My Gal Sunday

From Chapter 1


"Heap on more wood! -- the wind is chill;
But let it whistle as it will,
We'll keep our Christmas merry still."
Congresswoman Sandra O'Brien Britland looked up to see her poetry-spouting husband, the former president of the United States, standing in the doorway of her cozy office in Drumdoe, their country home in Bernardsville, New Jersey.

She smiled affectionately. Even in a turtleneck sweater, jeans, and worn ankle boots, Henry Parker Britland IV exuded a natural born-to-the-manner persona. The touches of gray in his dark brown hair, and thoughtful creases in his forehead, were almost the only signs that Henry was approaching his forty-fifth birthday.

"So it's Tennyson we're quoting," she said as she uncurled herself from the couch where she had been reading the seemingly endless stack of material about pending legislation. "I gather the 'All-Around Hunk' is up to something."

"Not Tennyson, love. Sir Walter Scott, and be aware I will hang you by the thumbs if you call me 'All-Around Hunk' again."

"But People magazine just voted you that for the fifth year in a row. That's a real record. Pretty soon they'll have to create a 'Perennial Hunk' award and retire you from active consideration."

Seeing the mock-menacing look on Henry's face, Sunday said hastily, "Okay, okay. Just kidding."

"Your saw, Mr. President." Sims, the butler, appeared in the doorway, carrying a shiny new saw across upturned palms. He displayed it to Henry with the same reverence he might have shown in tendering the crown jewels.

"What in heaven's name is that all about?" Sunday exclaimed.

"What do you think, darling?" Henry inquired as he studied it carefully. "Well done, Sims. I think this should handle the job quite adequately."

"Are you planning to saw me in half?" Sunday asked.

"Orson Welles and Rita Hayworth had quite a successful act staging that scene. No, my sweet love, you and I are going into the woods. This morning when I was riding I spotted a magnificent evergreen that will be perfect for our first Christmas tree. It's at the north end of the property, out past the lake."

"You're going to cut it down yourself?" Sunday protested. "Henry, you're taking this 'all-around' business too seriously..."

Henry held up his free hand. "No arguments. I heard you say several weeks ago that one of your happiest memories was going out with your father to buy the Christmas tree, then helping him carry it home and trim it. This year, you and I are starting our own tradition."

Sunday tucked a runaway lock of blond hair behind her ear. "You're serious, aren't you?"

"Absolutely. We're going to tramp through the snow into our woods. I am going to cut down the tree, and together we're going to drag it back here."

Henry beamed in satisfaction at his plan. "Tomorrow is Christmas Eve. If we get the tree in and up today, we can start trimming it this evening and finish tomorrow. Sims will bring out the boxes from the storeroom, and you can select any ornaments you choose."

"We have quite a selection, madam," Sims volunteered. "Just last year Lanning decorators came as usual and did the blue-and-silver effect. Quite beautiful. The year before we had a white Christmas. Ah, yes, it was much admired."

"Lanning must be having a heart attack that you're not having him in this year," Sunday observed as she put the files and notepad aside and stood up. She walked over to Henry and put her arms around his waist. "I can see through you. You're doing this for me."