The Wrong Side of Right

by Jenn Marie Thorne

  After passing through the handshake line, we ducked inside the waiting limo to find Elliott Webb reclining in the seat opposite us. He put down his newspaper, shook hands with the senator and Meg, ruffled Gabe’s rain-doused hair, and playfully poked Gracie in the side.

  “The house is ready,” he announced. “Some new flowerbeds for you to plant when the cameras are rolling, Meg, assuming the rain lets up.”

  “Just what I wanted to do this weekend,” she chuckled.

  I stared unblinking at Elliott, waiting for him to acknowledge me. Then I remembered the word he’d used on that plane ride. Docile. No wonder he wouldn’t deign to say hello. Would you say hello to a cow grazing in a pasture?

  Actually, I thought wryly. I probably would.

  I sighed and stared through the window, trying to block out both Elliott and anxious thoughts about the upcoming interview. The view was a good distraction. This was my first time in New England and I was curious to see how closely it matched my impressions of it from the John Adams miniseries, my much-loved copy of Little Women, and the Stephen King novels I’d snuck from my mom’s library when I was way too young to read them. I hoped it was more like the first two than the last one.

  We exited the highway and reached a more scenic, forested area, then drove through a charmingly old-fashioned town.

  “That’s where I used to take ballet,” Gracie called out. “And that’s where we go get ice cream.”

  “Can we get ice cream?” Gabe asked, but the Coopers were deep in conversation with Elliott.

  “How much time is allocated?” the senator was asking.

  “I gave them all day Sunday.”

  “That’s where we pick blackberries!” Gabe cried out, and I saw a long, paint-chipped fence with briars stretching over it, and behind, an old converted farmhouse, with stone walls and wooden ones painted dark green, a pond glittering gold to one side. The weather chose this moment to break, the sun falling gently on the house and grounds. I pressed my fingertips to the window. It was like going back in time. We might as easily have been driving in a buggy to visit Jo March and her sisters at that very house.

  To my delight, we pulled in.

  This was where the twins were born, where they’d lived on and off for all of their eight years. Home.

  Their home.

  I had just enough time to deposit my bags in the hall and steal a quick look at the low doorways and knotted planks of wood in the floor, listening to the happy racket of birds and bugs outside, taking in the heavy scent of wooded summer before I was shepherded into the dusty SUV parked in the garage.

  “She insists,” Meg was saying. “Best to just get it over with.”

  “Fifteen minutes,” the senator said from the driver’s seat. “No more, I’m serious.”

  “Where are we going?” I asked.

  Gracie glanced over. “To see Grandma.”

  “Oh.”

  The car suddenly felt very small and very rapid. I wondered how Meg’s mother would respond to me, given that there was no direct connection between us. Judging by the lack of enthusiasm shown by every member of the family, I was guessing she wasn’t a bundle of sunshine either.

  I was right about their reaction. Wrong about the person.

  “Hello Mom,” the senator said as we clambered out of the car. My breath caught.

  His mother? That would make her my—

  She waited for us, hands on hips, a ray of dusty light falling from between the boughs of thick trees above, obscuring her face. Behind her stood a whitewashed house with a long front porch, chickens scrabbling between us in the damp dirt. The light shifted, and I saw that her face was prettily lined, graying hair swept up in a genteel bun. Her eyes, however, were sharp as daggers—and aimed at me. I sensed somehow that she was testing me, and so I didn’t flinch.

  My grandmother smiled.

  The senator cleared his throat, uncomfortable. This was probably new to him—the sensation of being ignored. I could’ve taught him a thing or two about it.

  “Evelyn, this is Kate.” Meg’s voice was flat, almost hostile. “Your granddaughter.”

  “I know who she is,” Evelyn said. “Just look at her. Well, are you gonna come inside or stand there letting flies land on you?”

  She turned on her boot heel and stomped into the house, the screen door slapping shut behind her.

  With great effort, the senator smiled. “Shall we?”

  Evelyn spent a few minutes fussing grouchily over the twins, continuing to pretend her son wasn’t in the room. Then it was my turn.

  “Need to check on the potatoes,” she said. “Kate, you come along. I’ve got things to say.”

  As Evelyn marched outside, I stared at Meg in helpless appeal, but she just raised her eyebrows and waved me on while the senator slumped into a kitchen chair with a groan of relief.

  I found Evelyn in the wire-fenced garden stepping lightly through low rows of plants, and noticed with new interest how rural it was here. The Coopers’ farmhouse was a farm in name only, its natural surroundings purely decorative. This one was a working farm, small but real. It surprised me—whether it was Meg’s mother or the senator’s, I guess I would’ve expected her to live in a fancy condo or a house even grander than the Coopers’ place in DC. But Evelyn moved through the hedges with purpose, and more than that, pride. This little farm was her kingdom. No wonder she acted like a despot.

  When we got far enough from the house, she turned on me with a scowl.

  “Don’t you let them push you around. They’ve got no right.”

  I had no response to that.

  “Oh,” I tried. “They aren’t—”

  “You’re a strong-willed girl,” she interrupted. “You know how I can tell?”

  I shook my head, but felt my spine straighten at the compliment.

  “Because you come from a long line of Goodwin women, that’s why.” She grinned, her cheeks crinkling, and all the age spots on her face transformed into girlish freckles.

  Goodwin. That must have been her maiden name. So now I was a Quinn, and a Cooper, and a Goodwin too.

  “Gracie’s a tough one and so are you.” She winked and poked me hard in the chest. Then she nodded as if that touch had confirmed it. “I can see it.”

  I had a sense all of a sudden of why Gracie had called her “my grandma,” so emphatically taking ownership over Evelyn back in DC when I’d first asked about grandparents. They had a bond. But maybe we could too.

  As we walked back to the house, she slung an arm around me.

  “You’re one of us. And we look out for our own. Always have done. Don’t forget that.”

  On the drive back, I wondered exactly what Evelyn had seen in me, what Goodwin trait had jumped out at her. Was it my freckles, my stubborn nose, or had she really read character in my face? I’d never thought of myself as strong, especially not now, after everything I’d been pelted with in the past year.

  I pictured myself as an old woman living by myself on an organic farm. It was surprisingly easy to imagine.

  It didn’t matter, though. She was wrong about the Coopers. Nobody was pushing me around. This was just the way campaigns worked. It was fine.

  • • •

  Saturday night turned out to be equal parts Stephen King and Little Women.

  In the early evening, we did last-minute interview prep. Nancy sat with me and asked questions, and I answered the way we’d rehearsed in front of cameras back at headquarters. Gracie lingered with us for a while, making a game of trying to answer the questions before me until Nancy shooed her away. By the end of the evening, I felt ready. Nervous—but prepped.

  Meg had insisted we all have an early night, but the twins’ anxiety over tomorrow had turned into giggle fits and races through the house’s uneven corridors. Keeping well out of that fight, I retreated to the sweet little room they’d given me, with its slanted roof and a window that looked out over the pond through wobbly panes of glass. I went to air out the dre
ss I’d be wearing tomorrow morning. Nancy had carefully selected it, and when she presented it to me before we left for Massachusetts, I’d been pleasantly surprised. It was simple, comfortable but cute, something I might have actually picked out for myself. It was Marc Jacobs too—a label even Penny would be impressed by.

  But when I went to look for it, my bag was already open, and inside, all I found were tatters. Someone had sliced my dress into pieces.

  I stared around the room, chilled, clutching the shreds of fabric to my chest. The bedroom window was locked. No one was hiding behind the hope chest at the end of the quilted bed. But a pair of blue craft scissors was lying open on the antique dresser.

  Downstairs, Meg had gotten Gabe into his twin bed, but Gracie was still jumping up and down on hers. The second she saw me—and the blue silk in my hands—her face went ghost white. In the next blink, she was a blur, streaking past me out the bedroom door.

  I streaked after her, shouting. Gracie careened around the corner, passing the stunned senator so narrowly that she made him drop his notes. I ran faster, letting go of what was left of the dress. She was fumbling for the handle of the door to the backyard, but it was locked. As I cornered her, she turned to face me, her chin jutted out in defiance.

  “Why would you do this?” I crouched to grab her arm, so mad I trembled, which made her shake too. “Why? What is your problem?”

  She just stared at me, her jaw grinding. Confused tears prickled my eyes. I thought frantically of the last few days, of what I might have done to make her lash out.

  At last, Gracie opened her mouth, but before she could answer, Meg’s voice rose up behind us.

  “Grace Eleanor Cooper.” Her tone was icier than anything I could have mustered. I looked over my shoulder to see her fingers streaming with blue fabric. “You have some serious explaining to do.”

  Whatever explanation there was, Gracie gave it to Meg behind a thick, mottled old kitchen door. When she came out again, it was only long enough to say a sullen “I’m sorry” before Meg ordered us both to bed.

  Andy called at almost midnight, waking me up. I wasn’t sure how thin these walls were, so I pulled the quilt over me like a tent to muffle my voice.

  “Why are we whispering?” Andy whispered.

  “Everyone’s asleep.”

  “Ah.” His voice went back to normal. “So. Are you around this weekend?”

  I flushed, wondering if he was about to ask me out again. Neither of us had mentioned the accidental kiss from the night of the concert; the fact that he was still calling gave me hope that it wasn’t quite as awkward as I remembered it.

  “Actually, no.” I sighed. “We’re in Massachusetts, getting ready for this—”

  My mouth clamped shut, putting the brakes on what I was about to tell him. The campaign was keeping this interview secret. I didn’t really see the harm in telling him, and he might even be able to give me pointers on surviving the dreaded family interview, but still . . .

  “Top secret something or other?” he offered. “That’s too bad. I was gonna sneak out for a movie or something. Thought we could rendezvous.”

  “Next time,” I promised, knowing as I said it that it was a terrible, terrible, wonderful idea.

  • • •

  Sunday morning, just before dawn, Meg shook me gently awake. The makeup crew had arrived, along with a full battalion of staffers.

  They’d flown my usual makeup girl up for the interview. She was more nervous than I was. “Do you think I’ll get to meet Shawna?” she asked, dabbing my cheeks with liquid blush.

  When I emerged from makeup and hair, Nancy was pacing the perimeter of the house with her earpiece in, conversing with the air and delegating tasks to aides in hushed asides.

  She interrupted her march when she saw what I was wearing—a blue short-sleeved shirt and black skirt, the closest match to the ruined dress that I could muster from my luggage.

  “What happened to what we talked about?” Her voice was quiet but sharp-edged.

  Gracie chose that moment to walk into the hall. Hearing the conversation, she halted mid-stomp, her eyes frozen wide.

  “I spilled something on it.”

  “Kate,” Nancy sighed. “Well, that’ll have to do.”

  Gracie looked wary as I approached, eyes turned up and head hung like a dog expecting a beating. I was still angry, but I confined my revenge to bumping her with my hip as I sauntered past.

  “Thank you,” she said, so quietly I could barely hear it. She trailed me into the kitchen, where Meg was trying to cajole Gabe into eating some cereal. I poured my second coffee of the morning and continued into the living room. The TV was on, of course. There didn’t seem to be anything new in the news ticker.

  The back door opened with a creak. Elliott strode in and held it for the senator, looking, as usual, like he owned the place.

  When he saw me, his face contorted. “No!”

  I flinched.

  “I told you, hair up! Ponytail!”

  My mouth fell open in disbelief, sure that he was yelling at me—until I saw my makeup artist cringing in the doorway behind me. My fists balled up.

  “It’s hair, Elliott,” I found myself snapping. “It’s just hair.”

  Before he could start screaming about the importance of minute stylistic details, I smiled. That shut him up.

  “We’ll fix it!” I spun, grabbed the stunned makeup girl, and left the room.

  Everyone’s wound up, I reminded myself. Let’s just get through this.

  Once my horrifying hairdo error was fixed, the staff fled the house like it was on fire—first stylists, aides, and then, finally, thankfully, Elliott himself—until only Nancy remained.

  As she trotted past me in the hall, she tugged on my ponytail. “You look so cute! Good call on the outfit.”

  I was still glowing from the compliment when the senator opened the front door and Shawna Freaking Wells walked in with her camera crew.

  She looked exactly the same as she did on TV, a tall, beautiful black woman with a chin-length bob and skin that seemed never to age. Seeing her here, in the flesh, right in front of me, felt somehow more surreal than any of the other celebrity encounters of the past several weeks. When I shook her hand—her warm, soft, actual hand!—my words of greeting sputtered and died in my mouth.

  Shawna had been a morning fixture in our house in LA for as long as I could remember, practically an alarm clock. Every day, without fail, “I’m Shawna Wells and here’s this morning’s news . . .”

  If seeing the president and his wife was like watching wax figures come to life, today was that much stranger—I was meeting someone I’d known my whole life. And what was even more amazing, Shawna greeted us the same way—as old friends, a family that she was thrilled to catch up with at long last.

  “Senator.” She clasped both of his hands in hers. “Thank you for welcoming me into your home.”

  They started by getting what they called “B-roll” shots of all of us hanging out around the house. I noticed again what a nice job the campaign staff had done here, making it look lived-in, cozy, even a little messy. Shawna chatted with us the whole time, small-talk questions, off-the-record, like “What’s the best place you’ve visited so far, Kate?” I knew it was to warm us up, to get us relaxed so she could ask more pointed questions. They’d prepped me on that. Even so, I liked her for it.

  When it came time for the first set of on-the-record questions, we all sat on the sofa, Gabe and Gracie to my right, and the senator and Meg to my left. Nancy orchestrated it carefully as the crew was setting up, making me wonder how long the aides had deliberated on the right seating arrangement for this shot.

  The camera turned on and I gave Gabe’s hand a squeeze. Shawna noticed it, motioned to her cameraman. When she asked the twins how they liked having a new big sister, they stayed with what we’d practiced. Then Gracie added something of her own.

  “I like that she’s pretty and that she’s smart.” She g
lanced at me, an apology in her eyes. “She’s a really good sister.”

  In answer, I broke from the polite posture we’d practiced in “media training” to gather Gracie up in a hug. Gabe crumpled out of the way and we all started laughing.

  “That was great, Kate,” Nancy whispered when we broke for a new setup. “They’ll use that. Nice work.”

  During planning, they’d asked me whether I’d prefer to be interviewed with just the senator or both Coopers. “Both,” I’d said quickly. Nancy seemed pleased, Elliott less so. I guess he hadn’t noticed how stilted my conversations with the senator still were, how much closer I was with Meg.

  We shot this portion in another corner of the living room where the crew had rigged up a draped backdrop and a set of blinding lights. Shawna was studying note cards when we sat down.

  Here we go.

  We were prepared for most of the questions. Nancy and Elliott had been smart to focus so much on prepping us—and accurate in their predictions of what “America” would want to know.

  “What was your first reaction?” Shawna asked me. “When you learned about your father.”

  “Mostly shock,” I said, the honest answer we’d arrived at by committee. “But once I met my dad—and then Gabe and Gracie and Meg—it all kind of clicked that this was my family and this was where I was meant to be.”

  Judging by Shawna’s glowing reaction, my answer was a winner. I relaxed even more as she asked Meg and the senator how they’d told the twins about me. It was as though she was following the campaign’s script for how this interview would go.

  Off on the sidelines, Nancy had a tight almost-smile, like a coach watching her team taking the lead.

  The first surprise came after the cameras stopped rolling. Shawna stood and touched me lightly on the shoulder.