The President's Daughter - Mariah Stewart [16]
“And you?”
“I golf right along with him. I play tennis twice a week with friends. I joined a gym. Started lifting weights.” She raised her right arm and pretended to flex a muscle. “Can’t see much improvement, but then again, I’ve only been lifting for three weeks.”
“You don’t strike me as the weight-lifter type.”
“Now, now, that is definitely not a PC remark, Mr. Keller.” Sarah took a long sip of tea. “Though I admit that I only took it up because my doctor told me it was a good way to avoid osteoporosis and I thought, why not? I have no aspirations for bodybuilding, but I’m doing quite well. Gray’s wife, Jen, is lifting now, too— she’s becoming the real iron woman in the family. And I’ve even gotten Mother to lift a weight now and then, and though she won’t admit it, she’s building up a muscle or two herself. Not a ladylike endeavor in her circle, but there it is.”
“What are your best memories of the White House?” Simon asked.
“Oh, the incredible food,” Sarah laughed. “They had wonderful dinner parties and everyone would be beautifully dressed, long gowns and fantastic jewelry. Elegant people from all over the world. Ambassadors and princes. Movie stars and heads of state. It was like slipping into another world, those parties. And the White House at night, well, it was like a movie scene, only better, because it was real.” She stood up and walked to a wicker armoire, opened the center doors, and scanned a stack of books. She withdrew one and tucked it under her arm.
“Come sit on the sofa with me and I’ll show you.” She took a seat and patted the cushion next to her. She opened the book and held it on her lap.
“See here,” she said as Simon sat where she’d indicated. “Here’s one of my old photo albums. Here’s Barbra Streisand. And Paul Newman. An astronaut, I can’t recall which one. Muhammad Ali . . .”
Sarah’s index finger touched one photo after another.
“You’re not in any of these,” Simon noted.
“That’s because I took them all.”
“That was quite an opportunity for a teenager.”
“You’re telling me.”
“It must have been fun,” Simon murmured as she turned page after page of pictures of the rich and famous and important.
“Playing amateur photographer?”
“Being the daughter of the President of the United States.”
“Most fun I ever had,” Sarah said softly as she returned the album to its place on the shelf and lifted another. “I loved being First Daughter every bit as much as my mother loved being First Lady.”
“Even though you preferred to live at boarding school?”
“One had nothing to do with the other.” Her words were crisp, not quite a snap, but it was, Simon realized, the first bit of real emotion she’d shown since he had arrived.
“Do you have pictures from your trips abroad?” he asked, wondering what had caused the momentary pique.
Sarah looked over her shoulder and paused, then turned back to the shelves, tapping her fingers on the nearest shelf as if hunting for something in particular. Finally, she pulled out an album that looked almost identical to the first.
“I must have left that album at my mother’s.” She smiled warmly, the moment of tension having passed. “But this one has mostly pictures of my dad.”
She eased back onto the sofa.
“See this one?” She turned the book toward Simon. “This is one of my most favorite photographs ever.”
“Who is the woman with your father?” Simon peered at the white-haired woman who stood smiling in the embrace of Graham Hayward in what was obviously the Oval Office.
“That’s Mrs. Carlyle, Dad’s secretary. He loved this picture so much that he had it enlarged and framed and gave it to her when he left office. She was such a great lady.” Sarah turned the pages, pausing to point out this dignitary or that celebrity she’d caught on camera so long ago.
“Now, is that Miles Kendall?” Simon turned the album into the light to get a better look.
“Yes. He was my dad’s Chief of Staff.” Sarah nodded. “And his best friend.”
“I understand he’s been ill.”
“Yes. It’s such a shame, really. He and Dad were best friends forever. And