She gazed out the window again. She had no problem with this city itself, it was lovely. The fields and farms they’d passed on the way from their rally by the airport reminded her of home in Alabama. She and Hank spent the majority of their time in New York now, ever since Hank had bought that basketball team. His oil company could run itself at this point. Hank preferred New York to anywhere, and that was certainly all right with her. Her true priority was just to keep her family unit as intact as possible on a daily basis. Or three out of four of them, with Henry, their oldest just a train ride away at boarding school. So New York worked.
Their six-year-old daughter, Gemma, was back in New York with her nanny now, and Madison missed her dearly. Earlier in the day, she had managed to break away from the Hank Machine—as she dubbed the handlers traveling with them 24/7 now—to wander the sculpture park just blocks from the hotel, and had texted Gemma a picture of one piece, the bunny “thinker” sitting on a rock. Madison had sat beneath the spindly branches of the white enamel tree sculpture until she got too cold, yearning for the pinecones Gemma would bring home in her lunch box after weekly nature walks through Central Park with her school class. Though she missed their old life, she actually enjoyed seeing all these towns with Hank. She met so many kind people who wanted to take a picture with her, who held her hands and told her how hard their lives were and how much they needed to believe in someone. Hearing the stories of struggling families, the tears welled in Madison’s own eyes. It was bad out there. They did need someone to believe in. She just wasn’t quite sure her husband was the one for the job.
Madison heard Mike sigh, and from the corner of her eye, watched as he vigorously shook his prematurely balding head, like a dog trying to shimmy water off his coat. She fluffed up her ginger hair and reached into her purse for lip gloss and her Chanel glasses—she just felt she should be wearing glasses for this.
Mike sighed again, ran his fingers through his hair.
“I can hear ya, Wilson,” Hank said flatly, his back to the man as his longtime makeup artist, Penny, spackled a spot on his left cheekbone.
Wilson, Madison thought, that was his name.
“What’s goin’ on over there?”
“Nothing, Bomb,” he said unconvincingly.
Hank liked to be called this, as in “H-Bomb.” It had started in high school when he was a football star who could blaze through any obstacle, and he saw no reason to discontinue it now, in his late forties, after making himself into a billionaire oil man/basketball and baseball team owner/stock market-playing champ.
Mike went on. “It’s just, that, well. Madison—?”
Here it came, she thought. She looked up. Ready. “Hmm?” She smiled innocently.
“We just got a PDF of the interview from Us Weekly. Madison’s cover.”
“Maddy, hear that?” Hank asked.
“I saw! We look divine!” she said, bubbly. The photo of the four of them—Henry, had even come in from Andover—really was frameable. She looked much younger than forty-four and wondered how much—if any—Photoshopping had been done. Not that she minded. Just the opposite; she would’ve liked to know who to thank.
“Yes, Bomb, it’s a handsome photo shoot.” Mike gave Madison the side-eye. “But I’m afraid we’re going to need them to issue some major corrections, sir.”
“You don’t say?” Hank looked over now.
“I mean, I was there. For the interview. But. This is. I don’t know. This is...ridiculous,” Mike stammered.
“What’s he talking about, Magnolia? Someone show this thing to me,” Hank said, still seated.
Madison looked on from behind her spectacles and her cappuccino, pleasantly confused. “What exactly is the problem, Mike?” she asked in her sweetest, most honey-coated voice.
“Madison.”
Mike stood now, taking a few steps in her direction, eyes on his phone. “I was sitting in on this interview. I don’t remember ninety percent of this.”
She wished he would just stop talking, wished, for instance, that there was a ladylike way to punch him in the face. Instead, she just smiled.
“How can anyone make that much up? Get ’em on the horn!” Hank said, angry now.
“Relax, dear, you’ll mess up your makeup,” Madison said calmly.
“She’s right,” Penny agreed under her breath.
“When did you say these things?” Mike pushed.
“What things? I thought it was a delightful interview.”
“‘Delightful,’” Mike repeated. “Things like, ‘My husband would look soooo handsome in the Oval Office. He certainly looks better in a suit than any of his opponents seeking the nomination. Attractive people are good at getting what they want and that would be good for the American people, in terms of foreign policy and so forth.’”
“Right. You’ve got to admit that’s true.” She grinned. It did happen to be true. At forty-eight, Hank still had a boyishness about him, a full head of blond hair (with wisps of distinguished gray mixed in), a trim physique and that Southern charm. Anyone with eyes would have to agree. And she thought she had spoken well. She had always liked how you could add “and so forth” to any statement to give it an air of authority, as though there was so much more you could add but you were giving people just the most salient points. It was an old pageant interview trick. She had scored under just Miss New York in the interview component, way back when.
“She’s got a point, Mike,” Hank considered.
“Well, I’m not sure voters will find it encouraging to hear you say—” he began to read again “—‘Hank knows that I know him better than anyone, better than he even knows himself sometimes, so I’m probably his most trusted adviser, always have been—except those few years when we were divorced, before getting back together again—but otherwise, always have been, always will.’ There’s so much wrong there, besides it being a run-on sentence.”
“These are lovely things to say, aren’t they? I felt like I didn’t give the reporter enough, you know, what would you call it? Meat. During the interview at the house—”
“Meat,” Mike repeated.
“And I wanted to be super—what’s your word, Mike?—approachable.”
“Approachable,” he parroted.
“So I called her back, and we talked a little more,” she said lightly, with a shrug, taking a sip of her cappuccino.
“Of course you did. Okay, well, maybe never do that again.” Mike threw his hands in the air.
“I don’t think I love how you’re talking to me.” She softened her words with a flutter of her lashes.
“You two, get along already,” Hank ordered them from the vanity across the bedroom, tissues in his collar, as Penny airbrushed on his sun-kissed glow. “Hey! Whiplash!” he called out, loud enough to reach the living room, where a handful of trusted advisers could be heard gaming out his Iowa victory rally a day early. His deputy chief of staff, who had started as his driver on the oil company payroll and worked his way up, poked his head in the door. “Where are we on getting this thing tonight moved inside? What kind of idiot books a rally outside in Iowa in January? Gonna be a blizzard tonight.”
“Working on it, Bomb,” Whiplash said, managing not to add that Hank himself had been the idiot. “John is on the phone now with...”
Hank, lost in a status update, had moved on.
“Look, this was supposed to be your big introduction to the American people,” Mike said, sitting on a desk as though he wanted to appear like he was trying to reason.
Madison wasn’t impressed. She chuckled. “The American people already know me.”
“No offense, but Miss Fifty States was...a while ago,” he said, cautious. “They need to be reintroduced to you. And saying things like...” He looked at his phone again, reading in that disapproving tone, “‘Honestly, it’s all a bit stressful. My husband was more f
un before the campaign, and I think he spent more time helping people. He used to give away millions of dollars anonymously every year, and now it’s all going to the campaign. I can understand the need for campaign finance law reform. It shouldn’t cost so much to compete for a job. Although, this is the American dream, isn’t it?’” He shook his phone. “Saying this is not the way to do it. I don’t think the American people want to hear about campaign finance reform from you, with all due respect. That’s not your...function...in our unit here.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.” She offered that “who, me?” smile again. “Of course. Won’t happen again. I was just trying to bring something more to the table.”
“Next time, just bring, I don’t know, flowers. From your garden in the Hamptons,” he said. “That would actually be a great idea, and very FLOTUS of you. You know, the White House has a garden.”
“What a winning idea!” She nodded enthusiastically.
“Mike, I need ya. You guys done throwin’ mud?” Hank said lightly, winking at Madison. “Bottom line, Maddy, muzzle it up.”
“Oh, Hank, you’re such a sweet talker.” She laughed it off, not taking any of it seriously, and sipped her cappuccino as she reread Birdie Brandywine’s note. This campaign was going to get ugly.
6
AWWW, HONEY, YOU’RE A CAMPAIGN WIDOW
Mere hours to go until Birdie’s grand Iowa soiree and the Brandywine home was nearly ready: it had been transformed into a veritable greenhouse of peonies, calla lilies and French tulips, just enough without appearing overcrowded or worse, gauche. A fleet of chafing dishes sat on the sharp-edged marble dining-room table just waiting to be laid with a buffet of delicacies. Florists, caterers, decorators, so many bodies working all afternoon as one well-oiled machine to ensure the quadrennial festivities would go off without a hitch. Only two hiccups had contributed to Birdie’s need to dip into that secret Valium stash in her lingerie drawer.
The first: Buck. He should’ve been long gone by the time she’d arrived this morning. And then ambushing her writer? She had been only forty minutes late and had shown her interviewer such a pithy-quotable good time, what did it matter really?
The second: the forks and knives sparkling under her $30,000 Lalique chandelier. She’d spotted them while ushering out The Queue reporter. “No, no, no!” she’d barked, brandishing a silver dinner knife at a trio of cater waiters like it was a switchblade in a particularly well-appointed street fight. “We cannot serve anything resembling a main course. Everything bite-sized! Or I’ll have ethics committees from every branch of government up my...” Deep breath. “Do you know how many elected officials are coming tonight? Where’s Michael? He should be here. Check the original order—bamboo sticks, cocktail forks, shot glasses with those tiny spoons. This is a huge f—” She’d caught herself, remembering to be polite lest she should wind up in the gossip blogs for the wrong reasons...again. “Foul up. Many thanks, loves.”
By the time the TV crew knocked at the door, the music boomed out of the built-in Bose sound system throughout the house, her hair and makeup team had come and gone, and she had slipped into that splashy red, white and blue Jason Wu cocktail dress (made just for her). She felt that hum of anticipation (sweetly muted by the tranquilizer) in her veins. Still, it nagged at her just enough that she couldn’t help but wonder: How much had that writer, Jay, picked up on? Had he read the chill in the room when she’d arrived? Caught her peeking at her phone after their tour to find that text from Buck, who’d departed for the airport without a proper goodbye: Didn’t want to interrupt interview, he wrote. Not sure what to think. You can spin me when I’m back. See you in a few days.
She greeted the grizzled cameraman she recognized from four years ago and a young woman she had never met. “Ah, so Gracie finally decided to sit one out,” Birdie said to the young woman and cameraman standing on her doorstep.
“Well, really, I just wanted to see your beautiful home for myself. Cady Davenport, senior producer, Best Day DC. I’m new to the show and having too much fun to share the good assignments. But Gracie sends her best.”
“I’m sure she does.” Birdie laughed. “But as Madeleine Albright once said, ‘There’s a special place in hell for women who bring cheap wine and cheaper morals to other women’s dinner parties.’”
* * *
Tour and interview complete—and perfect Birdie-isms dutifully captured, among them Cady’s favorite on the matter of updating the historical home—“I caught some flak for making changes, but, you know, we can respect the past without having to actually live in it.”—Cady and Max, her cameraman, camped out in the news van, editing the segment so all that remained would be to drop in scenes from the party itself. From the moment she had set foot in that house, Cady was grateful she’d had the good sense to let Gracie Garfield off the hook. The show’s longtime host—six feet tall, blonde, fifty-something and accustomed to getting what she asked for—had cornered Cady after the morning meeting and informed her with the frosty, formal tone, “I need to respectfully withdraw from this assignment. I don’t feel I am best suited for such an undertaking.” Cady had sensed she could bank points by giving in, no questions asked, and doing the segment herself.
By 7:30 that evening, the sun had set and the lights from a constant stream of sedans and limos lit up N Street, discharging so many familiar, cocktail-attired partygoers. As she and Max made their way back inside, Cady felt the electricity: the buzz of weighty conversation (Iraq, China, Wall Street, Senate hearings, polls) spoken in the impassioned tones usually reserved for matters of the heart or the arts, the clink of crystal stemware, the glow of flat screens mounted in every room set to news coverage on every network. She had covered her share of parties but had never seen so many truly powerful names clustered under one roof: cabinet secretaries, senators, an ex-president or two, a few Hollywood stars, and of course, a retinue of reporters and news anchors. If anything happened to the president and vice president, then the nation could ably be run by the people in this house, and there would be plenty of press to keep everyone informed of it all.
They were given exactly twenty minutes to shoot the party, and she and Max set to work circulating, capturing snippets of spirited cocktail chatter, giving socialites the chance to twirl and preen, and catching cameos of the big names. They followed Birdie, rolling tape as she welcomed guests with air-kisses and witticisms. When she came upon that chiseled, charming CNN anchor Grant Foxhall, she told him with a laugh, “Just because Buck is on MSNBC tonight doesn’t mean we actually have to watch!” and then flipped the channel. In fact, Cady noticed, she did that in every room they passed through.
As soon as their time was up, Birdie clapped her hands, three loud staccato claps, instantly gaining the attention of the entire first floor: “Okay, everyone say good night to Best Day DC. The camera crew is leaving,” she announced. “We’re off the record now. Commence raucous caucusing!” A cheer erupted, and the conversation returned to its roar.
“Thank you, darlings, it was a pleasure,” she said. “And, of course, feel free to linger in the capacity of guests. You just have to check that thing at the door.” She pointed at the camera as though it were emitting an unsavory scent. “I won’t get any of the good dirt otherwise, and that really is the whole point of having a party in the first place, isn’t it?”
Cady couldn’t resist. She was instantly glad she had worn her favorite black sheath and quickly doffed her blazer, folding it over her satchel.
“My kind of girl,” Birdie said in approval, plucking two champagne flutes from a waiter’s tray while nodding and waving to revelers sashaying past. “Salud!” she toasted Cady. “So this airs tomorrow morning?” She sipped, then grabbed the remote control from inside an urn on the table beside them.
“Absolutely. The segment will actually run two or three times over the course of the—”
“So tell me,” Birdie cut her off. “Y
ou’re new you said. You came from...?”
“New York. The city’s number one morning show called—”
“How are you enjoying it? Here? Working with Gracie?” Birdie asked, pointing the remote toward the flat screen carefully, like it was target practice.
Glancing at the TV to avoid eye contact, Cady formulated a neutral response. “I, of course, don’t know her well, but I know her work and she seems to be well respected. She certainly knows...” She trailed off, a figure on screen catching her eye, just behind the MSNBC reporter’s live shot from a crowded hotel ballroom in Des Moines. “Wait a minute! Don’t!” Cady blurted out, grabbing Birdie’s arm reflexively to keep her from switching channels again. The chyron read Carter Thompson Headquarters.
“That’s my boyfriend! Fiancé!” She shook her head, something to get used to. “I mean, yeah, that’s him, Jackson.” She pointed to the screen, where Jackson smiled as he chatted on his phone in the background. Cady spotted a few of Jackson’s colleagues and Carter, of course, high-fiving supporters. Late forties, slim suit, freshly shined shoes, expertly gelled hair, Representative Carter Thompson looked like he could be Jackson’s big brother, which had been a large part of their instant bond in the mayor’s office. Cady had known Carter as the New York City mayor’s chief of staff before he had quickly become one of DC’s hottest freshman congressmen and most eligible bachelors.
Campaign Widows Page 4
