Campaign Widows

by Aimee Agresti

  * * *

  “I don’t want to talk about this,” Reagan told Jay, scanning the crowded garden for a seat.

  “Too bad, start talking.” Jay grabbed a cocktail from one of the Preamble waiters. “So, Grant?”

  “No, ‘so, Grant,’ we were just chatting. I don’t care what Sophie said. I didn’t even see her there.”

  “I’m appalled—”

  “Jay—”

  “No, appalled that you didn’t tell me this when it happened.”

  “There is no happened. We were talking, that’s it. This is already more discussion than it deserves,” she said, putting hands on either side of her belly. “Earmuffs! La la la! I don’t want baby hearing any of this.”

  “I mean who hits on a pregnant lady?”

  “I know, right? And hey, I should be offended by that.” She pointed at him, then focused her attention away toward the nearest sofa. “Ugh, I’m going to glare at those people until they take pity on me and let me sit there.”

  “But, then, you guys do have, like, history,” Jay mused, clearly not finished with this subject.

  “Please, it was one date a million years ago. A few dates. Next topic. Moving on.”

  “What was the problem again? He gave you a current events quiz?”

  “Yes, and I mean, I passed, obviously, and actually I knew way more about Afghanistan than he did.”

  “Not surprised.”

  “But he was an egomaniac and completely obnoxious.”

  “Of course.”

  “Which is why he’s become so successful in cable news.”

  “I forget, does Ted know about your little history?”

  “Please stop with that word.”

  “Does he?”

  “I mean, sure, I think he’s sort of repressed knowledge of it at this point. It’s a small town, it happens. It wasn’t a big deal.” Baby kicked, as though trying to tell her, Shut up, Mom, and she listened.

  “Well, I’ll say this. I’m not surprised because you’re totally rocking your maternity style,” he said. “So I get it, but still, you know.”

  “I know,” she said, annoyed, her eyes zeroing in on a waitress across the garden. “Are those fries?”

  “We’ll find some. But seriously, I have to live vicariously through someone’s flirtation. Sky has been away forever. I can’t take it anymore.”

  “You just had a conjugal visit a couple weeks ago,” she said, relieved at the shift in conversation.

  “So, I was thinking of surprising him in California.”

  Reagan made a face.

  “What? It’s romantic!” Jay argued.

  “He’s gonna be working, I wouldn’t do it. I did that once years ago when Ted and I were actually spontaneous, impulsive, exciting people. Do you not remember me calling you in tears when I showed up in Austin and he sent me home on the next flight?”

  “Maybe. But that was different.”

  “It’s not. But it’s your funeral.”

  “Can you at least do the math—like, literally—and tell me how much longer until Rocky is out of this?”

  She sighed. “I’m not up on all the latest tallies, but basically Rocky has to win Cali to be in contention for the nomination.”

  “That’s what Sky says. So if she pulls it off...”

  “That’s, like, a super big if... Yes! Quick, come sit down!” They hustled over to the low-slung couch and plopped down, and she continued, “But then again no one’s got the amount they need to just secure it outright, and it could be a contested convention. But that’s extremely unlikely. Don’t tell Ted, but Thompson will probably take California.”

  “My brain hurts.”

  “Bottom line—I think Sky’s coming home.”

  “Is it bad that that makes me happy?”

  “Aww, no, love.” Birdie alighted on the sofa beside Jay, pecking him on the cheek.

  “Birdie Brandywine!”

  Jay always acted as though Birdie was the sun shining on him, Reagan couldn’t help but notice.

  “It’s far worse to not want them home.” Birdie laughed. “Am I right?” She leaned over and kissed Reagan’s cheek. “You look divine, love. There are people here, not presently growing tiny humans, who don’t look even half as good as you.”

  “Thank you?” Reagan said. “And you’re gorgeous as ever.”

  “Have you seen our hosts yet?” Birdie asked.

  “Cady, looks like she needs saving,” Jay said, nodding in Cady’s direction.

  On the other side of the garden, Cady exerted considerable effort to appear interested in the group of girls surrounding her.

  “And Jackson?” Birdie asked.

  “We’re just hoping he actually, you know, shows up to his engagement party,” Jay explained.

  “The super weird thing,” Reagan said, pointing in the distance, “is that Thompson is here.”

  “NO!” Jay said.

  Reagan gestured toward the grand Renwick Gates, where Carter Thompson strode in hand in hand with that bombshell national news anchor everyone was calling the next Diane Sawyer.

  * * *

  The beauty of being the guest of honor at a party of this size—or one-half of the guests of honor—was that you didn’t have to spend too much time talking to anyone. You were expected to float and flutter through the masses, spending minutes of quality time, but zero quantity time. “Exuberant, engaged efficiency,” Birdie had called her strategy for circulation, during their interview before her Iowa party.

  For some reason Cady found herself needing an escape from her old friends. They had come all the way from Manhattan and Johnstown and Princeton and were so excited and sincerely happy for her. They asked all sorts of questions about the wedding, for which she had not a single answer because she hadn’t done any planning. They asked about Jackson and didn’t seem to understand why he wasn’t there yet. She wished at least one of them could have bothered to ask her about work, which actually had been going well. But none even knew the name of her show. She feared they had somehow outgrown each other, fallen out of sync, now that they didn’t share a city or workplace or timeline for personal milestones. So when Carter arrived and the party took collective notice, all eyes glancing in his direction like a wave sweeping through, she was grateful.

  “Jackson’s boss, I’d better say hi,” she said, sneaking away at last.

  * * *

  At nearly nine o’clock, a suit-clad Jackson finally materialized, practically running from his cab to plant a kiss on the top of Cady’s head: “Sorrysorrysorry.” His eyes sparkled, in that way that told her it was going to be okay, that he had brought his best self to this party.

  She had been talking with Birdie. “Ms. Brandywine, I have heard so much about you from Cady and am so glad to meet you at last,” he said, reverential, shaking her hand with both of his.

  Birdie had one eyebrow cocked, as though still reserving judgment.

  He went on. “I understand we have you to thank for finding a home for our party tonight. I’m so grateful. Cady might have mentioned I haven’t been the most helpful of grooms.” He gave Cady a bashful, apologetic look that she couldn’t not accept. “And I’m just lucky that she’s far more on top of things than I am and that she’s made such true, caring friends here.”

  “Anything for darling Cady,” Birdie said, more warmly now.

  Jackson took Cady’s hand and they made the rounds together—greeting her family first with hugs and smiles, friends with handshake-hugs and compliments, kisses on the cheek and sweet inquiries about children. He was on tonight. And when he was on, everyone around him was powerless against it. This was what she had first fallen in love with, the Jackson that could sweep you up and make you feel like you were taking flight, touching the stars.

  He pulled away only when he spotted P
arker, replenishing supplies at the bar they’d set up.

  “The man of the hour,” Parker greeted him as they walked over.

  “No, man, that would be you,” Jackson said, shaking his hand and giving him a pat on the shoulder. “Owe you, thanks for this.”

  “Anytime, not a problem, glad to do it,” Parker said, nodding as he returned to the food truck. “Enjoy the party!”

  * * *

  At a quarter after nine, they were cutting the cake, both hands together on the knife, when she felt the first cool drop fall from the sky onto her bare shoulder. She ignored it, too happily distracted by how well the evening had recovered from such a rocky start.

  After, as Jackson stood encircled by practically his entire office, an exhausted Cady stacked pieces of cake onto a Preamble tray and scurried to the food truck. Parker and two of his staffers were inside, flipping sliders and frying sweet potato slivers.

  She knocked on the side of the truck and he turned around.

  “What have we here?” he said, adjusting his baseball cap.

  “The least we can do is provide you with a sugar rush to thank you for tonight,” she said, holding out the tray.

  “We should be professional and politely decline since we’re working and all, but forget it, hand ’em over,” Parker said, smiling. He gave the guys their slices, keeping one for himself, and leaned out the window. “And I was just saying, I should thank you for getting me over this way. I don’t get here often enough. I used to go to the Air and Space Museum, like, monthly when I was on the Hill.”

  “I still haven’t been,” she said, embarrassed.

  “You gotta go, if nothing else then for the gift shop,” he said, between bites. “My complicated relationship with Astronaut Ice Cream got me into the restaurant business.”

  She laughed. “Seriously?”

  “It’s pretty good, but I felt like it should taste a little better than that. I wanted to come up with something besides that chalky stuff.”

  “How’s that going?” she teased.

  Thunder sounded in the distance.

  “Turns out, not well.” He laughed. “But you know, the way the space program is, I suspended that project for the time being.”

  “It’s NASA’s loss.”

  “Thank you, appreciate that,” he said. “Now go, your people need you,” he ordered. “You’ve only got till ten.”

  She took a few steps back toward the party. “Thanks again. For everything tonight, Parker,” she said, and the skies opened up, sheets of rain cascading, thunder roaring. She galloped off, yelping, turning back only a moment to shout, “Is this kind of the worst night ever?” Laughing as her hair, dress, skin, instantly became soaked and the sweet rain beat down harder.

  * * *

  When she and Jackson finally got home that night, having left their parents drenched at the Mayflower Hotel with hugs and the promise of indoor brunch plans the next day, they toweled off and changed out of their wet clothes. The rain, still not letting up, crashing against their windows.

  “That tent was helpful,” Jackson admitted as he crawled into bed.

  Indeed, the partygoers had crowded under it, finishing their drinks and remaining moderately festive while waiting for cabs to arrive.

  She hung their dripping clothes in the shower. “If I don’t get charged for ruining this dress, it’ll be a miracle,” she said, mostly to herself. She pulled some loose change from his pants pockets along with a wet glob of pulpy business cards fused together. A Willa from the Capitol Report newspaper. A John from the Department of Energy.

  “Hey, wait, what?” she heard him say as he appeared in the bathroom doorway holding an expertly wrapped box. She forgot she had tucked that into their bed.

  “An engagement gift,” she said.

  His hand flew to his head, a modified face-palm, sheepish. “I left yours at the office.”

  She shrugged and urged him to open the box. “Go on.”

  It was a monogrammed flask.

  “Because you’ve been working so hard,” she added. “Keep it at work. It’s like I’m buying you a drink even if I’m not there.”

  “Thanks, I love it,” he said, kissing her. “I don’t actually have anything—”

  She stopped him. “You don’t need to.” And surprisingly, she meant it. Nothing could upset her tonight. The party had been salvaged; she reveled in the sweet relief of having pulled this off, of having averted disaster. And Jackson had been so unexpectedly “on,” charming their guests and, most importantly, her new friends. Tonight it seemed they were a true team again.

  19

  LESS CALIFORNICATION, MORE CALIFORNIA DREAMING

  HOME IS WHERE THE VOTES ARE?

  ROCKY HAZE RETURNS TO CALIFORNIA,

  KEEPING THE DREAM ALIVE

  By Sky Vasquez, Staff Writer, The Queue

  Alchemy, attired in yoga clothes, is finishing up a morning workout with daughter Harmony in their sprawling family home in Brentwood. Harmony sings along to the track, working on her impressive downward dog. Not everyone gets to do their morning sweat session to a Grammy winner’s highly anticipated new album, but this toddler already knows the words to daddy’s newest tunes. Something to the Imagination, the follow-up to the R&B star’s Magic, Billboard’s best-selling album of 2014 (Rocky Haze’s Hazy Shade of Summer was No. 1 a year later), was due to drop this week, reviews had already begun to post online (among them raves from Rolling Stone, the New York Times and, yes, NPR) until he pulled it at the last minute.

  “Listen,” he says with a smile, feeding chunks of star fruit to Harmony in their bright and airy kitchen. “Our family is focused on Rocky right now. When Magic came out, she stopped everything for me, everything, to allow me to tour without being away. Because I didn’t want to have to leave her and our baby. We personally work better when we devote ourselves to each other’s dreams.” He says it easily, as though it were all obvious. “I want to be able to give my whole self to my music and right now I need to be here, part of this dream, her dream. What’s good for one of us is good for all of us.” Their secret to familial bliss is simple: “We just juggle. Like any family in America. We juggle. Some days better than others.” And when they do need to make those tough decisions? “We just play, ‘Rocky Paper Scissors,’” he jokes.

  He and Harmony put on their Sunday best and pile into the awaiting Escalade to join Rocky downtown. The candidate has spent weeks canvassing the Golden State, visiting inner cities, churches, homeless shelters, prisons, meeting with young and old, big potential donors (from Hollywood producers to record label honchos) and those who have nothing. “I want to paint myself a full picture of what’s going on in every state in this great nation,” she says. “I want to know firsthand what people need to make their lives better. And then I want to gather the greatest minds to work with me and make those lives better.”

  With the primary that will decide her fate just days away, Haze has allowed herself a more lighthearted day today: a rally on Santa Monica Pier. A stage is set as though for any other concert here as fans, voters and tourists alike crowd the strip, spilling into the sand, a sea of people forming. After riding the carousel and Ferris wheel together, posing for hundreds of selfies and ditching their shoes (and her heeled booties) to dip their toes in the ocean, the family of three is ready for showtime.

  “I have the best fans in the world,” Haze greets the crowd. “And I have the best voters in the world! And if you’re still not sure about me, that’s okay too, come on up and tell me about it. I got all the time in the world.” She’s changed into her version of a suit: a slim, cropped blazer with jodhpurs. (“You know you’d never write what my male competitors are wearing,” she warns this reporter.) She takes a seat on the edge of the stage, legs dangling. The crowd hushes, the only sound on this entire pier the crashing waves and carousel music. For the next t
wo hours, baking in the blazing June heat, she hosts an impromptu town hall. At the end, she raps a medley of her fight songs.

  On stage left, Alchemy sways to the beat, snuggling a yawning Harmony in his arms. Is this family ready for the White House? “We just follow our passion. We’re ready for anything life has in store for us,” he answers, his Trinidadian accent coming through. He kisses the top of his daughter’s head. “Right now, we’re ready for a nap.”

  * * *

  Jay and Sky had always wished to be that thrilling couple who hopscotched the globe every few months. But both worked too hard to be away very long or very far. So what was so wrong with a splurge weekend in LA? He had always wanted to stay at Shutters on the Beach, after reading about it in a celebrity profile ages ago. He dreamed of rolling out of a fluffy bed with Sky, hitting the spa, lounging at the pool, then the beach, maybe going somewhere buzzy and sceney for dinner and drinks, because it’s LA after all.

  Jay had arrived Friday, planning to stay through the primary, like Sky. But after thirty-six hours of sunning poolside alone while waiting for Sky to return from an endless array of Rocky events, then editing his story in their hotel suite, he’d decided to pack it in.

  “I’m too tired to have any fun anyway, I’m sorry,” Sky apologized.

  “Got it,” he said, trying not to sound hurt. “A little less Californication, a little more California dreaming?”

  Sky smiled. “Something like that. This is a rock star schedule. I get why so many musicians are on drugs, I don’t know how more politicians aren’t. The running around city to city, so many people, and performing—because it really is all performing, even the ones who aren’t, you know, up there rapping. Anyway, so all I want to do is sleep when I’m not with Rocky. I’m not a natural at this, Jay,” he admitted. “It takes every ounce of energy to try to do this well. But weirdly I love it too.”

  “I’m proud of you, Sky,” Jay said, poised outside the cab that would take him back to LAX. “So proud of you. Keep doing what you’re doing. The fun can wait until you’re home.”