AWWW, HONEY, YOU’RE A CAMPAIGN WIDOW
Mere hours to go until Birdie’s grand Iowa soiree and the Brandywine home was nearly ready: it had been transformed into a veritable greenhouse of peonies, calla lilies and French tulips, just enough without appearing overcrowded or worse, gauche. A fleet of chafing dishes sat on the sharp-edged marble dining-room table just waiting to be laid with a buffet of delicacies. Florists, caterers, decorators, so many bodies working all afternoon as one well-oiled machine to ensure the quadrennial festivities would go off without a hitch. Only two hiccups had contributed to Birdie’s need to dip into that secret Valium stash in her lingerie drawer.
The first: Buck. He should’ve been long gone by the time she’d arrived this morning. And then ambushing her writer? She had been only forty minutes late and had shown her interviewer such a pithy-quotable good time, what did it matter really?
The second: the forks and knives sparkling under her $30,000 Lalique chandelier. She’d spotted them while ushering out The Queue reporter. “No, no, no!” she’d barked, brandishing a silver dinner knife at a trio of cater waiters like it was a switchblade in a particularly well-appointed street fight. “We cannot serve anything resembling a main course. Everything bite-sized! Or I’ll have ethics committees from every branch of government up my…” Deep breath. “Do you know how many elected officials are coming tonight? Where’s Michael? He should be here. Check the original order—bamboo sticks, cocktail forks, shot glasses with those tiny spoons. This is a huge f—” She’d caught herself, remembering to be polite lest she should wind up in the gossip blogs for the wrong reasons…again. “Foul up. Many thanks, loves.”
By the time the TV crew knocked at the door, the music boomed out of the built-in Bose sound system throughout the house, her hair and makeup team had come and gone, and she had slipped into that splashy red, white and blue Jason Wu cocktail dress (made just for her). She felt that hum of anticipation (sweetly muted by the tranquilizer) in her veins. Still, it nagged at her just enough that she couldn’t help but wonder: How much had that writer, Jay, picked up on? Had he read the chill in the room when she’d arrived? Caught her peeking at her phone after their tour to find that text from Buck, who’d departed for the airport without a proper goodbye: Didn’t want to interrupt interview, he wrote. Not sure what to think. You can spin me when I’m back. See you in a few days.
She greeted the grizzled cameraman she recognized from four years ago and a young woman she had never met. “Ah, so Gracie finally decided to sit one out,” Birdie said to the young woman and cameraman standing on her doorstep.
“Well, really, I just wanted to see your beautiful home for myself. Cady Davenport, senior producer, Best Day DC. I’m new to the show and having too much fun to share the good assignments. But Gracie sends her best.”
“I’m sure she does.” Birdie laughed. “But as Madeleine Albright once said, ‘There’s a special place in hell for women who bring cheap wine and cheaper morals to other women’s dinner parties.’”
* * *
Tour and interview complete—and perfect Birdie-isms dutifully captured, among them Cady’s favorite on the matter of updating the historical home—“I caught some flak for making changes, but, you know, we can respect the past without having to actually live in it.”—Cady and Max, her cameraman, camped out in the news van, editing the segment so all that remained would be to drop in scenes from the party itself. From the moment she had set foot in that house, Cady was grateful she’d had the good sense to let Gracie Garfield off the hook. The show’s longtime host—six feet tall, blonde, fifty-something and accustomed to getting what she asked for—had cornered Cady after the morning meeting and informed her with the frosty, formal tone, “I need to respectfully withdraw from this assignment. I don’t feel I am best suited for such an undertaking.” Cady had sensed she could bank points by giving in, no questions asked, and doing the segment herself.
By 7:30 that evening, the sun had set and the lights from a constant stream of sedans and limos lit up N Street, discharging so many familiar, cocktail-attired partygoers. As she and Max made their way back inside, Cady felt the electricity: the buzz of weighty conversation (Iraq, China, Wall Street, Senate hearings, polls) spoken in the impassioned tones usually reserved for matters of the heart or the arts, the clink of crystal stemware, the glow of flat screens mounted in every room set to news coverage on every network. She had covered her share of parties but had never seen so many truly powerful names clustered under one roof: cabinet secretaries, senators, an ex-president or two, a few Hollywood stars, and of course, a retinue of reporters and news anchors. If anything happened to the president and vice president, then the nation could ably be run by the people in this house, and there would be plenty of press to keep everyone informed of it all.
They were given exactly twenty minutes to shoot the party, and she and Max set to work circulating, capturing snippets of spirited cocktail chatter, giving socialites the chance to twirl and preen, and catching cameos of the big names. They followed Birdie, rolling tape as she welcomed guests with air-kisses and witticisms. When she came upon that chiseled, charming CNN anchor Grant Foxhall, she told him with a laugh, “Just because Buck is on MSNBC tonight doesn’t mean we actually have to watch!” and then flipped the channel. In fact, Cady noticed, she did that in every room they passed through.
As soon as their time was up, Birdie clapped her hands, three loud staccato claps, instantly gaining the attention of the entire first floor: “Okay, everyone say good night to Best Day DC. The camera crew is leaving,” she announced. “We’re off the record now. Commence raucous caucusing!” A cheer erupted, and the conversation returned to its roar.
“Thank you, darlings, it was a pleasure,” she said. “And, of course, feel free to linger in the capacity of guests. You just have to check that thing at the door.” She pointed at the camera as though it were emitting an unsavory scent. “I won’t get any of the good dirt otherwise, and that really is the whole point of having a party in the first place, isn’t it?”
Cady couldn’t resist. She was instantly glad she had worn her favorite black sheath and quickly doffed her blazer, folding it over her satchel.
“My kind of girl,” Birdie said in approval, plucking two champagne flutes from a waiter’s tray while nodding and waving to revelers sashaying past. “Salud!” she toasted Cady. “So this airs tomorrow morning?” She sipped, then grabbed the remote control from inside an urn on the table beside them.
“Absolutely. The segment will actually run two or three times over the course of the—”
“So tell me,” Birdie cut her off. “You’re new you said. You came from…?”
“New York. The city’s number one morning show called—”
“How are you enjoying it? Here? Working with Gracie?” Birdie asked, pointing the remote toward the flat screen carefully, like it was target practice.
Glancing at the TV to avoid eye contact, Cady formulated a neutral response. “I, of course, don’t know her well, but I know her work and she seems to be well respected. She certainly knows…” She trailed off, a figure on screen catching her eye, just behind the MSNBC reporter’s live shot from a crowded hotel ballroom in Des Moines. “Wait a minute! Don’t!” Cady blurted out, grabbing Birdie’s arm reflexively to keep her from switching channels again. The chyron read Carter Thompson Headquarters.
“That’s my boyfriend! Fiancé!” She shook her head, something to get used to. “I mean, yeah, that’s him, Jackson.” She pointed to the screen, where Jackson smiled as he chatted on his phone in the background. Cady spotted a few of Jackson’s colleagues and Carter, of course, high-fiving supporters. Late forties, slim suit, freshly shined shoes, expertly gelled hair, Representative Carter Thompson looked like he could be Jackson’s big brother, which had been a large part of their instant bond in the mayor’s office. Cady had known Carter as the New York City mayor’s chief of staff before he had quickly become one of DC’s hottest freshman congressmen and most eligible bachelors.
“That one in the back?” Birdie asked, sizing Jackson up. “He’s cute. So is Jackson a save-the-world type or a power junkie?”
“Hmm? I’m sorry?” Cady didn’t understand the question.
“Everyone here is one or the other,” Birdie explained. “He’s with Thompson?”
“They worked together in New York. Mayor’s office.” She was distracted by the projected returns, so many percentages, so many precincts. Her heart swelled with pride for Jackson, to be there in the middle of this excitement, have a hand in this win.
“Isn’t Thompson just everyone’s favorite these days? I’m not sure if it’s the cheekbones or the kumbaya bipartisan talk,” Birdie said.
“Probably the cheekbones,” Cady joked, making Birdie smile. “But he’s got the right sort of superhero origin story, right?”
“I suppose there’s some passion balancing out the playboy antics,” Birdie quipped.
“A guy moves home to Iowa to care for dying parents who pass within weeks of each other, then, out of loneliness, spends sleepless nights at those endless city council meetings and starts heading up citizen action groups, helping at-risk teens, cleaning up litter-strewn parks, until he jumps into the race for his local seat on a whim? I’d say so,” Cady recalled. It was true, Carter had never expected to win. Jackson had been among the first he’d recruited when it came time to staff up.
“It’s pretty saintly lore, perfect for politics, I’ll grant you that,” Birdie said. “That’s why he can get away with dating Victoria’s Secret models and socialites.”
“I think the most recent was a foreign correspondent,” Cady said, offering a mild defense.
“Speaking of traveling, your fiancé must be on the road quite a bit these days.”
“Jackson was out there a couple weeks ago and he’s there now, but, you know, he’s back tomorrow, so, it’s not so bad.” Still focused on the TV, Cady realized she was rambling.
“Awww, honey,” Birdie said, grabbing Cady’s shoulder, nestling her head against Cady’s. “You’re a campaign widow.”