The brochure explained that the mansion had been donated to the club in 1961 by the granddaughter of the original owner, and that it was decorated with ‘period pieces.’ There seemed to be a war going on among the pieces, and it would have been hard for me to say which period was winning. A Federal dining-room table warred with a Duncan Phyfe buffet, which was flanked on either side by some fine Chippendale dining chairs. In a sitting room, Georgian end tables provided arm-side support for Arts and Crafts reclining loungers that were illuminated by standing lamps with Tiffany shades. In another corner of the same room, two women sat chatting on an Art Nouveau loveseat.
If the furnishings had anything at all in common, it was size. Enormous. A Victorian fainting couch in a sunny, chintz-decorated glassed-in porch was so large that I felt like the Incredible Shrinking Woman when I sat down on it to chat for a few minutes with a dynamic young woman named Helen Sue Loftiss, who was bubbling over with information about the club’s upcoming holiday arts and craft fair.
Eventually, Helen Sue’s presence was required elsewhere and I was left alone with visions of handcrafted sugar plums dancing in my head.
Attracted by gas logs twinkling in the grate, I wandered back into the dining room to inspect the massive marble fireplace mantel and surround, sumptuously decorated for the Thanksgiving holiday with fat, sage-colored candles and wicker cornucopia, overflowing with festive fruit and vegetables. Reflected in the gilt mirror over the mantel was one of the room’s enormous chandeliers, dripping with crystals. Identical chandeliers illuminated the ballroom. In almost every room, dark wood paneling extended all around up to shoulder height.
As I wandered from room to room, I looked around nervously, expecting to run into Dorothea Chandler at any moment. Did she know about her husband’s extramarital affair with Lilith Chaloux? When she saw my name tag, would she recognize the name? More importantly, would she take one look at my face and know that I was definitely not Lilith Chaloux? And if so, would she freak? I smiled to myself. If she did, this might turn out to be the most exciting Talk & Tea the Women’s Democratic League had ever seen.
I thought I might recognize Dorothea from the images I’d turned up on the Internet, but after twenty minutes of cruising the mansion, smiling casually, avoiding direct eye contact, and checking other women’s name tags as subtly as possible, I hadn’t run into her. It was getting close to the time scheduled for the lecture to start, and I was beginning to fear that Dorothea had bagged the meeting.
In my travels, I’d noticed that club officers wore Lucite badges like those of the two women at the registration table, so when the next officer crossed my bow, I flagged her down. ‘Hi. I’m looking for Dorothea Chandler. Have you seen her?’
‘You just passed her. Over by the coffee urn. In the blue suit.’
I turned, overcome by a sudden craving for a fourth cup of coffee. I waited in line behind Dorothea, standing so close that I was practically breathing down the woman’s neck. When she turned, there was no way she could miss me.
‘Oh!’ A bit of coffee sloshed into her saucer.
‘I’m so sorry!’ I apologized. ‘I zigged when I should have zagged.’
Dorothea smiled. ‘No problem.’ She glanced at my name tag and added smoothly, ‘Lilith.’
Her hazel eyes never wavered. She didn’t blink. Either she’d never heard of Lilith Chaloux or she was a damn fine actress.
Dorothea Chandler was built like an athlete, solid, straight up-and-down, like a tree. Her dark hair had been cut in a shaggy bob, the tips of her bangs fringed with copper, as if they’d been dipped in paint, a style Emily would describe as ‘upmarket punk.’
I held out my hand. ‘I’m new here, Dorothea.’
‘Please, call me Doro. Everybody does.’ She took my hand, and I noticed that she wore a wedding band identical to her husband’s, although smaller: a twisted rope of white, yellow and rose gold.
She smiled in a friendly way. ‘Where are you from, Lilith?’
‘Upstate New York,’ I told her.
‘What brings you to DC? Husband? A job?’
‘Both,’ I improvised. ‘Divorced the former and looking for the latter.’
‘Sorry about the divorce,’ Doro said.
‘I’m not. S.O.B. had been cheating on me for years. His mistress…’ I flapped my hand. ‘Sorry. T.M.I.’
Doro stared at me, quietly sipping her coffee. If I expected her to open up about her personal life to a total stranger while standing between the egg-salad sandwiches and the petit fours, I was mistaken.
‘What do you do, Lilith?’
I had to think fast. ‘I’m a nutritionist.’ Before she could start helping me network, I added, ‘I have three interviews lined up, so I’m pretty hopeful. And you?’ I asked, raising an eyebrow.
‘Volunteer work, mostly.’
‘Ah.’ There was an awkward silence while I tried to think of something to say. ‘So, you don’t work outside the home?’
‘Not since before the children were born,’ she said. ‘We have two grown daughters.’
‘I wish… I wanted…’ My voice broke rather convincingly. I wasn’t very good at producing tears on demand, so I thought about the sad-eyed, abused and abandoned animals I saw on the Animal Planet channel when Animal Cops came on, and flapped my hand apologetically.
‘I’m so sorry. Is there anything I can do?’
I shook my head and scrabbled in my purse for a tissue.
‘How long had you been married?’ she asked.
‘Fifteen years. You?’
‘Almost thirty-five years.’
‘Has your husband ever… you know?’
Her gaze was cool. ‘Not to my knowledge.’
‘You’re lucky. Bob’s mistress was his choir director. He was a minister, for Christ’s sake, a man of God. Pardon me while I laugh. Morality isn’t just a concept, it’s supposed to be his business.’
I dabbed at the corners of my eyes. ‘The only good thing about the situation is that I’ll never again have to sit through one of Bob’s excruciating sermons.’
For some reason, this cracked Doro up.
As I joined in the laugh fest, I wondered if she ever watched her husband’s broadcasts and, if so, what she thought about them. Did they ever discuss his programs? At dinnertime, did she offer advice about his choice of wardrobe? Pump him for gossip? Inquire about what his guests were really like? What if she went home tonight and told John over steak and potatoes about the troubled woman she met today, poor Lilith Chaloux, whose husband was cheating on her big time. Would Chandler spew wine all over the tablecloth? Choke on his steak?
Doro smiled sympathetically. ‘In the early years of our marriage, we moved around a lot. I know how hard it is to be the new kid on the block.’
I nodded, sniffling for effect and feeling like a bit of a shit. I had been fully prepared to dislike Doro for depriving Lilith, who I liked a lot, of the love of her life. Disliking Doro would have been a lot easier if she weren’t being so nice.
At a summons from one of her well-coifed minions, who had been hovering nearby like a bodyguard, Doro breezed away in a cloud of Shalini perfume – a gorgeous mélange of bitter orange, coriander and ylang ylang with undertones of sandalwood and vanilla. I’d been squirted with eau de Shalini at Bergdorf Goodman the previous summer and loved it, but when the saleslady told me it cost $900 for a two-ounce bottle, I knew I had to pass. Doro could afford luxuries like that. I wondered what would happen if something threatened that cash flow and suddenly she was reduced to buying Chantilly at WalMart like the rest of us?
Back in the ballroom for a coffee refill (my fifth!), I saw Doro at a distance, standing near the podium conferring with an attractive dark-haired woman wearing black slacks and a lavender brocade jacket, who I took to be our speaker du jour.