“Aren’t you a helpful young man?” Herb smiled, taking the drink in his hand. “What’s your name?”
“It’s Jerry, sir.” The poor kid was soaked through but smiling politely.
Herb, looking dry and merry beneath his umbrella and blanket, fresh drink in hand, reached forward and gave the young lad another pat, this one on his lower back. “Jerry. You’re just what we needed tonight. Here, sit down right beside me. This blanket is plenty big. No reason you should be shivering here while I’m toasty.”
Herb continued to talk to the young man throughout the game. Jerry answered Herb’s questions respectfully, telling my husband that he was a senior at the school. He was hoping to go to Madison the next year for college. Finally, as we neared the last few minutes of the fourth quarter, I leaned forward, inserting myself into the conversation: “Jerry, you and your friends have saved us tonight. As a thank you, how about we fly you all out to Washington, D.C., for a school trip? You won’t have to worry about the travel or the hotel. I’ll have my staff arrange it all. How would you like that?”
“Aww, Mrs. Post!” Jerry smiled, his flushed, sheepish face turning from Herb toward me. “Really?”
“Yes,” I answered, nodding.
“That’d be wonderful. Thank you!”
“That’s a great idea, Marje.” Herb leaned forward, angling toward the boy as he added, “Be sure to let us know when you’re in town, Jerry. We’ll have you over to the house. My wife here has lots of nice things we can show you.”
Just then the Bearcats scored, taking back the lead in the final minutes of the game, and the crowd erupted in soggy cheers. I looked around. Battle Creek residents had welcomed me back with warmth and openness. The facility was top-notch in every way, a worthy monument to my father’s legacy in the town he had called home. It even looked as if we would win the football game. And yet, as the night went on, as Herb sent that poor boy back for yet another brandy, and urged him to bring his body and the umbrella even closer, the warmth in my stomach turned chilly and hard as a stone.
Chapter 49
Hillwood Estate, Washington, D.C.
Fall 1962
“Now, what’s all this about?” I’d returned from Pittsburgh to Hillwood on a crisp October morning to find dozens of my favorite staffers from Topridge and Mar-a-Lago assembled in my front hall, along with the people who ordinarily worked in the home. With them stood Adelaide, Eleanor, and Dina, each of them with an expectant, animated smile fixed in my direction.
“Oh boy, am I in trouble for something?” I asked, looking around the bright, packed space.
Margaret Voigt, my secretary, stepped forward. “Mrs. Post, we have something for you.”
As a group we made our way outside, and there on the back lawn I saw a gracious new flagpole extending up toward the blue autumn sky. I gasped, marching toward it for a better look. One hundred names were inscribed at the base, names of so many people who had lived and worked in my homes, people who had come to feel like family as they’d spent their days alongside me and my own.
I turned, glancing into the face of Charlie Cronk, a man who had served as one of my security guards for five decades. “What did you do this for?” I asked, my throat tight with the promise of tears.
Charlie smiled, folding his thick hands in front of his waist as he answered: “Well, Mrs. Post, you’ve turned seventy-five, and we figured that was an important birthday. And so we wanted to do something as a thanks for your many kindnesses. Your deeds speak for themselves, and we, your crew, wish to honor you.”
I was overcome. Raising my hands, I declared: “All right, that’s it! You all get the afternoon off!” We spent the rest of the day playing lawn games outdoors, enjoying the grounds in the fall sunshine, sipping on apple cider and champagne. Herb had flown to New York that morning—a trip he’d organized as part of his patronage of the ballet—but the rest of us remained at home, and we had a great big picnic supper, the staffers’ kids running around with Scampi and laughing along with the adults.
As the sun set before us over the Mall and the monuments, and I sat nibbling happily on a dinner of cold chicken and apple crumb cake, I turned to my daughter beside me on the checkered picnic blanket. “What a special day.” I took Dina’s hand in my own. “Only thing missing is Herb, and then it would have been perfect.”
I didn’t miss the expression that flickered across my daughter’s lovely features. But what did it mean, that look? And then suddenly Dina remembered herself, assuming an expression of placid agreement as she nodded. “What?” I asked, shifting on the blanket as I stared at her beside me.