shone so brightly in their eyes and in their smiles that Dina had the fleeting feeling that she’d somehow intruded into their privacy.

She slid the photo back into the envelope and tried to ignore the ache of envy that swept through her. She’d never looked at anyone the way Cara was looking at Tom in that photo. It was a subtle reminder that for all she’d accomplished in her business, she still went to bed alone every night.

CHAPTER FOUR

Within three weeks of having met with Philip Norton, Simon had found a furnished town house to sublet in Arlington, packed up his belongings, and bid adieu to the run-down neighborhood he’d called home for the past several months. He’d also viewed eighteen hours of videotapes and read mountains of newspaper and magazine articles relating to the late President Graham T. Hayward. Simon had made a tentative list of people he’d like to speak with, then, using the Internet, set about the business of figuring out who on that list was still among the living.

He’d positively eliminated seven of the names and was in the process of checking into yet another when the phone rang. Simon stepped over a pile of magazines and sorted through a stack of newspapers to locate the phone.

“Keller.”

“Philip Norton here, Simon. How’s it going?”

“Good. Fine.” He managed to grab a magazine that was sliding toward the edge of the table and stop its forward motion.

“I wanted you to know that I’ve read the pages of
Lethal Deceptions
you sent me.” Norton drew on his pipe. “I’m pleased with what I’ve seen. Your book has a lot of promise, Simon. It needs work, needs polish, but it has great potential.”

“Really.” Simon sat on the edge of the sofa, drinking in the news as eagerly as a dusty field drinks in the summer rain. “You really think so.”

“Yes. I really do.” Another puff on the pipe. “I have a few suggestions that we’ll talk about when the time comes, but all in all, I think it is quite good.”

“Thank you, Philip.” Simon felt the slow release of a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

“Now, how are you doing with the project at hand? Have you had time to look over any of the materials I sent to you?”

“You mean the fourteen boxes of documentary videos, newspaper and magazine articles, and interview transcripts?”

“Yes.”

“I’ve been plowing through them since they arrived.”

“And?”

“And I’m starting to develop a feel for the subject. Hayward appears to have been a man who had many more friends than enemies. I started making a list of people I’d like to speak with and was just trying to track them down through the Internet.”

Norton cleared his throat. “Who’s on your list, if I may ask?”

“Well, I suppose the dead ones don’t much matter,” Simon muttered while he shuffled a few more papers in search of his list. “Of the ones who I know are still alive, I’m having the most difficulty hunting down Aaron Follows, Mike Huntley, and Miles Kendall.”

“The last I heard, Follows was living in San Diego, but I can check that for you. Huntley I’d steer away from. And as for Miles Ken—”

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why steer away from Huntley?”

“Because he’s a mean-spirited SOB who spent most of his time on the Hill starting feuds between other people. He won’t have anything good to say about anyone, but of course, it’s your call.” Norton added, “It is your book, Simon.”

Simon got that feeling again—that Norton was keeping something from him. He found it annoying. Of course, he would track down and interview Mike Huntley, whether Norton wanted him to or not.

“What about Miles Kendall? I can’t seem to bring up an address for him, though Social Security indicates he’s still alive. As Hayward’s Chief of Staff, I thought he’d have some interesting anecdotes to share.”

“Well, he probably does, but he won’t remember any of them. Kendall’s an Alzheimer’s patient. From what I understand, he recalls nothing of his days in the White House.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. Having been so close to the President for so long—he was a Rhode Island boy, too, I understand. . . .”

“And a Brown grad as well.”

“Yes, I saw that someplace. You must have known him well.”

“We knew each other, yes. We have lost touch in the years since the President died.”

“You and Kendall weren’t close friends, then?”

“We were both closer to the President than we were to each other.” Norton appeared to choose his words carefully.

“You wouldn’t happen to know where I could find him, would you?”

“He’s in a nursing home.”

“Do you know where that nursing home might be?” Simon had the distinct feeling he was being played with, and he didn’t like it.

“He’s in Saint Margaret’s, in Linden.”

“Linden, Maryland?” Simon’s brows rose.

“Yes. I think I recall hearing something about Kendall having been ill and living with a nephew for a time; then the nephew was transferred to Houston and he made arrangements for Kendall to be moved to Saint Margaret’s.”

“No children?”

“No. Kendall never married.” Norton paused before asking, “I suppose you’ll be seeing him as well as Huntley?”

Simon laughed. “With any luck.”

“Who else do you have there?”

“The only other person I have on my short list is Adeline Anderson.”

“The reporter for the
Washington Press
who covered the capital social scene back in the day.” Simon could almost see Norton nodding his approval. “Good choice. She knew everyone in town back then, knew what they were doing and who they were doing it with. It was said that if Addie Anderson didn’t know about it, it hadn’t really happened.”

“I thought she’d be helpful in setting the stage. The social stage, that is.”

“She will be, I’m sure. Now, I think she’s living out in—”

“Already found her, thanks. And I have calls in to Congressman Hayward and the former First Lady, as well as Sarah Decker, the former First Daughter.”

“Well then, it sounds as if you’re off to a fine start.”

“I am, thank you.”

“If you need my help don’t hesitate to call me.”

“I don’t expect to.” Recalling his manners, Simon added, “But appreciate the offer.”

“Well then, keep in touch.”

“Will do.” Simon hung up the phone.

He’d no sooner put the phone on the table when it rang again.

“Mr. Keller? Sarah Decker returning your call.”

“Yes, of course. Mrs. Decker, thank you for calling back so promptly.”

“I understand that you’re doing a book about my father.”

“Yes, I . . . Excuse me, how did you know that?”

“My mother mentioned it. I believe she spoke with Philip Norton over the weekend—”

“Oh?” Simon frowned, vaguely annoyed by this news.

“Mother said that you’d probably be calling to set up an appointment to chat.”

“Yes. I was hoping to schedule some time to spend with you, at your convenience, of course.”

“I know that everyone in the family is excited about your book, so I certainly want to cooperate. Did you have any particular date in mind?”

Simon heard what sounded like pages turning softly in the background.

“The earliest date that you are available would be fine. Whatever works best for you.”

“In that case, how does next Tuesday look?”

“Next Tuesday is fine.” Simon didn’t have to check his appointment book. Even if he had scheduled something previously, he’d have broken it to meet with Sarah Decker.

“Is one-thirty good?”

“Perfect.”

“Great. You have our address?”

“I do.” He read it off to her from a slip of paper he’d tucked into his shirt pocket after he’d placed the call to her earlier in the day.

“I’ll look for you on Tuesday afternoon,” she told him. “Now, don’t hesitate to call if something comes up.”

“Nothing will come up,” he assured her.

Nothing was going to come up that would prevent his interview with Sarah Decker, former First Daughter and sister to the man who would be president. Simon would be there, come hell or high water. She could bank on that.

Simon was wondering how one might put a fresh spin on this well-known family as he drove the Mustang to Annapolis, then parked in front of the home of Sarah Decker and her husband, Rear Adm. Julian Decker. The newly retired Rear Admiral, Simon reminded himself as he followed the cobbled path to the front door of the handsome stone colonial home that sat on an impeccably landscaped lot.

The door opened before he even lifted a hand to knock.

“Mr. Keller?” Sarah Hayward Decker stood in the doorway, as perfect a creature as Simon had ever seen.

“Yes.” Simon nodded and smiled almost involuntarily. Clearly, photographs of the former First Daughter did not do justice to her delicate beauty. Pale blond hair to her shoulders, eyes of palest gray-blue, Sarah, in her mid-forties, could have been mistaken for a woman ten years younger.

“You’re right on time.” She smiled pleasantly and gestured him to enter. “I appreciate that.”

“Thank you,” Simon said as he passed her and stepped into the foyer.

“Your coat?” She reached a hand for his topcoat, and Simon tried not to appear as awkward as he suddenly felt as he juggled his briefcase and attempted to remove his coat.

“Thank you.”

“How about if I take that?” A still-smiling Sarah reached for the briefcase just as Simon managed to slip off the camel overcoat he’d bought the week before.

Instead of the briefcase, Simon handed her the coat, and said, “Thank you,” for the third time in almost as many seconds.

Simon mentally kicked himself for sounding like an idiot.

“Come on in through here,” Sarah was saying as she led Simon down the hall to the back of the house. “I thought we’d sit in the sunroom to chat. It’s such a lovely afternoon, so cheery and bright. I’ve been dying for some sunlight after this gray winter, haven’t you? And what can I offer you? Do you prefer coffee or tea?”

“Either would be fine.” Simon followed her into a room that fairly burst with sunlight pouring in through windows that wrapped around three walls.

“Or perhaps something cold?” Sarah Decker paused in the doorway.

“Tea would be fine.” He nodded.

“I think I’ll have tea as well, and a few of the raspberry shortbread cookies the housekeeper made yesterday,” she said brightly. “That is, assuming that our daughter and her friends didn’t finish them off last night.”

“This is a terrific room.” Simon dropped his briefcase on the floor next to one of the high-backed wicker chairs that flanked a round table with a glass top.

“Isn’t it lovely?” His hostess beamed. “It was an old sunporch, but it needed such repair when we moved in. I spend so much time in this part of the house now. I have lunch here every day, overlooking the gardens.”

Clearly this was a woman’s room, with delicate lace curtains tied back at all the windows, pale rose flowered wallpaper covering the one wall that wasn’t windowed, and white furniture, all reinforcing Simon’s first impression of Sarah Decker as a very soft, feminine woman.

Sarah returned in minutes with a tray that held a teapot, two blue-and-white ceramic mugs with small matching plates, a sugar bowl, two spoons, several linen napkins, and a clear glass plate upon which a small mountain of cookies was stacked.

She took the seat opposite Simon’s. He had a feeling that the tray had been prepared and waiting in the kitchen.

“Here you go,” she said as she placed the tray in the center of the table.

“Mrs. Decker—”

“Sarah,” she said as she lifted a mug, poured the tea, and offered the mug to Simon with one smooth, practiced movement. “Please call me Sarah. I’m feeling enough of the years, with my oldest daughter turning twenty in February and my youngest turning seventeen next week. And unless you object, I’ll call you Simon. Is that all right?”

“That would be fine.”

“We’re really quite informal here, as you can see.” She blessed him with a smile and stirred a touch of sugar into her tea.

Simon had viewed countless film clips and photographs of the former First Family over the past week, but once again he acknowledged that none of them had really captured the beauty of the woman who sat across the table from him. Sarah Hayward had been a pretty teenager, but over the years she had grown quite lovely. Simon suspected there might be a bit of steel under all that softness, considering the sturdy New England stock she’d come from.

“My mother said she had a pleasant conversation with you yesterday,” Sarah said.

“The pleasure was all mine. I’m looking forward to meeting with her. I’m guessing she was a formidable First Lady. In her own quiet way, of course.”

“My mother has been quietly formidable in every aspect of her life.” Sarah laughed. “In every role she’s played.”

“That’s an interesting way to put it. Which do you feel was her best?”

“Her best?”

“Her best role.”

“Oh, that’s easy.” Sarah slipped several cookies onto a plate and passed it to Simon with a napkin. “Mrs. Graham Hayward was definitely the job she did best. Both before and after the White House.”

“And as a mother?”

“She was wonderful. Loving. Supportive. Always on our side, mine and Gray’s. When we had a problem, she helped us to find a solution. She taught us both that there were few situations in this life over which we could not gain a certain amount of control if we tried hard enough. She was also very understanding, always put our needs and our happiness first, regardless of what anyone else might think.”