My Gal Sunday A Crime of Passion "''Beware the fury of a patient man,'' " Henry Parker Britland IV observed sadly as he studied the picture of his former secretary of state. He had just learned that his close friend and political ally had been indicted for the murder of his lover, Arabella Young. "Then you think poor Tommy did it?" Sandra O''Brien Britland said with a sigh as she patted homemade jam onto a hot scone, fresh out of the oven. It was still early morning, and the couple was comfortably ensconced in their king-sized bed at Drumdoe, their country estate in Bernardsville, New Jersey. The Washington Post, The Wall Street Journal, The New York Times, The Times (London), L''Osservatore Romano, and The Paris Review, all in varying stages of being read, were scattered about, some lying on the delicately flowered, gossamer-soft quilt, others spilling over onto the floor. Directly in front of the couple were matching breakfast trays, each complete with a single rose in a narrow silver vase. "Actually, no," Henry said after a moment, slowly shaking his head. "I find it impossible to believe.
Tom always had such strong self-control. That''s what made him such a fine secretary of state. But ever since Constance died -- it was during my second administration -- he just hasn''t seemed himself. And it was obvious to everyone that when he met Arabella he just fell madly in love. Of course, what also became obvious after a while was that he had lost some of that steely control -- I''ll never forget the time he slipped and called Arabella ''Poopie'' in front of Lady Thatcher." "I do wish I had known you then," Sandra said ruefully. "I didn''t always agree with you, of course, but I thought you were an excellent president. But then, nine years ago, when you were first sworn in, you''d have found me boring, I''m sure.
How interesting could a law student be to the president of the United States? I mean, hopefully you would have found me attractive, but I know you wouldn''t have taken me seriously. At least when you met me as a member of Congress, you thought of me with some respect." Henry turned and looked affectionately at his bride of eight months. Her hair, the color of winter wheat, was tousled. The expression in her intensely blue eyes somehow managed to convey simultaneously intelligence, warmth, wit, and humor. And sometimes also childlike wonder. He smiled as he remembered the first time he met her: he had asked if she still believed in Santa Claus. That had been the evening before the inauguration of his successor, when Henry had hosted a cocktail party at the White House for all the new members of Congress.
"I believe in what Santa Claus represents, sir," Sandra had replied. "Don''t you?" Later, as the guests were leaving, he had invited her to stay for a quiet dinner. "I''m so sorry," she had replied. "I''m meeting my parents. I can''t disappoint them." Left to dine alone on this final evening in the White House, Henry had thought of all the women who over the past eight years had readily changed their plans in a fraction of a second, and he realized that at last he had found the woman of his dreams. They were married six weeks later. At first the media hype threatened to be unending.
The marriage of the country''s most eligible bachelor -- the forty-four-year-old ex-president -- to the beautiful young congresswoman, twelve years his junior, set off a feeding frenzy among journalists. Not in years had a marriage so completely captured the public''s collective imagination. The fact that Sandra''s father was a motorman on the New Jersey Central Railroad, that she had worked her way through both St. Peter''s College and Fordham Law School, spent seven years as a public defender, then, in a stunning upset, won the congressional seat of the longtime incumbent from Jersey City, already had made her a champion to womankind, as well as a darling of the media. Henry''s status as one of the two most popular presidents of the twentieth century, as well as the possessor of a considerable private fortune, combined with the fact that he appeared with regularity at or near the top of the list of America''s sexiest men, made him likewise a favorite source of copy, as well as an object of envy by other men who could only wonder why the gods so obviously favored him. On their wedding day, one tabloid had run the headline: LORD HENRY BRINTHROP MARRIES OUR GAL SUNDAY, a reference to the once wildly popular radio soap opera that daily, five days a week, for years on end, asked the question: "Can a girl from a mining town in the West find happiness as the wife of England''s richest and most handsome lord, Lord Henry Brinthrop?" Sandra had immediately become known to one and all, including her doting husband, as Sunday. She hated the nickname at first, but became resigned to it when Henry pointed out that for him it had a double meaning, that he thought of her as "a Sunday kind of love," a reference to the lyrics of one of his favorite songs. "Besides," he added, "it suits you.
Tip O''Neill had a nickname that was just right for him; Sunday is just right for you." This morning, as she studied her husband, Sunday thought back over the months they had spent together, days that until this morning had remained almost carefree. Now, seeing the genuine concern in Henry''s eyes, she covered his hand with hers. "You''re worried about Tommy. I can tell. What can we do to help him?" "Not very much, I''m afraid. I''ll certainly check to make sure the defense lawyer he has hired is up to the task, but no matter who he gets to represent him, the prospects look bleak. Think about it.
It''s a particularly vicious crime, and when you look at the circumstances it''s hard not to assume that Tom did it. The woman was shot three times, with Tommy''s pistol, in Tommy''s library, right after he told people how upset he was that she had broken up with him." Sunday picked up one of the papers and examined the picture of a beaming Thomas Shipman, his arm around the dazzling thirty-year-old who had helped to dry his tears following his wife''s death. "How old is Tommy?" Sunday asked. "I''m not sure. Sixty-five, I''d guess, give or take a year." They both studied the photograph. Tommy was a trim, lean man, with thinning gray hair and a scholarly face.
In contrast, Arabella Young''s wildly teased hair framed a boldly pretty face, and her body possessed the kind of curves found on Playboy covers. "A May-December relationship if I ever saw one," Sunday commented. "They probably say that about us," Henry said lightly, forcing a smile. "Oh, Henry, be quiet," Sunday said. Then she took his hand. "And don''t try to pretend that you aren''t really upset. We may still be newlyweds, but I know you too well already to be fooled." "You''re right, I am worried," Henry said quietly.
"When I think back over the past few years, I can''t imagine myself sitting in the Oval Office without Tommy at my side. I''d only had one term in the Senate before becoming president and in so many ways I was still very green. Thanks to him I weathered those first months without falling on my face. When I was all set to have it out with the Soviets, Tommy -- in his calm, deliberate way -- showed me how wrong I''d be to force a confrontation but then publicly managed to convey the impression that he was only a sounding board for my own decision. Tommy is a true statesman, but more to the point, he is a gentleman, through and through. He''s honest, he''s smart, he''s loyal." "But surely he''s also a man who must have been aware that people were joking about his relationship with Arabella and just how smitten he was with her? Then when she finally wanted out, he lost it," Sunday observed. "That''s pretty much the way you see it, isn''t it?" Henry sighed.
"Perhaps. Temporary insanity? It''s possible." He lifted his breakfast tray and put it on the night table. "Nevertheless, he was always there for me, and I''m going to be there for him. He''s been allowed to post bond. I''m going to see him." Sunday quickly shoved her tray aside, barely managing to catch her half-empty coffee cup before it spilled onto the quilt. "I''m coming too," she said.
"Just give me ten minutes in the Jacuzzi and I''ll be ready." Henry watched his wife''s long legs as she slid out of bed. " The Jacuzzi. What a splendid idea," he said enthusiastically, "I''ll join you." Thomas Acker Shipman had tried to ignore the army of media camped outside, near his driveway. When he and his lawyer pulled up in front of his house, he had simply stared straight ahead and barged his way from the car to the house, desperately trying not to hear the roar of questions hurled at him as he passed. Once inside, however, the events of the day finally hit him, and he visibly slumped. "I think a scotch may be in order," he said quietly.
His attorney, Leonard Hart, looked at him sympathetically. "I''d say you deserve one," he said. "But first, let me once again reassure you that if you insist, we''ll go ahead with a plea bargain, but I''m compelled to once more point out to you that we could put together a very strong insanity defense, and I wish you''d agree to go to trial. The situation is so clear that any jury could understand: you went through the agony of losing a beloved wife, and on the rebound you fell in love with an attractive young woman who at first accepted many gifts from you, then spurned you. It is a classic story, and one that I feel confident would be received sympathet.