Chapter 45 #2
Late afternoon I returned to Staci’s building, and we sat down in a conference room.
I was drinking a vanilla Coke, trying to wring out one last bit of mental energy.
We chatted about all sorts of things, including movies, both of us agreeing we couldn’t watch anything that showed animals being hurt.
It was getting close to six o’clock and I suggested we keep talking over dinner.
She said she was supposed to go to a birthday party, and I asked if there was any way she’d consider postponing.
She reminded me that one doesn’t postpone a birthday, and I wondered if she could skip it, then.
After a moment of hesitation, she made the call.
I suggested she ride with me to the restaurant, and she refused.
She didn’t get into limos with people she didn’t know.
She suggested I return to the Charles Hotel where I was staying in Cambridge, and she’d pick me up in her Saab.
When I was back in my room freshening up, I realized I’d checked in under an assumed name.
Staci and I hadn’t exchanged phone numbers, and if she asked for Patricia Cornwell at the front desk, they would say I wasn’t there.
I had to sit in the lobby and watch for her. So much for privacy.
The next three nights we had dinner, staying up extremely late talking.
After that we were inseparable. I’d just rented a house in Fort Lauderdale, Florida, and never went back.
By the fall, we were living together on a forty-acre estate I’d leased outside Boston in Concord.
A year and a half later we were married.
As a special bonus, I inherited her mother, Hali, and later Hali’s husband, Ted.
Several months after Staci and I met, former president George Bush invited me for a weekend at Kennebunkport.
I asked Staci to come, and she wondered if that was a good idea.
Maybe the Bushes wouldn’t like a same-sex couple staying with them.
I said that was ridiculous. Years earlier I’d brought my former girlfriend Marcia Morey with me twice.
A judge in North Carolina, Marcia was very involved in the Democratic Party.
If the Bushes did fine with her, they would be fine with Staci.
I added that of course Marcia and I weren’t allowed to stay in the same quarters.
She was in one guesthouse, and I was in another, a lot of distance and Secret Service agents between us.
I explained that when I was outed by the media, I was scheduled to appear at Barbara Bush’s star-studded family literacy fundraiser in Houston.
I was supposed to stay in the Bushes’ house.
Assuming I might not be welcome after what was all over the news, I wrote Barbara a note.
I said I’d understand if she’d rather I didn’t come.
She replied that she’d be “heartbroken” and please not to cancel.
Staci and I drove to Kennebunkport for the appointed weekend, and Barbara was warm and fun.
But she was her usual no-nonsense self. Staci and I would stay in the upstairs of the main house.
I was in one room, and she was across the hall.
It was fine for her to share a bathroom with a male guest. But she and I couldn’t share a room.
Since I think everything is a crime about to happen, I was most unhappy with the arrangements.
What if the male guest used the bathroom and got confused, walking into Staci’s dark room instead of his?
I was torquing myself into a state of what ifs and it’s happened before scenarios, deciding I wouldn’t sleep a wink if I didn’t solve the problem.
Late that night I carried a chair into the bathroom, wedging it under the knob of the door leading from the male guest’s bedroom.
No way he could “accidentally” end up in Staci’s room and crawl into her bed.
She thought that was absurd, not to mention rude to the other guest. But in time she’d get used to my worrying about everything that might hurt or kill her.
The next day, George Bush invited us to see his office on the property. While there, he started talking about the parachute jumps he did every birthday. He began describing tandem skydiving and demonstrated by stepping behind me and grabbing me in an inappropriate way.
The timing was unfortunate because Barbara walked in and was most unhappy. Following him down the stairs in a huff, she called him a dirty old man. He wasn’t. But like a lot of wonderful people in their later years, he was getting somewhat disinhibited.
Barbara didn’t need to be disinhibited to do whatever the hell she wanted, and it had nothing to do with her age.
During one of my visits, she asked if I would run errands with her. She intended to hop into her red Miata convertible and ditch her Secret Service detail.
“That’s not safe,” I told her.
“I’ll be fine.”
“You shouldn’t do it. But at least I’ll be with you,” I replied, as if I could prevent a kidnapping or assassination attempt.
“I’m going.” She collected her car key and big pocketbook. “Are you coming?”
We climbed into her Miata, and she put the top down.
When Barbara was driving that convertible, she was as conspicuous as George Washington crossing the Delaware.
Our first stop was the drugstore in Kennebunkport.
As we climbed out a woman and her young daughter stared as if seeing an apparition. They couldn’t speak at first.
“Could we take your picture?” The mother finally got up enough courage to ask.
“No, you may not,” Barbara said as only she could. “I walked into a door last night and have this.” She pointed to a welt on her forehead. “And now I need to buy something for my athlete’s foot, so please excuse me.”
Later that day, she wanted to show me waterfront properties in the area that I might want to consider. She thought it would be fun if I had a summer home near theirs. Maybe we could spend more time together. The house she had in mind was beautiful but not on the market.
When she pulled up in the driveway, the people who lived there were sitting on their front porch. They looked at us in amazement. We were trespassing. Better put, Barbara Bush was.
“HELLO!” She waved at them. “JUST SHOWING MY FRIEND YOUR HOUSE!”
They didn’t know what to say. I didn’t either.
“IT’S BEAUTIFUL! HAVE A GOOD AFTERNOON!” Barbara shouted as we drove off.
She was always warm and generous with me. But she scared me sometimes. During one visit I surprised her with an antique brass mortar and pestle that I placed on a table in her living room.
“It’s not up to you to add to my décor!” she reprimanded me.
On another occasion, she mentioned how aggravated she got when people asked Billy Graham who his favorite presidents were.
“And he never mentions George,” she complained.
Next time I talked to Ruth, I brought this up. She assured me that Billy just forgot. It’s easy to overlook people you’re closest to and most admire, she explained. Billy thought the world of George, and I passed this along to Barbara.
“I’m never telling you anything again!” she thundered.