During his visits to the Dumont estate, it was inevitable that Bellows would meet Lucy. To say that he worshipped this demure beauty at first sight might be overblown but it would not be untrue to say that his attraction to her was instantaneous.
Thoughts of Lucy Dumont gradually colored every aspect of Bellows’ life and he finally confessed to himself that he was absolutely smitten with the fresh-faced beauty with the angelic demeanor. Like the Dumonts, Bellows had a refined pedigree and he had learned to hold his feelings in check at a young age. And yet, he had felt his heart flutter in that first conversation with Lucy as he absorbed her mellifluous voice over canapes and champagne.
Subsequent visits to the Dumonts reinforced Bellows’ initial infatuation and he found it increasingly difficult to inoculate himself against her innocent charms. It would be correct to say that Lucy Dumont, at least initially, was totally unaware that her polite repartee with the archivist might somehow be misconstrued by the incipient lover.
It was not long, however, until Lucy discerned, with considerable dismay, how Bellows sought her out repeatedly, even working his way feverishly through a crowded room to find a place near her side. Notwithstanding the fact that he sparked no physical attraction for her, she perceived that Addison Bellows was an appendage of her Mother and, on that account alone, would hardly gave him a second thought. Bellows, for his part, was usually a calculating and insightful young man but in thinking that the way to Lucy’s heart was through his subjugation to Helga Dumont, he had made a strategic blunder.
CHAPTER FIVE:
The Puff Piece
WOODY MEACHAM SAT in the library in front of the microfiche reader, bedeviled by its buttons and levers. He put in a tape reel and it inexplicably spun out of control while making a loud hissing sound. Frustrated, he banged the side of the machine with his hand, attracting angry stares from other researchers.
Flummoxed by a contraption that looked like an antique television set with a hand crank attached to its side, he sought out the help of the librarian. After instructing him on its use, she hovered over Woody as he started to scan several newspapers back to 1945, hoping they might provide insight into the Dumont family, particularly the aspiring Congressional candidate. Who was this scion of a dynasty with untold riches? It was certainly a history worth exploring. And then he reminded himself that an in-depth piece on the Dumonts was not his assignment.
When Woody stopped to insert a new reel, he realized that the librarian was still standing behind him, staring at the screen. Finally, he was constrained to look over his shoulder and say, “I’m all set now. Thank you, ma’am.”
Bertram had told him about Augustus Dumont’s return to Virginia in 1946 after the war with a German bride in tow but had failed to mention that they brought with them a one-year old baby, or so the caption read below the picture that Woody was now staring at. Woody was surprised by this oversight but then reminded himself again that Bertram wanted a “puff piece” and not a history of the Dumont family.
Three hours later, Woody’s eyes started to blur, and his arm was aching from cranking the microfiche machine. He had taken notes from several recent newspaper articles with what he considered enough drivel on Barrington Dumont to keep Bertram and the facile readers of the Alexandria Observer happy. Woody knew that his composite biographical sketch would portray a privileged young man who had not gone into politics for personal gain or power but rather to humbly serve the people. If the press coverage which Woody had read was to be believed, young Barrington was a modern-day Cincinnatus, selflessly heeding a call to serve the people.
The library had a file containing the 1946 article and the accompanying picture of the Dumonts returning from Germany so Woody decided to make copies. He paid the librarian and then waited for the machine behind her desk to spit them out. She lingered over the documents with her back to Woody before turning around with a look of displeasure on her face.
Nobody can be this perfect, Woody said to himself, as he left the library. Bertram might not care but Woody had the urge to dig deeper into the background and character of this “wonder boy” born in Berlin, Germany. He was not hopeful but perhaps he could interest his editor in a more penetrating, follow-up piece on the Dumont family’s early history.
As soon as Woody was gone, the librarian was whispering into the telephone. The Dumonts had given generously to the library expansion campaign and Helga Dumont sat on the library’s board. She certainly deserved to know that some reporter who the librarian had never seen before was snooping around and making copies of old newspaper articles about the family.
WOODY HAD OCCASIONALLY written for the Thorndyke Student Voice in college and had not forgotten the basic journalistic tenets of the 5Ws but this breezy piece on Barrington Dumont required no writing talent or discipline. He thought back to the article he had written supporting the war in Vietnam and was sure he couldn’t write such a full-throated endorsement again.
Back at the newspaper office, Woody sat at his desk and looked at the finished copy, certain that, like cotton candy, it was light, fluffy and sweet enough to please the editor. The photographer who free-lanced for the Observer had followed instructions as well, depicting the heir as a “man of action” whether at work or play. In one shot, he was smiling benignly and pointing to someone in a crowd on the steps of the Capitol in Richmond. In another, he was immaculately dressed with helmet in hand, stepping up into an Air Force jet but taking a moment to turn and smile into the distance. And finally, seemingly unaware of the photographer, he was boarding the family yacht on the Potomac River, tussled hair and tanned face complemented by the contemplative gaze that would be the envy of any Hollywood PR flack.
As to the essence of the man, little was known and nothing of any substance was revealed in the article, ensuring that nothing could be challenged or criticized. It was doubtful that most readers would get past the lead paragraph or the pictorial spread and that was probably just fine with the newspaper. As for Dumont’s political handlers, they would get their puff piece as well as some free publicity. Barrington Dumont was nothing like the diabolical “Manchurian Candidate” but Woody had already concluded that he was an easily manipulated cut-out just the same.
Woody looked up to see Bradley Bertram approaching. He handed the copy to the editor and waited silently for his reaction. “Just what we were looking for, young man. I shall clean it up a tad and we will run it tomorrow along with the photographs. I must say, though, that you were certainly overly diligent in your research, eh?”
Woody looked at Bertram with a puzzled expression but said nothing, certain that the editor would amplify his comment. “What I mean is, the library searches you made all the way back to the 1940s when the father was in Germany during the war. Quite unnecessary and you went to a deal of trouble for nothing. We don’t go in for that sort of thing here. If they want depth, our readers can get it from the downtown papers.”
The two men stared at each other until Woody decided to break the silence. “Do you have any more breezy assignments for me, Mr. Bertram?” The editor shook his head, feigning sadness, and said, “Not right now, young man. But I know where to find you if we do.”
As Bertram turned away, Woody knew that his nascent career as a stringer for the Alexandria Observer had abruptly come to an end.