Everyone knew Kate Walsh O’Beirne. She was famous, of course, in the way that people can only dream of being in Washington. There wasn’t anyone who wouldn’t take her call or do her a favor. Instantly recognizable at nearly six feet tall, blonde, and dressed to the nines, she was one of the most attractive women I ever knew. Her personality was magnetic: a lively voice, quick wit and razor-sharp intellect. But it was her kindness and genuine interest in people that set her apart in a self-serving town.

I met Kate through my husband, Ramesh, who shared an office with her for many years at National Review. They made an odd couple, Kate and Ramesh, but everyone knew how fiercely loyal they were to each other. A hard-working journalist, Kate relied on him to help form her opinions and refine her arguments (“Ramesh, what do WE think about this?”) and Ramesh relied on her canny ability to see around corners and read people. She used to tease me when I would mention my love for him by saying, “Yes, but I loved him first!” In their more than two decades of friendship, they never had a cross word. He was her adopted son, and she adopted me as her daughter. Before we were married, she made it official by serving as Ramesh’s Godmother at his baptism. I never saw her more pleased, until Easter Vigil of 2004 when Ramesh and I were both received into her beloved Church.