THE KENNEDY CENTER’S Grand Foyer was lit up like a Macy’s Christmas window for the spectacle that was the annual Honors reception. Medals had been awarded to five of the entertainment industry’s best and brightest tonight, and half of LA seemed to be here, rubbing elbows with half of DC. In Washington terms, there was no other night quite like this one. No night was more star filled.
For Teddy, it was definitely a night to celebrate. Ask any of these glitterati about the week’s headlines, and nine out of ten would have told the same story. Zeus was dead. A very bad man had done terrible things, and he’d paid the ultimate price for his indiscretions. It was the stuff of classics.
And like any good fairy tale, it was a lie only loosely based on truth. In fact, Zeus was right here among them, enjoying the lobster cocktail and champagne just like anyone else. Well, not exactly like anyone else. Teddy’s was a world where even the power elite kissed his butt on a regular basis, and people paid good money just to be in the same room with him. If that wasn’t a privilege worth preserving, he didn’t know what was.
Still, there was the matter of “the urges.” To screw beautiful girls. To see them in pain. To kill. Whether or not he could keep “the urges” in check now was yet to be seen, but the timing, and the opportunity to leave it all behind, could not have been better. He was in the clear now. He’d been given a second chance.
So Teddy pushed all those hot thoughts way to the back of his mind, where they belonged for now, and resumed working the room as only he could. This was pure Teddy, Teddy at his best, Teddy in his element.
He chatted briefly with Meryl Streep and John McLaughlin at the bar. Complimented the House Speaker on his recent Meet the Press slam dunk interview. Congratulated Patti LuPone, one of the night’s honorees, for all of her stunning achievements—whatever they might have been. And he kept moving, kept moving, kept moving, never staying too long in the same place, never wearing out a welcome, never revealing a thing about himself. That was the beauty and allure of the cocktail hour.
Eventually, he came upon Maggie in the Hall of Nations, schmoozing the new Democratic governor from Georgia and his greyhound-faced wife, whose name Teddy could never remember.
“Speak of the devil.” Maggie hooked her arm into his. “Hello, darling. We were just talking about you. Douglas, Charlotte, and I.”
“Hello, Doug, Charlotte. All good things, I hope,” he said, and the others laughed as though it were expected of them, which it was.
“Your wife was just telling us you’re quite the equestrian,” the governor said.
“Ah,” Teddy answered. “My little-known secret. I have so few these days. I don’t like those to get out.”
“We’ll have to have you down to the farm sometime. We’ve got some beautiful trails around our summer place.”
“That sounds absolutely terrific—the farm,” he said, telling the kind of lie that never hurt anyone. “And the president and I will have to have you overnight at the White House one of these days.” He looked over at Maggie, smiling placidly. “Isn’t that right, sweetheart?”