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Darren chuckles. “She wasn’t a victim, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“No, I just want to know more about her.” Darren seemed so fond of her, and selfishly, I wanted to know what her life was like with Kerry – things you couldn’t find out on the internet.
“My mother was a proud debutante,” he says, smiling as if he’s conjuring a memory. “She comes from a long line of politicians, and she knows—knew—what it meant,” he corrects himself, “to have lived a life of service.”
“She picked domestic violence as her cause because of an incident that happened at my father’s campaign headquarters.” His ominous tone doesn’t leave room for me to inquire more on the subject.
“How did she meet your father?” I dare to ask.
Darren stretches his long legs out in front of him, crossing one ankle over the other casually.
“My father grew up in rural Virginia. He came from nothing, but managed to get some scholarships to attend college. He met my mother at Georgetown, and,” he pauses, smiling, “well, the rest is history.”
“What kind of story is that, coming from a man who can quote Emerson on a whim?” I chide him.
Darren laughs softly. “I’m sorry my storytelling abilities aren’t up to your standards,”
“I feel sorry for the guests at the dinner,” I tease.
His expression grows melancholy. “She told me that she never saw anyone study so hard. My dad was the last one to leave the library every night. She thought he was so driven because he was trying to outrun his meager beginnings. All the boys in her circle never had to work hard for anything,” he says with a little reluctance. “She admired him for that.”
I listen intently, selfishly lapping up every private detail of Kerry’s story.
He seems to snap out of the memory and turns to me. “When my dad was campaigning, she organized the volunteers and met an eager young woman who wanted to work the phones. Her name was Abigail Pershing.”
“That’s the name of the foundation,” I say softly.
“She didn’t like talking about it, and I didn’t ask,” Darren admits.
The car pulls up to the curb, stunting the conversation. “You didn’t say it was at The Smithsonian,” I state, seeing the partial lettering on the outside of the building. I know that I sound intimidated, but I can’t help it.
“The National Portrait Museum,” he corrects, and before I can say anything else, Bailey opens the door, holding out his hand for me.
Behind us is a line of cars with their doors open, the patrons exiting towards the wide set of stone stairs leading up to the museum’s columned entrance. The Greek revival architecture with its white and stately elegance looks as though it takes up the entire city block.
A sea of people dressed in decadent colors, windswept skirts, and flapping overcoats, climb the stairs towards the entrance. Before we get to the stairs, Darren motions for me to put on my mask as he secures his own, made of black velvet and lined with silver sequins.
I notice a small crowd of press gathering near the entrance.
“The advantage of it being a masquerade ball,” Darren winks, although I’d know his hazel eyes anywhere.
The event is held in the Kogod Courtyard, a large open space that looks as if you’re standing on a city street. Down the middle atop black granite flooring are large, round tables draped with beautiful linens, a display of flowers, and lit candles in the center of each. A combination of up lighting and flickering candles give the space a magical feel, but nothing compares to the canopy of the wavy glass and steel structure that appears to float over the courtyard, keeping out the elements.
I can see right through the ceiling to the cloudless, inky sky that holds billions and billions of stars, but only a handful are visible tonight.
All of the women are wearing beautiful gowns, dripping in diamonds, and even though we’re all wearing masks, it’s hard not to notice certain members of Washington’s elite, some of whom have been clients.
Jonathan could be here.
I’ve never felt more out of place in my Jessica Rabbit style dress, and I could strangle Darren right now for picking it out.
I touch my mask, making sure it’s still in place, using it to hide my identity in more ways than one.
Darren, sensing my trepidation, grabs my attention, pointing to an older, distinguished-looking man with a much younger woman.
“Donald Archer. He owns a media strategy company. Just celebrated his sixty-eighth birthday last month,” Darren says, raising an eyebrow, and I can see the mischief in his eyes as he continues. “And his wife, Hillary Crist-Archer, who gave up a thriving career as a hostess at Marcel’s near Capitol Hill to marry the love of her life,” Darren says, sarcastically.
“Darren Walker, you're an incorrigible gossip,” I joke with him, shaking my head.
