The Wrong Side of Right (15 page)

I could tell from his goofy wink that he didn’t really consider it harassment. And okay, fine. I didn’t either.

He was the only real friend I’d made all summer. Maybe longer than that—since California, since Penny became a voice on the phone, and the one person who knew me
better than I knew myself became no more than a memory—a dubious one, at that.

Whatever Andy’s faults, he was here. Living, breathing. He cared whether I walked away or not.

“I’m an honest person,” he said, swiping his hand nervously through his hair. “Which, okay, is exactly what a liar would say. But I’m serious. I’ll never lie to you. I’ll tell you anything. Just ask me.”

I raised my eyebrows at that dare. So many things I could ask. I chose the easiest one.

“How did you get that scar?”

His hand flew to his cheek. “Lacrosse. Another inch and I’d have lost the eye. Secret Service massively overreacted.”

“Okay,” I said, a mutinous smile rising to my lips. “I believe you.”

“Yeah?” he asked, his hand extended. “We’re good? You trust me now?”

I shook his hand. Didn’t answer. We were good—but I still knew better than to trust him.

As we walked past Andrew Jackson, Andy’s shoulder bumped mine and his fingers grazed the inside of my wrist. I could feel the warmth of the two inches between us as we strolled back to the street, where the same car that had picked me up was waiting. When we reached it, Andy stood beside the back door, ready to open it for me.

“Thanks,” he said.

“For what?”

“I don’t know.” He shrugged. “Existing?”

I rolled my eyes, secretly glowing. As Andy widened the
door so that I could pass through, he leaned in. I thought he was trying to whisper something to me, so I turned my head—just in time for the kiss he’d intended for my cheek to land somewhere a lot closer to my mouth. Like . . .
on
it.

I barely had time to register what was happening before we broke apart, his startled expression probably matching mine. Then he grinned.

“Okay then! Night, Quinn.”

I was too mortified to reply with anything but a wave as the car pulled away. Did Andy think I’d gone for the kiss? Did it count as a kiss if it was accidental?

Did he like it? Oh God, strike that thought.

Either way, I felt like a shaken snow globe, little sparkles swirling in me, never settling. They stayed there, shimmering, the whole drive home, so that I didn’t even notice the time, or that all the lights were off except for the front foyer, and one tiny bulb lit in the small window off to the side of the front porch—the senator’s study.

When I opened the front door, he was sitting on the stairs. He jumped up, and I moved to greet him—but his face froze me to the spot. I’d seen the senator tense and relaxed, seen him joking around with his staff, seen him nervous and contrite. But never had I seen him like this.

He was furious.

“Where the hell have you
been
? I’ve had people all over town looking for you!”

“I—I’m sorry.” I scrambled for an explanation, my brain landing on the cover story we’d all agreed on before the concert, praying one of those people looking for me hadn’t
found me at exactly the wrong moment. “After dinner we went to Lucy Davison’s house and I guess time just got away from me.”

“You
call
next time!” He shouted so loud that startled tears sprang to my eyes.

“I left my phone here, I . . .” I dropped my head and let my voice die, shrinking into the marble floor. “I’m sorry.”

Seeing my face, he collapsed against the railing. “You scared me to death, Kate. We thought you’d been kidnapped. Do you understand that that’s not a metaphor? We
literally
thought you’d been kidnapped.”

I mustered a small “Oh.”

“Bed. Now. We’ll talk about this in the morning.”

Before I got to the top of the stairs, he called after me again.

“Kate?” I looked down to see him running a hand over his graying hair, his wide shoulders slumped with fatigue and worry. “I’m sorry I lost my temper. And I’m glad you’ve made some friends. We just need to establish some ground rules.”

In the darkened upstairs hallway, Gabe was peeking past his door. “Are you okay?”

“Go back to bed,” I answered, beaming. “Everything is wonderful.”

I hit the mattress and it seemed to float. My first fight with my father. The first time I’d ever really thought of him as my father—the first time he’d acted like one.

It was like something out of a movie.

Before I fell into giddy dreams, I replayed the events of the evening in my head, realizing with an almost electric charge
that I’d just gone on a pseudo-date and shared a pseudo-kiss with the president’s son, strolled past the White House, watched a world-famous band from up in the lighting rig, dodged the paparazzi—and somehow it had turned out to be the most normal, stereotypically teenaged night of my life.

• • •

The next day, there was no talk of ground rules. But the senator did stay home the whole morning, sipping coffee and flipping through the sports section. When I sat nervously next to him on the sofa, he gave my hair a ruffle.

After Meg made breakfast, he helped her carry the plates to the patio table. On my pancake, someone had drawn a happy face in syrup.

17

Friday, July 18

Welcome Home, Coopers!

109 DAYS UNTIL TH
E
GENERAL
ELECTION

Rain splattered the windows of the campaign plane as we descended over Massachusetts. I felt an irrational stab of disappointment, as though the Coopers’ home state was rejecting me already.

But then, peering down at the wet airfield, I saw the waiting crowd.

They held homemade signs and cheered at a deafening pitch, their voices rising even louder when the local coordinator shouted on his loudspeaker to rev them up. The senator was grinning even before he stepped off the plane, his hand held high in greeting. Over the past month and a half, I’d seen how good he was at the unforced smile, the confident gait, but there was something different about him here. Something real. He was home.

After passing through the handshake line, we ducked inside the waiting limo to find Elliott Webb reclining in the seat opposite us. He put down his newspaper, shook hands with the senator and Meg, ruffled Gabe’s rain-doused hair, and playfully poked Gracie in the side.

“The house is ready,” he announced. “Some new flowerbeds
for you to plant when the cameras are rolling, Meg, assuming the rain lets up.”

“Just what I wanted to do this weekend,” she chuckled.

I stared unblinking at Elliott, waiting for him to acknowledge me. Then I remembered the word he’d used on that plane ride.
Docile.
No wonder he wouldn’t deign to say hello. Would you say hello to a cow grazing in a pasture?

Actually,
I thought wryly.
I probably would
.

I sighed and stared through the window, trying to block out both Elliott and anxious thoughts about the upcoming interview. The view was a good distraction. This was my first time in New England and I was curious to see how closely it matched my impressions of it from the John Adams miniseries, my much-loved copy of
Little Women
, and the Stephen King novels I’d snuck from my mom’s library when I was way too young to read them. I hoped it was more like the first two than the last one.

We exited the highway and reached a more scenic, forested area, then drove through a charmingly old-fashioned town.

“That’s where I used to take ballet,” Gracie called out. “And that’s where we go get ice cream.”

“Can we get ice cream?” Gabe asked, but the Coopers were deep in conversation with Elliott.

“How much time is allocated?” the senator was asking.

“I gave them all day Sunday.”

“That’s where we pick blackberries!” Gabe cried out, and I saw a long, paint-chipped fence with briars stretching over it, and behind, an old converted farmhouse, with stone walls and wooden ones painted dark green, a pond glittering gold to one
side. The weather chose this moment to break, the sun falling gently on the house and grounds. I pressed my fingertips to the window. It was like going back in time. We might as easily have been driving in a buggy to visit Jo March and her sisters at that very house.

To my delight, we pulled in.

This was where the twins were born, where they’d lived on and off for all of their eight years. Home.

Their home.

I had just enough time to deposit my bags in the hall and steal a quick look at the low doorways and knotted planks of wood in the floor, listening to the happy racket of birds and bugs outside, taking in the heavy scent of wooded summer before I was shepherded into the dusty SUV parked in the garage.

“She insists,” Meg was saying. “Best to just get it over with.”

“Fifteen minutes,” the senator said from the driver’s seat. “No more, I’m serious.”

“Where are we going?” I asked.

Gracie glanced over. “To see Grandma.”

“Oh.”

The car suddenly felt very small and very rapid. I wondered how Meg’s mother would respond to me, given that there was no direct connection between us. Judging by the lack of enthusiasm shown by every member of the family, I was guessing she wasn’t a bundle of sunshine either.

I was right about their reaction. Wrong about the person.

“Hello Mom,” the senator said as we clambered out of the car. My breath caught.

His
mother? That would make her
my—

She waited for us, hands on hips, a ray of dusty light falling from between the boughs of thick trees above, obscuring her face. Behind her stood a whitewashed house with a long front porch, chickens scrabbling between us in the damp dirt. The light shifted, and I saw that her face was prettily lined, graying hair swept up in a genteel bun. Her eyes, however, were sharp as daggers—and aimed at me. I sensed somehow that she was testing me, and so I didn’t flinch.

My grandmother smiled.

The senator cleared his throat, uncomfortable. This was probably new to him—the sensation of being ignored. I could’ve taught him a thing or two about it.

“Evelyn, this is Kate.” Meg’s voice was flat, almost hostile. “Your granddaughter.”

“I know who she is,” Evelyn said. “Just look at her. Well, are you gonna come inside or stand there letting flies land on you?”

She turned on her boot heel and stomped into the house, the screen door slapping shut behind her.

With great effort, the senator smiled. “Shall we?”

Evelyn spent a few minutes fussing grouchily over the twins, continuing to pretend her son wasn’t in the room. Then it was my turn.

“Need to check on the potatoes,” she said. “Kate, you come along. I’ve got things to say.”

As Evelyn marched outside, I stared at Meg in helpless appeal, but she just raised her eyebrows and waved me on
while the senator slumped into a kitchen chair with a groan of relief.

I found Evelyn in the wire-fenced garden stepping lightly through low rows of plants, and noticed with new interest how rural it was here. The Coopers’ farmhouse was a farm in name only, its natural surroundings purely decorative. This one was a working farm, small but real. It surprised me—whether it was Meg’s mother or the senator’s, I guess I would’ve expected her to live in a fancy condo or a house even grander than the Coopers’ place in DC. But Evelyn moved through the hedges with purpose, and more than that, pride. This little farm was her kingdom. No wonder she acted like a despot.

When we got far enough from the house, she turned on me with a scowl.

“Don’t you let them push you around. They’ve got no right.”

I had no response to that.

“Oh,” I tried. “They aren’t—”

“You’re a strong-willed girl,” she interrupted. “You know how I can tell?”

I shook my head, but felt my spine straighten at the compliment.

“Because you come from a long line of Goodwin women, that’s why.” She grinned, her cheeks crinkling, and all the age spots on her face transformed into girlish freckles.

Goodwin. That must have been her maiden name. So now I was a Quinn, and a Cooper, and a Goodwin too.

“Gracie’s a tough one and so are you.” She winked and
poked me hard in the chest. Then she nodded as if that touch had confirmed it. “I can see it.”

I had a sense all of a sudden of why Gracie had called her “
my
grandma,” so emphatically taking ownership over Evelyn back in DC when I’d first asked about grandparents. They had a bond. But maybe we could too.

As we walked back to the house, she slung an arm around me.

“You’re one of us. And we look out for our own. Always have done. Don’t forget that.”

On the drive back, I wondered exactly what Evelyn had seen in me, what Goodwin trait had jumped out at her. Was it my freckles, my stubborn nose, or had she really read character in my face? I’d never thought of myself as strong, especially not now, after everything I’d been pelted with in the past year.

I pictured myself as an old woman living by myself on an organic farm. It was surprisingly easy to imagine.

It didn’t matter, though. She was wrong about the Coopers. Nobody was pushing me around. This was just the way campaigns worked. It was fine.

• • •

Saturday night turned out to be equal parts Stephen King and
Little Women
.

In the early evening, we did last-minute interview prep. Nancy sat with me and asked questions, and I answered the way we’d rehearsed in front of cameras back at headquarters. Gracie lingered with us for a while, making a game of trying to answer the questions before me until Nancy shooed her
away. By the end of the evening, I felt ready. Nervous—but prepped.

Meg had insisted we all have an early night, but the twins’ anxiety over tomorrow had turned into giggle fits and races through the house’s uneven corridors. Keeping well out of that fight, I retreated to the sweet little room they’d given me, with its slanted roof and a window that looked out over the pond through wobbly panes of glass. I went to air out the dress I’d be wearing tomorrow morning. Nancy had carefully selected it, and when she presented it to me before we left for Massachusetts, I’d been pleasantly surprised. It was simple, comfortable but cute, something I might have actually picked out for myself. It was Marc Jacobs too—a label even Penny would be impressed by.

But when I went to look for it, my bag was already open, and inside, all I found were tatters. Someone had sliced my dress into pieces.

I stared around the room, chilled, clutching the shreds of fabric to my chest. The bedroom window was locked. No one was hiding behind the hope chest at the end of the quilted bed. But a pair of blue craft scissors was lying open on the antique dresser.

Downstairs, Meg had gotten Gabe into his twin bed, but Gracie was still jumping up and down on hers. The second she saw me—and the blue silk in my hands—her face went ghost white. In the next blink, she was a blur, streaking past me out the bedroom door.

I streaked after her, shouting. Gracie careened around the corner, passing the stunned senator so narrowly that she
made him drop his notes. I ran faster, letting go of what was left of the dress. She was fumbling for the handle of the door to the backyard, but it was locked. As I cornered her, she turned to face me, her chin jutted out in defiance.

“Why would you do this?” I crouched to grab her arm, so mad I trembled, which made her shake too. “Why? What is your
problem
?”

She just stared at me, her jaw grinding. Confused tears prickled my eyes. I thought frantically of the last few days, of what I might have done to make her lash out.

At last, Gracie opened her mouth, but before she could answer, Meg’s voice rose up behind us.

“Grace Eleanor Cooper.” Her tone was icier than anything I could have mustered. I looked over my shoulder to see her fingers streaming with blue fabric. “You have some serious explaining to do.”

Whatever explanation there was, Gracie gave it to Meg behind a thick, mottled old kitchen door. When she came out again, it was only long enough to say a sullen “I’m
sorry
” before Meg ordered us both to bed.

Andy called at almost midnight, waking me up. I wasn’t sure how thin these walls were, so I pulled the quilt over me like a tent to muffle my voice.

“Why are we whispering?” Andy whispered.

“Everyone’s asleep.”

“Ah.” His voice went back to normal. “So. Are you around this weekend?”

I flushed, wondering if he was about to ask me out again. Neither of us had mentioned the accidental kiss from the
night of the concert; the fact that he was still calling gave me hope that it wasn’t quite as awkward as I remembered it.

“Actually, no.” I sighed. “We’re in Massachusetts, getting ready for this—”

My mouth clamped shut, putting the brakes on what I was about to tell him. The campaign was keeping this interview secret. I didn’t
really
see the harm in telling him, and he might even be able to give me pointers on surviving the dreaded family interview, but still . . .

“Top secret something or other?” he offered. “That’s too bad. I was gonna sneak out for a movie or something. Thought we could rendezvous.”

“Next time,” I promised, knowing as I said it that it was a terrible, terrible, wonderful idea.

• • •

Sunday morning, just before dawn, Meg shook me gently awake. The makeup crew had arrived, along with a full battalion of staffers.