Murder at Ford's Theatre - Margaret Truman [77]
She finally confronted him about the rumor after a Washington Post writer questioned what impact his affair with Nadia Zarinski would have on her future in Washington. He wrote:
Despite the adamant denials by Senator Lerner and the intern, Nadia Zarinski, that they’d engaged in sex in his Senate office after hours, the story just won’t go away. Obviously, the extent to which it has sullied his reputation as it might affect a future presidential run is worthy of serious discussion. But what of his high-powered former wife, Clarise Emerson, who heads the oh-so-staid and proper Ford’s Theatre, and who has recently been nominated to head the controversial agency, the National Endowment for the Arts? Pundits say the ripple effect might swamp her, Hillary Clinton’s successful ‘divorce’ from her husband’s shenanigans aside.
“YOU BASTARD! How could you?” she demanded as they stood in his study. It was night; landscape lighting in the gardens beyond the windows tossed ribbons of white light across the room. The senator was dressed in suit, tie, and white shirt: “I have a dinner appointment in an hour,” he’d told her when she arrived unannounced at his door.
“I don’t give a damn about your dinner dates,” she said. “What were you thinking, playing doctor-nursey with some kid bimbo? You couldn’t find a mature woman to satisfy your goddamn sexual urges?”
“Calm down, Clarise. Hysteria doesn’t become you.”
She tried, tried very hard to get hold of her emotions, and partially succeeded, at least to the extent that her voice lost some of its shrillness, and her hands shook less.
“Don’t you realize what this is doing to me, Bruce? To you? We’re not a couple of slugs whose life isn’t impacted by this kind of cheap scandal. Our futures are at stake.”
“Clarise,” he said calmly from where he sat behind his desk—she paced the room—“Who I choose to sleep with is my business and my business alone. I’ll worry about my future, thank you, and you take care of yours.”
She was speechless. She stopped pacing and grabbed the back of a chair to steady herself. She’d expected a denial from him, a blanket refutation of the rumor. Instead, he seemed to be saying—
“Are you admitting to me that you did sleep with that little bitch?”
“I think it’s time you left, Clarise.”
“No, I will not leave, Bruce. Has it ever occurred to you the embarrassment Jeremiah must feel about his father taking up with a woman his son’s own age?”
“She’s older than Jeremiah, Clarise. It would help if you’d deal with the facts, not flashes of imagination. Besides, I’m sure Jeremiah is worldly enough to not fall apart, as his mother seems to be doing.”
She suffered the sort of frustration she’d always felt when engaged in an argument with her ex. He was unflappable, low key, his law training of many years ago still ingrained, a stolid wall of seeming reason and wisdom. Infuriating!
She fell silent, pulling herself together, searching for the right words to say next, words that would penetrate his armor.
He came around the desk and reached to put his hands on her shoulders. She recoiled and stepped back. “I heard she’s still working for you,” she said softly, tentatively.
“Yes. I won’t allow rumors and the press to destroy a young woman’s life.”
“How princely.”
“Let it go, Clarise. You’ve got more important things on your plate than to fixate on something this trivial.”
“Trivial?”
“Insignificant. Go home. I have to leave. Maybe we can discuss this at another, calmer time. Have you heard from Jeremiah?”
“Yes.”
“He’s well?”
“Yes.”
“One of these days, he’ll come around and realize how silly he’s been acting. He’ll grow up. They take longer these days to grow up, don’t they?”
She smiled and said, “And some never do, Bruce.” A welcome steely resolve had replaced her previous frenzy. “I’ll