Save the Last Dance. Chelsea
was there later in the evening. She brought the boyfriend and they had a more
than pleasant dinner. Actually, it wasn’t a dinner so much as a State affair. There were cameras and dignitaries and old, long-forgotten friends. So many Wellesley alums, so much brown-nosing, so little time. Yet,
somehow they found the occasion to try to rope her back into the Alumni Association.
She immediately panicked and referred them to Huma. Dear God, student
interviews—that was the last thing she needed.
Chelsea fielded the press with a surprising amount of tact and grace. She
still despised them as a gestalt entity, but she could be polite and politic. It
wasn’t as hard as it had been when she was young; she could now tell them to go fu—feed themselves appetizers
if they got out of line. Hillary thought they might make a President out of her
yet. She was already setting the world on fire as the new junior Senator from New York.
Bill would’ve been bright red with pride. Her momma was.
The evening was a circus of photo-ops. She hadn’t so much as spoken
to Nancy Pelosi in person since August of the year before, but here she was. They
stood side-by-hateful-side as the cameras flashed. The American President was
somewhat juvenilely proud to say that her evening gown was so much prettier than Nancy’s evening gown—and that
bitch hated it! Hillary grinned as she walked away.
The gathering continued much the same way from there. She met old enemies,
took pictures with them, and rubbed very thoroughly in their faces the fact that she had gotten here without them. She ignored pointedly the ones that wanted to talk about Bill. She
didn’t want to talk about Bill; they weren’t allowed to talk about Bill.
They were the offenders of his legacy, not her. She didn’t need
to talk about his absence—she felt it keenly enough.
What she felt even more keenly was the presence of her closest friend. Evan
was there with the family. Susan had given Hillary her first hug of the night
and a gift from her and the boys’ summer trip to Egypt. It was supposedly
a genie lamp—give it a rub and get three wishes. Hillary thought of one,
but on the other two, she came up empty.
The clock was tolling 2 a.m. by the time the press had finally begun to take its leave.
Chelsea was headed upstairs with her beau to catch a catnap before their flight returned them to Manhattan. The people never slept in New York, and they never stopped needing a Clinton to go to bat for them. She was showing herself to be a more formidable opponent than even her mother had
been. Susan and the boys had long since made their way back to Blair House. They had school early in the morning; the boys attended Sidwell Friends like Chelsea
had and seemed to do well there.
Hillary was one of the last to exit the ballroom. It was a mess really,
a presidential frat party run amok. She liked the lived-in look of the place. She liked that it didn’t look like she lived here alone for once. She hadn’t considered that way back when. Nowadays,
it was all she thought about. With a wave behind her, she left the stewards to
their clean-up. She wouldn’t be so pathetic as to actually help them clean—though
the urge had been there.
As she stepped out of the lift that opened into the Residence, music drifted towards her. It was Sinatra, or something else old and heartfelt.
“Hello.” She wandered barefoot towards to source of the music. The Secret Service agents who lined the corridor didn’t seem inclined to relieve
her curiosity—they never had—so she didn’t ask. The sitting
room lay dead ahead, and the lights inside were low, she could see through the door.
Couldn’t be Chelsea, the girl was beat and likely out before her head touched the pillow. Her future son-in-law didn’t yet feel comfortable enough with her to wander the premises unattended. There was only one person she could think of who took liberties in the Residence,
and only one who would deign to do it tonight of all nights. She pushed open
the door and let the notes flow over her. “Evan.”
He was the one. Standing at the mantle with a glass of wine in hand, he
looked completely at home. He revolved with ease to meet her confusion. He lifted up another, previously unseen bauble and offered it to her. Seeing no reason to refuse, she entered and accepted the proffered drink.
“I have no idea what you’re doing here,” she confessed. She
was as glad as anyone to see him, but she thought he’d left with the rest of the Second Family; she hadn’t dreamed
he’d show up here this late.
“I’m spending my best friend’s birthday with my best friend.”
He seemed to find it all very funny. Those dimples were out in full force
again and she found that very sweet. She decided to make the best of a not-so-bad
night and draped herself gracelessly on the sofa nearby.
“And when did I become your best friend?” she asked in all honesty.
It had recently occurred to her also that he was her best friend. There
was no one, short of Chelsea and her mother, who she trusted more than Evan Bayh. He
was her compass and her sidekick, her roadie and her guide. She was glad he was
here with her, but mostly she was just glad he was here tonight.
He
sat down beside her with a modicum more of decorum. “Some time between 2006 and the Indiana Primary. Everything after that was just gravy.”
She
chuckled heartily. “Agreed.”
She took the silence that followed as permission to drink. They spent
time together alone constantly, but rarely did it feel like it did tonight. She
supposed he was still thinking of this morning in the Oval. She had made her
peace with it and was now only thinking of tomorrow. At least she was trying…
The
music’s soft strings began to tickle her emotions not for the first time tonight.
They filled the halls and the rooms and the air of an old home reclaimed. She
felt so right being here, but she couldn’t think of a single birthday spent here when she hadn’t danced.
Someday
she’d wonder if he could read her mind.
She
was still reminiscing when he took her hand in his. The past was the same color
as the present and the score that played was so much the same, too. His arms
were as strong as the ones that held her then, and chest was just as solid His
scent was different though; he smelled so much of Indiana and none at all of Little Rock.
She clung to him like she’d never danced a grown-up dance before, and let him lead her through the steps. If she didn’t look up and didn’t think, it could be just like any other
holiday for the past thirty-eight years.
But
he had done all this. He had come all this way just to spend this evening with
his friend. She couldn’t do that to him.
She looked up into those soft, understanding eyes and smiled. Throughout
the journey of her life, she’d been seeking a partner. Bill had been that
partner; there was never a pair more matched in body and spirit than he had been to her.
She was finding, in the face the hovered above her own, another match, maybe this one in heart.
“We’ve
come a long way, baby,” she recited softly.
“But
we’ve got a long way still to go,” he finished. There was that cheeky
grin again.
She
couldn’t regret completely what she’d lost when the prize had been so sweet.
“Stay with me,” she requested near inaudibly.
“I
won’t leave you now like I wouldn’t leave you then,” he affirmed.
Damn, the memory came unbidden like pain with the cold days. He had stood
outside the door as she slept holding Bill’s hand and stroking Chelsea’s hair.
He’d been there when she awoke and discovered the news. He’d
been the one to pull Chelsea away first, and her second. He’d been her
touchstone at the funeral and her rock at the burial. When everyone had already
departed for the procession, he’d reminded her of who she had to be and how strong.
He hadn’t left her then and she hoped he never would.
Sadly, chances were that she wouldn’t bet her heart on it.
