The One That Got Away (27 page)

O
nce again, I found myself on the floor of the closet, but this time not in postcoital bliss. Once again, I was looking for that
goddamn
earring.

The night before, as she’d walked us out, Mirabelle asked me to return the diamond earrings that belonged to her mother. Turned out a cousin who was getting married the following month wanted to wear them. When I sent the children out to stay with her on Election Day, would I be so kind as to send them out as well? If that wasn’t too much trouble?

It was as if that woman had a sixth sense for my screw-ups. Wearing the wrong shoes, feeding Sam the candy, and now losing half of a family heirloom that was probably worth more than the vehicle we were climbing into. I told her, “Of course,” lying through my teeth in front of Alex, Gloria, and Sam.

But this morning, after combing the halls, the seats of the Suburban and every inch of the apartment on my hands and knees, I still couldn’t find it. Father Fergie was wrong: Things don’t always eventually “turn up”; some things are lost forever. Alex found me head
down and ass up on the closet floor, giving it one last attempt, even though I knew it was fruitless.

“Hey, doll,” he said, returning from his morning run. “What are you doing?”

“Looking for something,” I told him, sitting up and separating the hanging clothes so I could see him.

“What?”

“A piece of jewelry.”

“Not anything expensive, I hope?”

I paused, unsure. I could have told him the truth—even asked for his help—but I was scared to put any more stress on him. Tomorrow was Election Day.

“No, nothing important.” I stood up and brushed the carpet fibers and stowaway sequins off my pajamas.

He leaned against the dressing room island and smiled a roguish grin. “Are you ready for this?” he asked, pulling me toward him and lifting me with ease. My heart began to beat faster as I felt his body against mine, still warm from his run. God he was sexy, even when sweaty.

“Now? Okay,” I said. “We have to be quick, though. I’ve got to get Gloria to school.” I slid my hands down into his silky workout shorts.

“Whoa,” he said, laughing, then dropping me to the carpet. “Tempting, but that’s not what I meant. I have news.”

“Sorry. What?”

“CNN called. They want to do a story on me, on us, today. They’ll be here in an hour. Something about ‘the continuing van Holt political dynasty.’ I guess somehow they think I’m a national story.” He rolled his eyes.

“Oh my God!” I said, wide-eyed. “That’s huge! And perfect timing. All those undecided voters. What do you need me to do?”

“For starters, you can get your hands out of my pants.”

The cameras, cables, and lights, as well as a small army of producers and cameramen and assistants, crowded into our apartment, making the huge space seem small. Earlier, before any of the CNN crew had arrived, Frank and Calvin had rearranged the furniture and taken down some of the more expensive-looking art, attempting to tone down the opulence to something more ordinary. But there was no escaping it; the place looked like an interior designer’s wet dream. Eventually, Frank agreed we would sit on one of the beige couches, but he made me replace the funky Jonathan Adler pillows with plain blue ones from the guest bed. He also replaced the stone-and-silver Buddha heads with potted plants and strategically scattered Sam’s toys in the background.

The crew needed more time linking up with the satellite, so we took the kids to find refuge in our bathroom. Alex reviewed some notes while Gloria modeled the outfit she deemed perfect for her television debut: a hot pink sweater, hot pink leggings, and matching sparkly shoes. I had started to suggest a more subdued color palette but she shut me up with a sharp little-girl glance. Sam, however, looked appropriately adorable in his toddler jeans, red-and-blue sweater, and leather booties. Meanwhile, I stressed over my hair and makeup, wishing the Bacco Brothers had been available for an emergency styling. Eventually I settled on the “safest” outfit I could find: a pale pink tweed suit with a double strand of gray pearls.

“Now, remember,” I told Alex as he paced behind me. “If they ask you something about military service, just be open and direct—not defensive. And if they want to know your position on fracking, don’t take the bait, just speak to ‘energy independence’ in general.”

“Thanks, doll, but I’m good. Frank’s already been over this.”

“Well, with all due respect, Frank was a newspaperman, not TV.
And besides, he’s old school. It’s different now. Any screw-up will be on YouTube in thirty seconds.”

“Well, someone had their coffee this morning.” Then he leaned over in my face, blocking my view: “Do I have any food in my teeth?”

“I’m serious, Alex. You have to be ready. CNN is national. And today is the day before the election.”

“I know. I
am
taking it seriously. I just mean, well, you haven’t worked in, like, ten years.”

I put down my hairbrush and turned to him. “Well, funny you should mention that, because I’ve been thinking—”

“Uh-oh,” he said, turning toward me with faux worry.

“I’m serious. Now that the campaign is almost over, maybe it’s time for me to go back to work.”

I couldn’t quite believe I had just uttered those words… that I was actually considering stepping back into the hectic life of a working mother. But even after just a week, I missed having something of my own. Something that didn’t involve my husband or children. I studied his face, anxious for his reaction.

He certainly seemed to be giving it serious consideration, his brow furrowed, deep in thought. Encouraged, I continued: “I was thinking I might get back into PR. Maybe reteam with Jules part-time or just do some consulting. Only with nonprofits or women’s groups. Something that helps people, makes a difference.”

He was silent a few more minutes and then looked at me.

“Why would you do that?” he asked. “You’re my wife.”

“What?”

“You’re my wife,” he repeated.

I waited for him to elaborate, but he turned his attention back to his teeth.

“Alex,” I said, touching his arm to get his attention. “Wife is a title, not a job.”

“It is when you’re married to me,” he said with a grin.

He laughed as if he were joking, reverting to his favorite method of avoiding tough topics. But this time, something told me this wasn’t just avoidance; there was truth behind the words. Or if not his truth, then Mirabelle’s. Her opinions seemed to permeate all the big moments in the van Holts’ life like her overly sweet perfume. Me stuffing press kits and calling reporters and billing time by the hour while my husband toiled in service to his country? It. Just. Wasn’t. Done.

He walked over to me and patted me on the butt before adding, “But don’t get me wrong. You sure look cute talking PR.”

I watched him check his large platinum Rolex, adjust his cuffs, then walk out of the bathroom, a tiny bit of swagger in his step.

Don’t hate the playa… hate the game,
I reminded myself.

“Mr. van Holt?” repeated Bailey Phillips, the pretty blond reporter sent by CNN. “Mr. van Holt? Do you understand the question?”

I couldn’t believe it. My confident, charismatic, and cool-headed husband was freezing up on national television. When the lights had come on and the reporter first began the interview, Alex had seemed stiff, but I brushed this off to him just warming up. But now, four questions in, I realized something was wrong. He was responding with one- or two-word answers, and sweat had begun to bead on his temple. Behind the cameras, Frank and Calvin wore matching expressions of worry.

The stress of the campaign, the pressure to perform, the eighteen-hour days, not to mention last night’s dinner, must have finally caught up to Alex. He was cracking. But why? He had done hundreds of television interviews by now. Perhaps it was because this was CNN and the piece would play nationally? Or maybe the kids and I were distracting? Or perhaps the reporter had thrown him for a loop: winking and laughing ahead of time, then hitting him with one tough question
after another once the red camera light blinked on. For a second, I was secretly relieved to see he had a weakness, and that it wasn’t me who was screwing up. But then I saw the look of a frightened child on his face, and I felt a sudden protective impulse to rescue him.

I had to do something. But what? This was live television. I put my hand on his, hoping to steady him. It was ice-cold.

The next question was about gun control, a subject Alex usually spoke on with eloquence and confidence. But he continued to blow it, badly. Bailey must have felt sorry for him, because next she lobbed a softball about the economy, but he started rambling incoherently about the price of milk. I looked to Frank and Calvin for guidance, but they both stood motionless with mouths agape.

It was up to me to save this sinking ship.

“I think what my husband is trying to say,” I blurted, cutting in, “is that everyone deserves a chance to succeed and make a better life for their kids. And government has the responsibility to help working families when they need it.”

I smiled widely, hoping it was enough. But I could feel Alex as still as a statue beside me. Bailey, who seemed relieved that at least someone was speaking, turned to me: “Mrs. van Holt, I understand you had a little accident earlier this week? Are you feeling better?”

“Yes, thank you. I’m fine. It was just a little fall. And my husband took great care of me.”

“Quite the Prince Charming, isn’t he?” She crossed her legs and turned to him with a look that was not hard to decipher. She was hot for him.

Um, hello? I’m the wife and I’m sitting right here. Beside his two little kids, thank you very much!
The only benefit of Alex being so comatose was that he probably wasn’t registering her long legs and bedroom eyes.

Thinking not only of this woman, but of all the women who thought it okay to hand my husband their phone numbers, I decided to mark
my territory, once and for all. I responded with a gentle laugh and slid my arm around Alex. “Oh, he is. Such a wonderful husband and father. A wonderful man.” I gazed over at him, lovestruck, then added, “I live quite the fairy tale.” What she couldn’t see was me digging my nails into his back, trying anything to get him to
wake the fuck up
.

It worked. As I turned back to Bailey with a painted-on smile, I heard Alex start talking. He was back.

And not just back—he was in the groove. He fielded Bailey’s remaining questions with ease, even cutting her off at one point to finish his thought on Cuban American relations, and concluding with a moving anecdote about foster care. Later, Gloria provided the icing on the cake, informing the reporter that her daddy made “the best waffles ever.” And even Sam played his part, sitting quietly on my lap and tooting only once, silently.

By the time the interview concluded, Frank was so giddy he hugged me.

“Thank you,” he whispered in my ear. “I don’t know what happened to Alex but you saved him.”

“No problem. But I hope I didn’t sound like too much of a jerk. All that ‘fairy tale’ stuff.”

“No, no. It was great. Nice to see a woman standing by her man.” He meant it as a compliment but I cringed. I was officially a Stepford wife.

And yet, as I watched the crew and the camera equipment trundle out of the apartment, keeping a sharp eye on Bailey as she attempted—
but failed!
—to corner Alex, I was pleased that I’d said what I’d said and saved the interview. For the first time in this world, I felt like a part of it, not just an accessory. I picked Sam up and tickled his belly, whispering to him that his daddy had a real shot at becoming a congressman and that we all might live part-time in Georgetown, visit the Air and Space Museum, ride bikes along the Potomac, and have lunch together on Capitol Hill.

When Alex mouthed “thank you” at me from across the room, I felt another strong emotion—happiness. I was settling into life here, and it wasn’t altogether bad. I had my children, everything money could buy, a distracted yet doting husband, and I was
this close
to becoming the wife of a congressman. Abbey Lahey and her out-of-work husband, stacks of bills, and bulging muffin top were becoming more distant, further away.

For the first time in a week, I allowed myself to feel excited about the future, even if it wasn’t really mine.

That last time I remembered feeling this happy—truly happy—was five months ago when Gloria, Sam, and I took Jimmy skating for his thirty-seventh birthday. He loved to skate, but lately, with business pressures overwhelming him, he didn’t have much free time and was rarely in the mood. I browbeat him into going, hoping it would give him a respite from worry, if only for a few hours.

It was June and already excruciatingly hot in Grange Hill. The Skatium parking lot was so full we had had to park at the church across the street and run across Darby Road. It was just enough exercise to develop a sheen of sweat that turned cold on our faces when we stepped inside the rink.

Jimmy slipped into his fifteen-year-old skates and immediately hit the ice while the rest of us lined up at the sagging, blade-battered counter for rentals. Gloria bemoaned that her skates were brown, not white, though Sam seemed happy with his beat-to-hell double-bladed baby skates. I squished six feet into unforgiving brown leather, tightened twelve long red laces, and adjusted Sam’s helmet before leading my wobbly brood across the worn, wet carpet to the rink.

On the ice, the Laheys became different people. Behind his big plastic skate helper, Sam glided weightlessly while Gloria raced and
roughhoused with her dad like an NHL pro. Even I relaxed, my perpetually tense shoulders falling and my head bobbing to the music. I enjoyed the cool air, the sound of my kids’ laughter, and watching our teenage babysitter try to impress the rink guard with a half loop. And, as always, I loved to watch Jimmy skate; it reminded me of when we were young and falling in love.

We stayed on the ice for about an hour before heading to the snack bar for a break. I had texted some of Jimmy’s buddies and they had stopped by as well, those who didn’t skate keeping the bartender busy pouring drafts and analyzing point spreads. As the kids found friends to chase, Jimmy and I talked and joked with his high school buddies. I could see my husband turn back to the more relaxed, easygoing Jimmy from years ago, feigning protest at the birthday fuss but secretly loving the camaraderie and free beer. I was glad he was happy, especially since the next morning would mean negative balance sheets and begging for business.