kindled them into flame-red and gold and yellow.
At just five minutes after seven our forces breached the moat and came to the courtyard of the oldest old money in the state. This was the mansion that Melvin’s grand estate was trying to be.
We dismounted and a young retainer took our steed away. The drawbridge lowered and we were ushered into the hall.
“Mr. Spellman has just arrived,” the squire informed us. “He is in the library.”
We, too, were taken to the library, where we found not only Friar Tuck but also the Sheriff of Nottingham himself.
I considered my adversary carefully. The senator, tall and straight as ever, crowned with dignity and silver hair, possessed every quality that could make him impregnable: office, wealth, reputation, family, height.
“Bob,” Fred murmured, “you know Jason, of course. This is Katie, and Eric.” It wasn’t proper for Fred to introduce my family, but it was less awkward. The senator and I were only acquainted through business, not socially, so I didn’t really have standing myself to introduce him to others.
And, of course, we had also now traded public insults and were on the verge of war, not that this would technically affect our proper behavior toward each other. I watched for clues of how the evening was scheduled to unfold.
He stiffly shook my hand and bowed to the lady. Eric’s age and avant-garde appearance were a problem, whether he qualified for a handshake or a pat on the head. He got the shake-his hair would have impaled the senatorial hand.
And then we were through the first indignity. Everyone had been introduced and we were no longer aliens. The next issue was polite conversation. Certainly the host would have a plan to avoid that. On cue, the library door opened. With maximum drama the granddaughters entered.
And they were all that Eric was hoping for.
The first was a Botticelli, dusky blond, blithe and carefree in a casual yellow sleeveless dress and thin white sweater. Cheerful blue eyes rested immediately on Eric, lighthearted smile shone as the sun.
But directly following came a Raphael, poised and deep, luminous green eyes beneath lustrous brown hair, carefully arrayed in a burgundy pullover and tan slacks. This smile rested on Eric as the silver moon shining on a cloudless night.
Their attention to him centered the attention of us all.
Dark young Boyer was the lone and towering pine, the brooding thundercloud caught in the rays of Sun and Moon. A genial grin slowly lifted the corners of his mouth but his eyes were enigma, unfathomable.
“These are my granddaughters,” the senator said. “Genevieve.” The blonde international economist. “Madeleine.” The brunette European historian. Katie had known perfectly how to dress our young cavalier to match these damsels. “Jason and Katie Boyer”- the introduction was continuing-“And this is Eric Boyer.”
This was his moment. Don’t say anything stupid, Eric. Please. Or just do it and get it over with.
“Je suis ravi de vous rencontrer,” he said.
I do remember more than six words of French, but not as many as he was using. He cocked his head to the side a little and let the smile grow. “J’esperais avoir ce plaisir.”
“Nous avons beaucoup entendu parlen de vous,” Madeleine said, glowing.
“Et maintenant nous commes face a face.” Not only was he saying his own words, he was understanding hers.
Genevieve sparkled. “Rencontrer une personne vaut mieux que d’en entendre parler.” She giggled and said to her sister, “Je t’avais dit qu’il etait mignon.”
Eric blushed. Mignon I knew, and it was not helpful to the situation. She’d told Madeleine she thought he was cute.
“Tais-toi!” Madeleine said. “Tu ne devrais pas dire ca!”
“Mais je peux dire que vous etes touts les deux ravissantes,” he said. Now he was calling them beautiful, which they were, and things were getting out of hand.
“Now, Eric,” said Katie, “don’t use all your compliments at once.” For a moment her own light had been eclipsed, but only for a moment. Her colors were Monet, but her essence was Rembrandt, stronger in character, and deeper and more powerful in meaning than any Italian master, and worth ten times as much. “We have the whole evening.”
“And you’ll conduct yourselves properly,” Grandpa said, half in humor.
And then, one more entrance. Gladys Forrester was last, shortest, and least concerned. If she didn’t care much for us, she still didn’t mind showing off a dull scarlet evening dress that was quite becoming with her blue- gray helmet. We had our last round of names.
The tykes had switched to English, and the minimum amount of pre-dinner socializing was accomplished. Now we were even: four gentlemen, four ladies; four Forresters and four Boyers. What Fred lacked in real Boyer blood, he made up for in volume.
We were taken to the dining room. The table was as long as Katie’s, but there was no hint of rusticity here. From the English country garden pictures on the walls to the Wedgwood china settings on the table, we were being told very plainly that the Forresters were better than the Boyers. It was the theme of the evening.
We were seated by rank, the senator at the head, I at his right and Katie opposite me, Genevieve beside me with Fred opposite, Eric beside Genevieve with Madeleine across from him, and the matriarch at the end. It would not have been proper for Katie and I to be so close, but with only eight, the rules were flexible. I did know which fork to use for each of the many courses, from watercress soup and lobster salad to raspberry aspic, with a beef Wellington in between that almost made me wish I were enjoying the meal.
Eight at the table was just enough to keep two conversations going. I couldn’t monitor Eric two seats down and attend to Forrester simultaneously, so I had to throw the babe to the wolves.
“The president may yet listen to reason,” the senator was saying as the salads were served, this apparently being his designated topic for his dinner lecture. “Otherwise the Senate will rein him in, as usual. I have explained to him more than once that his position is unacceptable.”
There was nothing to answer, nor was there meant to be. I didn’t even remember what policy issue it was he was talking about. It didn’t matter. We were not just being given a clue to the schedule of the evening; we were being subjected to a full volume broadcast that the senator was in command, and the next hour at the table was for him to show off his importance.
There would be time later to wrest control of the evening. I listened and made vague comments. Katie could see Eric, and I watched her for any alarms.
I stole a glance myself. He was surrounded, Genevieve to the left of him, Gladys to the right of him, Madeleine in front of him. His was not to question why, his was to make witty answers and look cute. I heard a few words about his motorcycles. Genevieve was next to me and we should have spoken at least once during each course, but after our first polite two sentences we had tacitly dismissed each other to the assigned tasks.
Fred ate. He shifted his attention to the senatorial end and made even vaguer comments than I, and less frequently. Dinner was flyover, something to get past between destinations-not that he neglected it. He did not mind that, at the dinner table tonight, only food and not conversation was meant to be substantial. But he surely did know what Bob Forrester was doing.
Because, so far, Bob’s plan for the evening had not included any gesture meant to conciliate me. Much more the opposite, in fact, and I had plenty of time to think about it. He had invited me to his house and then insulted me publicly on television after doing so privately in his Washington office weeks ago. Now he was dominating the conversation and stressing his own importance.
I let my thoughts linger on the insult, and a little ember of annoyance broke through my defenses. I lost the senator’s thread for a moment but his words continued to blow against me, encouraging the glowing red spark, and it began to spread.
“The subcommittee will decide that, of course,” Forrester was saying. “I may require a delay in the hearing if these questions are not answered, but I will not allow the bill to go forward in its present state.”
I was getting impatient with this harangue. It was dry tinder for the flame to grow and thrive. Should I stifle the fire or the senator? Katie was keeping an eye on me. She could see the signs. Fred was just eating. He was more aware than he looked, but he didn’t look it.
What was I mad about? Of course I was being treated contemptuously. Why should that matter? This was
