My Gal Sunday Read Free Page A

“The Flying Secretary.”
But I not only kept busy; Henry and I also managed to do some good. We left Washington and the country in better shape than it’s been in for years.
    Reaching the kitchen, he carefully measured out enough coffee for four cups and then did the same with the water.
See, I
can
take care of myself,
he thought.
Too bad I didn’t do more of it after Constance died. But then Arabella entered the scene. So ready with comfort, so alluring. And now, so dead.
    He thought back to the evening, two days ago. What
had
they said to each other in the library? He vaguely remembered becoming angry. But could he actually have been angry enough to carry out such a terrible act of violence? And how could he possibly have left her bleeding on the library floor while he stumbled up to bed? He shook his head. It just didn’t make sense.
    The phone rang, but Shipman only stared at it. When the ringing stopped, he took the receiver off the hook and laid it on the counter.
    When the coffee was ready, he poured a cup and with slightly trembling fingers carried it into the living room. Normally he would have settled in his big leather chair in the library, but not today. Now he wondered if he would ever be able to enter that room again.
    Just as he was getting settled, he heard shouting from outside. He knew the media were still encamped on his street, but he couldn’t imagine the cause of such a racket. Yet before he even pulled back the drapes far enough to allow him to peer outside, he had guessed what had caused the furor.
    The former president of the United States had arrived on the scene, to offer friendship and comfort.
    The Secret Service personnel tried valiantly to clear a path for the Britlands as they forged their way through the crowd of reporters and cameramen. With his arm protectively around his wife, Henry paused, indicating his willingness to offer at least a cursory statement: “As always in this great country, a man is innocent until proven guilty. Thomas Shipman was a truly great secretary of state and remains a close friend. Sunday and I are here today in friendship.”
    Having made his statement, the former president turned and headed toward the porch, ignoring the barrage of questions the reporters hurled at him. Just as they reached the top step leading to the porch, Tom Shipman unlocked and opened the front door, and his visitors glided inside without further incident.
    It was only when the door had closed behind the Britlands, and he felt himself enclosed in a firm and reassuring bear hug, that Thomas Shipman began to sob.
    Sensing that the two men needed some time to talk privately, Sunday headed to the kitchen, insisting against Shipman’s protest that she prepare lunch for the three of them. The former secretary kept saying that he could call in his housekeeper, but Sunday insisted that he leave everything to her. “You’ll feel a lot better when you have something in your stomach, Tom,” she said. “You guys say your hellos and then come join me. I’m sure you must have everything I need to make an omelet. It’ll be ready in just a few minutes.”
    Shipman, in fact, quickly regained his composure. Somehow just Henry Britland’s presence in his home gave him the sense, at least for the moment, that he could handle whatever it was that he would have to face. They went to the kitchen, finding Sunday already at work on the omelet. Her brisk, sure movements at the chopping board brought back for Shipman a recent memory of Palm Beach, and of watching someone else prepare a salad, while he dreamed of a future that now could never be.
    Glancing out the window, he realized suddenly that the shade was raised, and that if somebody managed to sneak around to the back of the house, there would be a perfect opportunity to snap a candid photo of the three of them. Swiftly, he moved across the room and lowered the shade.
    He turned back toward Henry and Sunday and smiled sadly at the two of them.