The bleating cries of Donelle Elizabeth Cleary filled the birthing room. Don Cleary, who had the muscled physique and stoicism of a longshoreman, was openly weeping as the nurse took his daughter, wrapped her, and brought her up to rest on Sherrie, who was beaming like the midday sun, tears streaming down her cheeks.
"I told you," she said to everyone and no one in particular. "I told you it was going to be incredible."
Three hours later, when the nurse Sue came into her room, Sherrie was dozing but still smiling. Her husband, sitting off to her right, was gazing in awe into the bassinet at the perfection that was their child.
"Sherrie, hon, wake up," Sue gushed. "You have a visitor, a very special visitor. Here, I'm going to wipe your face with a cool cloth. Good. Are you awake?"
"I'm awake. What's going on?"
"Mr. Cleary, how about you? Are you awake?"
"Sure. Who's here?"
"I'd tell you, but I think you're going to have to see for yourself." She went quickly to the door and called out into the hallway. "They're ready for you now."
The wife of the President of the United States, unaccompanied, strode calmly into the room and crossed directly to Sherrie's side. Sherrie's and Don's expressions made it clear no introduction was necessary.
"Mrs. Cleary," she said just the same, "I'm Lynette Marquand. Congratulations on your beautiful daughter. You, too, Mr. Cleary."
"Thank you," Sherrie managed. "Thank you. This is such a surprise."
"Well, it's a pleasure for me to be here on such a joyous occasion," Lynette said. "Mr. Cleary, Mrs. Cleary, I have some wonderful news for you."
CHAPTER 23
The Sierra Leone Embassy in D.C. was on 19th street, not far from the PAVE offices. Once a stately town house, it had fallen into fairly impressive disrepair. The drapes and carpeting were tawdry, and the air-conditioning consisted of scattered window units, some of which did not appear to be working. Ellen had been in embassies before — Canada, Mexico, and France. There was absolutely nothing in any of those facilities that was as outdated as anything in this one.
She had arrived on time, but it was clear from the torpor of the young man behind the reception desk that she would be seen by His Excellency Andrew Strawbridge when it happened. The waiting area — six nondescript, straight-back wooden chairs and three end tables — was devoid of any reading material save several copies of an ancient propaganda pamphlet extolling the virtues of Sierra Leone, and a dog-eared copy of Time. It was just as well the ambassador wasn't ready to see her, Ellen thought. She needed time to compose herself and regain her focus. At the moment, there was someone displacing both Lassa fever and Omnivax from her mind, namely Rudy Peterson.
As she had done any number of times, Ellen had slept over in the guest room of Rudy's cabin. She was anxious about the Lassa fever revelations he had shared with her and also the meeting with Strawbridge. After a few hours of fitful sleep, she climbed out of bed, pulled on the terry-cloth robe Rudy had put out for her, brewed some coffee, and brought her notes up to his second-floor study. It was not yet four-thirty in the morning. She was searching for a pen in the top right-hand drawer of his desk when she spied the envelope. It was on the very bottom of a pile of papers and would have escaped her notice except that her name and address were on it, written in Rudy's precise hand. There was also a stamp pasted in the upper right corner, but not postage enough to get the envelope mailed. Ellen wondered, correctly as it turned out, if perhaps the letter had been written some time ago, when rates were less.
She slipped the envelope back in the drawer and for the next half hour tried to convince herself not to retrieve it. She had always been a curious sort — probably more so than most — and she had an affinity for gossip that often embarrassed her. Given her makeup, this discovery was a tough one to resist. And at nearly five in the morning, she wasn't as detached and analytical as she was capable of being. Over those thirty minutes, her rationalizations became increasingly lame. If Rudy hadn't meant for her to see it, why had he left it in his desk where she might well come across it? If he was agonizing over whether or not to mail it, wouldn't she be saving him anguish? As absurd and flawed as her reasoning was, she still managed, bit by bit, to bury her common sense beneath it. Almost before she realized she had actually done it, the envelope was open in her hands. Her resolve not to read the contents lasted only seconds.
Dear Ellen,
I suppose the best thing I can do is just get this part out of the way first. I love you. I have since the day Howie first brought you into our dorm room and introduced us. It's been four years now since he left your home, and here I am as much in love with you as ever, knowing you have never felt that way about me. What to do?
As you know, I dated a fair amount over the years following our first meeting. I slept with some of those women, and even tried to get serious with a couple of them. But I always knew I wasn't being fair to them. Then, a few years before he broke up your marriage, Howie started telling me in our man-to-man talks that he wasn't being faithful to you. I wanted to tell you then what he was doing and how I had always felt about you. But it just seemed, I don't know, wrong. With that painful knowledge and my feelings for you, I still couldn't stop being his best friend. For that I'm ashamed.
Well, now Howie's been gone for quite a while and I see the way you've bounced back. You tell me about all you've been doing, and even about dates you've been on. That has hurt. "I'm right here!" I want to shout. "Right under your nose! And I've loved you for thirty-five years."
I probably won't send this letter, but maybe I will. Either way, I think it's great that you have accepted the position on that vaccine commission, and that you have asked me to assist with some research. I promise to do everything in my power to help you become an expert in the field. I wish I were a little more colorful and charismatic and a little less shy, but hey, I am who I am. And I don't regret the path my life has taken one bit.
I just thought maybe it was time that you knew.
Your devoted friend, Rudy
Ellen looked up from the frayed patch she had been studying on the Oriental rug in the embassy's waiting area, and realized that Andrew Strawbridge's attache was smiling over at her.
"Soon," he said in a velvety English accent. "Ambassador Strawbridge will be with you shortly."
"Thank you. I'm fine to wait."
The letter was still in her purse. Rudy had gotten up around six and, without realizing she was upstairs in the study, went out to the backyard where he did twenty minutes of tai chi — fairly advanced tai chi from what she could tell. She knew he practiced the beautifully controlled martial art, and from time to time had watched him work out alone in his yard. She had never thought of asking to join him, and true to his reserved nature, he had never pushed the possibility on her. This morning, though, she studied him as he practiced. Later on, during a breakfast of mushroom and Brie crepes that he had cooked to perfection, she learned that he taught tai chi classes in a nearby community hall.
Several times she came close to bringing up the letter and admitting what she had done, but each time she pulled back. When they embraced as she was preparing to leave for D.C., as they had done hundreds of times over the years, it was as if they were touching for the first time.
Why didn't you just put the darn thing in the mail when you were supposed to? she was thinking as she drove off.
"Mrs. Kroft? Mrs. Kroft, I'm Andrew Strawbridge," the ambassador said, his voice rich and melodic.
Startled out of her reverie a second time, Ellen leapt awkwardly to her feet, mumbled an apology, and took the ambassador's hand. He was a short, slight, dapper man, with warm, deep-brown eyes and rich black skin. His face was slightly pocked from what she assumed was a childhood infection.