Midnight by Anna Dove (books for new readers .TXT) 📕

“I know that he is not a donor,” said the Senator, leaning forward again, “because I am one of the donors.”

Haley stared, and frowned again, and clasped her hands around her mug, feeling the warmth in her fingers.

“That’s how I noticed this,” said the Senator. “I thought at first, like you, that he was a donor to The Bluecrest Foundation, and I was surprised because I am personal friends with all of the donors there. I called to make sure. He is not on the list.”

“What’s that money being used for?” she finally said, after a moment. “Why would he make recurring payments?”

“I’d like you to take some time to look into this,” responded the Senator. “I don’t want this becoming a big media story and reflecting poorly on the administration. We don’t need another scandal when the public appreciation for government is already so low, especially within our party. Tell me what you find.” He handed her the folder.

She stood up to leave.

“Oh, and Haley! One more thing.”

She paused.

“Tonight, I’ve had you put on the list to attend the Honorary Gala for the Council of Economic Advisers. It’ll be the same as the one the President held during his first term. You can bring a date or a friend. I was supposed to go, but I have a pressing family matter. Please go and give my greetings to the President and the First Lady, and have a glass of champagne for me. Or scotch if you like. You won’t mind going, will you?”

2.    The Gala

“And I like large parties. They’re so intimate. At small parties there isn’t any privacy.”

―

F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby

Galas are always well attended in the nation’s capital. There is free alcohol, leading to a state of polite intoxication for most attendees, while the outliers soberly attempt to network and grasp at beneficial business relationships. They pretend they are deeply engaged in the welfare of Mrs. Smith’s cat, so long as Mrs. Smith (or Mrs. Smith’s superior) can add dollars or political credit to their organization or occupation. Mrs. Smith’s cat is about to die and is suffering from acute diabetes, and takes insulin shots twice a day, and would you hear it hiss when it gets those shots! And Mr. Jordan is exceedingly interested in how the insulin is administered, and to what dosage, and the exact procedure by which Mrs. Smith holds down her cat with a towel to restrain it from clawing at her while the insulin is administered. Then Mr. Jones joins the conversation, having heard that Mrs. Smith was present, and begs her to tell him again all the details previously mentioned. And so it goes, while the intoxicated grow more intoxicated, and Mrs. Smith’s cat becomes the talk of the party, and you, an innocent bystander, might be excessively confused with the level of public interest in feline matters, for after all, despite what cats themselves think, cats are not worth eternal attention.

Haley and Elizabeth enjoyed these events for the most part, taking advantage of the free drinks and hors d'oeuvres while watching as adults played power games. Free entertainment. There were often prestigious political figures present, and Haley had been able to meet the president and his wife several times through the Senator, who was a member of the National Security Council and very active in several other committees. This evening, she would again be responsible for representing the Senator, and she found pride in having the honor of doing so.

They arrived on time at the Eisenhower Executive Office Building, passing through security and obtaining their guest badges. The evening sky silhouetted the tall building structure against a fading sunset of golds and pinks and blues. Haley was in floor length silver Dior (rented, because no one in Washington under thirty could afford to buy Dior, could barely even afford drinks past happy hour). The dress hung beautifully in a natural and elegant manner, shimmering softly in the evening light. Elizabeth also wore rented Dior, a gauzy black piece with no straps, ankle length to show her heels to best advantage. They walked up the steps and into the foyer, and were ushered into the events room.

There was a low stage in the front, bordered with thick blue drapes. To the left of the stage a jazz band was playing softly, a melting tune that sounded like butter and honey and cinnamon. Round white tables were arranged around the room, and each table was set for eight with shining crystal and silver.

A waiter in a penguin tuxedo walked by, offering them two flutes of champagne, which they accepted.

“Gorgeous, isn’t it?” said Elizabeth, smiling.

Haley raised her eyebrows appreciatively in agreement, taking a sip from the flute.

“Oh look, there’s Carlos,” said Elizabeth. “I saw him today for a brief meeting. Let’s go say hello.”

Carlos Melendez was a member of the Council of Economic Advisers, and a close friend of both Haley and Elizabeth. He had been with the Council for just over four years now, having been hired immediately after graduating with his Master’s in Applied Economics from George Washington University. Recently he had published a piece on China that had gained him popularity and the express approval of the President himself. Well done, said the President. Glad to have you on my team, and shook hands with Carlos and flashed a smile for the cameras.

Carlos was an introverted person. He did not appreciate the intrusion of others into his office, his space, or his thoughts. He liked to close his door and submerge himself in the worlds of capital gains, arbitrage pricing theory, appreciation, consumer confidence, inflation, nominal value, gross national product, tariffs. He loved graphs. Pretty pictures, he called his graphs, pretty pictures that determined if dairy farmers would have a good season, or if China would impose trade barriers,