“So, how did you and Linda meet?” he asks, beginning the formal interview. He pulls a manila envelope from an inner pocket and places it beside his cookie plate.
“Through our daughters at St. Peter’s Academy,” Betsy says.
“Lovely.”
“Well, and then we got to know each other at the Alliance Française.” The butler sets her teapot on the table.
“Ah! Parlez-vous français?” he asks, which both irritates Betsy and makes her nervous.
“I’m getting there.” She laughs, placing a cloth napkin in her lap.
“And how are you finding it here in Washington? Congratulations on your husband’s win, by the way.”
“Oh, thank you, we are delighted to be here.” Betsy stirs her tea.
Mr. Yoder opens the manila envelope and pulls out what looks like a résumé. “So I see Doug’s parents were born in Durham. His father was district attorney, is that right?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“And you all belonged to the Durham Country Day Golf Club?”
“Yes, we did.”
“And you lived in Washington once prior, is that correct?”
“I did. That was when my previous husband died of cancer,” Betsy says, the sympathy card she’s willing to throw down.
“I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to bring up old wounds,” he says.
“It’s quite all right. You can either be a victim or a survivor, and I consider myself a survivor,” she says, pleased with herself.
“Would you like an egg sandwich?” he asks in a lame attempt to ease the discomfort.
Betsy has a flashback of her time in the bathroom at dinner with Linda, repulsed by the look of oozing mayonnaise. “I’m fine, thank you.”
Theodore Yoder clears his throat. “We are very proud of our membership list and, as you know, the wonderful variety of real estate our members have.…”
“Oh yes. We bought our property in McLean. Did I mention that in the application? Across from Hickory Hill, not dissimilar to our old stomping grounds and country charm in North Carolina.” Betsy sips her tea, pinkie in the air.
“And where do you and Senator Wallace like to summer and winter?”
“We spend our winters in Palm Beach, and our summers in Nantucket, Kenneth Point, named after his late brother.”
“Marvelous. Now, I do have to ask…” Mr. Yoder looks around the private library just to be sure no one else of value is around. “There was some trepidation from a particular member—one of our longest and most loyal—due to an incident that happened last summer at a rental house on Liberty Street in Nantucket?”
“Yes, we stayed there while they were doing extensive wood restoration on the house—to preserve its history. That was just after Doug had won his seat.”
“Yes, yes, of course, we have to update ours on the Cape as well. But what I do have to unfortunately ask about is an incident that happened on Liberty Street. It was brought to our attention that an arrest was made of a juvenile?”
“I beg your pardon, I’m not sure I know exactly what you’re talking about.”
“Well, just to refresh your memory, it said…” Mr. Yoder creates a silent moment of dread for Betsy as she watches him remove his round spectacles and lay them on the table, then pull his reading glasses from his jacket pocket and use both hands to place them on his nose. He begins reading a sheet of paper that he pulls from the manila envelope: “Sibling Squabble over Talent Gets One Sister Arrested.”
“Ohhh, goodness!” Betsy laughs so hard she snorts. “Mr. Yoder, they never took her to juvenile hall. Once Doug and I called our attorney, they immediately returned her home and even apologized for traumatizing her.”
“I see.…”
“The girls can get competitive. Mackenzie just slugged her sister is all, who may have even deserved it, you know what I mean?” Mr. Yoder just blinks. “I mean, who hasn’t slugged a sibling? Do you have siblings?” Betsy sips her tea again, pinkie raised.
“I am an only child.”
She sets her teacup down. “Well, in any case, they threw out the case and the Nantucket police apologized for inconveniencing us on our Saturday morning.”
“In the article it says, ‘The young Ms. Wallace was taken away screaming, “You”’—excuse my language—‘“fucking cunt” at her ten-year-old sister.’ I do hope, Mrs. Wallace, that this is not language that is tolerated in your household, as it is not language that is tolerated by any of our members.”
“Oh goodness, no. Linda—I mean, Linda of all people would know that that is not language I would tolerate, and given her position in the world of journalism, she would have known about this incident and whether it was even worthy of mentioning, having referred me—you do know this, don’t you?”
“Well, this brings me to my next difficult subject. I must do our due diligence, so please forgive me, as it does tend to get personal.… Are you aware of any suspicious activity within the Williams household?” he asks.
“You mean Linda’s home?”
“Precisely.”
“No—why, Linda was the person who nominated me, so I’m not sure what I might know that you don’t know.” Betsy is acutely aware that this interview is not only about whether or not the Wallaces are worthy of being club members, but also about how her family might reflect back on Linda and her family.
“There have been whispers,” Mr. Yoder says, “about an exposé regarding her husband, Chris Williams, and some violent and sexual behavior.”
“Oh, my word.…” Betsy places her hand over her heart.
“You did not hear that from me. And again, my apologies for having to ask such uncomfortable questions—it’s one of the things that makes my job particularly difficult.” Mr. Yoder adjusts his glasses with his right hand.
“Yes, well, anything I can do to be of help, but I really have nothing but wonderful things to say about Linda. After all, I wouldn’t be sitting here with you if it weren’t for her.”
“I appreciate it,” he says, then takes a sip of his lukewarm tea.
“Mr. Yoder… I beg your pardon, but why did you have me come all the way here to meet with you, if you don’t trust Linda’s judgment,
