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Also on the record were her political ambitions as well as her aversion to being around healthy babies, although, as Mat wrote about it, her neurosis no longer seemed like such a weakness.
Off the record was her sexual relationship with him and everything about Dennis Case. He’d asked for her trust, but she hadn’t been able to give it. Now she admitted she should have remembered his rock-solid sense of responsibility and not passed judgment so swiftly.
Although he’d exposed far more of her private world than any other journalist, he’d also transformed her from a national icon into a living, breathing woman. He’d described the way she cared about people and her delight in the ordinary, her deep sense of patriotism and her love of politics—although she didn’t appreciate being labeled a “dewy-eyed optimist.” He made her seem more vulnerable than she thought she was, but she appreciated the way he stressed her deep knowledge of national and international affairs.
Only as he described his own relationship with her did he become vague, which left her to do the clean-up work. Barbara Walters hadn’t made it easy.
BW: Mrs. Case, in Mat Jorik’s series of articles in the Chicago Standard, he describes your feelings about the girls at some length, but he doesn’t say much about your relationship with each other. Would you care to comment?
CC: Mat is a fine journalist, and he wrote about what happened in more detail than I ever could. I don’t think he left much out.
BW: But how would you describe your relationship?
CC: Two hard-headed adults trying to figure out what was best for the girls. Emphasis on the hard-headed.
BW: Mat does mention your quarrels.
CC: [laughs] Which would never have happened if he hadn’t been wrong so often.
That laughter hurt. Pretending it had meant nothing.
BW: And are you still friends?
CC: How could we not be friends after going through an adventure like that? You’ve heard about soldiers during wartime. Even though they never see each other again, there will always be a special bond between them.
Special and oh, so painful.
BW: Have you and Mat spoken since then?
CC: At this point, he’s still the girls’ legal guardian, and we have the adoption to sort out, so of course there’s been communication.
No need to say that it had all been through their attorneys.
BW: Just to set the record straight, there was no romantic relationship between the two of you.
CC: Romantic? We were only together for a week. And don’t forget that we had two very active chaperones. It would have been a difficult trick to pull off.
Very difficult . . . but not impossible.
Tightening the sash on her ice-blue silk robe, she walked across her bedroom carpet to the cherry armoire that held her stereo equipment and flicked on her CD player. She pushed a few buttons, then turned down the volume so only she could hear.
The lush sounds of Whitney Houston signing her anthem for broken hearts washed over her, and Nealy’s first burning, self-indulgent, oh-so-necessary tears began to fall.
Because she would always love him . . .
Squeezing her arms tightly over her chest, she’d listen to Whitney sing it as it was.
Bittersweet memories . . .
She pulled the box from the bottom of her closet and carried it to her bed where she sat cross-legged, the silk robe falling open over her knees. Inside the box were her own bittersweet memories: a matchbook cover from Grannie Peg’s, a smooth river stone she’d picked up by the covered bridge, her little beaded choker, and the pink rose he’d plucked for her the night they’d explored the old farmhouse. It grew more brittle every time she handled it.
She drew it to her face, but the fragrance had faded.
He was the second man she’d loved. The second man who hadn’t loved her back.
The song began to play again.
Her self-indulgence was so melodramatic that she always wanted to laugh at herself. But somehow she never managed it.
