So Close (10 page)

Despite how we met I’d
never
seen her this thrown before. 

“Hey!”  We turned as Tom brought the last of our bags in from the hall, his face glowing with excitement.  “I’m so sorry I couldn’t meet you at the airport, babe.  How was the flight?”  Suddenly the full picture of what he was seeing seemed to register.  “What are
you
guys doing here?”  He dropped his blazer and scooped up Chip and nestled his face into his neck, making him squeal in delight. 

“Didn’t they give you my messages?  Carla quit.”  Lindsay tapped her knuckles on the glass dining table.  “I thought we agreed on a two or three-bedroom.”

“Linds.”  He pulled her into him with his free arm and planted a kiss on her forehead.  “I didn’t want to be rattling around in something big all by myself during the week.  It’s bad enough not having you here.”

In the years since I’ve had a lot of time to think about that day and people have certainly asked me if I think he was cheating on her that first stretch they were apart.  Honestly, in my gut, for whatever that’s worth, I think he was a guy approaching fifty who was happy to come home from a long day at job that had an endless learning curve to a kid-free zone, and fall asleep in front of ESPN. 

A fantasy of being twenty again, sure, but, as fantasies go, not so dangerous.

“What if you weren’t by yourself?” she asked. 

“Huh?”

“What if we came up more?”

He looked around, but it wasn’t clear for what.  “Let’s discuss it later.  So, what’s the plan?  We bringing them to dinner?”

Chip was practicing his shout and Collin had found the remote control and was banging it on the coffee table. 

Lindsay bent to replace the remote with a toy from her pocket.  “Amanda, here, has come to my rescue.  She’s going to stay with the kids tonight and—shoot, Amanda, I thought there’d be a room for you.  For them.”

“Sorry, I didn’t know.  Let’s see . . .”  He looked around.  “That couch pulls out.”

“Oh, great,” she said sarcastically.

“That’s so fine for me, I swear,” I said.  “And I can make a bed for the kids out of pillows and blankets.” 

“That’d be great, Amanda,” Tom said. 

Lindsay turned to him.  “What happened to the toys I had sent up?  I gave Rhonda the link to the cribs I wanted.”

Tom was kissing Collin’s ears and making him giggle.  “I don’t know, honey.  Talk to Rhonda.”  Rhonda Johnson ran Tom’s staff and life with a relentlessness bordering on zealotry.  In the Jacksonville office we frequently compared time-stamps on her emails, marveling that she was reminding us at three a.m. to be sure Tom’s lucky suit made it back on the plane with him or that he wasn’t to be spotted eating a burger the weekend before the Safe Foods Act went to the floor. 

“I will,” she said.

“I better shower.”  He placed Chip gently back on the bare floor. 

“You all set?” Lindsay asked me.  “Take anything from the fridge, assuming there is anything, and we’ll order in for you guys before we leave.”  She followed him into the bedroom while I tried to pry Collin’s hands off an ashtray.  “I saw you on C-SPAN yesterday,” she said, the thin wall barely muffling her voice.    

“What did you think?  Too strident?  Those guys had to be called out.  I’m sorry, but they did.”

“And John Stewart showed a clip of you last night.”

“Yeah, I know.  I’m official now.”

“You’re getting better, but I think you could be punching the jobs angle harder.  I made some notes on the briefs you left at the house.”

“Honey, I have advisers covering that sort for thing for me now,” he said wearily.  “Can we just relax and have a nice night?  Do the ‘feedback’ thing later.  I just missed you so fucking much.”  I could hear them kiss and looked around for a stereo.

But he came out only a few seconds later wrapped in a towel and went catty-corner into the bathroom with a disarmingly embarrassed wave to me.  I know perhaps I should have been feeling awkward for being there, but growing up in a trailer, then babysitting in others, I was used to being present for things maybe I shouldn’t have been because there wasn’t really anywhere else for them to be happening. 

Instead I was soaking up every second of their interaction because it felt like I was being privy to the blue print for everything I wanted to have one day—right down to a deep attraction undiminished by miscommunication.  Discovering that they sometimes annoyed each other and had still been together for over twenty years just made me love them more.

“Hello, Rhonda,” I heard Lindsay on her phone as soon as the shower turned on.  “Fine, thank you.  I just wanted to see why none of the things for the twins that I emailed you ended up in the apartment. . .  No, I appreciate that Tom had instructions, but if those instructions conflict with my instructions in future I’d appreciate you notifying me so we can all be the on the same page.  I do not like surprises.”  She took a staggered breath as she listened.  “Look, let’s just be frank.  I know you think I’m the stupid wife who can think about nothing more important than where her children sleep, but until I got pregnant
his
schedule was planned around
mine
.  I edited every speech, set the campaign’s agenda and sat in on every hiring interview—including yours so I’d appreciate a modicum of respect.  Terrific.  Bitch.”  I assume Rhonda had already hung up. 

They came home late and tipsy.  I kept my eyes closed, a reflex from growing up sleeping five feet from the front door.  “They love you, Tom.  It’s that simple.  They love you.  You’re the future of the party—you heard him—the future of the party.”

              “I’ll be the hangover after the party if we don’t get some sleep.”

              “You sure you’re tired?” she asked flirtatiously.

              “Yes, honey, I’m sorry, but I am dead on my feet.”  He kissed her.  “Rain check?”   

              “You know where to find me.”

In the morning, using my socks and lip-gloss to make puppets, I tried to keep the kids quiet, but it was like throwing my body on a mine.  “What time did you order the plane for?” Tom asked as he made coffee and Collin somehow spilled the beans all over the floor. 

              “You know, honey,” Lindsay answered, scrambling with me to sweep them up before any found their way into the twins’ mouths.  “I think I’m gonna send Amanda home by herself today.” 

              “Great!  You guys should definitely stay the weekend.  I have a ton of briefs to read, but we could take them to the zoo if it’s not too hot.  And maybe Rhonda could find us a sitter and I can take you for a drink on the water—”

              “No, Tom, I mean I think we should stay.  Monday I’ll get us a nanny and a realtor.  Let’s do this for real, Mr. Future of the Party.  We should be here for you.”   

              “Oh, okay, that’s—wow, yes, terrific.”  The beans crunched underfoot as he tried to hug her. 

Generously Lindsay insisted I take the private plane back.  As soon as I boarded I put my feet up, downed my warm nuts, and called Becky.  After quoting the end of
Working Girl
—guess where I am—I shared my news.  “She wants me to ‘manage’ the move.”

“Does that sound like housework?” she asked pragmatically.

“Well, yes, but, honestly, I don’t think it works that way in politics.  It seems like it’s all-hands-on-deck twenty-four-seven to make their lives happen.  I mean, Clive heard when Tom moved into that apartment he had guys with Masters in Economic Policy schlepping his sports trophies up the back stairs.”

“Okay, I do not know this world.”

“I don’t either, really.  But now I’ve seen Tom Davis in a towel, so I have to be  easing into the inner circle, right?  And trust is currency?”  I dug for the last cashew.  “But I
need
chances to prove myself.  If Lindsay moves up to DC—she’s my only real connection, I could end up marooned in Jacksonville.”

“Hey,” she said sharply.

“I just meant professionally.”

“I get it.  Steal me a tiny ketchup bottle, uppity cow.”

“Will do.” 

I was still ruminating about the potential implications of Lindsay’s request when I climbed down the tiny stairs to the hanger, Becky’s ketchup in my purse. 

              “Well, I’ll be.” 

              I spun around.  “Pax Westerbrook.”  I smiled, putting my hands on my hips.  He was loading his bag into the hold of a small plane opposite.  He still looked like an ad—only now it was something more like cologne—the kind of thing where a guy in a white button-down walks a blazing tarmac hidden behind reflective shades. 

              “Amanda Luker.  I see life has been kind.”

              “What?  Oh, this?”  I pointed behind me.  “I just clean it.” 

              He laughed.  “Same Amanda.”

              “Not remotely.” 

              He looked me over, taking me in.  “Where’s home these days?”

“Twenty minutes from here down 295,” I said as the Davis town car pulled in to get me.  I really could not have improved the moment if I’d had the ear of God himself. 

“Listen, I was just up here for the morning to see some clients, but I’ll be back in two weeks—can I take you to dinner?  Please?” 

              I was sure if I’d been privy to his emails I’d probably have unearthed things that would make Clive seem like a cub scout, but I wasn’t.  I had only his smile and the way he looked at me to go off of.  And after the humiliation of our last encounter, I wanted him to see that I’d worked my way up to being—well, if not quite an equal—at least someone who could buy her own dress.

It was champagne-colored cotton—the dress I chose—with gold thread woven around the hem.  It was stunning, but casual, the kind of thing a girl wears when she wants to look like she didn’t get a pedicure, a leg wax or spend a little time in the sun on her lunch hour the day before. 

              He suggested a restaurant on the water in nearby St. Augustine, a beautiful resort town that has the distinction of being the oldest city in the U.S.—first settled in 1566.  I’d been there for a couple of Davis fund-raisers where I was stationed with my clipboard outside buildings that looked like they’d been picked up from Europe and plunked here by tornado.  I was a little excited to see what going inside one felt like. 

I spent the drive on the phone with Lindsay, confirming the background checks on her nanny candidates, commiserating about her first D.C. broker, who had the weird habit of saying, ‘I’m knocking this out of the park,’ when she wasn’t, and reassuring her that I’d personally gone around Rhonda and ordered a set of briefing binders for her, and they’d be arriving first thing Monday morning.  Since flying back we talked on the phone five or six times a day—Lindsay was becoming like a friend.  Albeit one who I was desperate to impress.  I’d have run to D.C. with her family pictures strapped to my back if she’d asked.

              “Where’s he taking you?” she asked.

              “It’s called The Reef.”

              “Romantic.  That’s right on the water.  Good for him.”

              “I’m a little nervous.”

              “Don’t be.  He’s lucky you’re even giving him an hour of your time.  Call me tomorrow when you know when the new mattress is being delivered.”  Whatever bed Tom had bought was slowly putting Lindsay into traction. 

              “On it.”  As I hung up I wondered why Rhonda had never sent Lindsay the binders.  Had Tom told her not to?  I pulled into the parking lot and handed the valet my key.  I was nervous about what to do until Pax arrived, but then I spotted his broad back on a barstool.  “Hey.”  I hopped up next to him, doing a surreptitious swipe of my damp palms on my dress.

              “Hey.”  He smiled his beautiful smile and it was that same electrified punch I always felt.  Part of me just wanted him to take my hand, lead me back out to his car and rip my black-label not-trying dress off. 

              “May I show you to your table?”  A woman appeared beside us with menus and he picked up his glass so we could follow.  She seated us by the window right on the beach.  Like his smile, the ocean was something that never lost its potency for me. 

              “So, how are you, Amanda Luker?” he asked as he perused the menu. 

              “Well, I’m not sharing a bed in shifts so that’s a start.”

              “Did you really do that?”

              I nodded emphatically.  “South Beach.  We rotated every eight hours based on who was covering nights and who was on breakfast.  It was—Russian.”

              He laughed.  “Is that where your family’s from?”

              “God, no, I don’t think we’re from anywhere but here.  America, I mean.  We probably brought people room service on the Mayflower.  No, I went on a Russian lit jag junior year.”  His eyebrows raised.  “It might seem like the farthest thing from Florida you can imagine, but actually a subdivided Moscow apartment and a double-wide have more in common than you’d think.”

              He laughed again and reached for his drink.  “So who was smart enough to snap you up?”

              “Tom Davis.”

              “No—still?  That’s great.”

              “I’m in his home state office and I’m helping Mrs. Davis with the transition to Washington.”  Despite the fact that it had been two years, I still relished finally telling him. 

              “Introducing her around, that kind of thing.”

              “Sending her underwear north, that kind of thing.”  He had meant it to be funny, but on top of Becky’s daily warnings about becoming Lindsay’s maid, I was prickly.  “But I love my job.  I never knew it was possible to love a job so much.  I mean, In Tallyville work was just what you got through til you could go drinking, but now I can’t wait to get in every day.  I’m learning so much about how to actually get things done for people—three weeks ago we passed a tax proposal in the state legislator to incentivize Disney to open another park.  And it’s everything from that to protection for the citrus farmers to the Burmese Python epidemic—to stronger unions for hotel workers.”  I smiled, my confidence regained.  “So where have you planted your flag?”