Every Star in the Sky

by Danielle Singleton

  “Darling, what on Earth is wrong? Have you choked on something?”

  “You were impressed by the American finance minister?”

  “I was. Very smart, obviously competent and prepared. Far more elegant and less brash than most American politicians. And quite pretty, too,” Victoria added, dropping a not-so-subtle hint for her bachelor son.

  He nodded his head up and down in approval. “She’s almost aristocratic in a way, no?”

  “I suppose you could say that about her, yes.”

  Richard stood up from his chair so fast that it slammed to the floor behind him. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, trying to regain his composure. A moment later, Richard stalked out of the room, down the stairs, and out of his mother’s house. He was so angry he couldn’t speak.

  Back inside, Lady Dublinshire stared bewildered at the door. “What on earth was that?” she asked the family’s longtime butler, Mr. Guinn, who had been serving them lunch.

  “If I were to wager a guess, your ladyship, I would say it had something to do with the American politician in question. I believe she is the woman his lordship was in love with during business school. I was only a footman at that point, but I do remember talk of it amongst the servants.”

  “What the devil are you talking about?”

  “If I recall correctly, Lord Dublinshire informed your ladyship and his late father of his desire to marry the young woman.”

  Victoria gasped. “That’s right. There was someone. That’s her? The finance minister?”

  “I believe so, yes ma’am.”

  Richard’s mother sighed and shook her head. “The same girl I ran off when I visited Boston. I can’t believe he’s still bitter about that. They never would’ve worked. They’re from two different worlds. It would be like me marrying . . . marrying you, Guinn.” The elderly woman laughed at the thought. “Preposterous.”

  “Yes ma’am. A union against nature, no doubt.”

  The sarcasm in his voice was lost on Lady Dublinshire. “Exactly, Guinn. A union against nature.”

  SIXTY-THREE

  Richard stopped answering his mother’s calls, and he skipped the next month’s lunch. He couldn’t bear to hear her voice, let alone see her face. After all this time, he thought. After all those years of pain and loneliness, she decides Becks is ‘appropriate’ after all. He snorted in disgust. Bitch.

  Rather than fight with his mother, Richard focused all his attention on his two favorite things: work and Rebecca. The Chancellor of the Exchequer was a popular figure in Parliament and Whitehall, and newspapers were starting to speculate that he would be the next Prime Minister. But Richard’s pride in his work accomplishments paled in comparison to the joy he got from his renewed pursuit of Rebecca.

  He was still texting her every day at the same time; occassionally even calling when he could come up with a decent work-related excuse. He was particularly proud of himself for her birthday gift: tulips sent to her office (anonymously, of course) and dinner delivered to her home in Old Town Alexandria. But not just any dinner, Richard recalled with a smile.

  He and Tricia worked for weeks to iron out the kinks. A long-distance courier picked up the food from Rebecca’s favorite restaurant during business school: Giacomo’s in the North End. The courier then hopped on the American Airlines shuttle from Boston Logan to Reagan National. By the time Rebecca arrived home from work, dinner was waiting. Fried calamari to start, followed by homemade fusilli with lobster, shrimp, and a spicy red sauce. The pièce de resistance was a box of assorted cannolis from Mike’s Pastry, the famous bakery down the street from Giacomo’s.

  ****

  When Rebecca and her daughter walked in the door from work that evening, they found Jonathan busy setting a table with delivery containers, plates, and wine glasses. He had flown down from New York for his mom’s birthday but quickly discovered that he wasn’t the only surprise.

  Rebecca threw her arms around her son and hugged him tight. “What are you doing here?!”

  “It’s your birthday. Of course I’m here.”

  She pulled back to examine the dining room table. “And you brought dinner?”

  Jonathan shook his head. “I brought the wine. The food got here about thirty minutes ago. Delivered by a courier. The guy said he didn’t know who hired him, but it was the craziest order he’d ever done.”

  “Craziest how?” asked Sarah.

  At that moment, Rebecca recognized the label on the takeout containers. She smiled and shook her head. I can’t believe he did all of this. “The food is from Boston,” Rebecca said in reply to her daughter’s question. “It’s Giacomo’s . . . my favorite Italian place.”

  “How did it get here?”

  Rebecca shrugged her shoulders. “Must’ve been my friend Emily. She’s a professor at HBS now. Giacomo’s was one of our favorite spots during school.”

  As soon as she could, Rebecca snuck away to the bathroom and pulled out her cell phone.

  It’s amazing. You’re amazing. My kids are here tonight, but I’ll call tomorrow. Seriously – unreal.

  He texted back almost immediately, having stayed up late to find out what Rebecca thought of the surprise.

  Happy birthday, Becks. You’re the amazing one.

  SIXTY-FOUR

  After breakfast with her children, commuting in with Sarah, and a full slate of morning meetings, it was nearly noon Eastern Time before Rebecca had a moment of privacy. She put her computer status as ‘do not disturb’ and picked up her personal cell phone.

  Richard answered on the second ring. “Happy belated birthday, Madam Secretary.”

  Rebecca smiled and looked at the bouquet of tulips still sitting on her desk from the day before. “Thank you, Chancellor. And thank you a thousand times over for the flowers and the dinner. I can’t believe you did all of that!”

  “I was gutted that I couldn’t be there in person to celebrate, so I wanted to make it up to you. Lobster fusilli was your favorite, right?”

  “It was. Plus the cannolis, which you would always buy but never eat.”

  “I hate ricotta cheese,” Richard confessed, “and I knew you secretly wanted to eat two of them. I’d buy one and give it to you – ”

  “Pretending to be too full from dinner,” Rebecca said, finishing his sentence.

  “So how was it?” he asked. “As good as I remember?”

  “Even better. Although, you could’ve warned me about it,” Rebecca added. “I had to come up with a lie on my feet when my kids asked who sent the food. I couldn’t even say it was from my office, because Sarah works here with me and would’ve known about it.”

  “Oops, I didn’t think about that. What’d you tell them?”

  “Remember Emily? She’s a professor at Harvard now. I said she must’ve done it.”

  “Clever girl,” replied Richard with a smile. “Well played.”

  Jamal knocked on Rebecca’s door to remind her of her lunch meeting.

  “Uh oh, I have to go. Real quick, though: you’ll be at the G7, right? So I can buy you dinner to say thank you?”

  Silence hung over the line, then Richard responded.

  “Is that a date, Secretary Lewis?”

  His voice was deep, sexy, and different than it had been for the rest of the conversation. Rebecca’s stomach did a somersault. She knew they had been walking a fine line with the text messages, phone calls, and flowers. But things had stayed friendly and platonic, at least on the surface. The current underneath was raging and carrying them swiftly toward something very serious, but Rebecca had been able to pretend it wasn’t happening as long as it stayed unspoken. Richard’s question, though, brought things forward in a way Rebecca wasn’t quite sure she was ready for.

  “Becks?” he asked, breaking the silence.

  “It’s a date,” she responded, pushing herself toward the bravery she didn’t have thirty years earlier. “I’ll see you in Canada.”

  SIXTY-FIVE

  The 44th G
7 Summit was held on June 8th and 9th, 2018, in Charlevoix, a small resort town in Quebec, Canada. A mere hour and a half drive from Quebec City, the Fairmont Le Manoir Richelieu was a large, gray manor with a green roof that was home to over 400 hotel rooms, four restaurants, and a sweeping view of the St. Lawrence River. As the top finance ministers for their respective countries, Richard and Rebecca were in attendance at the summit along with presidents and prime ministers from the top seven advanced economies in the world: Canada, France, Germany, Italy, Japan, the United Kingdom, and the United States.

  Richard arrived with the UK delegation on the evening of the 7th of June. As a leading dignitary, his staff checked him in and prepared his suite of rooms before he got there. Stepping out of his motorcade car and into the hotel, Richard barely acknowledged the beautiful lobby with wall-to-wall windows overlooking the river. His focus was on his iPhone and reading the final draft of his speech.

  “It’s wonderful to be here with you all – ooof!”

  Not watching where he was going, Richard slammed straight into a person walking in the opposite direction. He bent down to pick up his phone off the floor and looked to see who his victim was.

  “Becks!”

  Richard couldn’t hide his excitement. He stood up and enveloped Rebecca in a huge hug. He knew people were watching them and gossip would spread about their greeting, but I don’t fucking care, he thought, breathing in Rebecca’s long-lost scent of perfume and breezy shampoo.

  “My God, I’ve missed you,” he whispered in her ear.

  “You haven’t changed one bit,” Rebecca said, taking a step back and holding his hands wide to get a better look at Richard. “Not one bit.”

  And he hadn’t. Even his outfit was the same: brown loafers, khaki slacks, and a button-up shirt. Rebecca knew, if the weather were cooler, he would also be wearing a navy blazer – or perhaps tweed with elbow patches. If the events of the day called for casualwear, Rebecca thought with a smirk, remembering how he used to describe his clothing choices.

  “What?” asked Richard.

  “Nothing, nothing. You really do look exactly the same.”

  He laughed. “Yeah, plus about twenty pounds and a lot of gray hair and wrinkles.”

  Rebecca shook her head. “You look the same to me.”

  “And you look fantastic,” Richard replied, taking his own appraisal of his longtime friend. Wearing a blue shift dress and white summer blazer, Rebecca looked every bit the world power player that she was. Rebecca Lewis, he thought with a smile. No longer Rebecca Lewis-Bailey, either. Even better.

  “Hello?”

  “Huh?”

  “I asked what you’re doing tonight,” Rebecca said.

  “Work, unfortunately. I have a lot of emails to get through.”

  “Yeah, I’ve got a pile of call sheets to return as well. I’m so glad we bumped into each other, though,” she added with a smile.

  “Literally,” Richard said, and they both laughed.

  “Yes, literally. I’ll see you at the conference tomorrow, right?”

  Richard nodded. “That’s why I’m here.”

  “Excellent. See you then!”

  Rebecca rose up on her tip toes, gave Richard a quick kiss on the cheek like she used to in business school, and scurried off in the direction of the American block of rooms.

  Richard resisted the urge to run his hand over the spot where her lips branded his skin. Instead, he shook his head and smiled. “Always in a hurry.”

  SIXTY-SIX

  Later that same evening, after finishing her work for the day, Rebecca decided to explore some of the hotel. I can’t sleep, so I might as well make the most of the trip, she thought as she left her room. Better than sitting in bed watching Netflix.

  She took the elevator down to the basement to find the exercise room. Peaking her head inside, Rebecca saw a row of treadmills and ellipticals facing the windows. Perfect. I’ll be able to see the river when I run tomorrow morning. Next to the gym was the spa. Rebecca grumbled. No time for that this trip. Even though I could desperately use a massage. She had even gotten her daughter, Sarah, to call the hotel spa and find out if they were having special hours during the G7 summit.

  “No such luck,” Rebecca muttered to herself as she walked back toward the elevator. “They could make a fortune doing massages late at night.”

  She rode up to the main floor. Having changed out of work clothes into a more comfortable red blouse, skinny jeans, and espadrille wedges, Rebecca looked more like a tourist than a Cabinet Secretary. There weren’t any tourists to be seen, though, since the entire hotel was rented out for the conference. Between dignitaries, staff, and security, there weren’t any rooms to spare. The ‘ring of protection’ approach to the G7 was why Rebecca was able to explore the property without her Secret Service detail. Since no one was allowed to enter without proper credentials and a background check, attendees had more freedom once inside the bubble.

  Walking through the lobby, Rebecca noticed that the bar was still serving drinks. Oh, so they leave that open late but not the spa. She stepped inside the lounge. Dark leather tables and chairs complimented the cherry wood bar. In the middle of the room, a grand piano sat ready for someone to play its keys. Although the bar was crowded, most of the people were near the windows that overlooked the river. Rebecca spotted an empty table in the back corner.

  A waiter soon appeared. “Can I get you something, ma’am?”

  “I’d like a Moscow Mule. With a splash of orange juice, please.”

  The waiter nodded. “Preference on vodka?”

  “Tito’s is fine.”

  “And I’ll have an Old Fashioned. Bartender’s choice on the whisky.”

  Rebecca looked up to see Richard standing beside her table.

  “That is, of course, if the lady will invite me to join her.”

  Rebecca smiled and nodded her head. “Of course, please.” She motioned toward the empty chair opposite hers.

  “Anything else?” the waiter asked.

  “No, that’ll be all,” Rebecca said. “Thank you.”

  Richard sat down and leaned toward her. “Thank God you’re here,” he said. “I was worried for a second that I would have to spend the night talking about monetary policy with some kiss-ass staffer.”

  “What makes you think I don’t want to talk about monetary policy?” Rebecca held a straight face for a second before a smile broke through.

  “Phew,” Richard said, sitting back in his chair. “You had me there for a minute.” He ran a hand through his shaggy hair.

  “I see we’re still refusing to get a proper cut,” she commented.

  Richard patted the top of his gray hair and grinned. “At my age, if you have it, you want to keep it. Besides, it was my father who made me cut it. With him gone, the impetus isn’t there.”

  “Doesn’t your image consultant or assistant get on you about it?”

  “Image consultant? The day I’m made to have one of those is the day I retire from public life.” He paused. “My assistant schedules me a quarterly cut. But the hair is part of my rogue, boyish appeal, right? Helps with the female voters.” Richard winked.

  “You forget how well I know you, Richard Arrington. That disaffected charm won’t work on me.”

  Their waiter arrived and placed the drinks down on their table. “Still all set?” he asked.

  “Yes, thank you.”

  Richard took a sip of his drink and nodded his head. “That’s a good Old Fashioned. And you’re right. You always saw through my charm . . . and me. Much to my chagrin.”

  “You did quite all right with me just by being yourself.”

  “Not well enough,” Richard said.

  A look of darkness flashed across Rebecca’s face and Richard regretted his words. “I’m sorry, Becks. I didn’t mean – ”

  “No, no. Don’t worry about it.” Rebecca smiled again, but this time it didn’t reach her eyes. “Keep the shaggy hair,” she added. “You would
n’t be you without it.”

  A minute of silence passed as the pair drank their cocktails and watched the other people in the bar.

  Don’t fuck this up, Richard told himself. You’re finally with her again. Get back on solid footing.

  “I’ve kept tabs on you, you know,” he said. “Goldman Sachs and then fundraising chair in the last election. And now . . . look at you.” He raised his glass toward her in salute. “You hold the keys to the biggest, most powerful bank in the world.”

  Rebecca smiled at him from behind her copper mug. “Your bank isn’t too bad either, Mr. Chancellor.”

  “That’s Lord Chancellor to you,” he quipped, and Rebecca rolled her eyes. Richard let out a deep breath and looked toward the windows. “Did you ever think we’d get here? All those late nights studying for Craswell’s marketing projects or Pritcher’s econ quizzes?” He turned back toward Rebecca. “Did you ever think we’d end up here?”

  “Where? Sitting together in a bar in Canada, preparing to represent our countries at the G7 tomorrow?” She laughed and shook her head. “No. Did you?”

  “Well, the together after thirty years part certainly crossed my mind a time or two.”

  “Richard.”

  He put up his hands in defense. “You asked. But both of us as Cabinet-level finance ministers? No. I never imagined that.” He paused. “You saw yourself here, though. You said so in our class when that wanker told you to get married and leave.”

  “Technically, I told him I was going to be Chairwoman of the Federal Reserve. But you’re right. And I did track him down.”

  “Seriously? For your swearing in?”

  Rebecca grinned. “Andrew Philip Walters III had two front row tickets for the ceremony. He didn’t show, of course, but the seats were reserved. I took a picture of the empty chairs and emailed it to him after.”