7

AMY BERNARD TAPPED HER TEETH with the earpiece of her half-glasses. She was mulling over the neatly typed memo that the caterers had presented to her suggesting the menu for the state dinner for the King and Queen of Spain. Her social secretary, Millicent Hartford, stood behind her, looking over her shoulder.

"Vol-au-vent Maryland, gigot d'agneau aux flageolet, épinard à la crème, mousse aux concombre," Amy read aloud. "But it's for the King of Spain, my dear." For obvious reasons, Miss Hartford inspired in her these little antique pirouettes of language.

"The King adores French food," Miss Hartford said. "And the Queen's favorite color is yellow." Which explained the choice of yellow roses, yellow tablecloths and napkins, and the use of the dinnerware with the yellow trim.

"Will she wear a yellow ribbon?" Amy asked, knowing she would not get a smile from the impassive Miss Hartford, the quintessential snob, which was exactly why she hired her when Paul was elected. And she had bagged the real thing. Miss Hartford had, as they say, impeccable breeding. Even Amy's smart-ass needling had no apparent effect on Miss Hartford. The woman was impervious, also extremely knowledgeable and efficient, shouldering a burden that had devastated many of her predecessors.

Earlier, Amy had suggested a main dish of chicken à la king as appropriate thematically. Miss Hartford had ignored her remark completely. She made a mental note to convey the story of her suggestion to Paul, complete with Miss Hartford's grand duchess expression.

Even after three years, Amy dreaded preparations for a state dinner. The pomp and formality were just too incompatible with her Middle West pass-the-plate, meat-and-potatoes upbringing.

"And here is the seating list," Miss Hartford said, providing a white board with eighteen tables of ten simulating their placement in the State Dining Room and including a five-table spillover into the Red Room. It was Amy, over Miss Hartford's and the White House chef's objections, who had insisted that more than the usual 128 be invited. When neither of them would back down, she simply ordered all state dinners to be prepared by an outside caterer.

She knew the significance of symbols to a politician. An additional forty at a state dinner meant, somehow, that the Bernards were more open and democratic. Indeed, the very act of insistence gave her a rare sense of victory over Miss Hartford's obnoxious surety. As for the White House chef, he was quickly replaced.

From each of the circles indicating tables, rays of penciled names emanated. Amy contemplated the names, impeccably placed by Miss Hartford with an eye for protocol and a commonality of interest. Having won the main issue, she felt she could surrender with dignity to all the others and she demurred to the superior social knowledge of Miss Hartford. In her heart, she knew, it was a Pyrrhic victory. Miss Hartford was invariably correct.

The guests, despite the claim that they came from all walks of life, were, unquestionably, the elite superachievers of America, most of whom knew their manners, which seemed to matter most to Miss Hartford.

"You seem to have thought of everything, Miss Hartford," Amy said, mentally going through her closets, waiting for the last detail to be "suggested" by her nibs.

"I do believe the white dress with the yellow sash would go well with the flower arrangements, which will have white accents."

"The one with the open back?"

"That one."

Although it did not exactly plunge, it showed just enough flesh to expose her to the judgment of that brooding man whose eyes would peer down at her from over the mantel in the State Dining Room. How could she explain to anyone, especially Miss Hartford, that Mr. Lincoln's somber gaze made her uncomfortable? She heard a sound, wondering if it was her own groan of concern.

"Yes?" Miss Hartford asked.

"Why can't..." she began, groping for a thought that had been nagging at her. "Why can't we throw open the doors like old Andy Jackson and greet anyone who wants to come, give them a hunk of cheese and be done with it?" She was certain she had said this many times before, the kind of statement that becomes a tradition.

Miss Hartford offered a tight smile, tilting her head as if she wore a pince-nez and was sniffing at something in the ceiling.

"Yes," she said, "President Jackson and the cheese."

Another bit of one-upmanship, Amy thought, with more amusement than contempt. Of course Miss Hartford was an expert on White House lore. Old Hickory had been given a giant wheel of cheese, which he offered to all who wished to have a chunk. Crowds arrived at the White House en masse and tore the cheese apart. It took days to scrape it off the rugs, floors, and woodwork. At times, Amy believed, if you sniffed around, you could actually still pick up the residue. Comes of living with ghosts, she had decided, and catching them doing their number was a form of private entertainment.

She and Miss Hartford were working in a little office just down the hall from her bedroom. She heard noises outside in the corridor and recognized the footfalls. She terminated the conference with Miss Hartford and went into her husband's dressing room. He was emerging from the shower.

"Win?"

"Beat his ass."

She looked at him archly. He did not reflect the win.

"So why so grim?"

"Damn meeting with those relatives," he muttered. The hostage problem was becoming a constant irritation, but he was managing it as he dealt with most problems. He had the ability to tuck things away in compartments, close their doors. Only this door refused to stay shut.

"Just be a good soldier," she said.

"That's the problem. A soldier fights." He slipped into a T-shirt and pulled it over his chest with an angry gesture. Then he slid into his pants and pulled his belt tight around his waist.

"They're looking for it," he said. "Maybe Harkins is right after all. Hell, he brags about his covert assets. Why not go in and secretly wack 'em. Nice clean surgery." He stepped into his shoes. "All this crap about violence begetting violence. Morality bullshit."

"Hate to think of what you might dub immorality," she said with a lilt, hoping to calm him.

"Point is, we let them get away with it, no one's safe. Especially us." He turned to study her face. "You think we're really safe and snug in this place with all those Secret Service guys climbing in our soup?" He waved his arms. "And those cement barricades and walk-through detectors. A determined bastard would find a way."

Alluding to that possibility genuinely alarmed her. She turned from his gaze, deliberately hiding her fear from him. Under the circumstances, she had tried to follow a routine as normal as possible. But the idea of danger was never far from her thoughts.

When Paul was a senator and they lived on Capitol Hill, he had bought her a little silver-plated .22-caliber pistol, which she had kept in a drawer next to her bed. She was alone a great deal and, although she detested the idea of it, she had not removed the gun from the house. Just in case, he had said. God forbid, she had thought. But she had kept it in its place. Worse, she had brought the pistol with her to the White House, where it had remained in the drawer next to her side of the bed, hardly a weapon to match the Secret Service battery of Uzi machine guns that surrounded them.

"Times like this you almost wish you could be a dictator," Paul said as he pulled up the knot of his tie. She knew he was trying to prepare himself mentally.

"So what would you do differently?" she asked.

"I'd blast the hell out of everyone that aids and abets these bastards. Government, clans, financial supporters, families. Everyone."

She remained silent, letting him vent himself.

"Nixon wasn't so dumb," he mumbled.

"Nixon?"

"Remember the Watergate tapes. He used to wish he were like the Mafia. They know how to get things done."

He kissed her perfunctorily on the forehead and stormed out of the room.