As Hank settled in at the podium, she stood beside him, waving wildly at the crowd—just enough motion to create the slightest concern that she might flash a national television audience.
She smiled warmly at Hank throughout his speech, ever the perfect wife.
* * *
HAZE CAPTURES THREE STATES IN SUPER TUESDAY SHOCKER
By Sky Vasquez, Staff Writer, The Queue
Rocky Haze took to the stage in Boston to declare victory in three states—Massachusetts, Vermont and Colorado—on Super Tuesday. Energized and secure, she made it clear to the crowd of hundreds assembled in Boston Common that she’s not backing down anytime soon.
“To all the voters out there who cast their ballots for me, thank you, from the bottom of my heart. You are bold and courageous to stand with me and say, we can do better for this country and we can do it together. As long as you keep having faith in me, I’ll keep forging ahead,” she told them. “And to those who didn’t vote for me this time, I still love ya! I’ve got until November to show you what I can do for ya!”
Those inside the Haze camp, and the woman herself, say they always planned to use today as a barometer. “This means we can push on, there are enough people out there who feel we are speaking to them,” Haze told The Queue.
Those outside Team Haze have taken notice too. “Three states for this kind of outlier candidate is significant,” says a strategist for one of Haze’s opponents, speaking under anonymity. “She can’t be discounted as a total fluke.”
Following her moving remarks, she was joined on stage by R&B-star husband, Alchemy, and daughter, Harmony, to debut a new rally song: “Onward, Together.”
“We got ourselves a race, turned this game on its face
Shuttin’ down the haters, standing strong in this place
We got plans and demands, making fans, shaking hands across this land
Gonna allay fears with fresh ideas, lend us your ears, hold your jeers
Onward together, peace, love, joy, cheer...”
* * *
“I’m beginning to think you don’t need me anymore,” Jay said, instantly regretting his choice of language. “You know what I mean.” Maybe it was a Freudian slip; how obvious was it that he was just waiting to be left behind?
“Thanks, no, I know, I feel like maybe I’m getting my groove now,” Sky said. “Or at least, today. Tomorrow, who knows, right?”
“You’re killing it, be proud,” Jay said. He wanted so badly to say how much he missed Sky. How empty his apartment now felt. How dull the office had become. How he had been filling his endless nighttime hours making a Shutterfly photo album of the two of them like a teen with a secret crush. (It would be arriving in three days. He’d opted for rush delivery.) But Jay wanted Sky’s mind clear of personal stresses, free to do the best work he could, to shine, so he kept it to himself.
“Nah, I’ve got a great editor,” Sky said, as he always did when anyone complimented his writing.
“You wrote so fast tonight, you’ve got all this time on your hands now.” Jay was fishing, of course.
“Yeah, it’s perfect. Paz found a great honky-tonk bar out here, so we’re going line dancing with a few others once they file their stories,” he said, perky.
“Honky-tonk in Boston?” Jay felt out of step.
“I know, right? It’s literally the only one here. It’s kind of an inside joke, we didn’t get to go when we were in Nashville,” he went on. “So, you know, Paz found this place, she loves a challenge.”
“Of course she does.”
Several other news outlets had now stationed reporters on the trail with Haze, and Sky would talk about getting a drink with Kat or Johnny or Paz or Steve after the day’s events. Jay vowed to become versed in these new names and vital stats, asking about them, laughing at the recaps of their hijinks, reading their stories too (which were never as good and never boasted such open access as Sky’s, nor did these reporters get the TV hits Sky did). Some were music journalists, some were serious newshounds getting their first big break; all were young. Younger than Jay, who had never felt even remotely old until he had begun dating Sky.
Still, Sky would loyally call Jay each night after returning from whatever event or rally Rocky might have held, after cocktails, after getting off the tour bus, one of Rocky’s own, outfitted with video games, stocked with snacks and treats and a traveling gym. Sometimes it would be quite late and Jay would already be asleep, but he would awaken and stay on the phone as Sky dozed off.
“Hope you packed your cowboy boots,” Jay said, trying but failing to match Sky’s tone.
“Always!” Sky laughed.
* * *
Birdie had surrounded herself on the sofa with files, her laptop and two cups of coffee, working as she watched the Super Tuesday coverage on CNN. This election was just getting weirder and weirder. Haze had an absurdly strong showing with three states and still a shot at a fourth. And Goodfellow had practically swept for his party. His competitors were a decidedly lackluster bunch, a couple of them managing to win their home states, but no one putting together enough victories to represent a serious threat. His wife, though, had truly stolen the show wearing a megawatt smile and a chic, slim gray suit nearly identical to her husband’s, a scarf fashioned into a bow at her neck and with the same pattern and cornflower blue hue as his tie, and no blouse whatsoever. This Madison had some fire to her. Even if it was just about as un-FLOTUS a look as one could imagine, she had the figure to pull it off. Birdie wished she had thought of it first; the outfit would’ve been perfect for the Arnold fund-raiser, but now of course, she couldn’t wear it.
Even so, the show that mattered more to Birdie was the one taking place outside her window. She had kept a quiet lookout all evening, peeking next door, and now at last Buck was arriving home, accompanied by three other men in their forties and fifties, laughing and talking spiritedly as though he was joining some kind of old-guy fraternity, and one woman, late thirties, pretty in that sexy librarian way (which some are into, sure, but not Buck, to her knowledge). Ugh, already a groupie, Birdie thought to herself. She imagined these were probably fellow university pals. They’d likely had a grand old time watching the returns at one of the bars on M Street and all insisted on walking Buck home even if it was out of their way, because they knew they were lucky to get that kind of time with him, hoped maybe they could make him their queen bee.
He looked up now as though sensing her thoughts, and she flung the curtain shut again. She didn’t have time for any more distractions. Back to work.
* * *
Back in their Dallas hotel suite as Hank celebrated—with his circle of advisers, a glass of his favorite twenty-year-old Pappy Van Winkle bourbon and a cigar—Kimberly materialized. Mike, still meeting with reporters in another room, hardly ever entrusted Kimberly with any assignments besides rounding up Starbucks orders, so Madison took great pleasure in knowing her ensemble must have at least succeeded in making Mike, personally, uncomfortable tonight. Her own quick scan of the major news outlets had found mentions in passing of her “questionable attire,” “suit better suited for an awards show red carpet,” and “costume of a kinder, gentler Hank Goodfellow,” while another accused her of “nearly upstaging the main event.”
“I was just looking for you! Great news. Mike says there’s room in the budget for a stylist,” Kimberly said with forced enthusiasm, probably recognizing this was a suicide mission. “We’ve got it narrowed down to two. Can I photograph your closet to send to our top recruits and see what—”
“Oh, how thoughtful!” Madison said, smiling, as she took out her chandelier earrings. “But I wouldn’t dream of taking money from the campaign just to put clothes on my back. But tell him thank you!” She managed to sound perfectly cheery and hospitable as she closed the door on Kimberly.
Two hours later, Madison would be shocked to d
iscover that Vogue—in a post entitled, “Reconsidered: How Madison Goodfellow Turned Our Heads”—had “endorsed” her for first lady based entirely on her ensemble (but with the caveat that they did not support her husband).
* * *
“Say hi to Daddy!” Reagan instructed the girls, fumbling as she put the phone on speaker. They had awakened way too early the morning after Super Tuesday, and though it was just 6:00 a.m., they were already dressed and breakfasting. It had to be bad if Ted was actually calling her.
“How are you doing?” she asked gently but with hope, as you might someone after a root canal.
“It’s a mess here, Rea. A total shitshow. A Super Tuesday Shi—”
“Wait, you’re still on speaker—”
“Shitshow!” Natasha blurted out.
“No, no, no sweetie! Super Tuesday Shhh...uffle! Super Tuesday Sassafras!”
“Shitshow!” Daisy smiled sweetly.
13
WHAT ARE YOU SO WORRIED ABOUT?
Cady arrived early at Momofuku Milk Bar, located among a glittering enclave of posh stores downtown: Louis Vuitton, Hermes, Zadig & Voltaire. It was nearly April, but the air still held that deep chill of winter and a perpetual gray hung in the sky, threatening snow. She ordered a latte and found a seat in the front window, placing her two pink gift bags on the counter. Jackson had gotten home late the night before, without warning, only to inform her that he’d be working all weekend to catch up: Arizona, Utah, New York, Connecticut, she had lost track of where he’d been and where he’d be going next. To Cady all that just translated to another weekend on her own, so she had texted Reagan to take her up on her offer.
Nothing wrong with a day off, Cady told herself, not totally believing it. Like Jackson, she had been working every weekend too, covering events, restaurant openings, concerts, plays, boutique openings (like the one in Georgetown by the local designer who made Madison Goodfellow’s killer suit from Super Tuesday), the kinds of assignments newbie reporters might handle, but she had time on her hands and with Jackson away so much, she was glad to keep busy. Besides, she enjoyed getting to know the city this way. She pulled out her phone now and scrolled through the sea of rejection that was her email; she had been tasked with securing potential tablemates for the White House Correspondents’ Dinner to no avail.
“You’re aiming too high,” Jeff kept telling her. “We need to fill seats, just get somebody, anybody, who is famous enough that it won’t be embarrassing to us.”
Their parent company had bought a pair of tables and offered a few seats to the show, provided she and Jeff could come up with a name bold enough. Otherwise their bosses would just bring more advertisers. Cady had reached out to every presidential candidate and FLOTUS-hopeful, stars with upcoming movies, stars with DC-centric shows. She wanted to deliver on this. As she waited for Reagan, she brainstormed some more, checking out the supporting players from a few moderately popular basic cable shows. But she quickly lost interest and switched to The Queue, where she found Sky Vasquez’s story at the top: Haze had taken Idaho.
Farther down the rankings she found a story about restructuring within the Arnold campaign and skimmed for Reagan’s husband. A handful of staffers had been canned, and it seemed he was getting a promotion to fill the new void. Someone knocked on the window, and she looked up to find Reagan with her double stroller, the twins munching away on matching Baggies of Cheerios. “Hey, come on in!” Cady said through the glass, then glanced around realizing they needed a table with more space.
* * *
“You shouldn’t have—we should be buying stuffed animals for you,” Reagan joked, setting a Compost Cookie on each of the girls’ stroller trays as the twins bonked each other on the head with the matching plush puppies Cady had gifted them.
“No, I should’ve brought three! How are you feeling?” Cady asked.
“I’m fine, still puking but that’ll end soon.” She shrugged. “So, bon appetit.” She set down a cookie and a fresh latte before Cady. “These are to die for. This is the girls’ favorite place. Oh! Here, for Jackson.” She handed over a bag filled with treats.
“Wow! Thanks! Though I may eat these myself before he gets home.” Cady laughed, taking a bite.
“Is he still in Thompson’s house office or has he been officially swallowed up into the campaign yet?” Reagan asked as Natasha threw pieces of her cookie on the floor.
“Not swallowed up yet,” Cady said, a hint of trepidation. He was already working so much, if he officially joined the campaign she would surely never see him. She imagined he would be on the road all the time or might even be stationed full-time in an office in another state. But she was proud of him, so of course she wanted these things if he wanted them.
“Yet being the operative word, right?” Reagan laughed and Cady smiled the gritted teeth smile of Reagan’s favorite and most-used emoji. “What are you worried about? It’s all good! It’s going to be good for him.” Reagan picked up the piece of cookie from the floor and ate it. “Thompson’s totally racking up the delegates. He’s running a great race. Jackson is in the right place at the right time.”
“Yeah, it could definitely be worse.” Cady smiled again.
Daisy threw her cookie now and Reagan, chugging her coffee, caught it midair with one hand, nonchalant.
“I just didn’t realize we’d actually see less of each other when I moved here. I feel like I’m maybe not part of his world enough.”
“Well, you’re always welcome to come museum-hopping with us on weekends Jackson’s not around.” Reagan was afraid she was being too aggressive; she didn’t have many adults to hang out with. Most of her friends who were now moms were still working and seemed so much better at juggling everything that being around them made her feel inadequate, made her second-guess having left her job. And the other stay-at-home moms were all the make-your-own-organic-baby-food types that made her feel like she was sucking at mommying. Hence, no adult friends.
“That’s right, how was Air and Space?”
“Ugh, my exercise for the day,” Reagan said, cleaning up a sippy cup spill on Natasha’s tray with the sleeve of her dove gray sweater. “They love to run in opposite directions, and that museum is always a clusterfuck. But amazing too! Have you been?” Something banged against the window. The twins shrieked, and the women turned to find Jay outside, agitated, holding up a color printout of what appeared to be a New York Times story. “Oh! Jay’s having some kind of meltdown so I invited him too...” Reagan explained as Jay elbowed through the crowd that had amassed, holding the printouts up in the air.
“Ohmagod, have you seen this from tomorrow’s Times?” he launched in.
“Um, hi, greetings from the future?” Reagan waved her phone and pulled out the chair beside her, setting out a cookie and cup of tea. “Nope, haven’t seen it. You okay, there?”
“He sent it. Sky did. Front page. Styles section. Tomorrow. Gonna be.” He placed it in front of Reagan, not speaking in complete sentences.
“Ohhkay, Yoda, say hello to Cady,” she said, shaking her head and grabbing the printout.
“Hi!” Cady waved.
“Hi! Hey! Sorry! I’m all over the place today. But how fabulous was Rea’s story, right?”
“Number 2 on The Queue, we’re very honored,” Cady said.
“Jay, this is awesome!” Reagan said, shaking the paper. A photo of Sky graced the lead story: The New Campaign Trail.” He wore a vibrant paisley-patterned button-down, slim navy suit, turquoise tie, immaculate sneakers. Notebook and pen in hand, seated at a Haze press conference.
“He belongs to the world now,” Jay said, sighing.
“I’m emailing him right now.” Reagan began typing on her phone as Natasha contorted herself and arched her back, trying to escape the straps of her stroller. “And you know he’s only there because you pushed for him to get to go.” Daisy tu
gged at her straps and kicked her legs, whimpering.
“We would love to have him on the show next time he’s in town,” Cady said, reading along now.
“That Helena woman wanted to send her political people,” Reagan explained, cleaning up the table. “He must be so grateful. And if I know Sky, I bet he is.”
“Why are you always so good at this?” Jay said, taking out his phone. “Now I have to show you this.”
As he thumbed through his phone, Reagan stood, shimmying on her coat. “I think they want me to get back to chauffeuring them around.” She nodded to the girls. “Up for a walk?”
On their three-block walk to the Portrait Gallery (“I like it because the kids can run amok in the chic fountain in the indoor courtyard while I get the stink eye from snack bar patrons.”), Jay shared his note from Sky: All this is because of you. Wish we were reading this together tomorrow morning over omelettes at Busboys and Poets. Love you. XX #TeamSkay.
“Skay! Like, Sky and Jay?! I have hashtag envy,” Cady said as they found a table closest to the fountain, which trickled along the courtyard’s stone floor.
“Seriously, you two are so frigging cute,” Reagan said, unhooking the girls from their stroller seats. Her phone rattled in the cup holder, pinging a text. It was from Ted. “See, in contrast, these are the romantic texts I get.” She flashed her phone at Jay as Natasha and Daisy ran off, holding hands. The screen read: Wyoming caucus may go to Thompson, too early but still, looking bad... Followed by the red angry emoji. Another loss for Arnold, Ted might be coming home soon, after all.
14
THIS? THIS IS NOTHING
The night of the Arnold fund-raiser arrived, and Birdie welcomed the all-encompassing distraction: she could get lost in so many details, logistics, so much to be done, so much to orchestrate, and forget about Buck and Cole and any of the current snags in her life’s tapestry. Her feelings didn’t matter; she had an event to host.
Campaign Widows Page 10
