The President's Daughter - Mariah Stewart [41]
“Well then.” She coughed lightly, one hand to her throat. “What other questions do you have there? I would expect you must be close to the end of your list by now.”
“I am, Mrs. Hayward. Just a few more. Of all the memories you have of your husband’s presidency, is there one moment that stands out in your mind, one that you treasure above the others?”
“Standing in the frigid wind, watching Graham place his hand on the Bible, as he was being sworn in for his first term.” Celeste Hayward’s gaze drifted back to the window, beyond which a cold wind blew.
She was the picture of a woman who, in her time, had been very much an Important Person. From her perfect pale blond hair to the tips of her manicured nails, Celeste Hayward bore the air of a woman of authority. Her casual attire—a dark gray wool skirt and a matching twin sweater set, modest pearl-and-gold earrings—set the tone for the interview: At Home with the Former First Lady. There was no question as to who was actually in charge of the interview. Simon may have been asking the questions, but Lady Celeste was definitely directing the flow. Even at seventy-three, she was a quiet though deliberate force.
“It was a wonderful day.” Mrs. Hayward turned blue eyes on Simon and smiled. “Not so very unlike this one. Cold, windy, a hint of snow. But we were all there—the entire family—to share in Graham’s greatest moment. Being sworn in as President of the United States of America.” As she spoke, her chin jutted upward ever so slightly. “Both of his parents were still alive then, you know, and they were there. His brother, Tommy, who lost his battle with lung cancer the following summer. And of course, our children were there as well. We were all so proud.” Her eyes flickered just ever so slightly. “By the time Graham’s second term came around, his father had been dead for almost a year, his brother for three. And both of the children were . . . well, they were no longer children. So very much had changed in those four years. . . .”
There seemed to be something else, something unspoken, but of course there would be. Simon tried not to read too much into it. After all, a woman like Celeste Hayward would have many memories of those days, and while she may be willing to share carefully selected memories, she wasn’t about to bare her soul or share her secrets.
Celeste rose from her chair and walked to one of the wide windows, her hands on her hips, her back turned to Simon, who wished at that moment to see her expression.
“That first inauguration . . . Graham had lived for that moment. It was the high point of his life.” She glanced over her shoulder with a smile for Simon. “And of mine, of course.”
“You spent eight years in the White House as First Lady,” Simon reminded her. “Surely there were many moments of personal triumph.”
“I’m a very old-fashioned woman, Mr. Keller. I am not ashamed to say that I built my life around my husband and my children. My moments of personal triumph, as you say, were always centered around Graham or our son or daughter. Nothing matters more than family.” Mrs. Hayward seemed to bristle slightly. “Nothing ever has.”
“You and Mr. Hayward were married for . . .” Simon ran a searching eye over his notes.
“We were married for twenty-nine years, the year he died.” The gracious smile had returned.
“Happy years?”
“Oh, my yes. Very happy. My husband was a wonderful man, Mr. Keller.”
“Everything I’ve ever read about him tells me exactly that, Mrs. Hayward.”
“Graham was a devoted husband, a wonderful father, and a truly great President. He deserves to be remembered as an ethical, compassionate leader. A true statesman. A man of high moral character.” Her arms were crossed firmly over her chest as she faced him. “To Graham, being President was a sacred trust. The American people had elected him because they understood that he was a man who would always give his best and that they—the citizens of our country—would never feel betrayed by him. That while in office he would always maintain the highest standards, no matter the sacrifice. That was what