Chapter Five
Elizabeth’s mother sounded frantic on the phone. “It’s a disaster! We’ll soon be begging in the streets! Starving in the hedgerows!” Elizabeth didn’t even know what hedgerows were, let alone why they would cause starvation. Every question she asked was drowned out by wailing and dire predictions until her mother claimed that a racing pulse and faint feelings would keep her from speaking. Mr. Bennet came on the line and begged Elizabeth’s presence at home, hanging up before she could ask for an explanation.
As Elizabeth navigated her Prius across Roosevelt Bridge and into the Virginia suburbs, she tried calling Kitty and Mary—the two sisters who still lived at home—but neither answered her phone.
Her biggest concern was that it had something to do with that stupid incident at the White House three weeks ago. Was it possible that the event was somehow having repercussions now? Lydia’s tweet had been retweeted more than 1.5 million times, and Elizabeth worried that her name would be forever linked with the president’s. Her days were haunted with visions of People magazine covers showing her and the president side by side in little rectangles and cable news shows with psychological experts diagnosing her state of mind at the time of the insult.
And if the media ever learned about the closet incident…? Elizabeth winced whenever the thought crossed her mind.
Fortunately for Elizabeth, the day after the state dinner, a senator had been arrested with a prostitute and North Korea had nearly hit an American ship with a missile. So Lydia’s tweet and Elizabeth’s identity were relegated to late-night comedy show punchlines, and even that quickly withered away when no more information was added to the story.
However, Elizabeth had not escaped unscathed. On social media she was known as “POTUSdissgirl,” and her coworkers teased her about it unmercifully. She always laughed along as though she never tired of the reminder that the leader of the free world thought she was stupid and ugly.
The disastrous evening had produced one good result, though. Jane had been on four dates with Bing, and their relationship was flourishing. Jane hadn’t been lucky in love, and Elizabeth rejoiced to see her sister so optimistic.
After twenty minutes of speculating about the nature of her mother’s disaster, Elizabeth’s neck and shoulders were stiff with tension by her arrival at her parents’ house. She navigated her car between the large faux gold-leaf lion statues guarding the end of the driveway, marveling once again how she could have been raised by two people who thought they were an essential part of a “dream house.”
Another unfortunate design choice was echoing the lions’ gold leaf on the roofs of the rhomboid “turrets” at the front of the house. The shiny gold turrets, not to mention the gilt dolphins by the front door, were a rather jarring contrast to the house’s otherwise staid suburban colonial architecture with its slate gray shingles.
Elizabeth had been only thirteen when her parents designed and built the house, but when she thought of “home” she still pictured the modest split-level they had occupied in her early childhood. That house had been small for a family of seven, and the zip code wasn’t close to being fashionable, but Elizabeth still missed it.
Elizabeth was barely through the front door when she encountered Jane juggling a tea cup, an aromatherapy candle, and a hot water bottle. Yup, her mother was having another one of her “episodes.”
Jane’s shoulders sagged when she spotted Elizabeth. “Oh, thank God you’re here! Please tell Mom it isn’t as bad as it seems.” That always seemed to be Elizabeth’s role in such crises. For various reasons, the other sisters weren’t very effective during Fanny’s fits of anxiety; only Elizabeth ever managed to calm their mother through a combination of cajoling and tough love.
“No problem,” Elizabeth retorted. “As soon as I find out what ‘it’ is.” Jane nodded sympathetically but rushed up the wide marble stairs before she could answer any questions.
Elizabeth shrugged out of her coat and hung it in the front closet before following Jane upstairs and down the plushly carpeted hallway to the master bedroom. The bedroom could serve as a parking garage for at least two cars; its grand scale was matched by the adjoining master bathroom, which could have held fifteen people comfortably—although Elizabeth had no idea what good that was.
The bed was faux French Provincial with an enormous white wood canopy that was accented with gilt furbelows. In her pink bathrobe with the fake fur hood around her face, Elizabeth’s mother was dwarfed by the enormous bed, surrounded as she was by dozens of pillows and blankets. “Lizzy! Thank God you have come! Nobody understands how I have suffered. I have a nervous condition, you know.”
Elizabeth nodded solemnly. “I know.”
“Here, Mom.” Jane handed her the tea cup. “It’s chamomile. And I brought your lavender candle and your hot water bottle.”
Mrs. Bennet patted her daughter’s hand. “You are very good to me, but I doubt it will be of much use. My nerves are completely shot.”
“Have you taken your Xanax?” Elizabeth asked.
“Of course!” Fanny lifted her head indignantly. “I remember what Dr. Burgeron said. I had one right away.”
“Just one?” Elizabeth asked.
Mrs. Bennet fluttered her hands. “I didn’t want to sleep until you arrived. It’s important that you understand how we’re all ruined!”
Such words should have struck terror in Elizabeth’s heart, but her mother was prone to doomsday pronouncements, and Elizabeth had developed something of an immunity so was only mildly worried. “Mom, you can tell me later. You should rest.”
“No! No! I can’t rest until you understand.”
Jane shrugged helplessly at Elizabeth. With a sigh, Elizabeth sat on the edge of the bed. “So what’s the problem?”
“Do you remember Stanley Yerger?” her mother asked in a quavering voice.
“The accountant?” He did the finances for On-a-Stick, Inc.
“He isn’t an accountant!” her mother shrieked, wiping her eyes with a tissue. “He is a devil sent to torment us.”
Huh. Elizabeth remembered him as short and plump with saggy jowls. “What did he do?”
“He took the money! He took all the money!” Mrs. Bennet blew her nose noisily into a tissue.
This response was just vague enough to produce maximum anxiety while providing minimum information. Elizabeth took a deep breath. “What money?”
“All of it!” Her mother waved impatiently. “It’s gone!”
“He drained the reserves,” said Mary from behind Elizabeth.
Elizabeth turned as her sister joined her at their mother’s bedside. She was again wearing all brown, but today her blouse and pants were uncharacteristically rumpled.
“The reserves?” Elizabeth asked.
“On-a-Stick was setting aside money for new factory equipment. Stan skipped town with it.”
Elizabeth’s stomach lurched. Stan Yerger was a friend of John Bennet’s from college, and his firm had done the books for On-a-Stick, Inc. since its founding.
Mary’s lips were set in a thin, white line. “We found out yesterday. Charlotte Lucas came over.”
Elizabeth suddenly remembered that Stan also did the books for Lucas and Lucas. Her hand flew to her mouth. “Oh no!”
“Yeah. Walter found some accounting ‘irregularities.’ When Walter went to Stan’s office for a meeting, he was gone.” Mary grimaced. “He cleaned out Lucas and Lucas, too, and then took off for parts unknown. The police have a warrant out for him, but if he’s smart, he went to a country that doesn’t have an extradition treaty with the U.S.”
“We’re ruined!” her mother howled. “We’ll be homeless! We’ll be living in the poorhouse!”
Mary put her hands on her hips. “Get real, Mom. They don’t have poorhouses anymore.”
Their mother wailed even louder.
“Just a thought, Mary, but don’t take up counseling,” Elizabeth said.
Mary shrugged.
“It’s not that bad, Mom.” Elizabeth raised her voice to be heard over her mother’s cries. “I’m sure it’s not that bad.” She glared meaningfully at Mary.
“Oh! No, it’s not that bad,” Mary assured her hastily. “We’ll be able to weather this without halting construction on the fourth factory or laying off workers or selling the house. I’m almost sure. Mostly sure.”
Their mother continued to bawl. Elizabeth was beginning to remember why calming Fanny wasn’t Mary’s job.
“Mom,” Elizabeth used her most soothing voice, “why don’t you take another Xanax and try to sleep?” She gave another pill to her mother with a glass of water from the bedside table. “We’ll talk about it when you wake up.” From long experience, Elizabeth knew her mother would be more willing to listen to reason and less frantic after she rested.
Her mother nodded and swallowed the pill. The daughters waited at Fanny’s bedside until she fell asleep and then quietly filed out. In the kitchen, Jane put on the tea kettle.
“How bad is it really?” Elizabeth asked Mary.
Mary pressed her lips together. “It’s bad. Dad’s been using the cash reserves to capitalize the launch of Spaghetti On-a-Stick…and…well…we’ve been having development problems with it.”
“Whose idea was Spaghetti On-a-Stick anyway?” Elizabeth asked. Surely there were hundreds of foods that were better candidates for being put on a stick.
“Dad’s,” Mary replied. “He’s very enthusiastic. He had this idea for wrapping the noodles around the stick that was very innovative—something nobody has ever done in the industry.” Elizabeth exchanged a glance with Jane and knew they were thinking the same thing: maybe there was a reason nobody had tried it. “But it turns out that spaghetti is kind of slippery, so R&D has been having trouble getting it to stick to the stick. And with building that new factory out in Duluth…We’re out on a limb financially.”
“Shit,” Elizabeth said, feeling suddenly unmoored. She was the only Bennet who didn’t depend on the food company for a livelihood; if the business cratered, the whole family would be in straitened circumstances.
“Without new products to market, sales have been lagging. And we lost the City of Chicago contract to On-a-Rod, Inc. I don’t know what we’ll do if sales don’t pick up. Dad doesn’t want to sell to one of those big conglomerates, but—”
“He can’t sell the company!” Jane cried. “It’s all he ever dreamed about. And now it’s finally a success!”
Mary shrugged. “I don’t know how we’re going to survive. We only have about a couple months’ of business expenses in the bank, and nobody will give Dad another loan.” She slouched into her chair. “What we really need is a steady customer to provide a stable stream of income.”
“Weren’t you going to apply for the USDA contract?” Elizabeth asked. The application for the U.S. Department of Agriculture’s school lunch program had been the sole topic of conversation within the family for at least a month. She smiled her thanks at Jane as her sister handed her a cup of tea.
Mary brightened a little. “Yeah, that’s a huge contract. It could save us, but we won’t even know whether we won it for at least a month.”
“All right,” Elizabeth said. “I’ll try to dwell on the positive when I talk to Mom.”
Jane patted her hand. “Thank you for coming. Sometimes you’re the only one she’ll listen to.”
“Better you than me.” Mary rolled her eyes. “And you probably know this, but Dad wants to keep it quiet, so you can’t say anything to Lydia—that would be like taking out an ad in The New York Times.”
“What’s going on at Lucas and Lucas?” Elizabeth asked. The PR firm was the pride and joy of her friend Charlotte’s life.
Mary shook her head sadly. “Charlotte seemed upset on the phone. I guess business has been slow since her dad has been doing so much volunteering for the Democratic National Committee.”
Elizabeth sipped her tea. “I wish there was something I could do. She’s kick ass at PR.”
“You know anyone who needs a PR guru?” Mary asked.
Elizabeth gnawed on a fingernail while she considered, but Jane spoke first. “Maybe Bing does! Politicians always need good PR or know someone who does.”
“That’s a great idea,” Elizabeth said. “I’m sure Charlotte would appreciate being recommended.”
Mary nodded slowly. “Now, if only we knew someone who can get spaghetti to stick to a stick…”
***
The phone rang. And rang again. Elizabeth rolled over and groped for it on her bedside table. “Hello?”
“Lizzy?”
The strained quality of Jane’s voice put Elizabeth on instant alert. “Jane? What’s wrong?” Her first thought was another financial emergency like the one a week ago.
“I…um…hurt my back again.”
“Oh no!” Elizabeth bolted upright in bed. The last time Jane injured her back it had turned out to be a herniated disc which had prevented her from walking for almost three weeks. “How bad is it?”
Jane gave a humorless laugh. “Pretty bad.” If Jane admitted to being in pain it must be excruciating. Elizabeth’s mouth was suddenly quite dry.
“Are you lying down? Do you want me to come over? I could bring my heating pad. Is your prescription up to date?”
Jane chuckled without mirth. “Yeah, my prescription is up to date. Unfortunately, it’s at home.”
“And you’re not?” Where could Jane be at—Elizabeth squinted at her clock—1:36 a.m. on a Saturday night? Well, technically it was Sunday Monday. Had she gone to Bing’s place?
“I was hoping you could go to my apartment, pick up the medicine, and bring it here.” Elizabeth could tell Jane was trying to keep the pain out of her voice. Each word was carefully enunciated.
“Of course. Where are you?” Elizabeth stood, pulling off her pajama bottoms and struggling into her jeans.
“Um, that’s the thing. I’m at the White House.”
Elizabeth dropped the phone. And hastily picked it up. “The White House? Why are you at the White House?” She froze with her jeans halfway up her legs.
“Bing invited me to a dinner at the Residence. Just the president and a couple of his friends and their wives. Then I fell and hurt my back. I thought it would be okay, but then…it wasn’t.” The slight slurring of Jane’s words told Elizabeth how much pain her sister was experiencing.
Elizabeth took a deep, centering breath. “Tell me where the prescription is, and I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
“Hold on.” There was a pause and some muffled voices.
Despite Jane’s relationship with Bing, Elizabeth never expected to have an occasion to return to the White House. And she’d been content with that thought. In fact, she had planned to avoid President Darcy for the rest of her life. The last man in the world Elizabeth wanted to see, and Jane was stuck at his house. But it was Jane. And Elizabeth would do anything for her sister.
Then Jane was back. “You’ll also have to give Bing your Social Security number. The Secret Service needs to do a quick background check even though you were at the White House before.”
Bing makes Jane happy. This is worth the trouble. “No problem.” She kept her voice as positive as possible.
“I’m sorry,” Jane said somberly. “Maybe Bing could go to my apartment instead—”
“No, that would take a lot longer,” Elizabeth said. She would not leave her sister in pain and vulnerable in a strange place. “I’m coming. Just tell me where the medicine is, and then I’ll talk to Bing.”
***
An hour later Elizabeth was riding in an elevator with a Secret Service agent whose expressions ranged from blank to grim. Jane had assured Elizabeth that she could simply drop off the medicine, but Elizabeth needed to see Jane herself. Bing was a nice guy, but Elizabeth knew nothing about his nursing skills.
The elevator doors slid open, revealing a small vestibule and front door that might lead to an ordinary apartment in a rather old-fashioned building. The agent knocked, and the door was quickly opened by Bing. He usually was immaculately dressed and collected, but his wrinkled shirtsleeves and disheveled hair suggested that he’d been caring for Jane.
His smile for Elizabeth came and went in a flash. “Thank goodness you’re here!” As he opened the door wider for Elizabeth, the agent returned to the elevator. Bing closed the door behind them with a decisive click.
They were in the entrance hall of what Elizabeth assumed was the Residence, the part of the White House where the president actually lived. The hall was decorated with gray tile flooring and dark wood paneling. The ornately carved furniture dripped historical authenticity, but it was all on a residential scale—not the grand scale of the White House’s public rooms. While this room was still formal, it was far more intimate and livable.
She had no problem envisioning President Darcy in this room. She bet he could give detailed information about the provenance and time period of each piece of furniture. What she couldn’t imagine was someone running around the Residence barefoot in ratty sweatpants or cut-off shorts, but the president probably wouldn’t do that anywhere.
Bing gestured down the hall. “Jane is resting in one of the spare bedrooms.”
“What happened?” Elizabeth asked as they walked.
“Just a freak accident,” Bing said. “One of her high heels caught on a bit of broken tile in the kitchen. She went down like a sack of potatoes.” He shuddered at the memory. “I knew she was in trouble when she didn’t stand up again right away.” He squeezed his eyes shut and massaged his forehead with one hand. “She was wincing at the pain and trying not to cry; it was awful. I wanted to send for the White House doctor, but she swore all she needed was her medicine.”
“She doesn’t like having a fuss made over her,” Elizabeth said. “The medicine makes her sleepy, and she shouldn’t try to walk until she’s rested her back, at least for the night.”
“That’s what I thought, too. Jane said otherwise.”
“She’s trying not to be a burden,” Elizabeth observed.
They stopped outside a closed door. “To hell with that!” Bing said in a low voice. “She can stay all night if she needs to. Nobody else needs the room, and I don’t want her to make it worse.”
Elizabeth heartily approved. Bing had his priorities in place.
When Bing swung open the door, they entered a dimly lit bedroom straight from the colonial era. The dark wooden bed had a white lace canopy and blue covers in a floral pattern. Jane was lying flat on her back in the middle, her face pale and drawn. She turned her head as Elizabeth approached the bed and attempted a smile. But the lines around her eyes suggested the effort it cost her. Just like the last time. Elizabeth was not pleased with the similarities.
“Lizzy,” Jane moaned. “Thank you for coming.”
“Of course.” Elizabeth took her sister’s hand and squeezed it gently. Bing brought in a glass of water from the adjoining bathroom and left the two sisters alone.
Helping Jane into a sitting position provoked gasps of pain, but it allowed her to take the pill. “Thank you, Lizzy,” Jane said after swallowing. “I’m sure I’ll start feeling better soon, and then I can leave. You might need to drive me—”
Elizabeth scowled. “You are in no shape to leave tonight. You can’t walk, and I doubt you can sit in a wheelchair. I’m not even confident you can leave in the morning.”
Jane shook her head emphatically. “I can’t stay here! It’s the White House. Bing doesn’t even live here.”
Bing slipped into the room during this declaration and was at Jane’s side in an instant. Tenderly, he brushed hairs from Jane’s forehead. “Don’t worry about any of that. It’s not a problem to stay with you overnight, my dear. I’ve stayed over plenty of times when Darcy and I had a late night working on a project.” He glanced at Elizabeth. “Can you help her settle down while I use the bathroom?”
Jane was silent until the bathroom door closed but then said, “No, I can’t possibly stay.” She tried to swing her legs to the edge of the bed but gasped in pain.
“You can’t possibly go.” Elizabeth put her hand on Jane’s shoulder. “Remember how walking made it worse the last time?”
Jane nodded, biting her lip. Tears glistened in her eyes as she fell back against the pillows. Naturally, Jane was anxious at the prospect of being alone and vulnerable in a strange place. Her relationship with Bing was still fairly new, and Jane hated to impose. But Elizabeth had done this before. “Would you like me to stay?” she asked softly.
Hope shone on Jane’s face for a moment, but then she averted her eyes. “I can’t ask that of you.”
“You’re not asking. I’m offering,” Elizabeth said firmly. “And I would feel better if I could stay. Just in case you need me.”
Jane allowed her head to flop back onto the pillow. “It would be nice to have someone help me get into the bathroom and change clothes. Bing and I aren’t quite at that stage yet.”
Elizabeth patted Jane’s hand. “No problem. You should sleep if you can. I won’t go far.”
Jane nodded wearily before her eyes fluttered closed. Bing emerged from the bathroom, and he and Elizabeth padded out of the room and closed the door softly behind them. Forehead creased with worry, Bing turned to Elizabeth. “What do you think?”
“Well, it’s not exactly the same as when she herniated her disc, but she needs to be careful. She should sleep now. The medicine usually tires her out. I told Jane I would stay the night since I’ve been through this before. And I can help her leave in the morning.”
“Thank you,” Bing said earnestly, anxious eyes fixed on the door. “Maybe I’ll go in and sit with her.” He gestured down the hall. “The living room and kitchen are down there. You can help yourself to some coffee or food. Whatever you want.”
He was turning her loose in the Residence with only those instructions? Elizabeth hesitated. “Is the president—?”
“Oh, he’s working on a refugee issue in the Treaty Room.” Bing pointed to a door. “It serves as his study. The man never sleeps. He won’t emerge for a couple of hours—and then he’ll head for bed.”
“I don’t want to be in the way,” Elizabeth said, although that was not at all her real objection.
Bing waved his hand airily. “Darcy likely is oblivious to everything except foreign policy.” With that reassurance, Bing disappeared into Jane’s room and left Elizabeth in the surreal position of being alone in the White House Residence at three in the morning.
She wandered down the hallway until she came to an open door and peered in, finding an oval room. The White House architect sure liked his oval rooms. This one wasn’t an office, though. It was set up like a formal living room with pale green sofas and chairs upholstered in gold and cream arranged around a fireplace. At the far end of the room were three floor-to-ceiling windows hung with gold drapes. Like everything else in the building, the room radiated history and formality—not a place to kick back to watch a football game. In fact, there was no television.
After turning on a lamp, Elizabeth tiptoed into the yellow room, feeling like an intruder but unable to resist a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to explore. It was more interesting than the broom closet and less likely to get her arrested.
Venturing further into the room, she soaked in every detail. It looked a little familiar; perhaps she’d seen photos of presidents hanging out here. Peering out the window, she didn’t see much except the railing for a balcony—underwhelming until she recognized it as the Truman Balcony.
This is actually happening, she reminded herself. I’m not dreaming it or imagining it or watching it in a movie. But it was still hard to believe.
A muffled thump from the hallway caused Elizabeth to freeze. Please, please, don’t let the president come in here, she prayed silently. After discovering her in his broom closet, what would he think if he found her in the Residence? At the very least she would cement her reputation as a stalker.
Even if he accepted her presence here, she would still be exposed to his razor-sharp tongue. Exhausted and worried about her sister, Elizabeth had no desire to fend off a torrent of disdain at three a.m.
Continued silence from the hallway helped slow Elizabeth’s heartbeat, but the scare had quenched her desire to explore. Avoiding the president was her highest priority. Her eyes searched the dimly lit Oval Room, finding a high-backed sofa in the rear, facing the windows. If she stretched out there, Elizabeth would be practically invisible from the hallway but still close enough to Jane’s room.
The Victorian-style sofa had a curved back and striped silk fabric. Sturdily constructed, the piece was probably a reproduction rather than an antique. Still, sitting on it seemed presumptuous without written permission from George Washington. She snickered at her own hesitation and very deliberately flopped onto the cushions.
Despite its formal appearance, the sofa was quite comfortable, enveloping her in softness. Although she had no intention of sleeping, she positioned a cushion behind her back and another behind her head and commenced reading the news on her phone. However, the sofa was cozy and the hour was late, and soon Elizabeth was asleep.