Balance of Power

    "Lara," the President informed Kit, "is wondering whether Frisky at least got to keep his job."

    Kit threw up her hands in mock dismay. "Welcome," she said, "to the theater of the absurd."

    Dark, elegant, and dangerously thin, Francesca Thibault hastened to infuse a note of seriousness. "The challenge," she interjected, "is to have a public event which is true to who you are.

    "This is not an old-fashioned society wedding. You and the President are the American meritocracy. So we can style it as a private event— scaled down, with a touch of informality; a wedding party comprised of friends and family; and a larger reception to include the guests we just can't do without."

    "Can we 'do without' guests who actively hate us?" Lara asked.

    "Not really," Clayton answered, deadpan, "but we can probably set a quota."

    "Jokes aside," Connie Coulter said to Lara, "the composition of the guest list is important. It can't be so big that an invitation is meaningless or so political that it looks crass."

    "But what is 'it'?" Lara asked. "A wedding, or our reception?"

    "A White House wedding," Francesca Thibault answered firmly, "whatever the guest list." Turning to the President, she said, "The last time a President married at the White House was almost ninety years ago, and that was Woodrow Wilson . . ."

    "A White House reception," Clayton corrected. "The wedding should be in a Catholic church."

    Lara glanced at Kerry. "Clayton," Kerry told her baldly, "wants to clean up my problems with the Church. Until the annulment, I was a divorced, pro-choice opponent of prayer in public school, whose selection for Chief Justice is absolute anathema to the Catholic hierarchy. And, in particular, to Cardinal McKiernan, the archbishop of this diocese."

    "It's not just the hierarchy," Clayton said to Lara. "Last November, Kerry only carried fifty-two percent of the Catholic vote. The bloodbath over making Caroline Masters Chief Justice—after she ruled in favor of late term abortion—has made those numbers even worse."

    The lightness of spirit Lara felt had vanished. As the others did not, Clayton knew of her abortion: to the extent he could, he was trying to inoculate Kerry against scandal by cloaking their marriage in the blessings of the Church.

    "What about St. Mathew's?" Francesca Thibault asked. "Where the President goes to Mass. It's a magnificent structure . . ."

    "Which," Kit interjected, "would televise beautifully."

    Lara glanced at the others, then at Kerry last, and saw his look of reflection. Clayton, too, looked at Kerry before speaking to Lara. "Cardinal McKiernan," he told her, "would see it as a tribute. So would Catholics nationwide."

    "So would everyone," Kit told the President. "Suppose we have pool coverage only, and a stationary camera . . ."

    "What's to keep them," Kerry interjected, "from treating it like the New Hampshire primary? While Lara and I are repeating vows, CNN is saying, 'Our instant tracking polls are showing that the President's numbers among Catholics are up seventeen percent.' Just how exploitative do we want to look?"

    "We can set the ground rules," Kit answered. "We can even select the commentator. We've got the leverage here."

    "What about still photographs?" Lara suggested. "Won't that be enough?"

    "It's not the same," Kit insisted. "This isn't about show business, or even politics. It's a unique moment in American history, and Americans will want to share it. Please consider giving them that."

    There was silence, and then Francesca Thibault spoke. "What about a small wedding at St. Mathew's?" she asked. "Televised with dignity. Then a larger but still manageable reception at the White House, with the White House photographer and perhaps our own video crew. Elegant tents on the South Lawn, dancing in the East Room."

    "With a mariachi band?" Lara asked.

    Only Clayton did not smile. "Actually," he said, "that's not such a terrible idea."

    Connie Coulter gave Lara a quick glance. "We can only avoid a charge of elitism," she argued, "by including the American people. But we can't let in random tourists—in the age of Mahmoud Al Anwar, that would be a Secret Service nightmare. One could argue that televising the wedding is more intimate and meaningful than televised toasts and dancing."

    Listening, Lara felt the wedding slipping away from her in the cross current of advice. "Who would officiate?" Kit was asking. "Cardinal McKiernan?"

    "My old parish priest," Kerry said promptly. "Father Joe Donegan."

    Clayton raised his eyebrows. "Isn't that the cardinal's call?"

    "I'm the President, Clayton. Vince McKiernan can pass out wafers."

    Clayton smiled at this. "A simple nuptial mass," Francesca Thibault offered, "with tasteful liturgical music."

    Kit glanced at Lara. "Who might be in the wedding party?"

    "Beautiful people," Francesca suggested dryly, "without a hint of scandal."

    "My college roommates," Lara said. "Anna Chen from NBC is one of my closest friends. My sisters, of course."