Atlas popped into my mind. You called it my story.
Still, I nodded at my boss, anxious to prove myself. Which I planned on doing, just after I retreated to the quiet of my office, closed my door, and screamed out my frustration into my lumbar pillow. When Miles was gone, Bo and L.K. sandwiched me in a group hug I didn’t ask for, but also didn’t hate.
Nine
The trendy thing to do in DC is name restaurants after fruits or flowers. A new establishment in Shaw had decided, apparently in all seriousness, to call itself Fruits & Flowers. It was the kind of place that didn’t have a phone, didn’t take reservations, and didn’t blink an eye when diners wanted accommodation based on their ideological dietary choices. Washingtonian raved, the Post guy declared it mandatory eating, and so it was inevitable that Wallis wanted to meet me there midweek. Fortunately, it was cheap eats, so I agreed.
“Pomegranate hummus,” she said when I found her shivering in line outside. “I’m so hungry I might eat the entire bowl myself.”
“Wallis, my God, your hair,” I said. Her natural caramel brown was now highlighted with strokes of gold and—wait for it—pastel princess pink.
“I got the urge to do something. So I did. I did a thing.” The guy behind us asked if we were in line. Wallis rolled her eyes and we shuffled closer to the unmarked door.
“I wanted to make a statement, especially at Mac’s stupid wedding. They might be able to ignore us, but they won’t be able to ignore this new look. Oh, you’re gaping at me like you hate it. No, Daisy. Seriously, if you tell me you hate it, I will cry.”
Pivot around the question, I always reminded Miles, when the truth would hurt. “You are very trendy and beautiful.”
“She said sarcastically.” Wallis ran her hands down the arms of her coat.
“I’m not being sarcastic,” I said. My hair—dark brown, one-note, in need of a root touch-up—was pin straight and shoulder length, usually parted in the middle. Hairstylists were always suggesting a change, but I’d take this cut to my coffin. “I don’t think you’re capable of doing anything I truly hate.”
A petite lady with a clipboard came out of the restaurant and asked for our name. “Richardson,” I answered, without thinking. There was a moment when she looked between Wallis and me, blinking slowly, and I thought she might turn us away; she certainly seemed to be considering it. In the end, she just muttered something that sounded like ew, wrote us on her list, and moved down the line.
I contemplated whether Atlas’s article would make this open hostility from strangers increase or decrease. Since he had asked me to go on record last week, I had toggled between wanting to know nothing about the piece and wanting to dictate every last punctuation mark. I didn’t think my family could take any more scrutiny, but I was still a politician’s daughter at heart, and couldn’t help but consider all angles. Would my participation tip the scale of public opinion one way or the other? I felt cold and cynical thinking this way, but that was the game I was being forced to play. One of calculated risk. An interview with a writer I trusted to be fair could be an opportunity to pivot our family’s narrative into more sympathetic territory, remind readers of all the positive change Gregory had affected.
“I guess we need fake ID’s now,” Wallis said, grouchy now.
“A good pseudonym, at least.” I stomped my feet, trying to warm my toes inside my flats.
“How long do you think this is going to take?”
“For us be to anonymous in public again?” I didn’t have an answer to that question.
“For us to get inside this damn restaurant.”
“Hold our spot.” I walked around the line to peer inside the front windows. It was just a shoebox of a place, no more than forty people, no table holding more than six. And there, seated at the four-top in front of my nose, were my father’s former chief of staff, his former communications director, and his former executive assistant. Through holidays and graduation parties, Wallis and I had regarded these men as part of our extended family. As a child I’d had nicknames for them, been a flower girl in one of their weddings; one even taught me how to bowl. Yet none of them had reached out since the news broke. We made eye contact through the window. The expressions on their faces went through shock, appraisal, mild embarrassment, then dismissal, and it became clear to me that our relationship had been decidedly severed.
I rejoined Wallis. “We can’t eat here,” I announced.
“The food looks bad?” she asked, glancing up from her phone.
“There’s an entire table of Gregory’s former staffers. Uncle Danny is in there, Goldie, too. And I just can’t handle the awkwardness. Please, let’s go somewhere safe.”
“God, those dicks. You think they’d at least pretend to care. Cricket said she hasn’t heard one peep from them.”
This didn’t surprise me. Not anymore, at least. “Their years with our father are now nothing but a huge blemish on their résumés. It’s not entirely their fault they don’t want to be seen with us.”
“Let me ask you a question, Daisy. If Miles had a boyfriend—”
“He claims he’s in a relationship with his job.”
“Fine. If he was even casually sleeping with someone, would you know?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Right. So, they knew about Dad’s affair. Maybe even the money he spent on her. They should be out here, on their knees, begging for our forgiveness.”
“All right,” I said, waving toward the door. “Go in there and tell them that.”
“Maybe I should. Sometimes I think making a scene would help me feel better. The only thing that’s stopping me is that I would really like to come back to this restaurant one day. God! Let’s just go to La Vic. I need to drown my emotions in a giant bowl of French onion soup.”
“Are you going to tell clipboard lady that we’re leaving?” I asked.
“I’m over clipboard lady,” said Wallis as we began walking. “Just like the man in there formerly known as Uncle Danny.”
* * *
Our old faithful—La Victoire—the corner brasserie equally beloved by tourists and Washingtonians, was relatively quiet, and we were able to get two seats at the bar without divulging our names. As promised, Wallis did feel better after enjoying her soup, and we spent a long time talking, feet entangled in each other’s bar stools, sipping on the cheapest wine from the menu. For a minute, I even forgot about Uncle Danny, our father, Agent Finkle and his warrant, the vandal with the brick, who’d managed to stay anonymous despite Atlas’s pursuit and the police’s half-hearted efforts. I was just with my sister, reminiscing, giggling about her series of college boyfriends, several of whom I’d met when I’d traveled to Williamstown for Wallis’s championship soccer games. For someone who had spent most of high school in cleats, she sure had a knack for choosing indoor boys. We laughed about the one who quoted David Foster Wallace in bed. The one who claimed never to watch television. The one who loved his a cappella group like it was his own child.
By the time we’d paid the bill, the bar was jammed, and bodies packed around our seats. We’d no sooner slipped off our stools than two young women, anxious, like we’d been, for wine and food, filled them again. We worked our way toward the exit, but at the hostess stand I realized Wallis wasn’t by my side anymore. On tiptoes, I searched the room and found her still close to the bar, waylaid by an older man, his face vaguely familiar, lumpy red nose, disheveled hair, his arm snaked around her waist.
“Yes,” I heard her say loudly, defensively, as I pushed back through the crowd. “I’m Wallis Richardson. Who are you?”
He looked at his companions, who had formed themselves in a half-circle around Wallis, and said, “This girl must really be stupid,” then went on to explain how he was a famous publicist—yes, that was how I knew him—and how it would be good to get our side of the story out into the press, how it would
be such a savvy move for our family. How he would be so happy to help.
“Sir.” My heart was in my throat as I grabbed for Wallis’s hand. “We need to go. Please, let my sister go.”
He whirled his face toward me, and I had the feeling that a dinner plate was being tossed in my direction. “Relax, ladies,” he said with the confidence of a man extensively practiced in dismissing women. Again, he turned to his companions, who laughed like this was a skit. “I’m just trying to be your friend.”
“I prefer to be strangers.” Wallis twisted her body away from his arm.
“Same,” I agreed, though rather weakly.
“You should be really careful about who you’re telling to fuck off in this town.” He was still laughing as he said this. “You should be grateful that I would even entertain the idea of taking on your family as clients. Everyone knows what you all were into. Come on, you worked for your father.” This last comment was directed toward me.
“You don’t scare me.” Wallis moved toward him and stuck her finger up at his chin. “You don’t know anything about us. You certainly don’t know shit about my sister. So back up, buddy.”
“I don’t want to be your buddy.” He brushed her finger away. “You’re too much of a bitch.”
Other people were noticing. The bartender, even, was staring, swirling a towel around the same glass over and over. There were many eyes on us and not many of them friendly.
“Wallis,” I said, shriveling, “let’s go. Enough. It’s not worth it.”
“As soon as he moves,” said Wallis, “out of my fucking way.”
“Bro.” A man, youngish, square-jawed, was now at my shoulder. “You’re not being cool. Come on. You don’t look like you’re this guy. You don’t have to be this guy.”
“I didn’t start this.” The publicist raised both hands, as though to prove his harmlessness.
“Bro, it doesn’t matter. Step aside and give them some room.”
Lumpy stepped back, and the air suddenly felt less turbulent. Amazing what a baritone and a set of biceps can do in a situation like this. The patriarchy is alive; don’t let anyone tell you different.
But Wallis, evidently, wasn’t satisfied. “I still have more to say to this walking bucket of fried chicken!” she said, making some bystanders laugh, including our new friend at my side. Even I had to suppress a smile.
I don’t know what would’ve happened next if a woman identifying herself as the manager hadn’t charged in, asking what was going on here.
Wallis looked like she might explain exactly what was going on, but our defender got there first. “My man here was just backing up. Right dude? He’s good. Yup, just like that. Going to let these girls have a good rest of their night.” Like a bodyguard, he escorted us past the human chicken thigh, who managed one last scowl, through the crowd to the revolving door, and out onto the street, where Wallis let out a stream of curses into the cold air.
“It’s okay.” These words were mostly for myself. “It’s done.”
“No,” said Wallis. “I left my fucking coat in the coat check.” More curses.
“I’ll get it.” He asked for her ticket, and Wallis gave it to him without hesitation.
“Who is that guy?” Wallis huddled close to me when he’d gone.
“Someone seizing his white knight moment.” In the bar, I’d noticed his accent—Southern, not too twangy or noticeable, just a softening of consonants here and there. The voice, as the outdated trope went, of a gentleman. Could anyone argue, though, that he hadn’t been chivalrous? I imagined how the situation might’ve appeared to him: Wallis, aggrieved, foulmouthed, surrounded, a young woman (and it helped that she was beautiful) intimidated by a bigger, much older man.
He returned clutching Wallis’s jacket, and I got my first good look at him. Our boy was handsome, no question, and was wearing a gingham shirt tucked neatly into slim khakis. He had dark hair that flipped out behind his ears and a smile that went higher on one side than it did on the other. You could tell this was the kind of man who had been devilishly cute in boyhood and figured out how to manscape his way into sex appeal as an adult. His features, independent of each other, were so dashing that it took a second to really see what was in front of me. When he came into focus, I swallowed hard, finally recognizing him.
“Well, thanks,” Wallis said. “God, that was wild in there. I didn’t catch your name.”
“Blake.” His drawl wasn’t especially pronounced, but the a in his name still stole the show.
“Darley,” I said. “As in, Melinda Darley.” As in the woman who’d been on television not two weeks ago calling our father an abomination.
“The senator?” Wallis didn’t seem concerned, only curious.
“You got me.” Blake smiled and extended his hand. He shook mine warmly, though I sensed his attention drifting back to my sister.
“Daisy,” I said, pointing a bit foolishly to my chest. “And Wallis. Richardson.” I declared this with the expectation that if he didn’t know who we were already, he’d soon put it together, wish us a pleasant night, and take himself back into the bar.
“We’ve never formally met, I don’t think,” he said, turning back to me. “But I know who you are. The brilliant Daisy Richardson, deliverer of election night upsets, securer of plum committee assignments, chief of staff extraordinaire. A pleasure to meet you.”
It was truly surreal, feeling flattered by a man whose mother thought abstinence was the only proper form of birth control.
Wallis: “You were pretty good in there, Blake. I’m impressed by your de-escalation tactics.”
“When you come from a family of politicians, you come from a family of arguers,” said Blake, taking a mock bow. “As you guys probably know. Still, sorry about all that bro and dude stuff. That was lame. But men like that have to be sweet-talked into submission.”
“He was gross,” said Wallis, though she didn’t seem worried about it anymore.
“You guys are cold.” He observed my sister shivering. “Do you want to—no pressure at all—but there’s another little place down the street with great cocktails. Quiet. And they have a strict no-douchebag policy.”
“And they still have customers?” smiled Wallis. “In this town?”
“I did say it was quiet,” he responded, eyes only for my sister.
“Daisy?” Wallis asked. “What do you think?”
Perhaps he saw my hesitation, because he said he was going to make a quick call, and stepped down the sidewalk and out of earshot.
“I want to go,” Wallis whispered.
“He does seem very nice,” I said, trying to be discreet. “And very pretty. But...” This last word I stretched, hoping she might finish my thought for me. For as worldly as my sister was, sometimes she forgot how things worked in DC.
“You don’t want me to go?”
“Well, I can’t go with him.”
“Why not?”
“I can’t be seen hanging with the son of one of Miles’s biggest adversaries.” In my quest to be inconspicuous these past weeks, I’d dodged reporters and photographers, avoided predatory PR agents, deleted my weight in hate mail and blocked mean tweets. And now the laughing, pernicious universe had sent me a Darley. Fine, perfect, I’d shake him, too.
“But who was the creepiest guy in that bar?” Wallis said. “It sure wasn’t Blake. I for one am not going to be one of those people who categorically dismisses the other side.”
“Like me.” I folded my arms.
“I didn’t say that, Dodo. But you have to know that when you heap scorn on someone for long enough, the more likely they are to double down on their beliefs. Who knows? Minds can change.”
“He has to be in his midthirties, right? I’d venture to guess his beliefs have long since crystalized.”
“So no one has ever had an epiphany
over the age of twenty-nine?”
I sighed. I knew she would steamroll me, and, really, it was only one drink. “He does have a cute accent. But if he starts talking to you about pheasant hunting or naming your kids after Confederate generals, then run.”
She clasped my frozen hand. “I can take care of myself, Dodo.”
I prayed that this bar was indeed quiet and they wouldn’t be seen. “Try not to let anyone record you, or take a photo of you.” She gave me a look. “For me,” I pressed. “And you better text me after.”
“Text you?” Wallis grinned. “I can knock on your door if it isn’t too late.”
“That’s right.” I cheered a bit that she was close again, after years of being overseas. There was safety in that.
Blake meandered back, asked solicitously what we’d decided. “I have an early morning tomorrow,” I begged off, “but Wallis...”
“I’m coming,” she said with the authority and confidence of someone entirely sure of what she was doing. I watched them stroll down the block and disappear around the corner. Then I zipped my coat and took myself home.
Back at my apartment, I watched bad television about women who were cruel to each other. Another dessert was needed—gummy worms straight from the bag. I fell asleep with the lights on, expecting to hear Wallis at the door.
The next morning I woke up and fumbled for my phone, only to find a single text from my sister: he’s lovely, she’d written at half past midnight. And possibly perfect.
Ten
The most quintessential of DC weddings. At the Hay-Adams—where else? The ceremony for my parents’ old friend Mac and his new bride—the previously accused bimbo—was in a large, stately wood-paneled room that reminded me of my father’s study on P. Cricket, Wallis, and I were running a bit late, the flurry of nerves, I think, had gotten to all of us, and by the time we’d arrived most chairs were occupied. I pushed Wallis and Cricket to sit together and squeezed down a back aisle to a pair of seats between a pleasant group of elderly out-of-towners and a power couple who used their phones to politely ignore me. I didn’t like that we were split up, but I knew once Atlas got there I’d feel less on edge at this event to which we had been all but disinvited.
Ladies of the House Page 6