Campaign Widows

by Aimee Agresti

  “I’ll get on it, stat,” Cady said, holding up her arms, just like Madison.

  “Now, this is the best part,” Madison was finishing up. “Arrange them on the most expensive china you have, or maybe wrap ’em in a Hermes scarf and throw ’em in a basket. You get the idea. No one will ever know they’re not entirely homemade.” She flipped her bodacious fiery mane and smiled into the camera, holding out the platter in one hand and the scarf-adorned basket in the other.

  Cady couldn’t help but smile in the control room. She had no idea why she had gotten so lucky, but she had stumbled into gold at that fund-raiser.

  * * *

  By the time Madison hopped into the black sedan and headed from the studio back to the apartment at the Ritz, she was thoroughly unsurprised to find five missed calls from Mike and this testy voice mail: “You have got to stop sneaking off like this, Madison. No more going rogue, please. Especially before the convention. It’s a very sensitive time. And we really could use—” She didn’t even bother listening to the whole message. She had a feeling her leash would soon be shortened. She was going to have to start getting creative.

  But as the car crawled along Roosevelt Bridge into DC, she discovered this encouraging note in her inbox: “The organization is set up. Our intern registered with the FEC today, kept your name off it. I sense your donors are enjoying your antics, so keep it up, makes them feel they’re getting an early return on investment.”

  That was all the hope she needed to go on.

  * * *

  Jackson was working late again and since Cady had an interview at the Folger Shakespeare Library, she figured she’d say hi on the way home. They barely saw each other these days, it seemed—he traveled weekly now with Carter—and when he was in town, he was locked away working till midnight on the Hill. Some nights, if she was shooting a story in the neighborhood, they would meet at Preamble for a drink or a bite and then she would walk Jackson back to the office. Now that spring had set in, brightening the evening sky and lifting spirits after a harsh winter, Preamble enjoyed constant crowds. The flood of early press certainly hadn’t hurt.

  Parker manned the bar, sliding drinks left and right, greeting his suit-clad patrons by name. He looked so perfectly at home, she couldn’t help but smile at the sight. She was happy for him.

  He glanced up and made eye contact, and before she knew it, he was calling out over the chatter and blaring TVs set to the Nationals game, “There she is, patron saint of Preamble!” He pointed and grinned. His arm had healed since she’d last seen him.

  A group with loosened ties and rolled sleeves toasted in her direction, “To whoever you are!” She waved, suddenly shy.

  He came around the bar to greet her. “Hi there.”

  “You don’t have to do that every time I come in here,” she said, laughing.

  He grinned. “Jackson’s in the back. What’re ya drinking tonight?”

  He had remained true to his word; she had yet to pay for a single drink on all her visits there. Parker even had named a couple of cocktails after her and Jackson: The Jackson and Coke, and The Sour Suffragette, which Cady had taken mild offense to.

  “Um, if alliteration is the goal, there’s always The Sassy Suffragette or The Sophisticated Suffragette?” Cady had gotten carried away.

  “Kind of missing the point here,” Parker had said. “It’s basically a glorified whisky sour, get it? Hence the ‘sour.’”

  “Hence,” she had repeated, unconvinced.

  “Good luck, man,” he had joked to Jackson, who was on his phone at the time. “You’ve got a lifetime of this.”

  Cady had smacked Parker on the arm.

  Tonight Jackson’s Thompson pals scattered with quiet hello-goodbyes when she arrived at the table, averting eye contact as though they were thirteen-year-old girls and had all just been talking about her. She felt a wave of paranoia wash over her and tried to ignore it.

  “They didn’t have to go,” she said, though she wasn’t disappointed to have them gone.

  “Yeah, no, they’re going back to the office, you know,” Jackson said, thumbs typing, typing, typing on his phone.

  “Everything okay? Long day, huh?” she asked, leaning across the booth to kiss him.

  Jackson made no motion to get up but kissed her back, quickly. He had a nearly empty beer glass in front of him. After a final flurry of typing, he set down his phone and looked at her. “Sorry, hi. How was the interview?”

  “Oh, totally fine, just ran late because, you know, parting is such sweet sorrow,” she said, shimmying off her sweater.

  He looked confused.

  “Shakespeare Library? A little Shakespeare humor?”

  “Oh! Right!”

  “Never mind.” She waved it off; they had more pressing matters to discuss: their engagement party was now two weeks away. “So! I heard from the DJ today confirming, which I was superimpressed by, because, you know, I always feel like DJs are just kind of fly-by-the-seat-of-their-pants or whatever, but he sounds on top of it.”

  “Right, got him a song list and everything,” Jackson said. Securing the music had been one of his two party-planning tasks.

  “So, we’re set with that and I’m good with the florist, the venue, furniture rentals, linens. So then just—”

  “Are you checking up on me?” he said, the slightest bristling, before she could ask.

  “Nooo, who, me? What?” she said cheerily, looking innocent.

  “I told you I’d do it and I’m doing it.”

  “So we’re all set on Occasions then.” She made sure to say it as a statement and not a question. Occasions was their caterer, which Jackson had reluctantly offered to handle, but she had yet to see any emails or contracts or menus from them.

  “Yeah, it’s fine.”

  “Cheers, then,” she said as a waiter brought her Sour Suffragette and set down another beer for him. She took a hearty gulp.

  “Or maybe Madison Goodfellow would like to cater,” he said. “Saw your cooking clip, on the New York Times. That one blogger is all over you guys. But I guess I see it’s kind of a big deal.”

  “That we’re the only ones who’ve gotten an interview with Madison Goodfellow in months? Not that I’m pumping us up here or whatever, but, pump pump, you know?” She laughed, proud. What was good for her, for the show, was also good for him, and vice versa. Wasn’t their relationship at its strongest when they were both succeeding? He seemed engrossed in the condensation on his beer glass, so she just continued talking. “Can you believe her? She’s a total trip! I still don’t totally know what to make of her at all, she is so not what I expected when—”

  “Listen,” he cut her off, surprising her. “Don’t take this the wrong way,” he began. “But I’m starting to feel like you’re on the other team.”

  “What is the right way to take that?” she asked, laughing. “I mean, I’m in TV, I’m on, like, every team. Arnold and Carter and Arnold’s wife and Carter’s girlfriends—plural—all have open invitations to be on the show. No one has even returned so much as an email to reject our offers.”

  “We’re very busy with real—” He caught himself, stopped.

  “Ohhhh, okay,” she said, hands up. “Got it.”

  “No, I just meant...”

  “I know what you meant.”

  “Look—”

  “I get that you don’t think I’m doing anything all that special. But you know what? I actually like this show, and I like the people I’ve met and I’m grateful to them because they’re a lot less self-righteous than you are these days.” She tossed back the rest of her drink. “I’m kind of wondering if you’re on my team.” Didn’t he want her to do well? Just as she always took pride in his accomplishments? But she was too unsure of the answer to ask the question.

  “I’ve just got a lot to do.”

 
“I know, I know, congratulations,” she said, annoyed. “I’ll see you at home.”

  As she expected, the clip of Madison and her cookies made it onto every late-night talk show. Cady watched alone, flipping back and forth between them as she texted with Reagan.

  18

  IT TAKES A VILLAGE TO THROW A

  FABULOUS ENGAGEMENT PARTY

  Marriage, Cady had been told, was about compromise. So she agreed to not have their engagement party site tented. The month of May had been exceedingly warm and dry, apparently creating a false sense of security among some as their June date approached.

  “My parents and I hate tents,” Jackson said when she had brought it up. “Hate.”

  “Well, I hate rain and the forecast is very iffy,” she argued. It was the deadline for reserving a tent, their party just two days away.

  “My parents won’t pay for it.”

  “I’ll pay for it.”

  “I’m not going if there’s a tent.”

  Birdie had helped her book the sprawling grounds outside the Smithsonian Castle but had been unable to secure the inside space too—it was June, after all, everyone was having parties, and it had already been booked—so Cady had secretly reserved a small tent for over the adjacent Moonstone Garden. The greater expanse of the party at the picturesque, impeccably manicured Haupt Garden would be left open to any and all elements. She would simply hope for the best. Lately, everything had become a battle and she didn’t understand why, but it was too exhausting to keep fighting over.

  No matter, Cady was in good spirits with her pre-party playlist blasting on repeat (much of it Rocky Haze since her music wouldn’t be allowed at the party itself, as per Jackson’s instructions for the DJ) when the glam squad arrived at Cady’s apartment right on time, a gift Birdie had insisted upon. Cady had a feeling it all had to do with helping Birdie book Preamble for that Arnold fund-raiser, which had not only brought in millions but had gotten attention for attracting so many young, new voters.

  At any rate, by six, Cady pulled up to the castle, hair and makeup perfect and cut-out black Halston cocktail dress looking as though it were made for her. (Birdie had vetoed her first choice: “Look like you’re the star of this show for God’s sake!”) Her parents had flown in earlier in the day with her brother, Sam, sister-in-law, and six-year-old nephew, Zack, the ring-bearer-to-be, supposing they ever got around to setting a wedding date.

  The castle’s event planner met her as soon as she flung the car door open, and walked her through everything: the DJ setting up his turntables and iPod dock, lighting technicians lining the walkways and illuminating the garden, furniture rental team creating comfy clusters of white loungey sofas and chairs and dotting the space with sleek high-top tables, florist installing tropical blooms of vibrant pink and green along every surface, lit topiaries sparkling here and there. All of her vendors present and accounted for. All except for one. “We’re just waiting on the caterer,” the woman said, trying not to sound concerned.

  Though it was a Saturday, Jackson had gone into the office, toting his suit in a garment bag, and planned to meet her at the garden at partytime.

  Cady paced, heels clicking against the stone walkway, phoning him. Above, gray clouds hung heavy, ominous.

  “Am I supposed to be there already?” he launched in as soon as he picked up.

  “No, it starts at seven but—”

  “Then what’s—”

  “I need to call the caterer. They’re not here yet. I need your contact, do you have a—”

  “Fuck.”

  Her stomach dropped. He didn’t need to say another word. “Are you serious right now?”

  “I never finished booking it. I started, but there was paperwork I meant to do and then call back and...” he admitted.

  “Ohhhhmagod.” Suddenly it felt very hot outside, so much hotter than she’d realized. She pushed through the castle doors, not caring that another event, thrown by people clearly much more organized than herself, was being set up. She took a breath. “Not to get all shrill-harpy about this, but we’ve got 150 people on the way and no food. No drinks. No food or drinks.” She couldn’t snuff the panic out of her voice.

  “I’ve had a lot on my mind. What do you want me to do about this?” He stopped, sighed. “I didn’t mean it like that, I meant, what can I do about this? There’s a snack bar at the castle right?”

  She looked over at it now. “They sell chips and ice cream, Jackson. This isn’t, like, a kid’s birthday party.” She was trying to think. She could call Birdie; Birdie had all the answers. But her gut told her not to return to that well too many times. Plus, Birdie was coming as a guest tonight, and Cady wished so deeply to have the woman in her new friend circle, not be one of many who probably tried to use Birdie all the time.

  “I can... I don’t know...” Jackson said, unhelpful.

  “Forget it, I’ll figure it out. See you at seven.” She hung up without saying goodbye, paced some more as she Googled and found the number she was looking for.

  When the line picked up, it sounded busy and energetic in the background, the hum of a full house: music playing, glasses clinking, laughter and life, voices projecting to be heard.

  “Wasn’t it you who once told me Washington runs on favors?” she said.

  “Something like that.”

  “I think I need to cash in.”

  * * *

  By 7:15 p.m., music pulsed in the garden, lights glowed, friends and family stood chatting in that controlled business-like way that people do when they haven’t yet had a drink and are anxious to avail themselves of the open bar they’ve been promised. Still, they greeted each other with hugs, told Cady how gorgeous she looked, asked for Jackson. Jeff and her friends from the show arrived together, then came some of Jackson’s officemates (apparently not working that day), then her old friends from home.

  It had already been the longest fifteen minutes of her life when Zack, who loved trucks of all kinds, raced toward her. “I got to honk the horn!” he yelled, then proceeded to leap for joy into the fleur-de-lis-shaped hedges before being scooped up. He and Cady’s brother had been dispensed to keep lookout.

  In the distance, parked outside the ornate Renwick Gates on Independence Avenue, a beacon: a food truck reading “PREAMBLE The start of great things...”

  Parker strolled along the lit path, saluted to her, and she set off to meet him halfway. The wind picked up, billowing her satin dress, and in one fluid motion she swept her hair away from her face. She didn’t notice the darkening sky anymore.

  “There’s the bride!” he shouted as they neared each other.

  She rolled her eyes. “I have never been so excited to see anyone in my life. I need a drink.”

  “You look really pretty,” he blurted out.

  “Thanks,” she said, a little embarrassed, tucking her hair back behind her ears again.

  “I mean, glad to be at your service, pal.” He punched her shoulder like she was in his weekend kickball league.

  “Ow.” She laughed.

  “I’ve got stuff to eat and a truck full of booze.” He turned around, pointing to nearly a dozen Preamble-T-shirted staffers climbing out of the truck and two burly guys lifting boxes of bottles from a van behind it. “Your pop-up dive bar has arrived.”

  “It’s like a clown car, this is awesome,” she said, watching. “You’re my hero. How’d you round up everyone last minute?”

  “Easy, we took our show on the road.”

  “Hmm?”

  “We closed for the night.” He shrugged, arms folded like it was no big deal, and looked away.

  “Oh, no. Oh. That’s really...really nice. I promise we’ll cover it, charge us whatever. You’re saving my life.”

  “Like we discussed, I owe you,” he said, matter-of-fact.

  “I think we’re more than eve
n.” She watched him a moment, touched by his kindness, distracted by the flecks of gold lighting his eyes.

  “So let’s get this party started,” he said finally. “Where do you want me?”

  “Right, sorry, anywhere,” she said, surveying the grounds. “But maybe we can get those guys liquored up first.” She pointed and leaned in to whisper, “Soon-to-be in-laws.”

  “On it.” He grinned. “Now, go. Mingle. Greet your loyal subjects.” He shoved her. “Go!”

  “Thank you,” she said, walking backward as he walked backward to his truck.

  Go! he mouthed at her again.

  She smiled and headed back to her guests.

  * * *

  Birdie arrived half an hour late, grabbed a tasty drink advertised as the signature cocktail by the underdressed catering staff (it tasted like a whisky sour), and made a lap. She had thawed the cold war just enough to call Buck and invite his voice-mailbox to the party. Technically speaking, his name was also on the invitation, so it was the right thing to do. He had declined, of course, also via voice mail.

  It took her no time to size up that the groom-to-be was MIA. Leaning against a cocktail table in a prime spot nearest the grand castle, sipping her drink, she watched Cady navigate the crowd, making excuses with a smile, administering hugs and kisses. She looked fantastic, no doubt having accepted Birdie’s staff and advice. Birdie caught Cady’s eye as Cady politely wrapped up with a young couple and sashayed over in her strappy gold heels.

  “You and your party are equally stunning.” Birdie greeted her with an air-kiss.

  “Many thanks to you,” Cady said, bowing.

  “Please, it takes a village to throw a fabulous engagement party,” she said. “And now what’s going on over here?” She pointed to the food truck in the distance.

  “It’s the hottest new thing in event catering?” Cady said it as a question.

  “Old glamour—” she gestured to their garden surroundings “—meets new convenience? I like how you do things.” Birdie nodded. “So, now where is—” she began, but a gaggle of girls descended, talking at Cady in high-pitched chirping squeals. She gave Birdie an apologetic look, as though embarrassed by the interruption, but Birdie waved her off. “We can talk later, you’re in demand, love,” she said.