The One That Got Away (33 page)

T
he polls had only just closed and it was anyone’s game. Only the first few districts had reported, and those along with the mail-in ballots put Alex and Amanda in a statistical dead heat, though technically Alex trailed by half a point. Even though this was still within the margin of error, and even though we were waiting it out in the calm luxury of the Ritz-Carlton penthouse suite, tensions were understandably high. No one laughed or made jokes; no one ate or drank. Everyone just stared at computers, phones, and the television, waiting for news.

At least the weather was finally cooperating. The rain had stopped and voters who had stayed away all day now stood under tranquil skies to cast their ballots. Our volunteers at all the major polling places had reported long lines, some even extending down sidewalks and around buildings. And according to minute-by-minute updates from Alex’s overeager groupie, Gerald, the longest line was in East Falls, where William Wallace had made good on his promise. In a video texted to Alex’s phone, we watched as voters stood patiently in a quarter-mile trail running from the tiny post office polling station down to the churning, rain-sodden river.

I thought of my e-mail to Larry. Would anything come of it? Had she even gotten it? So far, no story had run. So far, only Wallace was keeping up his side of the bargain. But given the day’s events, maybe it was for the best.

As the clock slowly wound down on the election, and the air got even thicker with worry and dread, I mostly hid out in the suite’s tiny kitchen or in the bedroom. I was trying to stay out of the way, trying not to cause any more trouble. But mostly I was trying to avoid the television, where the local news programs had been rerunning clips of my Holy Trinity speech all afternoon. I was terrified to be in the same room as Mirabelle when she watched the same sound bite—“down a nice, cold beer”—being played over and over again.

But every few minutes, I had to step into the main room to check on the kids, and when I did, I could see my van Holt world as it had become. And all the players in it.

There was Frank, on his phone and computing poll numbers on the back of a room service menu; Calvin toggling between his iPad, BlackBerry, and laptop for updates, and Sunita flipping between local affiliates on the TV. In a corner, Aubyn babysat her father, plying him with diet Sprite and gin rummy. The only person who was relaxed was Collier’s nurse, Luis, who tuned everything out with his iPod. He knew, as did everyone else, that he wouldn’t be needed until, well, he was needed.

The only character in this cast who was missing was May. I knew that if she had still been working for us, she would have been mouthing a silent Thai prayer for Alex’s sake, picking up dishes and newspapers, and following the kids around with a washcloth. It was hard to believe I was the only person, besides Sam, who felt her absence. When he asked for his beloved “May May” for the fortieth time today, all I could do was hug him close and whisper, “Sorry, Mr. Magoo. You’re stuck with me from now on.”

Mirabelle flitted around at a faster pace than normal, fussing over the food and barking at the Ritz staff while eavesdropping on everyone’s conversations, anxious for any news in our favor. She also toyed with me, making comments like “such an unusual day” and referring to me as “Alex’s outspoken wife” when I came up in conversation. I could tell she was only biding her time for when she would try to convince Alex of her troubling theories. I felt like I was trapped in a cage with a viper, waiting for the day that she would strike.

And of course, there was Alex, perched on the edge of a sofa beside Frank, staring blankly at some notes, the television, or his phone. He seemed subdued, as if saving his strength for what was to come later tonight.

Despite the close quarters, everyone except the children ignored me, speaking to me only when they needed to, or to ask me for more shrimp/napkins/tonic. Because of the trouble I had caused, I was no longer to be trusted and therefore barely worthy of acknowledgment. I felt the same way I had felt in high school and, lately, at my PR job: invisible.

Now I understood why Abbey van Holt had changed so much over the past ten years. She must have learned, through her own missteps, that being yourself, making your own decisions, and occasionally going rogue carried a price tag. It meant being questioned, watched, worried over, and, eventually, excluded. A person made to disappear in plain sight.

Just like Collier, I was living in a world where I was tolerated but not really wanted. And funny, he was the only one who seemed to be able to see me. When I passed by him, he took my arm and whispered, “Don’t look so glum, Abigail. Sometimes being the black sheep has its advantages!” I smiled and sat down beside him, watching his hands shake as he placed one card after another on the deck.

My eyes found Alex again, and I studied his face. He was the only one in this group whose opinion mattered to me, the only person whose forgiveness it would be impossible to live without. And though he had been polite to me these past few hours—he was
always
polite—I knew he was still trying to process the day’s events. As well as the current state of our marriage.

But, honestly, so was I. Was he still angry with me? When would we move on? Would I even know? And where would we go from here? With Jimmy, I always knew where I stood. With Alex, it was infinitely more confusing. I sighed and continued to move around the party like a ghost.

Never in my life had I felt more alone.

“Precinct six is in,” announced Frank. “Bullock took it.” There was a collective groan, but this was no surprise, precinct six—the opponent’s own neighborhood—never really being in play for us.

When Gloria walked by, I attempted to pull her into a hug, but she wriggled out of my grasp, too busy exploring the suite. Faithful Sam took her place, toddling up with a smile when I beckoned to him. We played horsey and tickle spider, and for a short time, I forgot the election. But then suddenly Frank, leaning over Calvin’s laptop and squinting, barked out more updates: “Precincts two and ten are all in. Eleven too. This is it, folks.”

A hush fell. Even Sam went silent. Beneath his glasses, Frank’s eyes moved left and right as he read the screen. Finally, he dropped his head and closed his eyes. Exhaled loudly. Then spun around to look at Alex.

And grinned. “Congratulations, Congressman.”

The room exploded in cheers. Then hugs, laughter, sighs all around. Aubyn offered a rare smile, Mirabelle threw up her hands to the heavens, and Collier beamed. Calvin, usually so reserved, stood up on a sofa and fist pumped while he shouted, “Fuck, yes!”
before remembering the children. I stood awkwardly, clapping, then knelt down to check Sam’s diaper for the thousandth time that evening.

When I stood again, Alex was there, pulling me into a stiff hug and giving me a perfunctory kiss, then whispering a quiet “It’s over.” It was the first contact I’d had with him since we left Holy Trinity, and to have him acknowledge me physically, even if it was just for show, made me want to cry with relief. Then he was on the phone, fielding a string of congratulatory calls—from the party leaders, the mayor, the governor—as well as a concession call from Amanda Bullock.

Someone popped champagne and Frank walked over to me with a glass.

“A peace offering?” He looked at me with a hangdog expression, his eyes peeking out above his glasses.

“Sure.” I took a small sip, then put the glass down, aware of Mirabelle watching from the corner of my eye.

“I’m not afraid to admit when I’m wrong,” he continued. “It
was
better to face the issue. And as it turns out, your little speech at Holy Trinity gave us the bump we needed. Delaware County came in strong. Record numbers.”

“Really?”

“Really.” I couldn’t believe it. Finally, I had done something right. And it just may have given Alex the edge over Amanda.

Frank lifted his glass in a toast, took a sip, then cocked his head to one side. “But from now on, can you please be a little more careful?”

“Sure.” I gave him a genuine smile. He smiled too, then returned to Alex. I knew he didn’t really care for me, but at least now we weren’t at each other’s throats.

Behind me, I heard another champagne cork pop. Then another. The party had officially begun. And one by one, people started talking to me again, greeting me as if I had just arrived. With Alex’s
win—and, more important, his show of affection—I was visible again. Even Mirabelle managed to acknowledge me, offering a stiff “Excuse me, Abigail,” as she passed to pick up a plate.

I shuddered to think what would have happened if he had lost.

Feeling as if I had just been let out of purgatory, I relented on my “no jumping on the furniture” policy and let the kids bounce away. As I watched them chase each other through the apartment-sized suite, I was glad to see they were oblivious to what the night meant. There would be time later to discuss the changes coming; tonight was supposed to be about celebrating. I forced a smile on my face and began to circulate through the room, thanking supporters.

The suite became cluttered with crumpled napkins, water bottles, half-smoked cigars, and discarded newspapers. Every few minutes, Ritz employees swept through to clear glasses and plates and check with me to make sure everything was “satisfactory.” “Fine,” I told them the seven times they asked. I guess these were the types of stimulating questions I’d have to answer in my new role as congressional wife.

It was getting late, and I was worried the kids might melt down, but Frank assured me we would leave for the victory party very soon. I told the kids they could each get a cookie from the dessert buffet, hoping some sugar might pep them up for the home stretch. Gloria picked a sugar cookie, but Sam went right for the chocolate éclairs. He grabbed two, grinning at his good fortune, then escaped under the table before I could check the chocolate topping for nuts.

Mirabelle ran up and dropped to her knees on the other side, trying to reason with him. But the more she begged, the harder he gripped his éclairs, the cream and chocolate running down his arms and dangerously close to his navy-and-white sailor suit. She stood and flashed me a look of disgust. “I don’t know why you let him have things like that. Now what are we to do?”

I ignored her and rushed around to the other side of the table to cut Sam off, only to see him slip out under a chair and take off toward the bedroom. He ducked past Calvin and Sunita—busy flirting over beers—then breezed by Aubyn and Collier, still hard at their card game.

“Run, Van, run!” cheered Frank from across the room.

“Look at the little stallion go!” slurred Collier. Aubyn looked up from her cards and tried not to laugh.

I followed Mirabelle, surprisingly nimble in her kitten heels, as she cornered Sam in the bedroom. “My tweat!” he shrieked in outrage. “My tweat!”

“Give them to Grandmère,” she said menacingly. He shook his head and retreated farther into his corner, clutching his gooey prizes but, luckily, not yet putting them to his lips.

Finally, Mirabelle, who was closer, grabbed him hard by the shoulder. But he wrestled free and escaped. As he made a break for the door, I crouched to catch him. But at 122 pounds and in four-inch heels, I didn’t stand a chance. He barreled into me, knocking me backward off my feet and onto the carpet.

Mirabelle, ever the lady, offered her hand. I pulled down the hem of my dress and pushed the hair out of my face, hot with embarrassment. Around me, a few onlookers, curious to see who would win the battle of the éclairs, stood motionless and stared. I noticed they weren’t looking at my face, but farther down. My eyes followed theirs.

Across the front of my beautiful blue dress were two perfect little ganache handprints.

As I stood in my bra and underwear in the bathroom, Mirabelle and a woman from the Ritz housekeeping staff tried their best to clean
the dress with club soda. They dabbed and rinsed and dabbed and rinsed, but the stains only got bigger and darker, happy to make their home in the finely napped wool.

“I should have known something like this would happen,” said Mirabelle.

I knew what she was thinking—that I was drunk again—but I said nothing in rebuttal. By now, I knew she was going to believe what she wanted to believe.

Still scrubbing, she continued her tirade: “The Baccos told me about earlier. Your little moments ‘alone.’ The closet all torn apart.”

Though I had just fired Bobby and Francis and would probably never see them again, her words stung. I was in fact
not
their favorite client… Mirabelle was. I shivered in my slip, then wrapped my arms around my waist.

“So I have a messy closet and sometimes I need a few moments alone. That doesn’t mean I’m a drunk.”

Ignoring me, she threw the stained dress onto the ground in disgust. “This is ruined.”

“I’ll just run back to the apartment. Or send Sunita.”

“There’s no time,” she said. “Frank says they need you downstairs now.”

“Well, I guess this will have to do, then,” I said, irritated. I picked the dress up from the floor.

“No,” said Mirabelle, snatching it back from me. “It won’t do. I’ve worked too hard—” She caught herself. “You represent our family. I won’t have us be laughed at anymore today.”

Her face was white with anger.

“It’s not a big deal,” I assured her. “Alex won. There’s no more—”

“Quiet,” she said. “Let me think.”

She sighed and took off her jacket—a beautifully tailored peacock-colored wool—and handed it to me. “Here. Take this.”

She slipped off her white silk blouse and the matching blue-green skirt and handed those to me as well. Against her knee-length beige slip, her body was pale, the flesh clinging on tiny bones, as if she was about to be mummified.

“Put them on,” she hissed. “For heaven’s sake, just put them on.”

I slid on the blouse and skirt, then the jacket. The skirt was shorter on me and the blouse strained over my breasts, but they would do.

“Thank you.”

She waved away my words imperiously as she pulled on a robe from the back of the door. “And whatever you do, don’t throw those into the wash.
Dry. Clean. Only.
” As if I was an idiot.