ROBERT FROST ONCE SAID something to the effect that home was a place where, when you go there, they have to take you in. He never mentioned anything about what to do when home is no longer home.
Ever since Kate’s parents had moved out of the family home where she’d grown up, she always felt a little out of place in their retirement house, even though she knew she was welcome there.
It was . . . different. Yet there were still reminders of her childhood home —like her grandmother’s armless rocking chair in her parents’ bedroom. On the coffee table sat her father’s humidor, which had never held a single cigar but instead a constantly changing collection of pens and pencils. Just like before, her mother had hung the family photographs in the hallway leading to the bedrooms, the pictures chronicling the growth of Kate and of her brother, Brian, from childhood to adulthood.
Kate studied how her mother had balanced the diametrically opposed lives of her two children. Brian’s pictures included his wedding portrait and both formal and casual shots of Jill and Brian. Her brother’s pictures often showed him in uniform. The lives of his three kids, their parents’ only grandchildren, were also carefully chronicled, with a place of special honor given to the pictures of the new baby.
Kate’s collection of photos lacked a husband and children but included her multiple graduations and shots of her various roles in life —lawyer, assistant to the lieutenant governor, assistant to the governor, and manager of Emily’s presidential campaign. Kate knew it was her mother’s way of showing that she had just as much pride in Kate’s accomplishments as she did in Brian’s. The photographs even included a few snapshots of Kate standing next to Emily, aka “our adopted daughter.”
And that was true. As much as Emily loved her fellow Bentons, she lovingly called the Rosens her “wonderful normal family.” Holidays at the Benton manse had always been magnificent affairs with twenty-foot trees decorated by Martha Stewart herself, meticulously wrapped presents in color-coordinated paper, and gourmet meals cooked by some of the finest chefs in the world. The opulence both entranced and repelled Kate the few times she had joined in the grand festivities.
A Rosen family Christmas included homemade ornaments —some of them embarrassingly bad childhood craft projects from long ago —Christmas cards pinned to a piece of yarn stretched across the fireplace mantle, a Crock-Pot steaming with apple cider all hours of the day, and Christmas Eve services at church where no one minded if Kate was somewhat tone-deaf when she sang with gusto.
It wasn’t even Thanksgiving.
Kate went home, nonetheless.
Her parents lived in a small town in the center of Virginia, just far enough from Richmond and D.C. not to be considered a distant bedroom community of either city. When her parents retired, they both wanted to escape the rat race known as commuting from outside the Beltway into D.C. No wonder that they chose a sleepy little town with enough amenities to support their hobbies but not enough traffic to fry their brains.
Due to the driving distance, Kate didn’t arrive until late afternoon. At her parents’ insistence, she crashed in the spare bedroom right after she said hello to them. She’d had no sleep in the last forty-eight hours.
When she woke up, Kate was momentarily disoriented. Then she finally recognized her surroundings —her parents’ guest room. She felt a familiar warm pressure against her back.
“Move over, Buster.”
Her dog, Buster —half beagle, half poodle —cracked open one eye, yawned, stretched, and fell back asleep with a grumpy but satisfied sigh. Her parents had been babysitting Buster for the past two weeks leading up to the election since her job as campaign manager meant packing thirty hours of work in twenty-four-hour days. Working harder than a dog herself meant she had little time to devote to him. A little vacation in the country seemed the ideal way to make sure he wasn’t neglected while she toiled.
Kate told herself that Buster was the reason she came back, but she knew it was far more complicated than that. She needed a sympathetic ear, a sounding board. There were no better listeners in the world than her parents. They might have escaped the political rat race by moving to the middle of nowhere, but that didn’t mean they didn’t still understand the rats.
Glancing at the bedside clock, she realized that, to no surprise, her afternoon nap had turned into a very long night’s sleep. Nothing had interrupted her. No anxious phone calls. No text messages. No demands on her time.
Glorious.
She rolled tentatively from the bed, stretched, and followed the aroma of hot coffee to the kitchen. Her father, long since retired, still woke up early on the weekends to prepare a full breakfast. Although her homecoming was in the middle of the week, he had taken the lead in the kitchen in honor of her return.
She walked into the kitchen and saw all the ingredients for a big breakfast pulled out on the counter.
“Oh, good.” Her father turned and beamed at her. “You’re up. I figured once you hit the sack yesterday, you might not get back up until this afternoon. No wonder, considering how hard you’ve been working lately.” He used the spatula in his hand to gesture to the carton of eggs sitting beside the refrigerator. “Do you want your eggs fried or scrambled?”
“Scrambled, please.”
“You got it.” He turned back to the stove, calling over his shoulder, “For the record, Buster likes his scrambled.” The dog had wandered into the kitchen behind Kate and took up his station on the floor next to her father’s feet.
“I bet you’ve been spoiling him. Rotten.”
“Yep.” Her father expertly flipped a bit of cooked egg from the pan and Buster caught it without effort before it hit the floor. “Either my aim or his catching skills are getting better.” Her father nodded toward the counter, where the coffeemaker had just completed its last glug. “Coffee’s ready. Fix me a cup, please?”
Kate padded over, chose two mugs from the dozen hanging on the wall, and poured coffee for herself and her father. They both liked it the same way —two sugars, one cream. But in this health-conscious household, that translated to two packets of sugar substitute and a splash of 2 percent milk. Her mother managed the three Cs with an iron glove —calories, cholesterol, and caffeine.
He accepted the mug and took a tentative sip. “Your mom’s sleeping in.”
“Hard night last night?”
He nodded. “I keep telling her that retirement is supposed to mean she should work less. But she’s so wrapped up with things at the center that she’s putting in twice as many hours as she did when she taught school.”
“What kept her up last night? Worrying about something?”
“One of the girls from the center called her last night, crying, and your mom stayed up talking on the phone to her for at least two hours. You know how keyed up she gets after one of those calls.”
Her mother volunteered at a local shelter that took in abused women, mostly from D.C. Since her mom possessed a good heart, a level head, and a loving soul, she spoke with a quiet maternal authority that offered strength to the weak and faith to the lost. The shelter was thrilled with her work.
Not to mention her mom could charm donations from the stingiest CEOs around.
Kate’s father handed her a plate of bacon, which she dutifully placed on the table. “You don’t need to cook for me, Dad.”
“I’m not,” he said, turning back to the stove. “I’m cooking for me. If I happen to cook enough for . . . oh . . . let’s say three people —” he catapulted another morsel of egg that Buster intercepted in midair —“and one dog? Then so be it.”
Kate reached over and kissed him on the cheek. “So be it.” She busied herself, ferrying plates, napkins, utensils, and condiments to the table. She hid her smile as she contemplated the jelly jar, knowing her mother had soaked off the label so that her father wouldn’t know it was sugar-free.
Of course he knew. It was for that same reason he always found an excuse to use her mother’s car to run a weekend errand and return it freshly washed and with a full tank of gas.
They delighted in taking care of each other.
At the not-so-tender age of forty-four, Kate knew her odds of finding someone like that to share her life were diminishing, minute by minute. There had been what her grandmother had always described as “a few near misses, but no misters.” But Kate didn’t regret one moment of energy or time she’d put into her life. What she did regret was that she might have to alter her goals in midstream and walk away from the political structure she’d worked so hard to build with Emily at the top and with Kate in an advisory rung just below. If she left that life, had she wasted her youth on a mistaken cause?
Kate resisted the urge to sigh. Instead, she waited for her father to finish cooking so she could carry the eggs and grits to the table. As a pièce de résistance, he pulled a pan of homemade biscuits from the oven and plopped two each on their plates.
“Let’s eat.”
Once seated, they bowed their heads as he recited the prayer that had accompanied every meal she’d ever eaten with her parents.
“Lord, thank you for these and all our many blessings. In Jesus Christ’s name, amen.”
Simple and heartfelt. She couldn’t help but smile. That described her father as well —an uncomplicated man who understood the value of hard work and, as he always put it, “the love of a good woman.” Kate’s mother usually gave him a good-natured swat whenever he said it.
Although Kate wasn’t terribly hungry, she helped herself to a little of everything, if for no other reason than to pacify her father, who would give her a heartier helping if she didn’t plan and institute an effective countermeasure. After a few bites, she stopped, the food turning to lead shot rolling around in her stomach.
Her father eyed her plate. “I’m no gourmet chef, but I know breakfast isn’t that bad.”
She tried to muster a look of enthusiasm but failed miserably. “It’s great, Dad. Really. It’s just that I’m not all that hungry.”
“So I noticed.” He continued to eat. “Otherwise you’d be in D.C. celebrating Emily’s election instead of coming here to hang out with the old folks. You know you didn’t need to drive all the way down here. We’d have been glad to bring Buster back to you.” He split a biscuit, the steam rising into the air. “I figure when you’re ready to talk, you’ll talk.”
It was a tactic he’d employed ever since she could remember —a sense of calm patience. He knew that by simply stating he was willing to wait until she thought it was time to talk, she’d soon break open like a bad piñata and spill out what was bothering her.
But Kate did take several moments to ponder her next words. Her mother and father had always treated Emily like a daughter from the day they met her, perhaps sensing that she needed love like theirs. More importantly, Emily returned their affection, perhaps with more sincerity than to her own family.
Kate swallowed hard. Confiding her concerns about Emily to her father felt like ratting out her sister.
After several false starts and abrupt stops, she finally boiled everything down to the mildest of explanations. “There were a couple of situations that happened toward the end of the campaign that really bothered me.”
“Situations?” He paused, his coffee cup halfway to his mouth. “You mean like . . . campaign irregularities?”
She nodded. “And because of them, I need to reevaluate my —” she struggled for the word —“c-commitment to Emily’s administration.”
He whistled, then scratched his chin, leveling her with a steely gaze. “But you’d rather not tell me all the gory details, right?”
Up to that moment, Kate had expected to tell him everything. She wanted her father to tell her she was the good daughter who’d made the right decision keeping the information away from Emily. And that Emily had been the bad daughter who succumbed to the temptation of using the ill-gained knowledge.
But he was right. He didn’t need to know all the gory details. He only needed to know the generalities. Good fathers of adult children let them make their own decisions, and he was one of the best, managing to probe beneath the surface of a problem without getting under her skin or making her feel as if she were in the crosshairs.
“Don’t worry, sweetie.” He slathered his biscuit with something that at least looked like margarine but probably had no fat, no calories, and quite possibly, no taste. “Your mother and I have always been aware of the possibilities that M’s basic nature might win out occasionally. She’s used to getting her way. We just hoped that your influence would help keep her on track.”
Kate gaped at her father. Her parents’ insight never failed to amaze her, but seldom did it take her by surprise quite like this.
“Don’t look so shocked. Neither your mother nor I have ever doubted your dedication and involvement. This need to serve God by helping others —it’s been a part of you all your life.” He released the familiar sigh of unfailing paternal insight. “But Emily? She’s another matter entirely. She’s . . . wired differently. She’s had different influences in her life, especially from her family. Then again, she’s been your friend for over twenty years. Some of you has rubbed off on her. Your values. Your morality. And we consider that to be a very good thing. For Emily. And for the state and now the country.”
Kate stared out the window at a thicket of trees, the branches stripped bare by winter. “You’ve never been afraid of the reverse? that I would pick up some of her . . . bad habits?”
She pivoted in time to see him lift one shoulder in a shrug. “Not really.” He turned back to his food, stirring his eggs and grits together. “Don’t get me wrong,” he said, gesturing with his fork. “She’s got good habits too. Emily Benton’s been good to you, good for you, in many ways, and she’s always treated your mother and me with a great deal of respect and —dare I say it —love. But the bottom line is that she does it because she needs you.”
“Needs me . . . ,” Kate repeated flatly.
“Sure. Emily grew up in the lap of luxury, her every whim catered to, her every wish fulfilled. I’m still amazed that she’s not some spoiled little heiress princess afraid to chip a nail. Instead, she’s a very astute political schemer who’s not afraid to roll up her sleeves and dig right in if it means she can figure out how to successfully use people to advance her own position.”
She gaped at her father.
“Think about it,” he continued. “Could she have become president without your help?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Of course not. It took your vision, your talents, your advice, your self-control, your hard work to keep her out of trouble, on the right path, and always bathed in a flattering light in public. How many times did you stop her from shooting herself in the foot or shooting off her mouth? How many times did you have to remind her of the underlying issues, not just the ones that put her in the limelight? I could give you chapter and verse, but I don’t have to.” He pushed back in his chair, away from his plate, but kept his coffee close at hand. “You were there. You know exactly what incidents I’m talking about. And I bet there are dozens more that nobody knows about beyond you two.”
Kate swallowed hard. How could her father have seen this so clearly when she hadn’t?
He looked up over the rim of his coffee mug. “Hitting too close to home for you?”
She nodded.
“Your mother and I have talked about it a lot. Worrying that Emily was dominating too much of your life and that you were concentrating too much on the big goal, working only to see the bigger picture.”
“But you didn’t say anything.”
“Of course not. You’re an adult. The last thing you need is for your parents to rag on you about your choice of friends. And it’s not as if we don’t honestly like Emily.”
“So you think I should stick with her.”
He stalled by taking a long, contemplative swig of his coffee. “I didn’t say that. I can’t and won’t tell you whether you should stay or go. I can see good reasons to support either outcome. But only you can make that decision. What I will say is that with your help, I think she could be a very effective president.”
“But without my help?”
He shrugged. “I’m not so sure. That could go either way. She’s got undeniable talent for the job. I’m concerned about who might influence her if you’re not there. Emily will change this country —for better or for worse.” He put down his cup, laced his fingers, and leaned forward. “But you’re my daughter. That means my interests are a lot more narrow than most people’s would be. I want you to be happy. The bottom line? We don’t want you to forget who you are and what you believe in simply because you’ve gotten used to standing in her shadow.”
Kate couldn’t help but bristle a bit. “She’s offered me the White House chief of staff position. That’s not exactly a place in the shadows.”
“You’re right. It isn’t.” He sighed. “Honey, I have no doubt that you’ll do great things in that office. But what you have to ask yourself is, will you be doing great things with Emily’s help or in spite of her?”
Kate put her head in her hands. Her dad had, as usual, put his finger on the heart of her problem. And her answer?
That’s the problem. I don’t know. . . .