“Who are we vetting?”
“See for yourself.” I handed Bo the evidence.
The McFarland Group, Who We Are:
Ariel Greer
The world’s most innovative companies turn to the McFarland Group because our team members know how they work, and how to make government work for them. Ari is an integral part of our commitment to deliver for our clients, having experience both inside and outside government in America and abroad.
“She’s attractive,” Bo said.
He wasn’t wrong. In her headshot, Ariel’s face was bright, perky, but in an intelligent, animated way. She looked at the camera like taking a picture this gorgeous was easy. This was a girl who knew her best side. She knew where to part her hair.
“She’s dating my friend,” I said. “Tell me what you think.”
“After consulting on the environment, her latest job was with a multinational energy corporation.”
“Did you get to the part where she calls herself ‘A citizen of the world’?” I asked.
“I imagine this is the kind of woman who owns an American flag bikini and calls herself patriotic.” Bo handed back my phone.
“I shouldn’t judge her. People in government leave for K Street all the time.”
“You don’t have to tell me why people become mercenaries in Armani,” Bo said. “They want to feel what it’s like to accomplish something. Unlike you and me, who can’t even move the needle. Which friend is she dating?”
“My friend Atlas. You’ve met him before.”
“Yes, I remember. The English guy,” Bo said, pensive. “Huh.”
“Why, huh?” I asked.
Bo hummed. “I got the impression that he was into someone else.” He stood, adjusting his shirtsleeves.
Below, Miles was winding down. I rose, feeling confident that this job, at least, I could do. It was clear in a way other parts of my life certainly were not. “It is with optimism in the wisdom of my fellow senators,” Miles concluded, “that I yield the floor.”
Fourteen
My door opened, and I heard the sound of paws and collar tags jangling. “I’m back here,” I called to Wallis. “Don’t let that dog into my bedroom.”
Too late. Crabtree bounded in and began sniffing in corners, in half-open drawers. I closed my computer and groaned. “This dog is a menace,” I said, rising from my bed to snatch a bra out of his mouth as Wallis appeared in my doorway, her hair up, athleisure on.
Wallis had an uncanny way of keeping her life entwined with Blake’s, even when he was gone. This meant doing him a favor and watching his friend’s wild-eyed labradoodle for the weekend. Crabtree had already shredded the corner of one of Cricket’s armchairs, and marked his territory on most of the rugs, but I had agreed to a walk through the congressional cemetery by the Anacostia. I wanted to see Wallis, and if it required a canine third wheel, then so be it. In the weeks since the wedding, Wallis had either been with Blake, going to see Blake, or at work. She sent me pictures from all the places he took her—the symphony, the Anthem, the rooftop bar where Atlas and I once, years ago, had pretended to be fancy, ordering pitchers of expensive cocktails and waving at people we didn’t know to confuse them.
Despite the regular texts, I missed her. It was a particular kind of loneliness to feel far from someone who lived so physically close.
“How are we getting to the cemetery?” I asked, sitting on the edge of my bed to pull on my socks. “Taxi?”
“I have Blake’s car.” I glanced up and noticed her nosing through the bowl of stud earrings on my dresser. “We practically share it now.”
“That’s generous,” I said, back to minding the busybody Crabtree.
I’d spent the first decade of my life begging Cricket for a sibling. The odds had not been good; Cricket really liked being slender and subsisting mostly on diet soda, fruit salad, and coffee-flavored yogurt. So when she met me at the door after school and without preamble announced I had gotten my way, I ran straight to my room and decided which of my stuffed animals I could share with the baby.
Wallis came and she was perfect—a curly brown-haired cherub who I claimed as mine. There was a nurse and a nanny in the early days, but I stole her away as often as possible. I bathed her so much her skin peeled and I was admonished. She preferred to be held, to be in laps and slung over shoulders, and even when she learned to walk she was still a cuddler. She slept in my bed once she could toddle herself there, and I never kicked her out, which irritated Cricket, who had ideas about independence and grit.
Blake had replaced me as her favorite person in the world. I wasn’t angry about this. May we all be so lucky in love.
“I brought a note,” she said abruptly, my pair of pearls now in her ears as she revealed a card from her jacket pocket. “For Dad.”
“I see,” I said, not knowing what else to say. I’d been to our father’s grave, once, soon after he’d been laid to rest. It was in the south corner, with a view of the river, and I’d brought a small Christmas wreath with white roses and a red bow. I’d considered him differently then. I thought I’d known him.
Wallis waited, assuming, it seemed, that I would have my own offering. But I ducked away from her eyes and instead lunged for my sneaker before it ended up in the dog’s mouth.
“Aren’t you going to ask me what my message says?” she asked.
“It’s yours,” I said, wanting this day to be about us, not my father. “You don’t want it to stay private?”
“From you? Why? It’s a letter of forgiveness. I’m in a good place. I have a good relationship, a good job. I’m ready to release the resentment. Love and light, you know?”
I’d thought time would be a positive force, moving me further and further away from the pain of what Gregory had done. But I was finding the opposite was true.
For Wallis’s sake, I kept this to myself. “Love and light,” I echoed.
* * *
We parked Blake’s Audi near the cemetery, in an adorable part of town with two-story row houses and tree-lined streets. Wallis would have been happy to walk slowly, enjoying the neighborhood that reminded her in many ways of her beloved Georgetown, but Crabtree had other ideas. He dragged us to the iron gates of the cemetery and, once inside and off-leash, took to the muddy grass with a woof that sounded almost human in its joy.
We trailed behind, trusting him to lead us through the cobbled paths and worn routes between headstones. It was the time of year when our jackets became too heavy, after the gray skies and ice storms of winter, and we both regretted bringing them. With the dog occupied, Wallis turned her attention to me, asked me what was new.
“Nothing much,” I said. “What’s new with you?” I thought she might bring up what happened last weekend, when she and Blake had been caught by a camera together at DC’s annual march for science and, more broadly, logic and facts. Wallis had been carrying a sign that said, The oceans are rising...and so are we, and appeared to be shouting, or cheering. Blake had a smile on his face. They’d been holding hands. The picture had made a brief splash on social media, enough to reenergize the worst of the trolls.
“Nothing much.” Wallis twirled the leash in her hands and grinned. If she was concerned by the picture, and the reaction to it, she certainly didn’t show it. “What’s new with you?”
I laughed as I nudged a rock with my toe. “You go first.”
“Nose game.”
She beat me, as usual, as Crabtree returned, threading through our legs and looking for praise for getting mud up to his belly. Wallis bent and stroked his neck affectionately, and he was off again.
“Really, I just want to hear about you,” I insisted as we continued walking. “You have this amazing job. You’re rubbing elbows with television stars and famous comedians at all the cool parties. You’re in love. Your skin has never looked better. How do you do it?”
“You’re deflecting,” she said, amused. “You know, I texted you the other day—how are you, what’s new, what are you up to? And when you responded hours later, you sent me a GIF of Elmo shrugging. What does that even mean?”
I had only a moment to process this question before Wallis cursed. “Crabtree!” she yelled, “you stupid dog. Get back here!” He had charged through a copse of cherry trees just on the verge of budding and then disappeared, and as we followed in his direction, we saw, a few rows away, what seemed to be a press conference around a modest headstone. A woman in a magenta pantsuit was being interviewed, a video camera on a tripod recording it. Circled around were various staff, presumably, and a few other members of the press corps, credentials on lanyards, thick-lens cameras. “Damn. Damn,” said Wallis. “Where did that dog go?”
A minute later we spotted him, scampering about, perilously close, in fact, to the media event. Birds glided above, occasionally diving toward him as he stood on his hind legs, reaching, jaws snapping.
“The dog is going to be on camera soon if he’s not careful,” I said as we jogged toward him.
We managed to wrangle him when he was distracted by a particularly pesky bird. While Wallis clipped his leash on, I knelt in the grass, holding his torso. From this closer position, I was now able to fully observe the scene.
“Wallis,” I stammered with the wisps of breath that were still left in my lungs. “That’s Atlas.” He was listening intently and taking notes, his stance that of someone engaged but not overly eager.
Wallis looked up, and the color was gone from her face in an instant. Because standing right there with him was Melinda Darley. “What do we do?” she whispered as we studied them from our crouched positions among the marble angels.
Melinda Darley was holding forth, her shoulder-length blond hair flipped out at the ends like a sixties housewife. She wore trendy sneakers and gold drop earrings. I thought of her recent words about Miles after he’d criticized her on the Senate floor—he and his office were unfit to run a moral democracy, she’d said. That word—moral—I’d felt sure was aimed directly at me. The unfairness of it, less than two weeks later, still smarted.
Crabtree, ever the clever dog, must have sensed our shock and took the opportunity to lurch forward, his leash flying out of Wallis’s hands, and head straight at the scrum like a ball to pins.
We watched in horror as Melinda Darley paused; the reporters lowered their pencils. The dog vanished, again, along with the echoes of his jangling collar tags, and all eyes turned to us, cowering above the remains of a Civil War soldier.
“Daisy?” said Atlas.
I stood, brushed off my knees, as he approached, clearly confused. “Hi,” I said, like this was all perfectly normal. I’d hoped my aforementioned space from Atlas would have given my feelings of mortification post-kiss time to diminish. I’d been wrong.
“Hello,” he replied. He seemed happy to see me, in spite of my recent history of dodging him. “Was that a dog I just saw, or a heat-seeking missile?”
Wallis’s eyes were on Melinda Darley. “I don’t know what to do,” she said quietly, chewing her lip, and I wasn’t sure if she meant about the dog or the senator.
A pair of sunglasses was hanging from the top button of Atlas’s shirt, and I saw myself in their reflection. Inside I was shaking, but at least outwardly I looked calm. This image gave me confidence, and I did a decent job explaining to Atlas why we were there. When I asked the same of him, he gestured toward Melinda, who was now partially blocked by the crowd. “I’m profiling that gang in the Senate that calls itself ‘the outlaws.’ It’s a fast turnaround, unlike some other work.” He glanced at me, and I realized he meant the story about my father. “But it will make me some good money. I do have a mouth to feed.” Then, as though I didn’t get the joke, he added, “Mine. My mouth. I mean, me.”
“She’s letting you profile her?” asked Wallis, still in a daze. “Can you...introduce me?”
“Well, she’s not giving me any special access,” Atlas said. “But she can’t prevent me from following her around, can she?” He shrugged. “It’s not so bad. I’m not so much interested in writing stories about heroes. Frankly, they’re never that interesting.”
I thought of the wedding, of Atlas’s breath, my name on his lips: Daisy. I had hoped this word, in his mouth, would’ve sounded like homecoming. Instead, it had sounded like an ending. “I know you prefer villains,” I said quietly, unable to stop myself. “Isn’t that why you’re writing about our father, too?”
He had no answer for this. Wallis suddenly grabbed my hand. “I’m doing it,” she said. “I’m saying hello.”
She strode off into the crowd around Blake’s mother, leaving me and Atlas by ourselves. Godspeed.
“Daisy,” Atlas said. “I’ve been—You’ve—It’s been a while, I mean. We keep missing each other.”
I’d made a mistake at the wedding, kissing him. I did a trust fall, betting he’d catch me. I wouldn’t make the same assumption again. Vulnerability would do me no favors. “Work,” I said, watching Wallis approach her target, “has been nuts.” I heard her ask, “Excuse me?” But then a man with steak-house waistline and an imbecile’s half grin—I figured a member of her staff—hid her from my view.
“Right.” Atlas sounded unsure. “How are you?”
My eyes were still on Melinda Darley as her “bodyguard” stepped aside, and she and Wallis were—hugging. Whatever I expected, it was not that. I had to consciously return my jaw to its normal position.
Atlas had to ask his question again. “I’ve been good. Busy.”
“Yes,” he said. “You said that.”
“Sorry. I know.” I focused on him. “I’m pulled in a thousand directions. Including now. I know I owe you an answer about the interview.”
“Yes, I—” He stopped, noticing, as I had, Wallis beckoning me over.
“Excuse me.” I had no desire to talk to Melinda Darley, but I was also itching to escape this conversation. “If you see that dog, just yell.”
I made my way around a few stones, and then Melinda Darley was before me, diminutive but commanding, sipping from a takeaway coffee cup; burgundy lipstick stained the lid. I extended my hand.
“Absolutely not,” said the senator in her unmistakable palmetto drawl. “Come give me a hug.” I did as I was told. She smelled of rosy perfume and copper pennies. “I was just telling your sister,” she continued, “that we’re honoring the first anniversary of the death of that young doctor. Do you remember? He was in his car and swerved to avoid a bicyclist who ran a stop sign. Happened right on Capitol Hill. No? I see you don’t recall. It was really unfortunate. He was from Spartanburg, originally, and was working at Walter Reed.” She shook her head sadly. “Cities are setting up too many bike lanes. And don’t even get me started on these scooters. There’s a war on cars, girls.”
This statement was so abjectly outrageous, it made me briefly forget the prior discomfort with Atlas. In fact, I almost smiled. But the impulse was snuffed out a mere second later, when Crabtree returned, seemingly out of nowhere, and reared up, placing two muddy paws on the front of Melinda Darley’s fine jacket.
Wallis cried out. I think I might’ve cursed. Melinda Darley definitely did, and all appearances of civility dropped from her face like an anvil in a cartoon. Crabtree, with all the intelligence of one of the birds he so desired, jerked free of Wallis’s grasp and made for the hills. “I’m sorry!” Wallis exclaimed as she gave chase, Atlas close behind her. “I’m so, so sorry!”
One of Melinda Darley’s staff had procured a wet wipe, and she was rubbing the stains irritably.
“He’s not our dog,” I pointlessly explained. “I just—we’re sorry. Excuse me, I better go help my sister.”
“Daisy.” Before I could make my getaway, she laid a hand on my forearm.
“Ma’am?”
I said.
She quit work on the stain, gave the trash to her staff. Then she was leaning in, encouraging me closer. I noticed the blond fuzz on her cheek, the wool of her suit jacket, which she wore as easily as someone might wear pajamas.
“Your father,” she said, “I didn’t know him well, but he told funny jokes. His punch lines, I mean, they were really good.”
This—from a woman who’d publicly accused my father of being a traitor and me and my boss of being morally unfit. Had I been unfair? I was caught off guard. “Thank you,” I said, as sincerely as I could.
“You’re a smart woman, right?” she asked, a finger tapping the corner of her mouth.
It took me a beat to pivot. “I’d like to think so.”
She pressed her lips together, hummed. “Surely, you’ve already calculated cost/benefit of your sister’s relationship with my son.”
“They’re very happy together,” was the only response I could muster.
“That sounds like a shrug off.” Again, with the lip press and the hum. “It isn’t good,” she said softly, “for either of us. You see that, right?”
Yes, I did see that. On paper, their relationship wasn’t sensible, but I’d made the effort to get to know Blake, and the kind of person he was outside of his family. “My sister is a good person.”
“So is Blake.” She surveilled me, managing to look down her nose even though I was taller.
“Well, in that way, they are a good match.” It felt odd to be defending a couple I had been so wary of a month ago, but the evidence of their love was everywhere, and all of us, even Melinda Darley, would have to heed it.
Wallis reappeared from behind the trees, lunged for the leash and missed. Then she was out of sight again. I should have run off to assist, but I had to hear, as unreasonable as it was, what came next.
“They aren’t a good match,” she said. “Of course you know that.” Her lackey came forward, whispered something into her ear. “I must go,” she said, then touched me lightly on my shoulder. “Good seeing you. Hello to Miles.” She strolled away, sure-footed, her hands clasped behind her back. The crowd of reporters and staff closed around her like a pair of jaws.
Ladies of the House Page 10