Edward’s death was the beginning of an unbearable hell for Mary Ashley. Everything within her screamed to deny what had happened to him, but the reality kept hitting her in fresh waves of shock.
Florence and Douglas and other friends often stayed with her, trying to make things easier, but Mary wished they would go away and leave her alone. When it was time to dispose of Edward’s personal things, Florence offered to help her, but Mary said, “No. Edward would have wanted me to do it.”
There were so many small, intimate things. Moving like an automaton, she ran her fingers over suits he would never again wear. The blue tie he had worn on their last night together. His gloves and scarf that kept him warm. He would not need them in his cold grave.
She found love notes they had written to each other, bringing back memories of the lean days when Edward started his own practice, a Thanksgiving dinner without a turkey, summer picnics and winter sleigh rides, her first pregnancy and both of them reading and playing classical music to Beth while she was in the womb, the love letter Edward wrote when Tim was born, and a hundred other wonderful things that brought tears to her eyes. His death was like some cruel magician’s trick.
Edward was everywhere. He was in the songs Mary heard on the radio, in the hills they had driven through together. He was in bed at her side when she awoke at sunrise.
She began to talk to him: I’m worried about the children, Edward. They don’t want to go to school. Beth says they’re afraid that when they get home, I won’t be here. The dean wanted to know whether I planned to go back to teaching at the university. I told im not now. The children need me too much. Do you think Is
-,Would go back one day?
Edward would never leave her and the children. He was there, somewhere.
THERE was a popular bar on the Boulevard Bineau that Marin’ Groza’s guards frequented when they were not on duty at the villa in Neuilly. Angel selected a table where conversations could be overheard. The guards, away from the rigid routine of the villa, liked to drink, and when they drank, they talked. Angel listened, seeking the villa’s vulnerable point. There was always a vulnerable point. One simply had to be clever enough to find it.
It was three days before Angel overheard a conversation that gave the clue to the solution of the problem. A guard was saying, “Groza sure whips himself viciously. You should hear the screaming that goes on every Friday night. last week I got a look at the whips he keeps in his closet…
It was all Angel needed.
Early the following morning Angel changed rental cars and drove a Fiat into Paris. The shop was on the Place Pigalle, in a section populated by prostitutes. Angel went inside, walking slowly along the aisles, carefully studying the merchandise. At length Angel selected a whip, paid cash for it, and left.
The next afternoon Angel brought the whip back to the shop. The manager looked up and growled, “No refunds.”
“I don’t want a refund,” Angel explained. “I feel awkward carrying this around. I would appreciate it if you would mail it for me. I’ll pay extra, of course.”
That evening Angel was on a plane to Buenos Aires.
THE whip, carefully wrapped, arrived at the villa in Neuilly the following day. It was intercepted by the guard at the gatehouse. He opened the package and examined the whip with great care, thinking, You would think the old man had enough of these already. He passed it through, and another guard took it to Marin Groza’s bedroom closet, where he placed it with the other whips.
Mary was preparing dinner when the telephone rang, and she picked it up, an operator said, “This is the White House. The President is calling Mrs. Edward Ashley. Please hold.”
Moments later the familiar voice was on the line. “Mrs. Ashley, this is Paul Ellison. I just want you to know how terribly sorry we are about your husband. I understand he’was a fine man.”
“Thank you, Mr. President. It was kind of you to send flowers.”
“I don’t want to intrude on your privacy, Mrs. Ashley, and I know It’s been a very short time, but now that your domestic situation has changed, I’m asking you to reconsider my offer of an ambassadorship.”
“Thank you, but I couldn’t possibly-“
“Hear me out, please. I’m having someone fly out there to talk to you. His name is Stanton Rogers. I would appreciate it if you would at least meet with him.”
She did not know what to say. How could she explain that her life had been shattered, that all that mattered now were Beth and Tim? “I’ll meet with him, Mr. President,” she said. “But I won’t change my mind.”
Stanton Rogers telephoned Mary right after the Presiden’s call. “I promise to make my visit as brief as possible, Mrs. Ashley. I plan to fly in Monday afternoon to see you, if That’s all right.”
He’s such an important man and he’s being so polite, Mary thought. “That will be fine.” In a reflex action she asked, “Would you care to have dinner with us?”
He hesitated, thinking what a boring evening it would be. “Thank you,” he said.
Stanton Rogers was a formidable man, Mary decided. She had seen him on Meet the Press and in news photographs, but she thought, He looks bikeer in person. He was polite, but there was, something distant about him.
“Permit me to convey again the Presiden’s sincere regrets about your terrible tragedy, Mrs. Ashley.”
“Thank you.” Mary introduced him to Beth and Tim. They made small talk while she went to check the pot roast.
When Mary had told Florence Schiller that Stanton Rogers was coming for dinner and that she was making a pot roast, Florence -had said, “People like Mr. Rogers don’t eat pot roast.”