Patricia was curious. She asked what my mother said the night my father tore my closet door off its hinges.
I’d wanted Cricket spitting mad; I’d felt it a requirement of motherhood that she defend me. But it wasn’t in her nature, and when she didn’t, I understood. My closet door was evidence of what happened when one took a stand against Gregory Richardson. “She said I should’ve come down for dinner. And the next day, a stranger came and took the broken door out of my room. Cricket never replaced it, and we never spoke of it again. Maybe Cricket didn’t want to replace it, probably because then she’d have to reckon with this awful thing my father did. Or maybe she left it off because she wanted to remind me.”
Of what?
I glanced at the mantel clock, placed discreetly on the bookshelf behind her; I couldn’t forget that I was paying for her to listen. Without a salary, it might be another four months before I saw her again. But we were over time, and I didn’t want her next client to be delayed. “It reminded me,” I said, “of how little power I actually had.”
“Or, maybe,” said Patricia, “your mother just didn’t want you sitting in the dark.”
“That’s where I am, though. Despite her best efforts. I’m sitting in a dark room, scared, trying not to make any sudden movements. And I’m still getting clobbered.”
“So,” said Patricia, closing her notebook, “this seems like a simple solution. Switch rooms.”
“How?”
“You mentioned earlier your friend had invited you to Charleston. Why don’t you go?”
I protested. Blake was there. What if the cameras caught us again? All it would take was one uploaded video of uneven quality and bad sound, and any hope of getting back into Miles’s good graces would be squashed, understandably. I would have to hold myself to the same exacting standard that the political world held him.
“Fine,” Patricia said. “Stay here. Because it’s working out so well for you.” She looked at me, smiling, knowing she’d just dropped the mic.
Touché, Patricia.
I gave her a quick thank you. I did the whole graceless goodbye, see you soon, maybe, depending on this little job thing. “No problem,” she said, understanding, yet firm. Patricia was nice, but she wasn’t a charity. It went unsaid that if I wanted to return, it would once again be one hundred and twenty-five dollars for an hour. “Be well,” she said. “Take the trip.” Then I was out into the world again.
My route back to the bus stop took me a stone’s throw from P. On a whim, I walked over. There was a dumpster on the curb, and a portable toilet partially hidden behind Cricket’s beloved Japanese maple. In the window—the same I’d paid to replace after the brick—construction permits. It was true, as Wallis had said to Atlas, and I had just discussed with Patricia, this house wasn’t entirely filled with happy memories. But it had still been my home, and I felt uneasy witnessing its evolution into someone else’s.
Curious, I started to climb the front stairs with the intention of peeking inside. It was a Saturday, and there didn’t seem to be any activity. I thought it would be safe. I’d only made it to the stoop before I heard a voice call out. “Excuse me! Can I help you?” I whirled, feeling like an intruder caught in the act. On the sidewalk below, a man, toolbelt, hard hat, the whole ensemble, stared at me, arms crossed. “This is a closed construction site.”
“Sorry!” I said. Then, hoping it might assuage his suspicions: “I used to live here.”
His unfriendly expression didn’t change. “Well, lady,” he said, “you don’t anymore.”
I felt a throb of anger in my throat not only at his tone but because he was right. I apologized again, then scurried down the steps and across the street.
As I made my way back toward the bus stop on Wisconsin, I acknowledged that Patricia had been right; I was worried about Wallis and the scene she’d make if reunited with Blake, but I did need to change views. The touchstones of my old DC life were no longer recognizable. P Street, my job, even Wallis and Atlas were transforming, and all the while, what was I doing? Eating fried rice and doing laundry and playing Minecraft and burying the truth about my father. That is to say, nothing worthwhile.
I pulled out my phone. Pack your bags, I texted Wallis. We’re going to Charleston.
Twenty-One
“That’s a nice dress,” Wallis said. We were on the jet bridge, bags wheeling behind us. Mine had a crack in its shell, Wallis’s a bright green ribbon around its handle. These details encapsulated our different states of mind pretty well, I’d say. “Is it new?”
The dress was cream with ruffles around the shoulders. I’d bought it yesterday at the last minute upon realizing that Wallis was right; my wardrobe was mostly workwear. Inside I was tense, but at least outwardly I could try to mask it with some frill.
“The clearance racks are always full of size twelves,” I said, as we shuffled forward. “I got a few new things.”
“Wow,” Wallis said, tucking the label into the back of my dress.
“Why are you surprised? You said to go shopping. I listened.”
For about the hundredth time since we’d arrived at the airport, she drew her phone from her jean jacket pocket and checked her texts. “I say so many things.” There didn’t seem to be anything that required her attention, so back the phone went. I could sense her gazing at me, wanting me to respond, perhaps to ask: How’s Blake? Or is Blake excited you’re coming? But when I couldn’t, she said, “Okay, what’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” I said, staring at the back of the blue-suited business traveler in front of us. “Why would something be wrong?”
“You seem, like, blah,” Wallis said. “I know you were on the fence about this trip, but I’d hoped you might have come around by now. This weekend will be so fun.”
Her words reminded me that a text from Atlas awaited my response. He’d messaged me that morning, asking about my weekend plans, what I was up to that night. But in the frantic pre-airport hours filled with last-minute packing and a ride share that canceled last second, I’d forgotten about it. I fished through the contents of my overpacked purse, found my phone and his text, and a more recent one, too. Keen to catch up, he’d written just an hour ago, an addendum to all the ones from earlier.
He’d been sending quite a few of these texts over the last couple days, ever since I’d ignored his call at the book party. I suspected the reason he wanted to see me—to tell me that Ari was back—and I couldn’t dream of a conversation I needed less. I didn’t know why he was so desperate to inform me of their relationship status. He was with her. I got it. I was all set. I had been running out of excuses for why I was busy, but now I finally had a real one.
“So?” Wallis nudged me for my answer to her question. “Can you just tell me what’s up with you?”
“There’s been a lot going on, Wallis,” I said as I began my text to Atlas. “A lot to manage.”
“If you’re trying to manage me, you can take that off your plate.” Wallis stood on her toes to see over heads. The line to board, already at a crawl, had stopped moving entirely.
“Manage you?” I asked.
I’m about to board a flight to Charleston for the weekend.
“I see it, sometimes,” Wallis said. “Don’t you?” At this question, I looked up from my phone. “You’re like someone from the bomb unit in your protective padding. Fiddling with my wires. Or at least putting a protective box over me. I want to give you a break from that.”
His response came immediately: Charleston? For anything specific?
“Wallis, honey,” I said. Bo has invited us down for a party. “It’s adorable you’d think I’d even attempt to manage you.”
We were able to start walking again, which was positive, as Wallis seemed about ready to bulldoze through the line. “It’s adorable,” she said, “that you think you aren’t doing it.”
I fi
gured it might have something to do with Blake Darley. He’s in Charleston, right?
The flight attendant gave our boarding passes a cursory glance, and to the second-to-last row we went, me to the window and Wallis to the aisle. I didn’t mind sitting in the back of the plane; I’d heard somewhere that was the safest place to be in the event of a crash-landing.
Bo had wanted us to travel together, but there had been less expensive flights available, and he couldn’t argue against that. We’d land a few hours behind him, taxi to his family’s home, try not to make a fuss upon arrival.
“Fine,” Wallis said, once we’d found our assigned pair of seats and I still had not answered her. “You say nothing’s wrong, and I am going to choose to believe you. Besides, I don’t think your mood will last long in Charleston anyway. How can one drink sweet tea and be pissy at the same time? Doesn’t seem possible.”
“I’m not so sure,” I said, packing our suitcases into the overhead compartment as an impatient passenger tried to jam herself by me. “Sugar can conceal a lot.”
“I know you’re secretly happy, even if you’re acting like a grump now,” Wallis said from her seat. She took a tangled pair of earphones from her purse, unfurled them with more pleasure than the task deserved. I could tell she was trying to fuel her own excitement with the possibility of my own. I could practically feel her anticipation. She seemed to levitate.
Let me rephrase. Wallis is going for Blake. I’m going for Bo.
I see. Sorry we’re missing each other.
I’m the worst, I wrote to Atlas, not sure if I meant it or not. Then, sliding in past Wallis and taking my seat: “I won’t dampen your spirits anymore. Heaven forbid I carry with me a stench of grumpiness.”
“Daisy,” Wallis said, sparing me only a glance, “I’m just kidding.”
The cockpit announcements came, along with the reminders of everything we’d heard dozens of times before. Wallis was instructed to put her phone on airplane mode. I, on the other hand, wore my seat belt tight on my hips and had already made sure my window shade was up. The flight attendants never had any commands for me.
“Will Blake be in Charleston this weekend?” I asked once Wallis had complied. “Have you made plans to see him?” This was something, in case our plane went down, that I wanted to know. I wanted to know what my sister was dying for.
“Have to figure that out,” she said. “We’ve been dealing with his busy schedule. He’s pretty sure he’ll be in town. We’ve been texting. We email. Why are you looking at me like that?”
“I wasn’t aware,” I said carefully, “that you’ve been in touch to such an extent.” I understood that it wasn’t really over between them, but I’d thought the status was more tenuous.
She shrugged. “You haven’t asked.”
“You told me when he left that you didn’t want to talk about it!” I said. “I was respecting your wishes.”
“I’m talking about it now, aren’t I? I’m happy. I’m positive. I think he and I can get back on track. With his mother on her way out of the Senate...” She trailed off and lifted her body slightly to see past me and out the plane’s window.
Ari had been right, after all. POTUS had released a statement last week nominating Melinda Darley for health secretary. On-air anchors and pundits chewed over the nomination all day long and into the predawn hours, when I, red-eyed, dreading another day filled with empty hours, didn’t have the will to change the channel.
“Things seem possible, now,” continued Wallis, back in proper flying position and evidently satisfied with her view, “in the way they didn’t before. He won’t need to run her office. When she’s confirmed to the cabinet, she won’t be up for reelection. That is potentially life-changing.” Wallis rubbed her hands together. “It’s the maneuverings of the universe.”
“Bo has been so generous to invite us to his parents’ house,” I cautioned. I wanted to temper her expectations; I hadn’t forgotten Melinda Darley’s proprietary words in the graveyard weeks ago. “Bo’s mother, by the way, is a former Freedom Rider, lawyer, and current judge on the Fourth Circuit Court of Appeals. His father was the first African American to chair the State Board of Education and is currently a professor at The Citadel.”
“Bo is such a gem, I’m not surprised his parents are also amazing,” said Wallis, before putting the buds of her headphones in her ears. “I just downloaded the album of this great Charleston band. Blake told me about them. They’re, like, Southern and rock and soul.”
I wanted to remove the wires from her grasp, the way a parent pries sharp scissors out of a child’s hand, to make sure she heard me. “We have to be on our best behavior.”
“Always.” This, and a smile, was all she gave me.
We had an on-time departure, maybe a little early. There was a hard shudder after takeoff, but I fixed my eyes on the scenery below, begging the plane to right itself, the pill I had taken to work. We flew over the low buildings of Old Town Alexandria, the Wilson Bridge and its tangle of off-ramps, the cherry-red roof of Mount Vernon, and into the clouds. The flight attendant made the rounds at cruising altitude. Would we like to buy a sandwich or a drink? My last paycheck had come last week. It was meager, just covering the few days in the cycle before Miles had put me on leave. Until I was back at work, I would get nothing, which meant no special snacks. “No, thank you,” I told the flight attendant. “But I will take those free pretzels.”
I practiced deep breathing and affirmation mantras. You’re safe. You’re safe. I used Wallis’s jacket as a blanket, and watched the clouds below. Maybe it was the pill, the hum of the plane, or the sounds of pressurized air, but I sank into that place between sleep and wakefulness. I thought—dreamed?—of Atlas in Cricket’s kitchen, his hair beautiful and mussed, his voice deep and assuring, his eyes, blue, fixed on me. Had there been signs of what he’d been hiding about Ari’s return?
I believed if I stared at him long enough, I might be able to articulate the truth of how he made me feel—safe, frustrated, lonely, loved. I had the words, almost, but then Ari appeared next to him. In her eyes, I saw her plans and her orders, her agnostic views of us all. She was beautiful, and she would take him.
My head jolted and I became fully alert. The pilot announced that we were beginning our descent into Charleston, and I had to blink several times to get my bearings. Wallis looked at me and grinned.
When we touched ground, and I turned my phone back on, there was another text from Atlas: Please call me when you can.
* * *
Leaving the airport, we drove through the late-spring drizzle to the appointed address on Rutledge Street. By the time Bo met us at the gate, the clouds had moved on, the sun returned.
“Shorts!” Wallis exclaimed after jumping out of the taxi and giving him a hug. “I’ve never seen you in shorts. And they’re pink. We are really letting loose this weekend, aren’t we?”
In DC, Bo was rarely out of solid-color button-downs, overlarge khaki pants, and square-toed black shoes. But here he stood before us, head to knee in pastel, stylish loafers without socks. “I’ve already had two Bloodys,” Bo said. For all his talk of his complicated relationship with his parents and his hometown, he did seem very relaxed. Maybe it was the vodka, or the smell of jasmine, or the weather that allowed for summer clothes that elevated his mood. “Put me in shorts, and I’m a different man.”
We dragged our bags up the pea gravel drive toward the house, which was three stories with front facing piazzas on the bottom two. Brown brick and black shutters, porch ceilings painted haint blue.
“Tell us about the house,” Wallis said. “You grew up here?”
“We had a smaller place on the East side of Charleston when I was little, but we moved over here once my sister and I were old enough to start school. This is Judge Collette Reed’s labor of love. Mind you fawn over it. That will score you some points.”
&
nbsp; A truck, looked like catering, came in the gate behind us, and we stepped aside to a wisteria-draped stone wall along the driveway to give it room.
“What is the plan for the day?” I asked after we resumed our walk to the house, our suitcases making tracks in the gravel. “Just tell us where we need to be.”
“My parents are hosting an intimate dinner for thirty tonight. Cocktails and appetizers at quarter past five. My father likes punctuality.”
“Thank you,” I said, already fretting about what to wear. Which of my new clothes would be appropriate? “We’ll gladly take any and all instruction.”
“Daisy likes to know the rules for social situations,” Wallis teased.
“I don’t want to screw up,” I said.
“You won’t. And the big party, the official engagement party,” Bo said, using air quotes, “is tomorrow night. We’re going south of Broad for that one. My mother’s best friend is putting up a tent in her garden.”
“How lovely,” I said, thinking of my mother, back at home, and wishing she were here. She loved garden parties.
“My mother couldn’t turn her down, although she wanted to. The stakes are higher, now, for the actual wedding. We can’t be upstaged by an engagement party!” He said this with mock horror as we took the porch steps, painted a glossy gray.
“Can we get your mother something?” I asked. “For hosting us this weekend?”
“Tulips,” Bo said in front of the door. “Orange. Now, she’s put you on the top floor, so we have some steps. You’ll have to share a room, but it comes with a bathroom. Here, give me your bags. And come on in.”
We entered to find Collette Reed in the flesh, holding court in the foyer. Behind a pair of robust black glasses, her eyes—Bo’s eyes—turned to appraise us, then went back to the young woman standing before her with a notepad and a stressed expression. An assistant, I guessed. She had that posture, and when Judge Reed dismissed her, she scuttled away, her ill-fitting flats hitting her heels.
Ladies of the House Page 16
