From the book
Toulos Restaurant, adjacent to Capitol Hill, boasts a politically incorrect menu of baby veal
and horse carpaccio, making it an ironic hotspotfor the quintessential Washingtonian power
breakfast. This morning Toulos was busy–a cacophony of clanking silverware, espresso machines,
and cellphone conversations.
The maitre d’ was sneaking a sip of his morning Bloody Mary when the woman entered. He
turned with a practiced smile.
“Good morning,” he said. “May I help you?”
The woman was attractive, in her mid-thirties, wearing gray, pleated flannel pants,
conservative flats, and an ivory Laura Ashley blouse. Her posture was straight–chin raised ever so
slightly–not arrogant, just strong. The woman’s hair was light brown and fashioned in
Washington’s most popular style–the “anchor-woman”–a lush feathering, curled under at the
shoulders... long enough to be sexy, but short enough to remind you she was probably smarter than
you.
“I’m a little late,” the woman said, her voice unassuming. “I have a breakfast meeting with
Senator Sexton.”
The maitre d’ felt an unexpected tingle of nerves. Senator Sedgewick Sexton. The senator was
a regular here and currently one of the country’smost famous men. Last week, having swept all
twelve Republican primaries on Super Tuesday, the senator was virtually guaranteed his party’s
nomination for President of the United States. Many believed the senator had a superb chance of
stealing the White House from the embattled President next fall. Lately Sexton’s face seemed to be
on every national magazine, his campaign slogan plastered all across America: “Stop spending.
Start mending.”
“Senator Sexton is in his booth,” the maitre d’ said. “And you are?”
“Rachel Sexton. His daughter.”
How foolish of me,he thought. The resemblance was quite apparent. The woman had the
senator’s penetrating eyes and refined carriage–that polished air of resilient nobility. Clearly the
senator’s classic good looks had not skipped generations, although Rachel Sexton seemed to carry
her blessings with a grace and humility her father could learn from.
“A pleasure to have you, Ms. Sexton.”
As the maitre d’ led the senator’s daughter across the dining area, he was embarrassed by the
gauntlet of male eyes following her... some discreet, others less so. Few women dined at Toulos and
even fewer who looked like Rachel Sexton.
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