James Stickley watched her as she drank it down. “Okay. It’s time to start working the room.”
“Working the room?”
“A lot of business gets done at these parties. That’s why embassies give them.”
Mary spent the next hour being introduced to ambassadors, senators, governors, and some of Washington’s most powerful political figures. Romania had become a hot ticket, and nearly everyone of importance had managed to get an invitation to the embassy dinner. Mike Slade approached James Stickley and Mary, holding the blonde in tow.
“Good evening,” Mike said genially. “I’d like you to meet Debbie Dennison. This is James Stickley and Mary Ashley.”
It was a deliberate slap. Mary said coolly, “It’s Ambassador Ashley.”
Mike clapped his hand to his forehead. “Sorry. Ambassador Ashley. Miss Dennison’s father happens to be an ambassador too. He’s a career diplomat, of course. He’s served in half a dozen countries for the last twenty-five years.”
Debbie Dennison said, “It’s a wonderful way to grow up.”
Mike said, “Debbie’s been around a lot.”
“Yes,” Mary said evenly. “I’m sure she has.”
Mary prayed she would not be seated next to Mike at dinner, and her prayers were granted. He was at another table, next to the half-naked blonde. There were a dozen people at Mary’s table. Some of them were familiar faces she had seen on magazine covers and on television. James Stickley was seated across from Mary. The man to Mary’s left spoke a mysterious language that she was unable to identify. To her right was a tall, thin, middle-aged blond man, with an attractive, sensitive face.
“I am delighted to be your dinner companion,” he said to Mary. “I am an ardent fan of yours.” He spoke with a slight Scandinavian accent.
“Thank you.” A fan of my what? Mary wondered. I haven’t done anything.
“I am Olaf Peterson. I am the cultural attaché from Sweden.”
“I’m very happy to meet you, Mr. Peterson.”
“Have you been to Sweden?”
“No. To tell you the truth, I really haven’t been anywhere.”
Olaf Peterson smiled. “Then so many places have a treat in store for them.”
“Perhaps one day the children and I will visit your country.”
“Ah, you have children? How old are they?”
“Tim is ten and Beth is twelve. I’ll show you.” Mary opened her purse and took out snapshots of the children. Across the table, James Stickley was shaking his head disapprovingly.
Olaf Peterson examined the snapshots. “They are beautiful children!” he exclaimed. “They take after their mother.”
“They have their father’s eyes.”
They used to have mock arguments about which one of them the children resembled.
Beth is going to be a beauty, like you, Edward would say. I don’t know who Tim looks like. Are you sure he’s mine?
And their play-argument would end in lovemaking.
Olaf Peterson was saying something to her.
“I beg your pardon?”
“I said I read about your husband being killed in a motor accident. I am sorry. It must be very difficult for a woman to be alone without a man.” His voice was filled with sympathy.
Mary picked up the glass of wine in front of her and took a sip. It was cold and refreshing. She drained the glass. It was immediately refilled by a white-gloved waiter hovering behind the guests.
“When do you take up your post in Romania?” Peterson asked.
“I was told we’ll be leaving within the next few weeks.” Mary picked up her wineglass. “To Bucharest.” She drank. The wine was really quite delicious, and everyone knew that wine had a low alcohol content.
When the waiter offered to fill her glass again, she nodded happily. She looked around the room at all the beautifully dressed guests speaking in a dozen different tongues and thought: They don’t have banquets like this in good old Junction City. No, sir. Kansas is as dry as a bone. Washington is as wet as a—what was Washington as wet as? She frowned, trying to think.
“Are you all right?” Olaf Peterson asked.
She patted him on the arm. “Great. I’m just great. I’d like another glass of wine, Olaf.”
“Certainly.”
He motioned to the waiter, and Mary’s wineglass was refilled.