into the twins’ mouths. “I think I’m gonna send Amanda home by herself today.”
“Great! You guys should definitely stay the weekend. I have a ton of briefs to read, but we could take them to the zoo if it’s not too hot. And maybe Rhonda could find us a sitter and I can take you for a drink on the water—”
“No, Tom, I mean I think we should stay. Monday I’ll get us a nanny and a realtor. Let’s do this for real, Mr. Future of the Party. We should be here for you.”
“Oh, okay, that’s—wow, yes, terrific.” The beans crunched underfoot as he tried to hug her.
Generously Lindsay insisted I take the private plane back. As soon as I boarded I put my feet up, downed my warm nuts, and called Becky. After quoting the end of Working Girl —guess where I am—I shared my news. “She wants me to ‘manage’ the move.”
“Does that sound like housework?” she asked pragmatically.
“Well, yes, but, honestly, I don’t think it works that way in politics. It seems like it’s all-hands-on-deck twenty-four-seven to make their lives happen. I mean, Clive heard when Tom moved into that apartment he had guys with Masters in Economic Policy schlepping his sports trophies up the back stairs.”
“Okay, I do not know this world.”
“I don’t either, really. But now I’ve seen Tom Davis in a towel, so I have to be easing into the inner circle, right? And trust is currency?” I dug for the last cashew. “But I need chances to prove myself. If Lindsay moves up to DC—she’s my only real connection, I could end up marooned in Jacksonville.”
“Hey,” she said sharply.
“I just meant professionally.”
“I get it. Steal me a tiny ketchup bottle, uppity cow.”
“Will do.”
I was still ruminating about the potential implications of Lindsay’s request when I climbed down the tiny stairs to the hanger, Becky’s ketchup in my purse.
“Well, I’ll be.”
I spun around. “Pax Westerbrook.” I smiled, putting my hands on my hips. He was loading his bag into the hold of a small plane opposite. He still looked like an ad—only now it was something more like cologne—the kind of thing where a guy in a white button-down walks a blazing tarmac hidden behind reflective shades.
“Amanda Luker. I see life has been kind.”
“What? Oh, this?” I pointed behind me. “I just clean it.”
He laughed. “Same Amanda.”
“Not remotely.”
He looked me over, taking me in. “Where’s home these days?”
“Twenty minutes from here down 295,” I said as the Davis town car pulled in to get me. I really could not have improved the moment if I’d had the ear of God himself.
“Listen, I was just up here for the morning to see some clients, but I’ll be back in two weeks—can I take you to dinner? Please?”
I was sure if I’d been privy to his emails I’d probably have unearthed things that would make Clive seem like a cub scout, but I wasn’t. I had only his smile and the way he looked at me to go off of. And after the humiliation of our last encounter, I wanted him to see that I’d worked my way up to being—well, if not quite an equal—at least someone who could buy her own dress.
It was champagne-colored cotton—the dress I chose—with gold thread woven around the hem. It was stunning, but casual, the kind of thing a girl wears when she wants to look like she didn’t get a pedicure, a leg wax or spend a little time in the sun on her lunch hour the day before.
He suggested a restaurant on the water in nearby St. Augustine, a beautiful resort town that
“Great! You guys should definitely stay the weekend. I have a ton of briefs to read, but we could take them to the zoo if it’s not too hot. And maybe Rhonda could find us a sitter and I can take you for a drink on the water—”
“No, Tom, I mean I think we should stay. Monday I’ll get us a nanny and a realtor. Let’s do this for real, Mr. Future of the Party. We should be here for you.”
“Oh, okay, that’s—wow, yes, terrific.” The beans crunched underfoot as he tried to hug her.
Generously Lindsay insisted I take the private plane back. As soon as I boarded I put my feet up, downed my warm nuts, and called Becky. After quoting the end of Working Girl —guess where I am—I shared my news. “She wants me to ‘manage’ the move.”
“Does that sound like housework?” she asked pragmatically.
“Well, yes, but, honestly, I don’t think it works that way in politics. It seems like it’s all-hands-on-deck twenty-four-seven to make their lives happen. I mean, Clive heard when Tom moved into that apartment he had guys with Masters in Economic Policy schlepping his sports trophies up the back stairs.”
“Okay, I do not know this world.”
“I don’t either, really. But now I’ve seen Tom Davis in a towel, so I have to be easing into the inner circle, right? And trust is currency?” I dug for the last cashew. “But I need chances to prove myself. If Lindsay moves up to DC—she’s my only real connection, I could end up marooned in Jacksonville.”
“Hey,” she said sharply.
“I just meant professionally.”
“I get it. Steal me a tiny ketchup bottle, uppity cow.”
“Will do.”
I was still ruminating about the potential implications of Lindsay’s request when I climbed down the tiny stairs to the hanger, Becky’s ketchup in my purse.
“Well, I’ll be.”
I spun around. “Pax Westerbrook.” I smiled, putting my hands on my hips. He was loading his bag into the hold of a small plane opposite. He still looked like an ad—only now it was something more like cologne—the kind of thing where a guy in a white button-down walks a blazing tarmac hidden behind reflective shades.
“Amanda Luker. I see life has been kind.”
“What? Oh, this?” I pointed behind me. “I just clean it.”
He laughed. “Same Amanda.”
“Not remotely.”
He looked me over, taking me in. “Where’s home these days?”
“Twenty minutes from here down 295,” I said as the Davis town car pulled in to get me. I really could not have improved the moment if I’d had the ear of God himself.
“Listen, I was just up here for the morning to see some clients, but I’ll be back in two weeks—can I take you to dinner? Please?”
I was sure if I’d been privy to his emails I’d probably have unearthed things that would make Clive seem like a cub scout, but I wasn’t. I had only his smile and the way he looked at me to go off of. And after the humiliation of our last encounter, I wanted him to see that I’d worked my way up to being—well, if not quite an equal—at least someone who could buy her own dress.
It was champagne-colored cotton—the dress I chose—with gold thread woven around the hem. It was stunning, but casual, the kind of thing a girl wears when she wants to look like she didn’t get a pedicure, a leg wax or spend a little time in the sun on her lunch hour the day before.
He suggested a restaurant on the water in nearby St. Augustine, a beautiful resort town that
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