An uneasy look crosses Meredith’s face. “Well, don’t mention it to Bunny during the tour, she’s—we’re all still shaken from it.”
“Of course, my dear,” says Phyllis. “We’ll have a wonderful afternoon of just us girls looking at splendid Washington architecture, the traditional and the avant-garde!”
“Pardon me, I don’t want to interrupt—just wanted to say hello to you fabulous ladies,” Betsy says, her hand on Meredith’s shoulder.
Meredith turns her head, gazes at Betsy’s French-manicured fingers across her plaid shoulder pad, hardly a smile. “Nice to see you. Do you know Phyllis Van Buren, one of my oldest and dearest friends?” Meredith says.
“How do you do,” Betsy says. She can’t help but notice the bruises on Phyllis’s lip, oh poor thing. Perhaps she should discreetly give her the name of her aesthetician.
Carol downs her wine as she sees Galina Stopinski and Sissy Cowan having a great laugh (heads thrown back, veneered teeth in the air, Birkins dangling from their wrists) on their way back from the powder room.
“Carol,” Meredith says, “Bunny mentioned you’ve been spending a lot of time in Middleburg—you must let me know the next time you’re going, and come over to my parents’ farm for tea.”
“That would be lovely,” Carol says to be polite. Meredith smiles; she knows better than to mention Billy’s overdose on such an occasion, a social faux pas to ask how someone’s child is when you know they’re not doing well. It somehow feels like cheating, but manners above care.
“Will Billy be attending the academy?” Linda interrupts. She takes a bite of Caesar salad that’s just been passed around. The table is suddenly silent.
“He will, just like his father,” Carol declares, sitting up straight.
“What a wonderful legacy to carry,” Linda says.
Carol smiles. “Thank you.”
“Meredith, where is Bunny looking to attend college?” Betsy asks.
“Yale,” Meredith says smoothly without any hesitation; she doesn’t even look Betsy in the eye—in fact, her outfit makes Meredith cringe. Why do they still refuse to just seat friends with friends each year? She’s contemplating whether or not she’ll decline next year’s invitation; it’s just not what it used to be. The spray-painted gold baby’s breath is just too much.
Trying not to feel intimidated—it must be nice to be a legacy admission—Betsy realizes she’d rather not go down the old college road, for surely these women all went to Ivies while she was struggling at Gettysburg. Meanwhile, she’s praying Mackenzie gets into Chapel Hill.
“Good for her,” Betsy says, sipping her champagne. She quickly changes the subject. “Phyllis, do you have children?”
“Oh yes. My boys are all grown up,” Phyllis says, covering her mouth with her napkin as she tries to take a bite of her salad. She swallows, clears her throat, and adds, “Princeton,” as if that was going to be Betsy’s question.
“Her boys are just the most wonderful. Stuart is on the tenure track at Penn, and Alex is working on sustainable energy in East Africa,” Meredith says, bragging for her old friend to let Betsy know the rank she’s trying to penetrate but will never be allowed into, no matter who her husband is on Capitol Hill.
“Besty, darling, vhere did you get those earrings!” Galina Stopinski says. “Stan gave me vhones with less shape for my birthday but doesn’t look good vhith the shape of my face.” She cups her chin with her hands, revealing her nine-carat yellow diamond, just a little bit smaller than Betsy’s.
“Buccellati—you must see the new collection.” Betsy smiles, fingering the bottom tassels below her right earlobe.
“For God’s sake,” Carol says under her breath across the round table; only Phyllis hears, and chuckles lightly.
Linda hands her salad plate to the server walking around pouring Pellegrino. “I’m finished, thank you,” she says, looking at her empty salad plate, implying that he was late to pick it up. She turns back to the table. “Doug was just on Chris’s show a few weeks ago,” she says, trying to move the conversation away from materialism and into politics. Only in the last few decades have broadcast journalists been inducted into the fold of the Washington power structure, becoming more and more accepted.
“I’m really proud of him, and Meredith’s niece has been such a wonderful support!” Betsy says, cupping her champagne glass with her fingers, letting the table know she and Meredith are connected not only professionally, but also through family.
“Chuck got her the job, of course.” Meredith smiles at the table. “I’m still a registered Democrat!” She readjusts the napkin in her lap. “Betsy, didn’t you live here in Washington before?” she asks, tilting her head, putting her on the spot.
“Oh gosh, that was such a long time ago, I was practically a child.”
“Oh, you did?” says Phyllis, leaning over Meredith toward Betsy. “And what were you doing here in Washington, dear?”
“Oh, I was just young and newly wedded and, well, looking for something to do, I suppose!” she says, trying to charm her way out of the conversation.
“So you and Doug left the city for a long time?” Phyllis asks, genuinely curious, seeing as he is getting so much attention in the press.
“My first husband,” Betsy tries to say discreetly, hoping the other women around the table will turn away and start their own conversations.
“Well, many of us have been there, I’m sure,” Phyllis says.
Betsy smiles, wondering if word has gotten around about her sordid past. She feels it around these women, clinging to Doug’s potential for a new family legacy.
“How are all of your children holding up since the Banks family…” Linda asks. No one, not even Linda, the wife of a newscaster, can bring herself to say murders in front of these women, several of whom were friends, even if only superficially, with Genevieve Banks.
“Well”—Betsy puts her hand to her heart—“Mackenzie didn’t know her well enough, but she tells me it’s been a little frightening as an observer. Is Bunny doing okay?” she asks, putting the spotlight back on Meredith.
Meredith lets out a big sigh.
