“Thought it might be nice to stay in. I’m sick of being out,” Buck said, plating the juicy burgers—procured from their favorite eatery, Martin’s Tavern—on their gleaming white china and setting them on opposite ends of the dining table while Birdie opened a bottle of red wine. He had done hits on MSNBC much of the day, breaking down the New Hampshire results, then hopped on a train and made it back in time to pick up dinner. Birdie poured generously and gulped down her wine through their sunny small talk about New Hampshire, Iowa, Rocky Haze’s entrance into the campaign and Buck’s travels.
“There’s this new place everyone’s staying at. It was fine. I woulda preferred that bed-and-breakfast where we stayed that one year, remember that? But—”
“Haze’s people took it over.” She pointed to the flat screen in the corner set to Bloomberg, where a dapper reporter for The Queue answered questions at a coffee shop Haze had visited earlier in the day. “Whoever their people are. Seems she’s being staffed entirely by record label executives—which, come to think of it, might not be any worse than all you so-called strategists.” She smiled.
“Prob’ly true!” He laughed, sincerely. Then sighed. “Who really knows anyway? Whole lotta luck involved in this game.”
“So that’s what they pay you the big bucks to hear,” she said, taking a swig.
“Even I can’t explain Hank Goodfellow.”
“And how much do I love that Madison? It’s like she read the Spouse Handbook but got it all fouled up. Don’t look overjoyed when he loses and—”
“Like you’re having intestinal discomfort when he wins.” Buck laughed. “Someone needs to tell her the camera is always on and—”
“—and the world is always looking for this week’s next great GIF,” Birdie said, though she suspected there was more to Madison than what she was showing them all. “Bless her and Rocky too, for making this all more interesting than it usually is.”
“Sure thing. But you know the real question on everyone’s minds this election season?” Buck asked, perfectly congenial, sitting back in his chair with his wineglass as he looked her in the eye across the table. “Is my wife cheating on me this cycle?”
The jab came out of nowhere, Buck’s specialty. And it was why he made an excellent living prepping candidates for debate.
“I don’t think that’s on everyone’s minds. I’m a far more discreet person than that.” She laughed, trying to sound as though they were talking about something trivial. Inwardly, she felt every muscle tense.
“Well, then, for argument’s sake, let’s say it’s on my mind,” he said, stretching his arms and resting them behind his head as though lounging on a hammock.
His open body language meant to disarm her; she knew how his mind worked. Her veins ran icy. They had never had this conversation before; she had begun to think they might never have it. Which would have disappointed her actually. “What makes you think—” she began with calculated ease, leaning back in her own chair.
“Roberta—” he said sharply, cutting her off.
“Hey—” she snapped back in reflex, as though she’d been called some sort of slur. Her own name sounded so foreign and chilly to her. She had not been “Roberta” in decades, not since arriving in Washington, when she had quickly taken on the more pleasing, precious “Bertie” and then finally “Birdie” while working as an assistant for Bronson. She was proud of who she had fashioned herself into. Back then, when she had met Buck—Bronson’s chief of staff at the time—he had said the nickname suited her delicate bones, that she looked like she could take flight. Her crush on him had been instant—everyone had a crush on Buck, he was that kind of guy. It had been a true shock when he kissed her that one spring night after working late and walking the entire length of the Mall together, lost in conversation. It had been ages since she’d thought of that night; she suppressed it all once more.
“Of course, Birdie, doyenne of Georgetown. Or whatever they call you. Who uses each election as a yearlong hall pass—”
She wanted to say, So you noticed, for shock value but stopped herself. She thought of telling him that nothing had happened with Cole—because it truly hadn’t—but instead she chose to say, “Why? Because I’m busy? Because I have work to do and I’m not around enough? This is my season, love. The campaign hath begun.” Her smile remained, with great effort. “And campaigning is all that’s being done.”
“Look, this was once my season, so I don’t need a lecture about professional commitments—”
“Look, darling, that’s not my intention at all,” she chirped. “I don’t lecture anyone for less than $25,000. My point is—”
“My point is, this feels personal, not professional. I don’t wanna know what you’ve been doing or who you’ve been doing it with. I just want you to know I’m not gonna be made a fool of—”
“Like I was,” she cut him off, frosty. “You won’t be made a fool of like I was.” What she had resented most in the end, those years ago, was being made into a cliché. She was so much more interesting than that.
He froze, as though sucker punched, and she could feel him curse himself for walking into that one. After a beat, he collected himself. “I made a mistake. Many years ago. For which the statute of limitations will apparently never expire.”
“Oh, yes, I forgot this is my problem. It’s my problem that I haven’t managed my response to your problems better. Sincerest apologies.” She said it calmly, smirking. It was exactly what she might have expected from him, what he would’ve counseled his clients to do: give a pat answer.
“When you want to truly talk instead of trade barbs, lemme know. But this? This, artificial act, this Birdie caricature, I can’t talk to.” Yes, there it was, the pivot. Rendering this conversation wholly unsatisfying and not worth the air to respond. He continued even so. “I thought it was for the papers—” he sounded so old when he said “the papers” “—and the gossips, for the circus. But if it’s for me too, if that’s what I come home to at night then—”
She wanted to say it wasn’t artifice, it was a shell encasing her body so she couldn’t be taken down again. She would always be that shy, nose-to-the grindstone Hill staffer who had come to Washington—on her first airplane flight ever—to work for her congressman so long ago. A very expensive therapist had told her this and it was true, though she had already figured that out on her own.
Buck tossed his napkin onto his half-eaten burger, grabbed his empty glass.
“You like Roberta more than Birdie? Well, Roberta is the one who gets pissed off and holds grudges. She’s human.” She kept her tone perfectly steady, light even.
“Well, if you see her, tell her I am too.” He grabbed his plate and pointed at her now. “And that she should decide if she still wants to be in this thing with me.”
He had to have noticed the shock flicker across her face. She recovered quickly and asked in a dull tone, “Are you going to storm out now? Or do I get to?”
“I’m serious, Birdie. I’ll be next door until November 9, lemme know then.”
November 9. The day after the election. She had too much pride to ask the other details, the parameters of this setup, or to show any passion, throw her glass or her plate, to make noise or to scream. Or even to bother defending herself by telling what little had really gone on with her and Cole or any of those men. She felt as numb as that day Buck had first confessed about Gracie. The emptiness colonized her heart, then crept out to her extremities. She felt unsure of who or what to fill up that space with. So she stood there, watching the flat screen, as she heard a door slam. Then, realizing her office was next door, in the town house he declared he would have custody of until November 9, she calmly took out her phone and plopped onto the sofa. If he was serious about this arrangement, she would at the very least demand access to her office from 9 to 5 daily. But for now, this would have to suffice. She had work to do.
* *
*
Madison lay wide-awake as Hank, nestled into the lush thread counts of their Upper East Side bed, snored peacefully beside her. He never was one to lose sleep over anything, she marveled, not even, apparently, a New Hampshire Primary loss. After the sting of coming in second to “that nitwit,” as he called his competitor in an interview on CNN, he had ordered the jet back to New York.
Madison had been so convinced that this was it, the end to this experiment or whatever it was, that she’d had trouble suppressing the joy during his speech, literally biting her tongue to keep from grinning. But instead, Hank had stormed back to their hotel suite with the rest of the Machine, looked in the mirror and shouted, “Someone gimme a goddamn tie! Someone! Anyone! Whiplash, hand it over.” Madison had watched from the corner of the room as her husband snapped his fingers to his young staffer, “C’mon, c’mon,” and Whiplash untied his own tie (a horrid plaid) and handed it over. Hank looped it around his neck, for the first time in decades, and the room fell silent. Madison had sighed, understanding: this was his version of doubling down. Not only would he stay in the race, he would be more determined than ever. And sure enough, Hank looked at his reflection and a smile crept slowly over his face. “Yes, that’s it.” He nodded. “Get me more-a these!”
It had been harrowing to say the least. As she lay there, staring at the ceiling, Madison flashed back to those days when they’d attend gala after gala, so many organizations always wanting to honor Hank for the money he gave, and he and Madison would break away, drinks in hand, and watch the room. “Kill me if I ever take myself too damn serious, will you?” he would whisper, nodding to all the puffed-up chests beneath the starched shirts and suffocating ties. He wore an open collar to everything from business meetings to black tie affairs. “They need more of us here, more of this. They need more small town, dirt road, big heart types.”
That was the Hank she loved, the semi-iconoclast who brought something to New York that hadn’t been there before, not this egomaniac the election had unleashed.
Not the Hank who, at the victory rally in Iowa, had barked at the crowd from a stage in the sculpture garden in Des Moines, so impassioned his voice grew hoarse: “I will stand out in the cold for you! To make your world a better place! I will fight whoever I have to! And invade whatever country I have to! I AM YOUR NEW LEADER!”
She hoped New Hampshire meant the tide was now turning. And she prayed she would never have to hear that terrible slogan of his—which sounded so much like words spoken by an alien on one of their son Henry’s favorite sci-fi shows—ever again.
11
IN RETROSPECT, THAT COULD’VE BEEN A LOT WORSE
Cady and Cameraman Max drove past the bare trees and bleak gray landscape of mid-February to the address on the Hill. Their show was, she had discovered, perpetually short-staffed so she’d decided she might as well just go herself to interview Parker. Plus, it was nice to get out of the office and begin to find her way around the city, now that it was really hers too and not just a place to visit on weekends. She fidgeted, tapped her fingers the whole way there, occasionally glancing at that thing on her ring finger: her long-lost engagement ring.
Jackson had texted the day before, something about a surprise, and she’d arrived home to the 3-carat asscher cut set in platinum. “Some guy dropped it off in an envelope at the office early in the morning,” he’d explained, presenting it to Cady on bended knee in the living room of their apartment. “Left it on Michelle’s desk out front and walked away without a word. He was gone before she put together what was going on.”
“Yay and also, that kind of creeps me out,” Cady had admitted. “I wonder where he found it and when and how long he had it.”
“Well, we had promised no questions asked if it was returned, right?” He shrugged.
“Not the easiest concession for someone in the news business, but I’ll take it.” Cady laughed. Then it dawned on her: “Hey, we’ve gotta tell Jay!”
“Why?” he asked flatly.
“Why?” she asked rhetorically. Was he kidding? “He’ll be so excited! Remember, he said he wanted a follow-up story if—”
“Do we really need to do that?” Jackson asked.
“Define need,” she said.
“I just think it’s a little much is all,” Jackson said, tentative, with a sigh. “We’ve got the ring. The whole world doesn’t need to know how we got it back.”
“I’m kind of...confused.” She shook her head. “I thought you liked Jay.”
“I do.” A hint of frustration crept into his voice. “I just don’t think we need to be the subject of any more articles.”
She didn’t understand, but she let it go for the moment, not wanting to ruin one of the rare nights when he wasn’t traveling. It was actually proving harder to have him away now that they were living together—she missed him even more. Somehow she had already forgotten how to be in a long-distance relationship. So they opened a bottle of wine celebrating the ring’s return and she secretly vowed to email Jay before too long.
She was anxious for any excuse to keep close to these new acquaintances she had been fortunate enough to make, and she wasn’t about to miss this opportunity. She had somehow happened upon this group that felt at the epicenter of the city, and they had, for some reason, welcomed her into their circle. To a transplant like Cady, still navigating her new position, new city, searching for some social life beyond just friends of Jackson’s, meeting these people seemed like an incredible gift.
Cady stole quick glances at the ring now as she and Max reached the building. The sparkly bauble made her whole hand look like it didn’t belong to her. But even if it didn’t quite feel right yet, it was undeniably gorgeous.
The bar occupied the ground floor of a row house, just a stone’s throw from the Hart Senate office building. The sign reading PREAMBLE was up, but the windows still appeared papered from the inside, concealing what she expected was still a construction site. Finding the door locked, she worried she had missed an email. Parker had written that morning attempting to cancel, then changing his mind again and telling them to come by in the afternoon. She imagined he just had a lot to do and was in crunch time before opening—she was still hazy on their official grand opening date. The bar’s website promised simply: Opening Soon! She had optimistically slated the piece to air this week as part of a package previewing upcoming openings and she didn’t feel like scrounging for a replacement.
Eventually Parker unlocked the door:
“Sorry, I’m all over the place today, not so much geographically as just mentally,” he said, the words pouring out.
“Hey.” Cady held out her hand to shake his. “You’re about to open a restaurant, that’s kind of major, thanks for making time.” She introduced Max, and he began setting up. “Glad you were free, we’ll make it fast.”
“No, yeah, no problem.” He ran his hand through his hair, agitated. “I just, I wasn’t going to today because it’s not the best day or whatever.”
“Oh, sorry, if there’s a better—”
“But then I couldn’t imagine a good time—” he just kept talking “—like, ever, anytime soon. So, yeah. Sorry. Great to see you, this is the place.” He nervously turned his watch around and around on his wrist as he spoke.
“It’s really...nice,” she said, wondering if they should go, how messy it might be to pull the interview from the show’s lineup. Parker had seemed fun, chatty, easygoing at Birdie’s party. In short, he had seemed like he would make for good TV. “This is a great location,” she went on.
“Yeahhhh, I know, it’s really, really expensive. I’m freaking out a little bit,” he said.
“I kinda sense that,” she said gently. Worst-case scenario, they could edit it choppily to mask his discomfort, right? “But, you know, nothing wrong with that. Being...genuine...works great on camera...most of the time. Let’s get you some bar p
atrons with this, right? Pay that rent!”
She wandered around the dim space. Max was tinkering with the lighting and camera near a red vinyl booth in the back.
“Love the graffiti,” she offered, pointing to the phrases adorning the walls, among them “life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.”
“An artist friend did that. I did the bar though.” He slapped his hand against the mahogany bar covered in penknife carvings.
“All of this?” She bent down to study some of the designs, names, dates, hearts with couples’ names, swirls, peace signs, four-leaf clovers. “How did you do this?”
“Little bit every day. It’s pretty much my only talent.” He smiled.
“Well, it’s a good one,” she said. “I bet you messed up a lot of desks in high school.”
He chuckled once. “I wanted the place to look lived in and, loved, you know?” he said, lost in his thoughts. He walked over to the center of the bar, traced a carving with his fingertip, then slapped a napkin on it as though killing an ant.
“But hey, you guys need drinks, what’s your poison?”
“Well, we’re working so—” Cady started.
“What’s on tap?” Max piped up.
* * *
Parker set down drinks for the three of them at the booth—a Diet Coke for her, beers for him and Max—and while Max miked him up, Cady reviewed the list of questions on her phone once more, slowly sipping her Diet Coke. When she looked up, she noticed Parker intently watching her hand that held the glass. The left one.
“Hey, so that’s nice,” he said somewhat bitterly, nodding. “What’s that three carats, cushion cut? No, asscher?” He knocked back the rest of his beer.
“A man who knows his diamonds,” she said. “Yeah, asscher.” She studied it herself. Wow, it was weird to have a rock like that.
“That’s awesome,” he said flatly. “Can you take it off?”
She thought he was kidding, but he looked too agitated. “This?” She laughed, a single unsure laugh. “Really? Should I, like, put it in the dish with the nuts?”
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