My Kind of Town
>> Hilton Hawaiian Village Defining ‘slept’
Grace Ah Sun was giddy, scared. The Riesling was cool, tart, sweet. The former president was hypnotizing: the soft drawl, the easy smile, the invitation in his eyes to shared secrets. So Grace wasn't counting how much she drank. But when they'd finished lunch on the Presidential Suite lanai, the bottle was empty and Grace had done her share.
Over lunch he'd explained what would be involved as part of his hand-picked advisory board comprised strictly of women, one from each state. He wanted input, so to speak, for a book with the working title "What Women Want."
"Grace, I want to address every issue, big and small, for the women you know. I want to find commonalities -- what do women all across American share in common? But I also expect to find differences -- regional, religious, age, whatever it may be. And I want to find solutions."
"There are so many talented women in Hawaii. If you don't mind my asking, why me?"
"Grace, I have to admit, you've stayed in my mind since the first time I met you." Nearly eight years ago.
The president stood, motioned for Grace to join him at the railing.
"You're intelligent, but you have common sense. You're accustomed to the halls of power, but you're a people person. You're a wife and mother with a career. You're a Hawaiian with a world view. I respect you and, if you don't mind my saying so, I enjoy your company."
And suddenly he was touching her shoulder, and her chin, lifting it, his lips coming down to meet her's, his tongue exploring her dental work, his hands ranging high and low with a swirl here, a squeeze there. And Grace let herself be kissed, blaming it at first on the wine, but quickly deciding she didn't need an excuse, and kissed him back as she hadn't kissed in years.
"... a wife and a mother ..." the words echoed, and Grace suddenly thought of her husband, and had to come up for air, pressing her cheek into the presidential chest. What was it about this man that made it so easy to forget her vows and what Sheets had done when her honor had been stolen. She looked up into his eyes. "Mr. President, not be impertinent, but how many of the other women on your board have you slept with?"
"Well, that all depends on your definition of slept."
"How about the Yiddish term, schtupped?"
He laughed. "Grace, that's why I like you! Nobody else in the world would say dare say anything like that to me."
He kissed her again. Somehow she managed to pull away.
Don Chapman is editor of MidWeek.
His serialized novel runs daily in the Star-Bulletin
with weekly summaries on Sunday.
He can be e-mailed at dchapman@midweek.com