Chapter 40 Who Were, Are, and Will Be #2
Walt set off on his mission. Margaret picked up a copy of the program that was sitting on the plate. Her award was thirteenth
of twenty. It was going to be a long night.
“There she is! The woman of the hour! My famous friend!”
“Nurse Buschetti!”
Margaret leapt to her feet, embracing Viv with genuine joy, as if it had been years instead of a week since they’d last seen
each other.
Viv and Tony had stayed in Concordia longer than any of the Bettys. All but one of their brood had graduated from Concordia
High, where Viv began working as a school nurse. After Jenny flew the nest, Viv, Tony, and thirteen-year-old Betty set off
on a new adventure.
For ten years the Buschettis lived on a hospital ship that sailed the globe, providing medical care to people in impoverished
nations. Viv was on the medical team, and Tony worked in operations. When Tony passed away, Viv returned to Virginia. She
and Margaret saw each other often and talked on the telephone most days.
After a long, hard hug, Margaret released her grip on her old friend.
“Thanks for coming. How are you? How’s the new knee?”
“Fantastic. Look! No cane!” Viv exclaimed, throwing out her hands. “And after only two months. Impressive, right? My doctor
says I’m doing great. Isn’t that right, Doc?”
Viv beamed at her petite companion. Margaret smiled too and gave her a hug.
“Good to see you, Betty. Thanks for coming.”
All seven of the Buschetti children had done well for themselves. Jenny was a pilot for Delta. Betty was an obstetrician at
Sibley Memorial Hospital. Viv lived with Betty and her husband and their three children. Whenever their paths crossed, Margaret
couldn’t help but recall that tiny baby in the incubator. What an impressive woman she’d grown up to be.
“Hopefully I’ll be able to stay for the whole thing,” Betty said. “None of my patients are due this week, but I’m still on
call, and babies tend to show up when they feel like it.”
“Don’t I know it,” Viv said with an exaggerated roll of her eyes. “Hey, Maggie, if Betty’s pager goes off and she has to leave, can Walt help me hail a taxi?”
“Why don’t you just stay over at our place? The guest room is already made up, and we were going to invite everybody over
for a drink after anyway.”
“Are you sure? That would be great!” Viv exclaimed. “I’d love the chance to catch up. It’s been so long. Say, where is Bitsy?
I thought she’d be here by now. And Walt?”
“He went to the bar,” Margaret said, looking across the rapidly filling ballroom and smiling when she spotted a tall, willowy
figure near the entrance. “Bitsy and Kyle just came in.”
Margaret and Viv turned toward the back of the room, yoo-hooing and waving their arms over their heads. Bitsy’s face lit up
when she saw them. She grabbed the hand of the very tall, very handsome man next to her and started wending her way through
the crowd. Moments later, the three Bettys were hugging and squealing and telling one another they looked fantastic and hadn’t
aged a bit. In Bitsy’s case, it was almost true.
There were creases at the corners of her eyes and touches of gray at her temples, but Bitsy was lean, lithe, and as lovely
as ever. She wasn’t the same shy, uncertain girl that Viv and Margaret had first met, and her childhood dreams had all come
true. Besides a long and successful career as an equine vet, Bitsy had two grown daughters with Kyle and a beautiful home
on a California vineyard—Kyle was a vintner—with a stable for Bitsy’s horses. Three were already in residence, and a fourth,
another rescue, would be arriving shortly.
A photographer approached, asking if she could take a picture of Margaret’s table.
“Not yet. My husband seems to have gone missing, and we’re waiting on one more.”
Margaret felt a tap on her shoulder and turned around.
“If you’re talking about me, I’m here.”
“Denise!” Margaret’s eyes started to fill, but the tears were happy ones. “Oh, Denise. I am so, so glad to see you, and honored that you’ve come so far to be here.”
“Well, it wasn’t just because of you,” Denise said in the blunt manner and tone Margaret remembered well, now tinged with
a British accent. “I had to fly over for the annual family meeting with the trustee anyway, and I thought I’d spend time with
Laura, see how things are going at the gallery. Your invitation arrived at the right time, you see? And I thought—” Denise
ducked her head. “Well, I thought Mom would have wanted me to come.”
“Yes, I see,” Margaret replied. “And I think you’re right.”
Ten years had passed since Charlotte’s death from congestive heart failure, and Margaret still missed her. But she had lived
fully and left a remarkable legacy, incubating the careers of scores of women artists, several of whom had risen to prominence.
Laura ran the gallery now. Charlotte would have been proud of her, and of Denise, who never left Oxford. Denise was still
an odd duck, but those were generally the ducks worth knowing.
“Whatever the reason, I’m glad you came. Here,” Margaret said, pulling out a chair. “Sit next to me. I’d love to hear about
your new book. Number seven, isn’t it?”
“Yes. I’ll begin the eighth soon,” Denise said, frowning while taking her seat. “What does a girl have to do to get a drink
around here?”
Walt appeared as if on cue, balancing a tray of seven cocktail glasses brimming with bright green liquid. “Slipping twenty
bucks to the bartender helps.”
When he set the first glass down on the table, Margaret, Viv, and Bitsy squealed simultaneously. Margaret clapped her hands,
jumped to her feet, and kissed her husband.
“I don’t believe it! You are the dearest man!”
“Well,” he said, grinning and distributing the drinks, “you told me to surprise you.”
Denise eyed her drink suspiciously. “What is it?”
“Truth serum!” Viv said, lifting her glass to salute her friends. Bitsy leaned toward Denise. “An old family recipe.”
“No, but really,” Denise said. “What is it?”
“Vodka stingers,” Margaret said. “The ideal drink to cement new friendships. Or to celebrate old ones.”
* * *
The program hadn’t been as lengthy as Margaret feared. Except for one or two windbags, the acceptance speeches had been entertaining
and blessedly brief. Margaret kept her remarks short as well, expressing gratitude for her husband, her children, the association,
and the Bettys—“Those who were, those who are, and those who will be in the years to come”—before walking away with her plaque.
The bulk of the audience likely had no clue what she meant, but her friends knew and she knew. That was what mattered.
Margaret was anxious to get home and open the wine before people arrived at the condo. While waiting for Walt to retrieve
their coats, a young woman with curly black hair and a nervous expression approached, said she was a reporter, and asked for
an interview.
“You want to interview me? Why?”
Margaret’s question was a request for clarification, not an attempt at false modesty. There were several prominent journalists
in the room, people whose status bordered on celebrity. Though proud of her accomplishments, Margaret knew she was not among
them.
The woman flashed a wide, excited smile, as if Margaret actually was a celebrity. “I read your piece about Betty Friedan—my
modern history professor assigned it—and decided to read The Feminine Mystique because of it. So interesting! We’re still a long way from true equality, but what women were up against in the sixties was so unbelievably
unfair. I mean, really! I got some of my girlfriends to read it too, and your article, and—”
“Hang on,” Margaret said, interrupting the woman’s torrent of words. “You’re a reporter? What’s your name? You never said.”
“Oh, right.” Some color drained from the woman’s face. “My name is Emma Quinn. I’m not exactly a reporter, more of an intern.
I thought if I could get an interview with you, or even a quote, I could write it up and maybe my editor would publish it.”
Margaret smiled inside, remembering the story of young, uncredentialed Jackie Bouvier bluffing her way into an audience with
Princess Elizabeth, hoping for a scoop or just a quote. Guts were a journalistic job requirement. Emma Quinn was green, but
she had guts.
“Nothing wrong with being an intern. At what publication?”
“Washington City Paper,” she said, sounding a bit sheepish. “It’s only a weekly. They give it away at newsstands.”
“I’ve read it,” Margaret said. “Good publication. It might not be the Post, but it’s a start. So don’t ever apologize for working there.”
Emma nodded. Margaret looked across the room. Walt was coming, carrying the coats. “Listen, Emma, I would love to talk to
you, but—”
“Really? That’s great!” Emma started to pull out a pocket recorder.
Margaret shook her head. “No, no, you didn’t give me a chance to finish. But,” she said, “I don’t have time now. Do you have
a business card?”
“Interns don’t—”
“No, of course not. How silly of me.”
Margaret opened her clutch and offered one of her own cards. Emma took it with both hands, as if afraid she might drop it.
She lifted her head, giving Margaret a questioning look.
“Call me tomorrow, and we’ll pick a day to have lunch.” Margaret smiled. “I’m sure you and I will have lots to talk about.”