“Mrs. Wallace…” He removes his glasses. “In politics, you don’t need a weatherman to know which way the wind blows.”
“Well”—Betsy smiles—“things are heating up for Doug.”
“That’s right, and I am very impressed with his new amendment and agenda, and how he has handled the administration’s escalating problems—with dignity and grace.”
“He is a mighty winner. I knew from the moment I met him he would be a wonderful husband, father, and leader.”
Mr. Yoder closes his file. “Very good. My secretary will be in touch.”
“Wonderful, it was lovely meeting with you.” Betsy stands.
“And I do love that Ann Hand pin you’re wearing—she is a dear old friend of mine.”
“Oh, why thank you, it was a gift from… Doug’s mother.” (It was a new gift she gave herself).
“Just stunning.”
Cafe Milano
“Washington’s ultimate place to see and be seen,” says the Washington Post about the famous Georgetown staple where black government town cars and motorcades remain parked along the curb in front of the valet line on Prospect Street. Cafe Milano was founded in 1992 by Franco Nuschese, who came from the Amalfi Coast and has been a resident of Washington for over twenty years.I Designed for hosting presidents, prime ministers, diplomats, lobbyists, and journalists, it has four different private dining areas, some with glass doors, others without. Whether someone wants to be seen (but not touched) or to secretly move about (but never be seen), the maître d’, Laurent, makes it happen. An elegant man from Nice, France, he’s worked for the café for nearly thirty years (a mini American flag always pinned to his dress coat), making both Franco and Laurent bigger insiders than a freshman politician. Ladies’ luncheons are typically held in the front private room, where they can be seen (not touched). The Cafe Milano’s only other location worldwide is at the Four Seasons in Abu Dhabi along the Al Maryah Island waterfront.
I. https://www.cafemilano.com/about/
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Hostess extraordinaire Nourah Al Hashem, the Kuwaiti ambassador’s wife, raises money each year for homeless children through one of her favorite local organizations, the Lollipop Kids Foundation. Honoring fifty of Washington’s most powerful women, including the wives of cabinet members, in an effort to feed the children, it is the nonpartisan ladies’ luncheon of the year, and no location whets the appetites of wealthy Washington insiders like Cafe Milano.
By the time Jaguars, Mercedeses, and Range Rovers begin pulling into the valet line, the Frasier Fir candles reek of Christmas, the emerald-green satin linens cover tabletops, and mini Christmas-tree boxwoods in cranberry-colored boxes stand as centerpieces. Darling! Double kiss: hands on the shoulders. Laurent knows many of the women on the invite list, the wives of the Very Important Customers. But he also knows who is ranked the wealthiest, based on the strategic seating arrangements. Those who sit closest to the host near the podium in the front of the room are those with the most money. Presumably closest so that when it is time to give, they give.
After greeting each arrival, Laurent hands her a table number and paddle for the “ask” at the end of the lunch. Though this Christmas feels more solemn than in the past—Genevieve Banks was always seated at Table One, making a splash with a $20,000 donation at the end of the luncheon—this year Betsy Wallace will take her place. Joining Betsy at Table One are Meredith Bartholomew, Phyllis Van Buren, Linda Williams, Carol Montgomery, Sissy Cowan (Chase’s mother, wife of the head of the CIA), and Galina Stopinksi (Stan’s mother, wife of the Russian ambassador).
Betsy walks into this group of veteran Washington philanthropists with her head held a little higher knowing that she’s most likely going to get into the Washington Club after her interview with Mr. Yoder, and that she has sobering gossip about Linda Williams, which she knows not to reveal until absolutely necessary. There are rules to Washington gossip, and one must know how to use them. Anything related to diseases such as alcoholism, or domestic violence, or severe mental health disorders, should be used against someone only in self-defense, or discreetly, and only within the inner circle.
Wearing a red one-piece jumpsuit and earrings that look like red dining-room chandeliers, Betsy takes a seat in between Linda, who wears a red blazer with a gold leaf pin and diamond studs, and Meredith, in a Ralph Lauren blue-and-green-plaid suit and gold Cartier watch. Poor Phyllis Van Buren, in winter white, has tried lip fillers for the first time; a rookie, she didn’t have them done far enough in advance, and her upper lip, albeit slathered in the natural-looking gloss she favors, is swollen, her smile a little lopsided.
“Linda!” Betsy says, leaning over to give her a double kiss on both cheeks before she takes a seat.
“How’s my lip?” Phyllis whispers to Meredith through gritted teeth, ignoring Betsy’s entrance. A waiter in a bow tie is pouring champagne around the table.
“Fine,” Meredith lies with a smile.
Linda sits with her lips pursed. “Hi, sweetheart,” she says to Betsy, letting her know who’s in charge of the friendship; after all, it was Linda who had placed Betsy on Nourah’s fund-raising radar.
“A little more wine, please,” says Carol to the waiter when he refrains from pouring champagne into her glass. She looks around the table, completely disinterested in these women, in her gray shift from Lord & Taylor, gold cross dangling around her neck, and a military pin placed just above her heart. Hiding the shame she feels about her son’s recent overdose, which all of these women are privy to.
“Anyway, you were saying about the Christmas homes tour this year,” Meredith says to Phyllis, still ignoring Betsy. “I didn’t know this, but Genevieve Banks was supposed to be on the tour as well, so they had an open placement and gave it to a new family who just moved into one of the former churches. Should be pretty exotic.”
Phyllis raises her eyebrows, which
