Campaign Widows

by Aimee Agresti

“Exactly.” He laughed. “Enough business. Our hostess, who is also our boss now, sent me over to tell you to leave immediately,” he said calmly.

  The shock swept through Cady slowly, and it took her a second to respond. “Wait, what?”

  “She said you had a prior engagement—somewhere you had to make an appearance—and that she would fire me if I didn’t make sure you left.”

  “Ohhhh.” Cady looked at Madison in the distance, talking to reporters and partygoers, all aglow, as though she were the first lady—or perhaps commander in chief—of Washington TV.

  Madison caught her eye and smiled, waving her hand in a shooing motion.

  That was all she needed. Cady flew down the stairs, out into the chilly, starlit November night and into the first cab she could find.

  She texted Reagan on the way: I’m going. Thx for styling help.

  Reagan responded immediately: Having a baby—for reals this time.

  OMG! I can come to hospital or watch girls!

  Reagan called, and Cady started talking as soon as she picked up. “Ohmagod you’re calling me while you’re having a baby?”

  “It’s cool. I’ve already got the drugs in me, just waiting for this thing to happen. My mom is here, and my dad is with the girls. Just called to say, you’re not using me as an excuse. You’re not invited here—get over there.”

  “What about Ted?”

  “He’s at the Arnold party, but the returns are coming in slow. I’m gonna call him, but he may not be able to leave.”

  * * *

  Ted only missed Theo Jr.’s arrival—T.J. for short—by four and a half minutes. He burst into the room, met his son and wept.

  “I know you don’t need me, but I want to be around. More. Okay?” he said, squeezing Reagan’s hand. “A workaholic who’s around a little more.”

  “And, who knows, maybe I’ll be a momaholic, who works a little more,” she said. “Not right this second, though, because you’re too frigging cute to be away from,” she said to the baby. Then, since she hadn’t actually called in time, she asked, “How’d you—”

  “Cady,” he said, apologetic. “She’s my nominee for godmother, by the way.”

  “I second it.” Reagan smiled.

  “That’s my last political advising for a couple weeks,” he promised. “I’m looking forward to spending time with my three—make that four!—favorite constituents.”

  37

  IS THIS A VICTORY PARTY?

  Birdie couldn’t hide her shock when she saw him walk in the door. She froze and watched him make his way to where she stood, headset on, iPad in hand.

  “Aren’t you supposed to be in New Hampshire?” she asked as he approached.

  But Buck just put his arm around her waist and planted a kiss on her lips. And then, as though business as usual, he explained, “I guess, technically, I am. And I was there. Hell, you’re the reason I was there at all. You knew Haze was the real deal before I did. Anyway, but what do they need me for tonight? I can wait around and watch TV anywhere, so thought I’d do it here.”

  Birdie smiled. “I’m not sure you’re on the list.”

  “That’s the thing. I’d like to be. If that’s all right with you. This has been the worst election season of my life.”

  “That’s not my problem,” she said, turning inward again, scared to let him back in to her heart too easily.

  “Well, actually, it is, Birdie. Because I missed you.”

  Looking into his eyes, she saw the man she had met on the Hill decades earlier, the man she still loved and who she was sure still loved her. “You know, I never did anything. Only the one I told you about, when I was hurt and angry,” she said softly, more Roberta than Birdie now.

  “I know. And you had every right. I went wrong. You’re allowed to be angry as long as you want. But I just wish you wouldn’t. I wish you knew I was young and stupid, not thinking, caught up in my first campaign and got carried away. It meant nothing, as I said then, and I’ll spend the rest of my days making it up to you if that’s what you need.”

  Then he whispered, playful, “What I really need is to take you home right now, but I know well enough than to try to pull you away from the second biggest party of the season.” He winked. “I’m gonna stay and watch you work, and I’ll be here to walk you home when everyone has left and the sun’s come back up.”

  These were just the words she had longed to hear. Yes, she could live with that.

  * * *

  Cady walked the dirt path to the expanse of illuminated tents down the center of the Mall, the Capitol Dome shining in the distance behind them, the chatter of TV coverage, voices, buzzing from the party. She didn’t really know how this was going to work out. News trucks surrounded the string of tents on every side. Layers of security at every possible entrance. She texted him, worried she might not get a response. Maybe she should’ve told him, before right now, that she might be showing up, after all.

  So, hypothetically speaking, how might one crash a party like this?

  Then the answer came, swift and reliable: It’s like a maximum security prison in here. I’m making a break for it. Hang on. Meet you at the carousel.

  She made her way to the carousel, dark and still at this late hour, and took a seat on the nearest park bench, folding her arms across her chest in the chilly night air. She had raced out of her party too fast and had forgotten her coat.

  She heard his voice first.

  “I’m not sure, but New Hampshire might be the better bet tonight.” He said it as a joke, but there was something cautious, held back, in his delivery. He wore a suit but no tie, his hands buried in his pockets.

  “Best I could do. Couldn’t get there in time,” she said, shivering either from the temperature or the nerves. Likely the nerves. She could barely form complete sentences. “What do you think, is this a victory party?”

  “It is now,” he said, taking a seat beside her.

  “What?”

  “You’re here. So this—” he pointed to her and then himself “—is a victory.”

  She smiled, looked away, then back at him again. “Sorry if I’ve been a little—”

  “Difficult?” he offered.

  “I was going to say...reclusive—”

  “Ohhh. That’s what it was,” he said, nodding.

  “—while I figured stuff out.”

  “Guys call that ‘space,’” he said with dramatic emphasis.

  “So, that’s what they always meant. Now I get it,” she said, sarcastic.

  He stood up, took her hand and yanked her to her feet. “C’mon, I think we can get the sea dragon.”

  He took off jogging, and she waited a moment before following.

  After climbing the gate to the carousel, he held out his hand, but instead she grasped the top of the gate and leaped over herself, heels and all. Adrenaline, not just nerves, she thought to herself, that’s what this was.

  “Wow, okay then,” he said. “Bet you used to run hurdles or something. That’s how you got away from the truck so fast that day.”

  They strolled along the perimeter of the dark carousel. All the leaping horses silhouetted, their quiet audience.

  “Oh, that,” she said.

  “I don’t want to think about that day again, ever,” he said, sharing her unspoken sentiment as he hopped onto the carousel platform. They moved slowly in the pitch-black, grabbing for the horses to guide their way. “But I hope you finally believe me about all of that.” He stopped to look at her, as though to be sure she heard him and understood.

  “Yeah, I do,” she said softly, sorry she had given him a hard time.

  “Because I just want to really start over. I’m Parker.” He held his hand out to shake hers, and she took it.

  “Cady.”

  “Great, let me tell you about
me, Cady,” he said, walking again. “I own this bar that is not doing so bad actually.”

  “I’d say.” She gestured to the party.

  “And contrary to what’s been previously reported,” he went on, “I’m not living in my office—anymore—”

  “Oh?”

  “Just moved in with Buddy. In Adams Morgan.”

  “I’m in Columbia Heights.”

  “Nice. We’re getting our acts together.”

  “It seems so.” She smiled.

  “What else about me? My favorite show is Best Day DC.”

  “An excellent choice.”

  “And if I’m being fully honest—and why not?” He stopped walking again. “Then I should also say, I’ve had a crush on their senior producer probably since February.”

  “February?” she asked, surprised.

  “I could’ve given anyone those sliders,” he said, then added more thoughtfully, “And Melanie and me, we had been rocky for a while.”

  “Interesting,” she said, taking a deep breath and leaning against the horse behind her. “Well, I guess if we’re sharing here, which is not something I generally do much of, then I would say, I might have had a crush that I ignored for...a while.” This was true. She had always been drawn to him in that safe way, with that healthy distance of someone firmly committed to someone else. But once the cracks had truly started to show with Jackson, once those first ripples of the impending quake could be felt, she’d started to view Parker differently: in a dangerous way, a way that scared her because he’d become important to her. The engagement party, it had taken great effort to keep him relegated to the friend sector of her life after that.

  Cheers erupted in the distance, presumably a state projected for Arnold, and they looked toward the glowing tents.

  “What’s going on in there?” He turned his gaze back to her, tapped her head, smiling.

  “Too much,” she whispered.

  The golden flecks in his eyes picked up the streetlight, and she wondered if he felt the way she felt watching him: something intense, all-consuming, combustible. His lips curved in that way, that smile of his, and suddenly she wasn’t cold anymore. It felt like the night of that kiss over the summer, at the fountain. And that current flowed through her again, the same one that had also overcome her earlier in the night when she’d imagined what it would feel like to see him again. But stronger now, enveloping her, so electric that she almost expected to see a spark if he touched her, when he touched her. When.

  “Too much,” she said again. Too much to say, and he had to know: she was here. “And you? What’s going on? In there?” She tapped his chest, his heart.

  He looked away a moment and then: “Just this,” he said, his lips on hers, gently at first, pulling her close, one hand in her hair, one at her waist, his palm burning against that small cutout where her skin peeked from her dress. He stepped toward her, against her, until she was backed against the carousel sea dragon, the only barrier keeping them from tumbling.

  Finally, after months of fighting her feelings for him, months of closing herself off while she sorted herself out, put herself back together, she let herself get lost in him.

  He kissed her neck and whispered in her ear, “Do you still need space? I’m hoping not. I’m not giving you any, at the moment.”

  “No, I’m good,” she said as he kissed her neck again. And then, just for herself, for her own clarity, “For the record, I don’t need you...I want you.”

  “Works for me,” he whispered lightly, that broad smile, his eyes bright. “But, you know, I’ll say whatever I have to in order to get your vote.”

  “You’ve got it.”

  He celebrated with another kiss.

  Epilogue

  January

  CROWDS FLOCK TO CITY, HAZE INAUGURAL

  EXPECTED TO SET ATTENDANCE RECORDS

  By Sky Vasquez, Staff Writer, The Queue

  It was the closest election in history, with results delayed until absentee ballots had been counted and recounted in a number of battleground states. But now the country is ready to celebrate the dawn of a new administration...

  * * *

  Reagan swanned into the Jefferson Hotel, waving as soon as she saw her: Alex Arnold, already seated for afternoon tea at the best table in the room. Their favorite old-school extravagance, perfect for a snowy winter’s afternoon just days before the inauguration. Reagan had jumped at the chance to see her friend and help her drown some sorrows. But Alex didn’t look like a woman whose husband had just missed the presidency by a few hundred votes.

  “So sorry I’m late,” Reagan said, handing over her coat to the quick-arriving server with a thanks.

  Alex, elegant in winter white pants and a cozy cashmere sweater, rose to give her a warm hug, setting down the magazine she had been reading: the new issue of GQ with Alchemy. The cover line: America’s First First Gentleman Loves His Job By Sky Vasquez.

  “I thought it was hard leaving Ted with two kids but with three, it’s nearly impossible.”

  “You look amazing,” Alex said, taking her seat again, sipping her tea. A waiter materialized instantly to take Reagan’s order, probably assuming she must be important to have kept the wife of the former veep waiting. “Don’t tell me you’re just chasing the kids.”

  “I’m just chasing the kids. That can be some serious cardio—the twins are in constant motion and T.J. is already very busy.”

  “Fine, don’t tell me your secret,” she joked. “But, whatever you’re doing it’s working.”

  “You too. Not winning the election seems to have agreed with you,” Reagan said gently.

  “Ah, well, there are worse things,” she said, folding her hands in front of her. She squared her shoulders, serious now. “So I know that you know I’m going to ask you this question.”

  “What do you mean?” Reagan tried but mostly failed to feign ignorance.

  “You’re going to make me beg. Okay.” She laughed. “So if Haze is serious about this one-term thing, then I’m doing this. It’s my turn. I did the Senate, I did Treasury. I’m giving this a go. I’m running.”

  “For president,” Reagan said. “Not in a half-marathon or something, just to be clear.”

  “For president, yes,” she said, leaning back in her chair. “And I need you working for me. I want Birdie fund-raising, you speechwriting and communications, and anyone else you know that I need, think about it. Give me names. I want a dream team.”

  “I’ve got a few ideas,” Reagan said, mind racing.

  “So, you’re in?”

  Reagan exhaled, even though she had known this was coming, and cocked her head. “20/20 vision, baby. I’m in.”

  * * *

  Cady and Max took a swing by the Capitol after taping a segment with the youngest freshman congresswoman—just twenty-five years old, brilliant Rhodes Scholar fresh out of her Harvard PhD program—in her office in the Longfellow building. Since the congresswoman was rushing to a meeting, Cady and Max had decided to shoot some B-roll of National Statuary Hall to fill out the piece. They had their work cut out for them too. Between Best Day DC and Madison’s show, the schedule was madness...and Cady loved it.

  Tourists swarmed inside the Capitol, so many in town for the inauguration. As groups were being herded through, the crowd momentarily parted, and across the room she saw a ghost: Jackson. She hadn’t spoken to him since she had moved her things out of his apartment at the end of the summer. But it was a small town, and she’d heard that he was doing this now, giving Capitol tours. Because of an Iowa law prohibiting a person from running for more than one office at a time, Carter hadn’t been allowed to run for his congressional seat once he’d become the vice presidential nominee. Now he was out of a job altogether, as was Jackson. They would both land on their feet soon enough, not that Cady was losing sleep over it.
>
  Cady had taken this tour before. Parker had continued insisting she hit all the tourist sites, and he had been more than happy to guide her. It was their favorite weekend pastime. “I’m doing you a favor. You’re a local show producer. How bad would it look for you to not know this stuff? You’re welcome.”

  So she knew, from experience, that Jackson stood at the very spot in Statuary Hall where the half-dome above threw the acoustics wildly. She knew what he was telling his tour group as he bent down to the ground: “If I whisper something into the floor here, it bounces off and can be heard all the way across the room over there.” He pointed in Cady’s direction. Then he whispered, and she heard his message, clear as crystal: “Cady, I’m sorry.”

  She turned her head, nodded to him, blissfully indifferent. It didn’t matter anymore. She never would have expected to be able to look at him, accept his apology, feel no tug, no pang, no longing in his presence. She felt liberated by this lack of feeling for him. He would just be a footnote in her history.

  “Your lunch date is here,” Max said. “See ya back at the office.”

  Parker nodded, strolling toward her, flakes of snow on his coat. “Hey you,” he said. He kissed her as though he hadn’t just woken up next to her that morning. “Got what you needed?” he asked, referring to the interview. His arm around her shoulder, they walked out the Senate side of the building, in the direction of Preamble.

  She nodded, smiled. “I did.”

  * * * * *

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Just as the Widows had each other to lean on, I’m so lucky to be surrounded by so many truly amazing people. Thank you, thank you, thank you so much...

  To Stéphanie Abou, agent extraordinaire, laser-sharp reader and dear friend: you are the very best and I adore you! With an extra thank-you to the great gang at Massie & McQuilkin.

  To Melanie Fried, brilliant editor: thank you for your tremendous guidance, patience and encouragement along the way. You are wonderful! Huge thanks also to Lisa Wray, Pam Osti and the fantastic team at Graydon House, Harlequin and HarperCollins. And to the lovely Elena Stokes and the Wunderkind team. I’m so grateful to you all for your work championing this book; you are incredible!