“Is she in?” Sarah asked, nodding toward Rebecca’s door.
“Not right now. She’ll be back soon, though. You can leave the coffee here for her if you want.”
“Perfect,” Sarah replied, placing the cup on Jamal’s desk.
He leaned forward and dropped his voice to a whisper. “I got a call for you, by the way. From our friends down in DC?”
Sarah knew that was code for the presidential campaign. They were vetting her mom for a White House job, but the potential role was a secret from the rest of Goldman Sachs’ employees.
“What’d they want?”
“They’re sending somebody up to talk to you. Said it’s urgent but confidential. They’ll be here first thing tomorrow.”
FIFTY-THREE
At ten-thirty the next morning, Sarah Bailey sat on a bench in Rockefeller Park and watched as ferries and tugboats passed by on the Hudson River. Tourists milled around her, most of them making their way to or from the nearby 9/11 Memorial, but Sarah didn’t pay them any attention.
“Your father has another family.”
The political aide’s words replayed over and over in Sarah’s mind.
“The mistress is Cristina. The little boy’s name is Juanito. They have an apartment in the West Village where your father spends several nights a week.”
Sarah’s face turned pale. She ran from the bench to a trash can and hurled the contents of her stomach into the bin. After she vomited a second time, Sarah made her way back to the bench and sat down in a broken heap.
The campaign worker had apologized, given her a folder full of evidence, and left to catch his train back to DC. “You’re her most trusted aide,” he told her. “We didn’t know who else to give it to.”
Sarah had nodded silently and stared into space for a few minutes before telling Jamal that she didn’t feel well and needed some air. Understatement of the century, she thought.
An hour later, Sarah returned to her office. It was small – a 7x7 foot space that barely had enough room for a desk, a chair, and a stack of shelves. But it had a door and a small window, and no one else was assigned to it, so Sarah was happy. It was far better than the cubicles that most of her friends and co-workers were given.
She heard a knock on her door and looked up to see Rebecca standing in front of her.
“Are you okay, honey? Jamal said you weren’t feeling well.”
Sarah shook her head back and forth. “No, I’m not okay.” She picked up the manila folder and handed it to her mom. “They told me to tell you, but I don’t know how. I’m so sorry, Mom. I’m so, so sorry.”
FIFTY-FOUR
Rebecca left her office not long after she read the report on John. Sarah saw her mom walking toward the elevator, but the look on Rebecca’s face told her to stay away. The younger woman picked up her cell phone and sent a text to her brother.
Call me. ASAP. 911. Emergency.
Jonathan, a student at Columbia, called his sister as soon as he got out of class. After his tirade of cuss words and promises to kill their father subsided, the two siblings agreed to meet an hour later at their parents’ apartment.
“Mom needs us,” Sarah said. “We’ll deal with Dad later.”
When they walked inside their childhood home, they found their mother sitting outside on the balcony. Barefoot but still in her business suit, Rebecca was swaying back and forth on the small rope swing she installed when they were kids. Black tears ran down Rebecca’s cheeks.
Her kids joined her on the balcony and the three sat in silence, each attempting to process the news of John’s betrayal.
“I’ll never understand why we have to make the world so complicated,” Rebecca finally said, digging her manicured toes into plastic green astroturf and pushing off backwards again on the swing. “Do me a favor, will you?”
“Anything,” Sarah replied.
“Find a copy of the poster that says, ‘Everything I need to know I learned in kindergarten’. I want to frame it and put it up at work. New office rules.”
Sarah nodded her head. “I’m on it.”
Rebecca dragged her heels through the ground to stop herself. “Look at me. Sulking like a child. Are y’all okay?”
Jonathan managed a half-smile. “It’s okay to sulk, Mom. To be upset. Yell. Scream. Throw things.”
Rebecca nodded. “I called in a favor at the FBI. I’m going to their indoor shooting range tonight.”
Her son’s smile broadened. “See, there you go. Blow off some steam. Maybe they can make a custom target in the shape of Dad’s head.”
“I was planning on taping his picture to the paper target.”
Jonathan laughed, walked over, and wrapped his arms around his mom’s shoulders. “Just leave a few shots for me, okay?”
Sarah looked at her brother and then her mom. “We’ve been talking,” she ventured. “You and Dad haven’t been happy for a long time. Not that it excuses what he did, not at all. But – ”
“Why did you even marry Dad in the first place?” Jonathan blurted out.
Rebecca sighed. “He was handsome. Stable. Mature, or so I thought. He had nice parents and a similar upbringing as me. The life we would have together wasn’t scary . . . it was familiar.” She paused. “Besides, your dad was a catch.”
Sarah rolled her eyes.
“No, really. That’s what everyone would tell me when we were dating and after we got engaged. ‘You’re so lucky – he’s such a catch.’ And they were exactly right. Because you know what you catch? Fish. Cold, lifeless, smelly fish.”
****
After the shooting range, Rebecca and her kids ordered Chinese takeout for dinner. While Sarah set the table, Jonathan went to the liquor closet and pulled out his father’s 1800 Colección bottle of tequila.
“Who wants a shot?” he asked, holding up the $2,000 extra añejo, one of only forty bottles in the world.
“Fuck yes,” Sarah replied. “Bring it on.”
When the tequila was half-empty, Rebecca pulled out three large, black trash bags. “Here,” she said, handing one to each person. “Throw all of your dad’s shit in these. I’ll messenger it over to him and his whore in the West Village.”
FIFTY-FIVE
The next morning, Rebecca was back on her swing, drinking coffee and looking out over Manhattan. For the first time in her entire career, Rebecca called out sick from work when she wasn’t physically ill. The kids are always telling me I need to take mental health days, she thought as she took another sip of coffee. This time, they’re right.
Her cell phone buzzed in her pocket, and she pulled it out to see that the front desk of her apartment building was calling.
“Hi Mario. What’s up?”
“Good morning, Mrs. Lewis-Bailey. Umm, Dr. Bailey is here, and he wants to go upstairs.”
Rebecca let out a deep breath. “Fine. Send him up.”
She hung up the phone, and then a thought hit her. She dialed the front desk’s number.
“Hello, Mrs. Lewis-Bailey. He’s already in the elevator, if you changed your mind.”
“No, thank you Mario, I didn’t change my mind. I’m just wondering why you called at all. John still lives here – technically.”
The security guard paused, and Rebecca could feel his discomfort through the phone.
“Umm, well, Sarah and Jonathan talked to me yesterday. At first, I said that I couldn’t stop an owner from going up to his apartment, but then they told me what happened. And that you kicked him out. I mean, good for you, ma’am,” added Mario, gaining confidence as he spoke. “If it were me, I would’ve – ”
“Thank you, Mario,” Rebecca said, cutting him off. “I appreciate it.”
After hanging up, she had to resist the urge to throw her phone off the balcony. The only thing that stopped her was the thought of it injuring someone on the street below.
“That’s the last thing I need,” she muttered to herself as she walked inside toward the front door. “My husband has a
second family; my kids are telling everyone about it . . . I don’t need to get arrested on top of that.”
John used his key to open the door and strode inside like there was nothing wrong.
“Really?” Rebecca asked. “You aren’t even going to pretend to be sorry?”
John took off his suit jacket and sat down on the living room couch. “Come on, Rebecca. We’ve both known our marriage was over for a long time.”
“We have? Huh. That’s news to me. Because the last time I checked, I’m still your goddamn wife!”
“Go ahead, pitch a fit. I don’t care.”
“That’s the first true thing you’ve ever said. If you cared, you wouldn’t have lied to me for all these years. If you cared, you wouldn’t have kept a second fucking family in the same fucking city!”
Rebecca picked up a pen off the kitchen counter and threw it across the room.
“Was having one son named after you not good enough?” she continued. “You had to have a second boy and give him your name too? Bastard.”
“Hey, hold on,” John objected. “You can’t call Juanito that. He didn’t do anything wrong.”
“What? No, I meant you’re the bastard. I feel sorry for the kid.”
“He’s great, Becky,” John said with pride. “You’d love him.”
“Go fuck yourself.”
This time it was Rebecca’s phone that went flying across the room, shattering into pieces when it hit the wall.
John ducked out of the way and looked at her with an evil smile. “Yikes, baby. The Senate won’t look too kindly on a White House advisor with a temper.”
Rebecca set her jaw and glared at him. “You know that’s how I found out, right? Background research by the campaign?”
“Maybe it’s better this way, Rebecca. I wouldn’t have given up my job to follow you to DC anyway.” He sighed and ran a hand through his balding hair. “There’s no passion anymore. We look great in a photo op and we made two beautiful kids, but there’s no substance. No romance.”
“And you blame me for that?”
“There’s no one to blame.”
“Ha! Like hell there isn’t! You know what,” she said, picking up his suit jacket and walking to the door, “fuck you. Or, actually, fuck her. Because you definitely won’t be fucking me anymore.” She opened the door and threw his jacket in the hall. “Get out. And stay out.”
FIFTY-SIX
In December of that year, Rebecca packed up her belongings and moved south to Alexandria, Virginia. Her candidate had won the election, and Rebecca was in charge of his finance team. She was a political novice but an investment whiz, and it was an open secret that she would one day take over as Treasury Secretary. Rebecca was a shoo-in for the top job: having spent thirty years at Goldman Sachs, she was well-known and well-liked on both sides of the aisle. She was also scandal free, with the press thus far unaware of the nastier details of her separation from her husband. The only reason reporters knew about the split at all was because Rebecca dropped ‘Bailey’ from her last name.
Rebecca and Sarah settled into a three bedroom, four bath townhouse in Old Town Alexandria, just across the river from DC, and went to work on the president-elect’s transition team. It was their job to prepare to take the reins when the new administration began.
After spending a year by the President’s side at the White House, Rebecca Lewis was sworn in as Secretary of the Treasury in late January of 2018 – three days after her divorce became final.
The next morning, Rebecca woke up early. Her townhome faced the East, and she loved watching the sun rise over the Potomac River. Her new place wasn’t all that big, only 2,800 square feet, but after living in Manhattan for so long it seemed like a mansion to Rebecca and Sarah. Especially because they didn’t have neighbors above or below them. The red brick, three story townhouse had a front-entry garage and a small back patio that was large enough for a grill. That last detail thrilled Jonathan to no end, and he always grilled out for them when he came to visit.
Rebecca opened the French doors in her bedroom and saw grass, trees, and water. Best of all, after years of car horns and city yelling, she heard birds chirping. Rebecca breathed in the fresh air and smiled. God, I love it here.
After finishing her coffee, Rebecca dressed in leggings, a quarter-zip, gloves, and her favorite sneakers. She walked downstairs, pulled a beanie on top of her head, and stepped out into the cold winter air.
“Good morning, ma’am,” said a tall, muscular man standing on her front porch.
“Good morning,” Rebecca replied to the Secret Service agent. “I guess you’re coming with me?”
“Yes ma’am. I’ll be five yards behind you the whole time, with the car another ten behind me.”
Rebecca looked to the street and saw a black Chevrolet Tahoe idling at the curb. “Is that really necessary? I mean, I get it when I’m exercising. But do y’all really have to sit outside in a running car all the time no matter what? Even in the middle of the night?”
“Yes ma’am. We could need to leave in an instant.”
Rebecca sighed and shrugged her shoulders. “If you say so. Ready to go?”
The Secretary and her security detail started off in Rivergate City Park across from her townhouse. They ran north along the river through a handful of other parks and residential streets before reaching the Mount Vernon Trail: a wide, paved path that went alongside the George Washington Memorial Parkway in Northern Virginia. From Rebecca’s house to Reagan National Airport and back was a five-mile loop, which was about all her knees and back would let her do these days.
“Never get old,” she huffed to the Secret Service agent when they returned to her house. “It’s hell on your body.”
The younger man laughed. “So is chasing after a freakishly fast Cabinet member.”
Rebecca smiled. “Touché.” She held out her fist and bumped knuckles with the agent. “Alright. Shower, then office.”
FIFTY-SEVEN
Across the pond in London, Richard joined his longtime friend, Geoffrey, for dinner that night. They met at a small Italian bistro in Chelsea called Il Trillo, best known for its handmade pastas and romantic back patio. Geoffrey first discovered the place when he was dating his now-wife, and the two friends ate there several times a year. Geoff liked it because it was close to his house, and Richard liked it because no one cared who he was. The owners had watched him grow up from a brash young analyst into a refined, successful MP. When he was named Chancellor of the Exchequer that past summer, the owners of Il Trillo sent him a plate of prosciutto and an order of pasta to celebrate.
On that particular evening, Richard noticed a young couple seated at a corner table. They were nervous enough to be early in their relationship – maybe even a first date, he thought.
“Excuse me, Giovanni?” Richard asked, getting the waiter’s attention.
“Yes sir?”
“You see that couple out on the patio? In the corner?”
Gio turned to look. “Yes sir, I see them.”
“Put their bill on mine.”
The waiter looked back at Richard. “You sure?”
“I am. But don’t tell them it was me. Say they’re the millionth customer or something like that and they won a prize.”
Giovanni shrugged his shoulders. “Okay. If that’s what you want.”
After the waiter walked away, Richard looked across the table and saw his friend staring at him.
“What the hell was that?”
Richard smiled, remembering when he asked the same question the first time Rebecca bought a meal for strangers.
“Just a nice gesture.”
“But why?”
Richard shrugged his shoulders. “Because I can.”
“I don’t get you, mate. Hard-charging politician by day – secret Santa by night.”
“I don’t see a conflict between the two.”
“Your colleagues in Parliament might. For instance, voting to cut welfare subsidie
s?”
Richard wagged his finger back and forth. “Completely different. That bill was bollocks. And even if it wasn’t, what I choose to do with my own money is my business.”
Geoff looked across the table skeptically. “If you say so. But really – how often do you go about buying dinner for strangers?”
The Chancellor smiled, his thoughts again flashing back to the night in Hartford with Rebecca.
“Occasionally,” he answered. “A good friend of mine in business school used to do the same thing. Except she always attached some sort of story to it as well. Said the couple was celebrating their anniversary or down on their luck or whatever it may be.”
“Okay,” his friend replied. “So, what’s going on with the people over there?”
“Bugger if I know.”
Geoff laughed. “No story?”
“No. I deal with enough people playing make-believe every day at work. I don’t need that here, too.”
Their dinner arrived soon thereafter, and Richard and Geoffrey focused their attention on the food. The two men usually got half orders of two or three different pastas and shared them. This time was no different, with plates of tortellini, ravioli, and pappardelle crowding the small table.
“Next time, I’m getting my own pappardelle,” Richard said between bites. “With the wild boar marinated in chianti? Mmmm,” he groaned in appreciation. “Amazing.”
Geoffrey grabbed the plate away from Richard. “Next time, go for it. Tonight, you have to share.”
“Bastard.”
“I am not. I’m just a man who loves to eat.”
Richard drank some of his wine and smiled. “You better not let Amanda see you this happy about someone else’s cooking.”
Every Star in the Sky Page 13
