“Is that an option?” He held up the bowl. “Yes? Wait—” he dumped the nuts out onto the table “—maybe?”
“Uhhh...” She looked at Max, who appeared to be taping already.
“No, sorry, that’s...never mind... I just.” He took a deep breath, hung his head. “So, yeah, Melanie broke up with me. And gave me back the ring and all, not unlike that one, and I’m not sure if I can get my money back or what. I guess it’s good she gave it back, but now I have to deal with it. Hell, I could probably upgrade the bar stools or something with what I paid for that sucker. And this place, what the fuck? It’s like she left me with our kid—this bar—and ran away, and I don’t know how the fuck to raise it.” It all came out like one long sentence.
“Wow. Okay.” Cady nodded. She looked back at Max and made a motion to stop rolling.
“Yeah. Sorry. I tend to just expel...stuff... Am I talking too much? Still freshly wounded here. My filter is off. Way off.”
“Yeah, no, no, I get that. I’m really sorry. That’s awful. Okay, first.” She slipped off her ring, held it up for inspection and made a show of tucking it into her bag, nestling it into a small, zippered pocket.
He exhaled. “Thank you.”
“Next, total unemotional, fact-gathering question. What’s the deal legally with the bar? Any kind of joint custody situation or really you’re a single dad to it?”
“Single dad. Bought this place with my money. We were just gonna run it together.” He said it wistfully, and she felt for him.
“Okay, so let’s do this thing.” She clapped once, like a coach. “You just need an angle on this.”
“Right,” he said. And a second later, “What?”
“You know, do you want to go into the whole...thing...about what happened with Melanie? Go for, like, the sympathy vote to get people here?”
He was expressionless.
She was glad. “Because if I might make a suggestion...?”
He nodded.
“Let’s just rewrite history now. This is the first press you’ve done?”
“Yep.”
“Good. Pull down what’s on the website and write your own story, right now. New start.” She sensed this was going to take more work than anticipated and settled in for the long haul. As she spoke, she wound her hair into a bun and secured it with her pen, then nestled back into the booth. “Edit her out. Tell me why you, Parker—just Parker, not Parker of ‘Parker and Melanie’—wanted to start this place. Why does DC need another bar?”
He nodded as she spoke, looked into her eyes as though for hope, like he was getting revved up to play a game his team wasn’t expected to win, but he would sure try to beat the odds.
Parker took a deep breath and said, “This town needs a place for people to remember we’re all in this together, to make this country a better place. Right? Gotta remember the core values that got us all here.” He pointed to the graffiti on the walls, and Cady eyed Max, signaling to start taping again. “Get back to the time when folks who might not have entirely agreed, could still throw down some drinks and hammer out some deals. Congress is broken, right? Let’s fix it one drink at a time.”
Half an hour later, Cady had everything she needed, but she inadvertently kept Parker talking just because it was so easy. He leaned back in the booth like it was just the two of them, answered her questions with stories, a dream interview subject. He squinted when he was telling a good story or when he was listening, as though trying to figure it all out right then and there, unrehearsed. Her original instinct had been right.
“Growing up in Wilmette, Illinois, I was always that kid setting up lemonade stands, like way past the point of it being cool, my friends were practically driving over when I finally stopped.” He laughed at himself. “I just liked providing a service, something folks needed, being useful. And then in high school, I started interning for my local congressman. So this was in a way born out of all that work experience.”
“That’s perfect. And I think we’re actually all—” She was about to wrap up when she realized. “There’s just one thing. So you’ve taken a big gamble on this. Was it hard to leave the Hill? You said you loved it there, working for Senator Welling.”
“I’m an all-or-nothing kind of guy. I like to devote myself to one thing and do it really well. I loved working on the Hill. There are days I wish I hadn’t left. I still watch C-SPAN late at night when I can’t sleep. Not because it’s boring, but because it’s comforting to me. That’s the official answer. But, between you and me?”
“Sure.” She nodded.
“I just needed a break. It’s hard. It weighs on your soul when you feel like not enough is getting done. It’s all-consuming work, and sometimes it feels like you’re running in place, running really hard, like a marathon, in place. I was the intelligence committee guy, homeland security, weapons, those were my issues...”
“Heavy stuff, not the kind of thing you leave at the office at the end of the day,” she said.
“Yeah, so...” He began to darken.
“Maybe if you had a place like this to go at the end of the day...”
“Exactly, see, you get it. Make sure to tell everyone, half-price drinks if you bring someone with you from a different political party.”
“You just did. I guess you need an ID and voter registration to get in?”
“Now that’s a great idea, can I steal that?” he asked seriously.
“Sure, my consulting services are free of charge. I think we’re good here, thanks, Max.” She turned around to wave. “And thank you.”
“Yeah, sure, sorry for the...therapy session.”
“Just put the check in the mail,” she joked. “All we need now is some B-roll, you know, you walking down the street, arriving to work. Pouring drinks or something.”
“I have an awesome idea, just got this thing,” he said, smacking the table, excited, and disappeared into a back room. He returned with a hoverboard.
* * *
In no time they were set up outside the bar, dusk falling on the chilly evening, Massachusetts Avenue illuminated by car lights. Before he climbed aboard, Parker explained, off camera, that he had envisioned being that cool neighborhood business owner who rode to work on his new hoverboard. He had broken down and Amazoned one just hours after Melanie left. When the camera started rolling, he glided ten feet then the board shot a spark and bucked him off. He landed with a thump against the sidewalk pavement.
Cady gasped and ran over.
“Are you—?”
“I’m fine,” he said from the ground in a growling tone that suggested otherwise.
She gave him her hand. A few pedestrians leaving work veered around them, with pained expressions. “In retrospect, that could’ve been a lot worse,” she offered. “You could’ve, you know, totally gone up in flames.”
“Hard to tell, but I was actually a kick-ass skateboarder back in the day,” he said, massaging his elbow. He picked up the board. “Clearly this should be filed somewhere between ‘cry for help’ and ‘early midlife crisis.’”
“Good to get that outta the way early.” She laughed. “Maybe try that again, just walking in this time?”
* * *
“You have got to come, Rea! I am dying—dying!—of loneliness!” Jay pleaded into his phone.
“I don’t think, medically speaking, you can actually die of loneliness.” Reagan laughed, and in the background, Jay could hear the twins screaming joyfully. “Fuck. Guys, stop! Sorry,” she said to Jay.
“I have some case studies from respected medical journals I can send you,” Jay went on. He had attempted to keep every evening busy and bustling with dinners, plays, concerts, cocktails; he had never been so attentive to his wide circle of friends. Anything to keep from missing Sky in such a debilitating, annihilating way. So when he got Cady’s email about finding the r
ing, it seemed a perfect way to pass the evening hours. “Come on, you know you could use a night out. I need a writer for this story, you need—” More screaming came from the other end. “I’ll add babysitting expenses and cab fare into your fee. Or we can even meet at your place first.” He wasn’t above paying people to come out on a school night.
He knew it was self-serving. He could easily have assigned this to another writer, had it done over the phone, but he selfishly wanted to talk to Reagan about Sky, again, and have her set his mind at ease. Again.
“I’m in.” Reagan laughed. “You had me at babysitting expenses.”
* * *
Cady, Reagan and Jay, had already commandeered a leather booth at 2 Birds 1 Stone, the tucked-away basement bar in Logan Circle, when Jackson breezed in, five minutes late. It had taken so much convincing to get Jackson to agree to this, so Cady had been anxious. But as he greeted Cady with a kiss and them with a wide smile and warm handshakes, all her nerves fell away.
It didn’t hurt that Reagan introduced herself with, “I’m Reagan and you’re fantastic. Stellar job on the bling.”
“Stellar,” Jay repeated sincerely. He had grabbed Cady’s hand the moment he saw her, before even saying hello, to inspect it. “Check that out, power of the press, baby!” Then he’d added wistfully, “Awww, it’s really pretty.”
Cady noticed Jackson instantly ease up. “Thanks, relieved to have it back,” he said to Reagan. “You’re the one with the twins.” He snapped his fingers, as though putting it all together.
“That’s me. And I’m equally grateful you’ve got your ring, it means this one—” she nodded to Jay “—is subsidizing a rare night out for me to update your story.”
“Oh my God, I’m terrible, how are you feeling?” Cady asked now. She had been honored to be among the first Reagan had told about her pregnancy.
“Fine, fine,” she said, not completely selling it.
Cady gave her a questioning look, but Reagan only repeated herself, slightly more convincing this time.
“Congratulations,” Jackson said. “I can’t even imagine three kids.”
Cady shot him a look.
“I mean, right now, you know.”
“No, I know, believe me.” Reagan laughed. “Your fiancée, here, is my hero, by the way.” She nodded toward Cady.
“Yeah, she can be pretty heroic.” He grinned.
“Seriously, how many girls would say yes without a ring? Hello,” Jay joked. “So let’s hear it all. Go, go, go!”
Nestled in their cozy booth, Cady recounted the story of the ring’s return, amping up the drama as best she could. Jackson sat back, arm around her, polishing off two beers and offering only little nuggets. “Nope, no idea who the guy was”; “Yep, it was in perfect condition.”
At the end of the evening, before hopping in her cab, Reagan—who had only had to excuse herself to throw up once all night—pulled Cady by the arm, whispering, “Love him, he’s supercute!”
Cady was glad for the positive review. Jackson had actually been a bit quiet as the night wore on, and she felt like she’d done all the talking.
As they walked home in the chilly air, they held hands, and when they reached the apartment, Cady threw her arms around him. “Thank you, they love you. And so do I. And this thing ain’t so bad either,” she said, holding out her hand, admiring the diamond again. She could get used to the ring, she’d decided.
“You’re welcome. And you’re welcome,” he said, kissing her twice.
Reagan’s story posted the very next morning and reached No. 2 on The Queue.
* * *
“Someone is certainly getting grumpy in his old age,” Birdie cooed into the phone, sounding perfectly upbeat though quietly seething. This was no way to start the day. She hung her head over the back of her desk chair. She had at least worked out a time-share with Buck, allowing her to use her beloved home office from nine to five while he was over at Georgetown.
“You know me, Birdie, I always like to keep everyone guessing.” Bronson laughed on the other end. “Arnold needs to bring in young voters. Let’s have the kind of party they would like.”
“Well, that would be a cheap party. Maybe you’d like to lower the threshold for getting in the door?” She was kidding; it was a fund-raiser for God’s sake.
“We’re getting there. I like that! Done,” he said. “Now pick a place to match. The fat wallets will still come. Talk tomorrow.”
She threw her phone across the room, instantly regretting it. She missed landlines sometimes; it was so much more satisfying to slam a handset into its cradle.
She was beginning to feel like she’d lost her touch. Was Bronson just being prickly, as perhaps he always could be (and she was just usually not on the receiving end of it), or was it her? Buck leaving had set her off balance. She didn’t like this cold war that had settled between them, but she particularly didn’t appreciate that he had been the one to initiate it. It made her furious. This was a busy time for her, an exciting time for her business, and she didn’t have the time to be consumed with any personal drama.
She had been the one originally wronged; it wasn’t fair that the power balance had shifted this way. Though she could monitor his comings and goings and could easily declare a truce, all she wanted was for him to be bothered by this new arrangement. Really, all she wanted was to be missed and needed and wanted.
She turned the volume back up on the TV and flipped through the channels to clear her head. She passed the local news network and paused, recognizing the voice: that woman who had interviewed her, Cady. She’d always admired the crisp, clear tones of those who worked in broadcasting. When she was just starting out, Birdie herself had hired a speech therapist to mimic this intonation before deciding that there was something disarming about her drawl.
As the camera panned a dive bar, zooming in on quotations from the Declaration of Independence, a photo of Mount Rushmore with the presidents donning Ray-Ban Wayfarers, Birdie pulled up an old email and found the phone number. “Cady, love, it’s Birdie Brandywine...” As she spoke, Birdie kept one eye on the TV and another on her laptop, conducting a quick search and finding a new, freshly posted story on The Queue of Cady with her fiancé. “Hi! So I’m watching you, as we speak, and I have a question for you...”
12
SUPER TUESDAY SHIII-SHUFFLE
Dallas evenings could be surprisingly chilly, even in March, so no one would bat an eye at Madison’s trench coat. She remembered this from that year she spent as a Dallas Cowboys Cheerleader after college (graduated a year early from Alabama, Crimson Tide pride!) and before Miss Fifty States, back when they were at that stadium with the big hole in the middle of the roof, like a donut. She would’ve been a lifer there, on the team until they pried the pompoms from her old, arthritic hands, if not for the pageant. The Cowboys games had been a thrill though, those performances with the music blaring, the crowd roaring, her hot-rollered hair whipping as she clomped in white boots.
There was no way the football players worked half as hard as those girls: they never had time to sit on the sidelines, they didn’t rest during halftime. She and the girls were Ginger Rogers in heels and hot pants, doing everything better and backward, wasn’t that the line? She couldn’t quite remember. But no, they didn’t have time to slap each other’s asses, congratulating each other after every good play; they were in constant motion. Like most women she knew growing up and the one she was raised by, and the woman she believed she actually was deep in her heart: in constant motion, doing a million different things at once, children, jobs, husbands, while the guys did one or two things and then talked about how great they were.
She tossed her boxy decoy dress, which she had worn all evening, onto the bed. Buttoned her suit jacket, smoothed out the fine wool and tied the scarf around her neck. She nodded at her reflection in the mirror. Applied a bit
of fashion tape to her suit jacket, smoothing it against her chest.
In the lounge of their presidential suite at the Dallas Four Seasons, Madison could hear the celebration kicking into high gear thanks to some favorable Super Tuesday returns from Fox News. Men who barely knew what they were doing, let’s be honest, and who had just gotten lucky at this whole thing, were slapping each other on the back, clapping, chanting, “Tex-as! Tex-as! Tex-as!” as though at a sporting event, clinking glasses, opening up more bottles from Hank’s personal collection, which he’d actually seen fit to bring along. Texas now sat firmly in the victory column with Oklahoma, Virginia, Alabama and Arkansas. And those were just the ones the networks had already projected. There could be...more. If this winning kept up, their wine cellar would run dry.
None of this sat right with her. And not just because she had a sluggish foundation to fund. It didn’t help that she was away with him all time instead of drumming up more humanitarians to donate. The Madison Goodfellow Foundation had been chugging along all these years as Hank made his billions, but she never asked him for a cent. He gave some money now and then, as he gave generously to many causes, a staggering number of them, really. In high school Hank used to say, “I want to make millions so then I can give tons of it away.” It was what she had loved most about him. Until all this election nonsense began. He wasn’t doing any good anymore. That’s what angered her.
Someone rattled the doorknob and knocked. “Maddy? Mike told me to tell you, we’re rolling out in five,” Kimberly, Mike’s assistant and one of the very few women in the Hank Machine, called. “Think you’ll be ready?”
“Absolutely!” she called out, perky as ever.
Madison slipped on her Burberry trench for the ride to AT&T Stadium, and kept it firmly fastened as Hank’s Traveling Roadshow, as she referred to it, waited to take its place on the stage—at the center of the stadium. Then, seconds before climbing the steps, she peeled it off, tossing the coat at Kimberly, whose eyes seemed to bug at her plunging neckline. “Um, Maddy!” she said, but Madison just kept walking, pretending not to hear. She smoothed her suit jacket, tightened her scarf and patted herself to be sure everything was in place; no need to be fined by the FCC, after all. Fashion tape wasn’t quite made for heavy suiting fabrics, but it seemed to be doing its job.
Campaign Widows Page 9
