Bryce was given leave—that was how Sarah viewed it, some distant remnant of Army life—for five days over Christmas. There were fundraisers in D.C., but no travel beyond the drive into town. The first day was completely free, and Bryce spent Christmas reconnecting with his family. Two days later, he attended one of Sarah’s soccer games and seemed more interested than usual, even if halftime was spent shaking hands and hearing, Good luck, you can count on my vote, Bryce!
That night Sarah and Bryce went out for dinner, a long overdue date night. She had a dress in the closet waiting for the occasion, and as she put it on, Sarah saw him watching in the mirror. She smiled lasciviously, watching him watch. Sarah was quite attractive, but tended toward simplicity—something Bryce had once told her he admired. She herself was of the opinion that women who tried too hard, those who primped and spackled and bleached, were taken less seriously for it. In any event, she was comfortable in what she was.
And so too was Bryce.
They took the Tesla to their favorite upscale restaurant, The Capital Grill in Tyson’s Corner. The wine list was like a book, and white tablecloths and crystalline chandeliers cast the room in a pleasantly soft ambiance. The menu was packed with words like demi-glace and free range, and the fish selections were “line-caught.” Probably by hand, maybe by Hemingway’s old man himself. The scents of seared grain-fed beef and simmering butter drifted in from the kitchen. Calories embraced and presented without shame. They’d dined here a half dozen times, anniversaries mostly, the odd Valentine’s Day. The difference tonight was the attention they were getting. Everyone seemed to be looking at them, some discreetly, others gawking as if they were A-list Hollywood celebs. A woman near the wainscoted wall was taking not-so-discreet pictures with her phone.
Sarah reflected on her life’s progression. She’d gone from Mrs. Lieutenant to Mrs. Major to The Honorable Mrs. Congressman. And now? Now she was on track to receive the spousal promotion of the highest order. Jackie O for a new millennium. It should have made her head swim. Should have made her fantasize about ordering new White House china or First Lady stationary, about attending every elite gala on the planet. All she could think about was how it would affect Alyssa.
“I like your new dress,” he said, snapping her out of her distraction.
“You noticed. I bought it for a special night out.”
He smiled approvingly. “I think this qualifies.”
The sommelier arrived with a bottle of Montepulciano. When she pulled the cork and offered a sample, Bryce gestured to Sarah. “She knows more about it than I do.”
The young woman gave the glass to Sarah, who sipped and nodded approvingly. Before leaving, the sommelier said, “That was a nice thing to say. You have my vote, Mr. Ridgeway.”
Bryce smiled dutifully, and the woman was gone.
“I feel like we’re living in a fish bowl,” she said.
“That’s part of the deal.” He sipped the wine, nodded approvingly. “Yeah, that’ll work.”
The waiter appeared and took their order.
When he was gone, Bryce asked, “Salmon again?”
“Omega three fatty acids are good for you.”
“Compared to what I’ve been eating on the campaign trail, this filet mignon will be health food. If I see another plate of fried chicken and baked beans I’m going to puke.”
“I wouldn’t put that in your stump speech.”
“And what would you put in?”
She gave it some thought. “How about, ‘I love my wife, my daughter, and America.’ That should about cover it.”
“I’ll run it by Jack.”
Sarah gave him a circumspect look. “Have you heard from Mandy?”
“No, not directly. I heard she got picked up by Morrison’s campaign—he’s getting desperate, probably hoping she has some dirt on me.”
“Does she?”
“No.” He tipped back his wineglass. “Don’t feel sorry for her, Sarah. She and I had a good run, but this is another level. I offered her a top job at headquarters, but that wasn’t what she wanted. Mandy’s a big girl—she’ll get over it.”
He was about to say something else when a voice interrupted.
“Bryce!”
Sarah turned to see a familiar face—Lieutenant Colonel Brad Martin, one of Bryce’s last commanders in the Army.
“I just wanted to say hi,” Martin said, pausing beside their table. “How are you guys?”
“I’m great, Brad, good to see you!” Sarah replied.
Bryce stood, and when the two men shook hands Sarah saw a distinct guardedness in her husband’s manner.
“So, what have you been up to?” Bryce asked.
“Still on active duty, hoping to make O-6 on the next promotion board.”
“Good luck with that,” Bryce said.
“I don’t have to ask what you’ve been up to—congrats!”
“Thanks. Life has gotten really busy.”
Martin went over his postings since they’d parted ways. At the end, he said, “If you make it to the White House, I’ll ask you to sign my next performance report.”
“Yeah, will do,” Bryce said.
“Look, sorry to interrupt. You guys have a great evening.”
Bryce smiled.
“Good to see you, Brad,” Sarah said as Martin backed away. “And say hello to Becky.”
“Thanks, I will,” he called out over his shoulder.
Sarah looked at Bryce, who was watching Martin retreat.
“It’s funny how often—” Bryce cut his thought short, noticing her expression. “What?”
Her eyes narrowed. “You had no idea who he was.”
“That’s silly—of course I recognized him. It’s just that his name escaped me for a moment.” He shrugged and took a sip of wine.
Sarah kept staring.
“Do you know how many people I’ve met in the last month?” he said.
“He was your commander. You deployed with him to Africa for a year.”
“Actually, only part of a year. Max Gavin rotated in to replace him halfway through.”
Sarah hesitated, then said, “Anyway, he looked good. I hope he gets his eagles—he’s one of the good ones.”
“I don’t know. I liked him, but he struck me as one of those guys who always seems to be going places but never quite arrives.”
“That’s a little harsh.”
“That’s the Army,” he said, attacking the bread basket.
Sarah was mildly surprised. Bryce was a lot of things, but never callous. She wondered if something had happened between them during the deployment. Then the thought she’d been pushing away returned. Could the explosion have affected Bryce’s memory? Could it be affecting his moods? Am I being paranoid?
She remembered years ago having coffee with a group of wives during a deployment. One woman’s husband hadn’t called on their anniversary, and she’d jested it was due to his brain trauma. The joke went over like an iron blimp. Yet it opened the floodgates, and three other wives, all of whom had husbands who’d suffered blast injuries, admitted to having similar dark thoughts. Every time their husband forgot to take out the garbage or lost his favorite wrench, a stab of worry set in. In the end, humor had reigned, everyone sharing anecdotes about their addled spouses—because what else could you do?
Not wanting to put a damper on dinner, Sarah let it go. The food was good, the wine outstanding. When Bryce ordered a second bottle, she protested on the grounds that one of them had to drive ten miles to get home.
“I’ve got that covered,” Bryce said. “It’s one of the perks of my new status.” He sent a text right then, and when they walked outside thirty minutes later a Town Car was waiting.
“This doesn’t look like an UBER,” she said, trying not to sound tipsy.
“Jack’s orders—it’s on the campaign.”
“Is that a valid expense?”
“I shook a few hands in the restaurant, so yeah, I was campaigning. More to the point, Jack doesn’t want me to screw things up by getting a DUI.”
“Probably just as well,” she said. “Maybe it’s my imagination, but you seem to be driving faster lately.”
“Am I? Probably just high expectations.”
“What?”
“If I win, I might not get behind the wheel of a car again for another eight years.”
She giggled and they bundled into the Town Car’s backseat like teenagers into a graduation limo.
“Home, sir?” the driver inquired.
“Home,” Bryce said, an earl to his chauffeur.
“I’ve been wondering,” Sarah said, “at what point do you get Secret Service protection?”
“It’s not a big agency, so they try to hold off as long as possible—a manpower thing. Once I win the nomination, it’s a done deal.”
“If you win the nomination.”
“Superstitious?”
“Maybe.”
“There is one exception when it comes to protection.”
“What’s that?”
“If a viable threat is made against a candidate, then they cover him or her.”
A flutter of dread drifted into Sarah’s light head.
“Don’t worry. Last guy who messed with me, I threw him off the top of a fifteen-story building.”
“Bryce—”
He interrupted with a deep kiss. When it finally broke, he said in a low voice, “Did you say Alyssa is spending the night at Julia’s?”
“She is.”
“Good.” He kissed her again and his hands began to wander. Sarah’s head was swimming from the second bottle of wine—they never found the bottom, but had made a valiant effort. When his hand cupped her breast she whispered, “Can it wait ’til we get home?”
In the scant light of the backseat he met her eyes, and Sarah saw something she didn’t quite recognize. “Sure,” he said, pulling away. “Waiting always makes it better.”