Gwendy's Magic Feather

2

EVEN WITH DAMP HAIR and barely a hint of make-up on her face, Gwendy is gorgeous. She draws a number of appreciative—not to mention a few openly envious—stares as she stands in the corner of the cramped elevator. Were her old friend, Olive Kepnes, still alive (even after all these years Gwendy still thinks of her almost every day), Olive would tell Gwendy that she looked like a million bucks and change. And she would be right.

Dressed in plain gray slacks, a white silk blouse, and low-heeled slip-ons (what her mother calls sensible shoes), Gwendy looks ten years younger than her thirty-seven years. She would argue vigorously with anyone who told her so, but her protests would be in vain. It was the simple truth.

The elevator dings and the doors slide open onto the third floor. Gwendy and two others sidestep their way out and join a small group of employees waiting in line at a cordoned-off security checkpoint. A burly guard wearing a badge and sidearm stands at the entrance, scanning identification badges. A young female guard is positioned a few yards behind him, staring at a video screen as employees pass between the vertical slats of a walk-through metal detector.

When it’s Gwendy’s turn at the front of the line, she pulls a laminated ID card from her leather tote bag and hands it to the guard.

“Morning, Congresswoman Peterson. Busy day today?” He scans the bar code and hands it back with a friendly smile.

“They’re all busy, Harold.” She gives him a wink. “You know that.”

His smile widens, exposing a pair of gold-plated front teeth. “Hey, I won’t tell if you don’t.”

Gwendy laughs and starts to walk away. From behind her: “Tell that husband of yours I said hello.”

She glances over her shoulder, readjusting the tote bag on her arm. “Will do. With any luck, he’ll be home in time for Christmas.”

“God willing,” Harold says, crossing himself. Then he turns to the next employee and scans his card. “Morning, Congressman.”