Beauty Queen

into the campaign checking account.
    Jeannie Laird Colter comes out of political retirement.
    The assembled Friends of Jeannie Colter were putting down their drinks, applauding.
    While the dinner guests were chatting with Jeannie, Bill Laird slipped out to the elegant teakwood public phone booth near the rest rooms, and dialed Marion's number.
    Marion answered.
    "Marion, I'm sorry," Bill said.
    "You bloody well should be," said Marion.
    Then Marion's voice broke. "Why am I talking to you like this?" he said. "After all this time? How could I. .
    His voice broke again.

Chapter 6
    The glittering glass facade of the new Y.W.C.A. was brightly lit, baring a glimpse of its cozy office facilities and plant-studded lobbies. It already looked full of life, Jeannie thought, as she got out of the car. She had contributed $5000 to the building fund (at a time when she could ill afford it), and now her heart sang as she looked at it.
    Instinctively she smiled, just in time for the photographers' flashes.
    "Jeannie, give us another smile," called the New York Post photographer.
    She did find herself strangely nervous, though.
    She flashed him that Miss America smile, showing her beautifully cared-for teeth.
    In her briefcase was the tenth and final draft of her speech. Phil Murphy, her new speechwriter, had gone over it and suggested a few things, but it was mainly her own words. So much had happened in a week! Back in her office, her other people were hard at work. John Rice was running a big poll. Her direct-mail people were working up a list of names for her first big appeal for contributions. When she'd left, the office had been full of life, phones ringing, typewriters clicking; after she finished her speech, the place would be a madhouse.
    Behind the police barricades, there was a crowd—larger than she had expected and a lot of women in it. Her PR people had been busy generating interest, hinting at a major announcement. Many women stood excitedly in the crowd— working women, housewives, the kind of women who had idolized her as they had never felt able to idolize Bella Abzug, who was so loud and so leftist. They were waving at her, calling out, "Hey, Jeannie!"
    It was a brilliant sunny day.
    The main doors were draped with bunting, and across them was the red-white-and-blue ribbon that she would cut.
    The podium was flanked with vases of red, white and blue carnations, and faced down the broad concrete steps to the garden plaza in front of the building. There, several hundred chairs were already crammed with spectators. The standees spilled back onto the street, where the police barricades were set up, and several cops were directing traffic.
    As she walked toward the chairs where the dignitaries would sit, behind the podium, she felt herself soaring toward a new and untrodden pinnacle of her life.
    The ceremony was short and simple. The Reverend John Markis, of the First Presbyterian Church on Queens Boulevard, read a prayer. A choral group sang some hymns, their voices sounding bravely pure and a little thin through the raunchy din of daytime traffic. Then various dignitaries— the president of the Y.W.C.A., someone from the mayor's office—said a few words.
    Finally it was time for the key speech. The master of ceremonies was saying:
    "... So it is my great pleasure to introduce to you a great Christian woman who has served wdth honor in our state legislature—and who has gone on record as a tireless crusader for decency in this great city of ours, and in this great country of ours. I give you . . . Jean Laird Colter!"
    As Jeannie stepped to the podium with her typewritten pages of speech, the crowd's applause was almost drowned out by the throbbing thunder of a Port Authority helicopter flying overhead.
    She stood very straight and tall before the microphone, her eyes searching the crowd, and waited for the helicopter noise to die away.
    She crossed her arms over her chest.
    One thing was wrong with that crowd. Her father was not there. During the past few days, he had made a big show of being busy with architects and contractors and blueprints, talking endlessly of the renovation of the old brick apartment houses on Catherine Slip, next door to his future house. Only Uncle A1 was down there in the first row, grinning up at her proudly.
    Finally the street was quiet, and she began to speak, her amplified voice ricocheting off the facades and the windows of the brownstone buildings across the street.
    "My fellow