“Have I?” It was different hues of cornflower and straw yellow. “I’ve never noticed it until now.”
“Is something wrong with you?” Mickey wore a puzzled look as he eyed me and opened the door onto M Street. “You aren’t high, are you? If you are, why aren’t you sharing?”
“I’m not high.” But I couldn’t stop glancing at the tie as we walked down Wisconsin Avenue together. It was so vivid. And it wasn’t just the tie. It was as though all the green trees on the Georgetown Waterfront on K Street had been freshly painted for me; even the Potomac River, despite resembling a giant mud puddle after the recent storms, was almost swirling with a soft-blue color. I felt like I was tripping on acid. I’m not a person to notice trees or colors. I walk down the street with my iPhone in my hand most of the time, but this was different. It was as though everything was now in 1960s Technicolor.
As I walked through the glass doors of In Frame’s sixth-floor offices, I was overcome by the mossy leaves on the spray of hydrangeas in the waiting room. My assistant, Sharlene, cleared her throat as I was studying each leaf. I saw Mickey shrug and head down the hallway.
“This is weird,” I said aloud to the floral arrangement.
“They’re waiting for you in the conference room to pick the cover image.” Sharlene stood there with the arms of a marvelous green cardigan folded tightly over her rather dull shift dress. Like any good assistant, Sharlene had contempt for me, so sure she could run the company better if only I’d get out of the way and let her at it. “And”—she referred to a notebook in her hand—“Virginia Samson needs you to call her immediately.”
I knew I’d choose the cover photo of South Island in New Zealand that went with the “World’s Best Road Trips” article, so the meeting to choose the cover could wait. But Virginia Samson calling was certainly odd. One of the longest-serving communications directors on the Hill, Virginia was currently working for Asa Heathcote, the charismatic senior senator from Florida and former pro golfer who was reportedly on the short list of candidates for vice president on the Republican ticket. I dialed her number and she picked up immediately.
“I need a favor.” She got right to the point, her slight Ohio accent still lingering after twenty-five years in Washington. When I’d been the communications director for the well-known junior Democratic senator from North Carolina, Fletcher “Franz” Bishop, our bosses had co-sponsored several bills together. She’d taught me the ropes and loved to remind me that I owed her.
Forgetting she wasn’t talking to her staff, she’d barked her request like a drill sergeant. I held the phone away from my ear. “Can you interview the senator this morning? Let him show you how to swing a golf club or barbecue—two of the things he loves to do. A little light fare. Nothing involving alcohol, though. That won’t play well. You have a video crew over there, don’t you? I need video.”
“It’s nine o’clock in the morning, Virginia.” I sipped my coffee, playing along. “You want me to barbecue with him?” As she talked, I took the opportunity to slide into my chair and type “Luke Varner” into Google.
“No one has to know it’s the morning, for Christ’s sake. You have that fabulous balcony at your office. He can make a mean pork rib. Last I remember you couldn’t hit a golf ball for shit, either!”
“I’m not the fucking Today show, Virginia!”
“And you’re not the fucking New York Times, either, Helen. Just warm him up. You’re good at that… Please.”
While most people outside Washington think that Democrats and Republicans are at war with each other, that isn’t the case with the staffers. Careers here are long. Having a friend or two on the other side of the aisle was valuable.
I sighed. Her owing me for a change might be nice. “Unpack this for me a little, will you?” I was enjoying toying with her a bit. It had been a while since Virginia and I had collaborated on anything, but I knew she was hiding something. “Who else are you calling this morning?”
She sighed. “He’s got National Journal after you, followed by the Washington Post and a lunch at the Monocle with Roll Call. Happy?”
This was telling. It was commonplace for an aspiring presidential or vice presidential candidate, or even someone contemplating a run for office, to do a series of media tours in the city. Washington Post, Roll Call, and National Journal were the typical media stops, and communications directors had these interviews tightly scheduled and usually topped off with lunch—often held at Charlie Palmer or BLT—where the aspiring candidate could be seen. These media stops were a good training ground for higher-profile national outlets as the candidate fleshed out key policy positions. Heathcote’s next interview, over at the Watergate offices of National Journal, would likely be where he’d talk about platform issues like his stance on taxes, gun control, and abortion. This call was the greatest proof yet that Heathcote was going to be on the ticket. And Virginia knew that I knew it.
“Okay,” I said. “Golf swing it is. Does he still drink Tab?”
“Diet Dr Pepper only now, bottles no cans,” she said, sounding distracted. “I carry around several bottles if you don’t have any in the fridge. We’ll be there in thirty minutes. And I need good video of him, Helen.”
“Gee, I wonder why?”
She actually hung up on me. I stared at the phone for a minute and then dialed Sharlene. “I need to get my hands on a set of golf clubs within the next half hour. Either that or some pork.”
“I’ve got a set of clubs in my car,” she said. “Why?”
“Heathcote is going to do an interview here, then a stunt of some sort, showing us how to either barbecue or hit a golf ball.”
“We have a putting green up here on the roof, you know.”
“We do?”
She audibly sighed, my question only confirming to her that I had no clue what went on around the office. I returned my attention to the computer screen. My internet search had turned up several interesting hits on a Luke Varner Gallery on Kit Carson Street in Taos, New Mexico. I decided to wait on that while I did some more pressing research on Heathcote.
A striking man and minor celebrity whose second wife was a former Victoria’s Secret model, Asa Heathcote came from humble beginnings in Jacksonville, but now was known as a moderate Republican who would occasionally side with equally moderate Democrats. As the GOP headed into the general election, Heathcote’s ability to cross the aisle had some appeal. The speculation surrounding his selection was at a fever pitch this week, with every broadcast news program and pundit giving prognostications as to the secret identity of the VP candidate. When asked this week, Heathcote had been coy about whether he’d been approached for the job, saying he’d be interested in taking the job if it was offered to him, but of course his duties in the Senate were his top priority.
From my years as a communications director, I knew his response was code for “I want the job badly.” Heathcote would never admit that the job had been offered to him until the most opportune moment for the campaign—which meant as close to the Republican National Convention in Tampa as possible. And since Heathcote was from Florida, it would be a perfect setting. This press junket was to whet our appetite for Heathcote so that when he was announced, national media would be pulling our carefully crafted lifestyle pieces.