Chapter 37 Timing Is Everything
Timing Is Everything
Viv and the baby came home from the hospital in early October, and little Betty was thriving. The architectural plans for
Charlotte’s gallery were nearing completion, with renovations slated to begin in November. Bitsy and King seemed well on their
way to an amicable divorce, and Bitsy was doing well in her classes at American University.
Then there was Margaret.
A month after reading those eighteen pieces of fan mail, letters she felt sure were the first ripples in a movement that would
certainly swell to a tide of change for the women who read her essay and perhaps for Margaret herself, nothing had changed.
Margaret was embarrassed. Embarrassed, disappointed, and despondent.
Had she left her friends out of it, kept her whole mistaken adventure under wraps, it wouldn’t have been so bad. Nobody would
have known what a failure she turned out to be. But because she had allowed them to invest in her foolish, fruitless quest,
her failure was not only public but expensive. The return on her and her friends’ money was nothing more than a few fan letters
and a quickly forgotten flash of neighborhood celebrity.
To make her humiliation complete, earlier that week Margaret had opened the most recent issue of A Woman’s Place and discovered that her column had been taken over by a woman named Margie Reynolds.
The fact that Margie shared her facial characteristics as well as her initials told Margaret that the magazine publishers thought readers wouldn’t know the difference. They were probably right.
Thus, her embarrassment. And her despondency.
She didn’t feel like seeing anybody or going anywhere. But Bitsy had shown up on her doorstep that morning, insisting that
it was a beautiful day for a ride. She pulled a pair of dungarees and a short-sleeved cotton blouse from Margaret’s bureau
and all but stood guard while she changed.
Now here Margaret was, mounted on Lydia Bee—a placid, slightly rotund horse—clip-clopping down the bridle path beside Bitsy,
who was riding the younger, more spirited Crystal.
The air was warm but not sultry, freshened by a gentle breeze that stirred the red, orange, and golden leaves of the trees
lining the path. They rode side by side in silence for several minutes, which was a relief. Margaret didn’t need anyone telling
her what she’d already said to herself a hundred times, which was that she had endless reasons to be grateful. Though true,
it didn’t make her feel better.
But it was a beautiful day for a ride.
Rounding a bend in the trail, they met another rider coming in the opposite direction. Margaret recognized the horse. Bitsy
pulled back on Crystal’s reins as the woman approached, stopping in the middle of the path.
“Mrs. Graham! It’s been so long! Oh, I’m so glad to see you.”
The woman returned Bitsy’s smile.
“Bitsy! I was hoping to run into you today. I know I’ve been neglecting poor Delilah, but between the funeral and the family
and the business . . .” Mrs. Graham’s smile faded. “Well, I’m sure you understand. There hasn’t been time for riding.”
“Of course not. But Delilah is fine. I check on her every day.”
“That’s why I was hoping to see you. We’ve had a lovely ride today.
Considering her age and all she’s been through recently, she seems to be in fine shape.
I suppose we’re a bit alike in that respect.
” Mrs. Graham smiled again. “Anyway, I wanted to thank you for that, and for your note. It was kind of you to write, and it means so much to know you were praying for me.”
“I still am,” Bitsy said. “Every day.”
“Well, don’t stop. Stepping into Phil’s shoes at the paper hasn’t been easy. I’ll take every prayer I can get.”
Delilah snuffled and gave her head a small toss that said she was anxious to be on her way. Mrs. Graham reached down and patted
her neck, as if urging her to be patient.
“And how are you, Bitsy? Alice told me you’ve gone back to school. Are you enjoying your classes?”
“So far. I need to make straight As to be accepted to vet school next year, but I’m on track at the moment. Fingers crossed.”
“Good for you!” Mrs. Graham turned toward Margaret. “I’m sorry, I’m not sure we’ve met? I’m Katharine Graham.”
As Margaret was introducing herself, Lydia Bee shifted her weight a bit and stamped a foot. Margaret clutched at the saddle
horn. “I’d shake your hand, Mrs. Graham, but I haven’t been on horseback since I was about ten years old. If I let go, I’ll
probably fall off.”
“Margaret’s a writer,” Bitsy informed Mrs. Graham. “A magazine columnist.”
“Is that so?” Mrs. Graham said, with what Margaret was certain could only be polite interest.
“Yes,” Bitsy said quickly. “Margaret used to write a humor column, but she recently published an essay about how we formed
a book club to read The Feminine Mystique, and how it changed our lives and turned us into close friends.”
Halfway through Bitsy’s speech, a spark of recognition flickered across Mrs. Graham’s face. She turned her gaze from Bitsy
to Margaret and back again.
“Wait a moment . . . I read that piece. You’re the Bettys?”
Margaret’s jaw went slack. Katharine Graham, publisher of the Washington Post, had read her essay. She couldn’t believe it. In her shock, Margaret loosened her grip on the saddle horn. But when Lydia Bee stamped her foot once more, she grabbed it again.
“Not just us,” Bitsy explained. “There are two more Bettys in the book club, Viv and Charlotte. And they all pitched in to
help when Delilah had laminitis, brought me food and ice and kept me company. I never could have managed without them.”
“Then I owe you a debt of gratitude for helping to save my horse,” Katharine said to Margaret. “And my congratulations on
producing such a fine piece of writing.” She narrowed her eyes a little. “If I’m remembering correctly, you actually had to
pay to get it published. Isn’t that right? You bought advertising space in the magazine?”
“Yes,” Margaret replied. “After my editor refused to publish it, everybody pitched in to buy the ad—the Bettys, my husband
and I, and the couple who own our local bookstore.”
“Well, I think that is admirable,” Mrs. Graham said in a hearty voice that made Margaret believe her. “If you’re not too busy,
I’d love to get together for lunch. I’m sure we’d have lots to talk about. Can you give me your business card?”
“Oh, gosh,” Margaret said, blushing. “I’m afraid I don’t have one. I’m not writing for the magazine anymore. They fired me
after I turned in that piece.”
“That’s right, how silly of me.” Mrs. Graham reached into her pocket, pulled out a small gold pen and a card of her own, and
handed both to Margaret. “Jot down your number, and I’ll give you a call.”
Margaret still couldn’t believe this was happening. Writing legibly on a small business card while mounted on an increasingly
restless horse was a challenge, but she complied. Mrs. Graham slipped the pen and card back into her pocket. Delilah tossed
her head and sputtered.
“I’d better get going,” Mrs. Graham said, sitting straighter in the saddle and loosening her grip on the reins. “But I’m so
glad I ran into the two of you today. Bitsy, I’ll give Alice a full report on your progress.
“And Margaret? You’ll be hearing from me very soon.”