Despite her hectic schedule, the unfinished novel is never far from Gwendy’s mind. She daydreams about it constantly and pecks away at it in every nook and cranny of free time she can muster: long flights, weekends, infrequent snow days, and the occasional weeknight when her workload allows.
At a holiday work party in December 1987, her boss, making polite conversation, introduces Gwendy to an old college friend and mentions that his star employee is not only a first-class account manager, but also an aspiring author. The old friend just happens to be married to a literary agent, so he calls his wife over and introduces her to Gwendy. Relieved to have a fellow book lover to talk to, the agent takes an immediate liking to Gwendy and by the end of the night, she convinces the aspiring author to send her the first fifty pages of her manuscript.
When the second week of January rolls around and Gwendy’s phone rings one afternoon, she’s shocked to find the agent on the line inquiring as to the whereabouts of those first fifty pages. Gwendy explains that she’d figured the agent was just being courteous and she didn’t want to add one more unpublishable book to the slush pile. The agent assures Gwendy that she’s never courteous when it comes to her reading material and insists that she send it right away. So, later that day, Gwendy prints the first three chapters of her novel, stuffs them into a FedEx overnight envelope and sends them on their way. Two days later, the agent calls back and asks to see the rest of the manuscript.
There’s only one problem: Gwendy isn’t finished writing the book.
Instead of admitting this to the agent, she takes the following day, a Friday, off from work—a first for Gwendy—and spends a long weekend drinking Diet Pepsi by the gallon and writing her ass off to finish the last half-dozen chapters. During her lunch break on Monday, Gwendy prints the almost three hundred remaining pages of the book and crams them into a FedEx box.
Several days later, the agent calls and offers to represent Gwendy. The rest, as they say, is history.
In April 1990, twenty-eight-year-old Gwendy Peterson’s debut novel, Dragonfly Summer, is published in hardcover to rave reviews and less than impressive sales. A few months later, it wins the prestigious Robert Frost Award, given annually “to a work of exemplary literary merit” by the New England Literary Society. This honor sells maybe—and that’s a hard maybe—a few hundred extra copies and makes for a nice cover blurb on the paperback edition. In other words, it’s nothing to take to the bank.
That all changes soon enough with the release of Gwendy’s second book, a suburban thriller called Night Watch, published the following autumn. Stellar reviews and strong word-of-mouth sales rocket it onto the New York Times bestseller list for four consecutive weeks, where it rests comfortably amidst mega-sellers by Sidney Sheldon, Anne Rice, and John Grisham.
The following year, 1993, sees the publication of Gwendy’s third and most ambitious novel, A Kiss in the Dark, a hefty six-hundred-page thriller set on a cruise ship. The book earns a return trip to the bestseller list—this time for six weeks—and soon after the film version of Night Watch starring Nicolas Cage as the cuckolded suburban husband hits theaters just in time for the holidays.
At this point in her career, Gwendy’s poised to make the leap to the big leagues of the entertainment industry. Her agent anticipates a seven-figure offer in the next book auction, and both Dragonfly Summer and A Kiss in the Dark are now deep in development by major film studios. All she has to do is stay the course, as her father likes to say.
Instead, she changes direction and surprises everyone.
A Kiss in the Dark is dedicated to a man named Johnathon Riordan. Years earlier, when Gwendy started working at the ad agency, it was Johnathon who took her under his wing and taught her the ropes of the advertising world. At a time when he could’ve easily viewed her as direct competition—especially with their proximity in age; Johnathon only being three years older than Gwendy—he instead befriended her and grew to become her closest ally, both in and outside the office. When Gwendy locked her keys in the car for the second time in as many days, whom did she call for help? Johnathon. When she needed serious dating advice, whom did she summon? Johnathon. The two of them spent countless evenings after work eating Chinese food straight out of the carton and watching romantic comedies at Gwendy’s apartment. When Gwendy sold her debut novel, Johnathon was the first person she told, and when she did her first book signing, he was standing at the front of the line at the bookstore. As time passed and their relationship grew closer, Johnathon became the big brother Gwendy never had but always wanted. And then he got sick. And nine months later, he was gone.
This is where the surprise enters the picture.
Inspired by the AIDS-related death of her best friend, Gwendy resigns from the ad agency and spends the next eight months writing a non-fiction memoir about Johnathon’s inspiring life as a young gay man and the tragic circumstances of his passing. When she’s finished, still not over the heartbreak, she immediately pours herself into directing a documentary based on Johnathon’s story.
Family and friends are surprised, but not surprised. Most seem to explain her newfound passion with the simple, well-worn statement: “That’s just Gwendy being Gwendy.” As for her agent, although she never comes right out and says it—that would be unsympathetic, not to mention unkind—she is profoundly disappointed. Gwendy had been on the fast track to stardom and had veered off to tackle a topic as controversial and unseemly as the AIDS epidemic.
But Gwendy doesn’t care. Someone important once told her: “You have many things to tell the world … and the world will listen.” And Gwendy Peterson believes that.
Eyes Closed: Johnathon’s Story is published in the summer of 1994. It garners positive reviews in Publishers Weekly and Rolling Stone, but is a slow mover in the national bookstore chains. By the end of August, it’s demoted to bargain bins in the back of most stores.
The similarly titled documentary is another story altogether. Released shortly after the book, the film plays to packed festival audiences and goes on to win an Academy Award for Best Documentary. Nearly fifty million viewers watch as Gwendy gives her tearful acceptance speech. She spends the majority of the next few months doing interviews with national publications and appearing on various morning and late-night talk shows. Her agent is over the moon. She’s back on the fast track again and more in demand than ever before.
Gwendy first meets Ryan Brown, a professional photographer from Andover, Massachusetts, during the making of the Eyes Closed documentary. The two strike up an easy friendship and, in an unforeseen turn of events for both, it grows into a relationship.
On a cloudless November morning, while hiking along the banks of the Royal River near Castle Rock, Ryan pulls a diamond ring out of his backpack, gets down on a knee, and proposes. Gwendy, tears and snot streaming down her face, is so caught up in the moment she finds herself unable to utter a single word. So, Ryan, ever the good sport, shifts to his other knee and asks again. “I know how much you like surprises, Gwennie. C’mon, what do you say? Spend the rest of your life with me?” This time Gwendy finds her voice.
They’re married the following year at her parents’ church in the center of Castle Rock. The reception is held at the Castle Inn and, despite Ryan’s younger brother drinking too much and breaking his ankle on the dance floor, a good time is had by all. The father of the bride and the father of the groom bond over their mutual admiration of Louis L’Amour oaters, and the two mothers spend the entire day giggling like sisters. Most folks predict now that Gwendy is hitched, she’ll settle down and concentrate on writing novels again.
But Gwendy Peterson does love surprises—and she has one more up her sleeve.
Born of simmering anger and frustration at the cruel and discriminatory manner in which many AIDS victims continue to be treated (she’s particularly incensed that Congress recently voted to retain a ban on entry into the country for people living with HIV, even as more than two-and-a-half million AIDS cases have been repor
ted globally), Gwendy decides—with her husband’s blessing—to run for public office.
Suffice to say, her agent is not pleased.
Gwendy pours her heart and soul into a grassroots campaign, and it quickly catches fire. Volunteers show up in unprecedented numbers and early fund-raisers exceed all expectations. As one notoriously stingy pundit notes: “Peterson, with boundless charisma and energy to match, has not only managed to mobilize the young vote and the undecided vote, she’s found a way to stir the merely curious. And, in a state as tradition-steeped as Maine, that may well prove to be the key to a successful fall.”
It turns out he’s right. In November 1998, by a margin of less than four thousand votes, Gwendy Peterson upsets incumbent Republican James Leonard for the District One Congressional Seat of Maine. The following month, just days after Christmas, she makes the move to Washington, D.C.
So, there you have it, the story of how Gwendy finds herself eleven months and eight days into a two-year Congressional term, peddling her idealistic ideologies (as Fox News referred to them during last night’s broadcast) to anyone who will listen, and often being referred to—with a not so subtle hint of derision—as the Celebrity Congresswoman.
The intercom on her desk buzzes, yanking Gwendy out of her time machine. She fumbles with the keyboard, closing the video window on her computer screen, and presses a blinking button on her telephone. “Yes?”
“Sorry to disturb, but you have a meeting with Rules and Records in seven minutes.”
“Thanks, Bea. I’ll be right out.”
Gwendy glances at her wristwatch in disbelief. Jesus, you just woolgathered away forty-five minutes of your morning. What’s wrong with you? It’s a question she’s asked herself a lot lately. She grabs a pair of manila folders from the top of the stack and hurries out of the office.
5
AS IS OFTEN THE case in this corner of the world, an earlier meeting is running late, so Gwendy arrives with plenty of time to spare. Nearly two dozen House Representatives are crammed into the narrow hallway waiting to enter Conference Room C-9, so she positions herself by the water cooler in the outer lobby, hoping to review her notes in private. No such luck—it’s been that kind of morning.
“Forget to do your homework last night, young lady?”
She clenches her jaw and looks up from the open folder.
Milton Jackson, longtime representative of the state of Mississippi, is seventy years old, looks ninety, and is the spitting image of what a buzzard would look like if it fluttered down from a telephone wire and slipped on a Men’s Wearhouse suit. In other words, not pretty.
“Of course not,” Gwendy says, offering her brightest smile. From day one at her new job, she recognized that Milton was one of those men who loathed anyone with a positive outlook on life or was simply happy, so she really turns it on. “Just doing some extra credit. And how are you this fine December morning?”
The old man squints at her, as if he’s trying to figure out if it was a trick question. “Ahh, I’m okay,” he finally grumbles.
“Leave her alone, Milt,” someone says from behind them. “She’s young enough to be your granddaughter.”
This time Gwendy’s smile is genuine as she turns to her friend. “I’d know that sweet voice anywhere. Good morning, Patsy.”
“Heya, Gwennie. This old coot bothering you?” Patsy Follett is in her mid-sixties and as cute as she is petite. Even in the stylish high-heeled boots she’s wearing, Patsy stands barely five feet tall. Her bobbed hair is dyed platinum and her make-up is, shall we say, plentiful.
“No, ma’am, we were just talking strategy for today’s meeting.” She looks at the congressman. “Isn’t that right, Mr. Jackson?”
The old man doesn’t respond. Just studies them from behind thick eyeglasses like they’re flying insects splattered against the windshield of his brand new Mercedes.
“Speaking of strategy,” Patsy says. “You still owe me a return call on that education budget, Milt.”
“Yeah, yeah,” he grumbles. “I’ll have my secretary get back to you with a date.”
Gwendy glances down at the floor and notices a piece of toilet paper stuck to the heel of one of the old man’s loafers. She carefully reaches out with the tip of her shoe and nudges it free. Then, she slides the toilet paper against the wall so no one else will step on it.
“Or maybe you could just pick up the phone all by yourself and call me back later today,” Patsy says, arching her eyebrows.
Milton scowls and elbows his way toward the front of the crowd without so much as a goodbye.
Patsy watches him go and lets out a thin whistle. “Boy, that ugly mug of his is enough to make you want to skip breakfast. Maybe lunch, too.”
Gwendy’s eyes widen and she tries to hold back a giggle. “Be nice.”
“An impossibility, dear girl. I am cranky as a hornet today.”
A murmur ripples through the crowd and they finally start inching toward the entrance of the conference room.
“Guess it’s that time again,” Patsy says.
Gwendy puts out a hand, gesturing for her friend to go ahead of her. “What time is that?”
Patsy smiles, and her tiny, make-up–laden face lights up. “Time to fight the good fight, of course.”
Gwendy sighs and follows her friend inside.
6
TWO HOURS LATER, THE door to the conference room bangs open and thirty representatives stream out, every last one of them looking like they could use a handful of Tylenol or, at the very least, a cold shower.
“Did you see Old Man Henderson’s face?” Patsy asks as she and Gwendy enter the hallway. “I thought he was going to blow a gasket right there at the podium.”
“I never saw anyone get so red—”
Someone bumps Gwendy hard from behind, knocking her aside, and keeps on hustling past. It’s their chatty friend from this morning, Milton Jackson.
“Hey, nice manners, asshole,” Patsy calls after him.
Gwendy tucks the manila folders under her arm and rubs her shoulder.
“You okay?”
“Oh, I’m fine,” she says. “You shouldn’t have yelled at him like that.”
“Why not? The guy deserved it.” She gives Gwendy a look. “You’re not very good at losing your temper, are you?”
Gwendy shrugs. “I guess not.”
“You should try it sometime. Might make you feel better.”
“Fine. Next time that happens I’ll call him … a walking example of why we need term limits.”
“Sshhh,” Patsy says, as they file into the elevator. “You’re one of us now.”
Gwendy laughs and presses the button for their floor.
“Any movement with the pharmaceutical people?” Patsy asks.
Gwendy shakes her head and lowers her voice. “Ever since Columbine everyone has shifted to gun control and mental health. And how can I blame folks for that? I just wish people around here had longer attention spans than kindergarteners. Three months ago, I almost had the votes. Today, it’s not even close.”
The elevator door slides open and they walk out into a mostly empty lobby. “Welcome to the grind, girlfriend. It’ll circle back around. It always does.”
“How long have you been doing this, Patsy?”
“I’ve represented the second district of the honorable state of South Carolina for sixteen years now.”
Gwendy whistles. “How …?” She pauses.
“How do I do it?”
Gwendy nods shyly.
Patsy puts a hand on the young congresswoman’s shoulder. “Listen, honey, I know what you’re thinking. How did you get yourself into this mess? It’s not even been a year and you’re frustrated and overwhelmed and looking for a way out.”
Gwendy looks at her, saucer-eyed. “That’s not what I—”
Patsy waves her off. “Trust me, we all went through it. It’ll pass. You’ll find your groove. And if you don’t and you find your head slipping under water,
give me a call. We’ll find a way to fix it together.”
Gwendy leans over and hugs her friend. It’s a little like embracing a child, she thinks. “Thank you, Patsy. I swear you’re an angel.”
“I’m really not. I’m old and fussy and don’t much care for most of humanity, but you’re different, Gwennie. You’re special.”
“I don’t feel very special these days, but thank you again. So much.”
Patsy starts to walk away, but Gwendy calls after her. “You really meant it? You’ve felt like this before?”
Patsy turns and puts her hands on her hips. “Honey, if I had a nickel for every time I’ve felt the way you’re feeling, I still wouldn’t have change for a quarter.”
Gwendy bursts out laughing. “What does that even mean?”
Patsy shrugs her shoulders. “Beats me. My late husband used to say it whenever he wanted to sound clever and it’s stuck with me ever since.”
7
GWENDY WALKS INTO HER outer office feeling better than she has in days. It’s almost as if a weight has been lifted from her chest and she can breathe again.
A gray-haired receptionist stops typing and looks up from her computer screen. “I left two messages on your desk and lunch should be here soon. Turkey club and chips okay?”
If Gwendy sometimes envisions (secretly, of course; she would never say these things out loud, not in a million years) Representative Patsy Follett as Tinkerbell, the wand-waving, miniature flying guardian angel of her childhood, then she most certainly imagines her receptionist, Bea Whiteley, as Sheriff Taylor’s beloved Aunt Bea from the iconic television series, The Andy Griffith Show.
Although there’s very little physical resemblance (for starters, Gwendy’s Bea is African-American), there are a multitude of other similarities. First, there’s the name, of course. How many women do you know named Bea or even Beatrice? And then there’re the indisputable facts: Mrs. Whiteley is a natural caregiver, an outstanding cook, a person of devoted faith, and the sweetest, most good-natured woman Gwendy has ever known. Wrap all that up into a single human being and who do you have? Aunt Bea, that’s who.
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