The President's Daughter by Mariah Stewart Read Free Book Online Page B

afraid it’s true,” Sarah said. The pages of the book of photos made a sharp snapping sound as she closed it and stood up.
    “Maybe I’ll hit him on a good day.”
    “I’m not sure he has any, anymore. But of course, you should check that out for yourself. And you might want to call first and save yourself the drive.”
    “That sounds like good advice.”
    After an awkward pause, the former First Daughter stood up, and Simon realized she was bringing the interview to a close.
    “Now, if there’s anything else you need to know, any other questions you want answered, feel free to give me a call,” Sarah said pleasantly, once again the charming hostess.
    “I may need one more interview,” Simon said. He folded his notes into his briefcase and snapped the lid before standing up. “And as we discussed on the phone, I’ll be faxing over a short list of questions. You don’t have to answer all of them—this isn’t a test—but if you could just add any thoughts you might have, I’d appreciate it.”
    “Well, whatever you need.” Sarah led him back down the hall to the front door.
    “I appreciate your time.” Simon had started to extend his hand to hers when her phone rang.
    She startled, then laughed and said, “I’ll bet that’s Kirsten. I think I was supposed to pick her up after school today and it looks like I may be late.”
    “Then I’ll get out of your hair and let you go.” Simon opened the door and took one step out.
    “Thanks for understanding. We’ll talk again.” She was still smiling as she closed the door and disappeared behind it.
    Simon slid the Mustang into the first open spot in the visitors parking lot and stared at the handsome mansion that, five years earlier, had been converted into St. Margaret’s, a care facility for well-to-do seniors who could no longer live on their own. Some of the residents required only minimal assistance, while others—those who lived on the newly constructed lower level— demanded the highest level of concern from their caretakers. And these, the Alzheimer’s patients, also paid the heftiest fees for the privilege of living here on the old estate at the top of the Patuxent River, midway between the nation’s capital and the Chesapeake Bay. Patients such as Miles Kendall.
    Kendall must have seen it all back in the Hayward days, Simon thought, and if he could remember something of those days—even just the
flavor
of those times—Simon’s book, newly titled
Remember the Time:
An Intimate Portrait of an American President
, would be a fitting biography. The concept—to present the many faces of the man in the words of those who’d known him best—had come to Simon as he’d driven from Annapolis. After checking his watch and finding several hours left in the afternoon and realizing that St. Margaret’s was a relatively short drive away, Simon decided on a whim to stop and see for himself just what the former White House aide did—or didn’t— remember.
    After all, how much richer the collection of reminiscences would be with a contribution from the man who had known the former President longer than any other living soul.
    Simon opened the briefcase that sat on the passenger seat and took out the small handheld recorder. Chances were he wouldn’t need it, but better to have it than not. There was but a slim possibility that Kendall could be having a lucid day, and if he was, Simon didn’t want to miss a word. He slipped the recorder into the pocket of his tweed jacket and set off for the main entrance.
    The lobby of St. Margaret’s was all dark wood, worn Oriental carpets, and hushed voices. Despite the several large fresh flower arrangements and equal measures of disinfectant and air freshener, the lobby bore the distinct albeit faint trace of the old and infirm. An oak desk sat at the lobby’s dead center, and behind the desk sat a young woman wearing a dark suit and a vacant smile who chatted softly into a telephone.
    “Hi!” Simon