The One That Got Away (12 page)

Beside each other on red leather stools, the only patrons at a small Greek-owned diner, my gown puffing up and falling down around me like a botched soufflé, and Alex’s tuxedo deep black in the harsh lights, we looked like a couple from another era. The small side street was quiet, but the few passersby couldn’t help but stop and stare. They giggled as they peeked in at the crazy couple eating today’s special in diamonds and superfine wool.

We sat for a good ten minutes before the waitress finally sauntered over and took our order. “This place is great,” said Alex without irony. “I love being ignored.”

He was not very talkative at first, probably tired, but brightened after a few bites of his homemade souvlaki. He talked about the campaign, the city’s crime and tax rates, and the million-and-one strategy “huddle-ups” Frank insisted on each day. His imitation of Frank was so spot on, complete with Yiddish profanity and wild hand gestures, that I laughed out loud. It also was clear he had a brotherly affection for Calvin, his communications wunderkind, who was helping Alex reach younger voters through YouTube, Instagram, and Tumblr, and who often met Alex for early morning runs along the Schuylkill River.

Alex vented about how hard it was, talking to representatives from the teachers’ union, Rittenhouse Small Business Association, trash collectors, and meter maids. How much their expectations weighed on him.

“Guys like them work their asses off,” he said, nodding toward
two patrol cops near the register. “They deserve pay raises, better pensions, more days off, everything. But let’s face it, no matter what I do or say, it’s just not going to happen.

“It’s so different from the DA’s office,” he continued, shaking his head. “As fucked-up as the court system is, every once in a while you put a bad guy away for good. I felt like I was making a difference, doing what I said I was going to do. But politics just seems like a lot of smoke and mirrors. I never thought it would be this frustrating.”

Suddenly, I heard myself telling him what Jimmy always said when I was frazzled: “I know it seems overwhelming right this second. But you don’t have to solve every problem right now. Just try to move the ball down the field a little bit every day. Eventually, you’ll get to the end zone.”

He looked up at me with a funny expression. “Thanks, Coach.” Then he smiled and conceded, “You’re right, though. Not everything has to get done today. And who knows? Maybe we will be able to deliver on some promises.”

I couldn’t help but smile back. Handsome and hardworking? A great kisser and compassionate? I was wrong when I told Jules that I thought Alexander van Holt seemed like a nice guy. He wasn’t just nice; he was
amazing
.

Spinning toward me, he changed the subject. “Tell me about your day… how were the kids?”

“Great,” I said. “School, naps, toys, fights. Typical little-person stuff.”

“Did the Baccos come? You guys have fun?” he asked, loosening his bow tie and stretching his neck from side to side.

“They were there when I got home from—” I stopped myself. I longed to tell him about my run-in with Jules, but I wasn’t sure how to explain it to myself, let alone another person. “Yep, we had fun.”

“Good.” He pulled out a buzzing BlackBerry and began to text.
I used the break to finish my gyro, careful not to drip tzatziki down the front of my gown.

“It looks like tomorrow’s thing is moved to nine, so you better be ready by eight,” he told me.

“Yep,” I replied, clueless. “I’ll be dolled up and ready, bright and early.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Dolled up? For a bunch of union guys?” he asked. “Please don’t overdo it. You’re supposed to be the hometown girl, right?”

“Right,” I said, nodding. “I was just kidding.” But he barely heard me, his eyes darkening as he read another e-mail. “Shit.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Looks like my father is coming back for election night,” he said, putting down his phone and looking up at the grubby cork ceiling. “Fuck. I wish we could have shipped him, not Roberta, off on that cruise.”

“
We
sent Mom on that cruise?” I asked, forgetting myself.

He looked up. “It was your idea, not mine.”

“Yeah, I meant—”

Alex interrupted: “All I can say is he better behave himself.” He pushed his plate away, his meal only half-eaten.

I wanted to ask more, to find out about this mysterious—and apparently unwelcome—father. But a decade of marriage had taught me when to leave it alone. Instead, I put my finger under his chin and turned his face toward me.

“Guess what?” I said, a silly expression on my face.

“What?”

“Do you want to know all the interesting things I learned tonight?”

“I’m not sure. Do I?”

“Oh, yes, you do. For starters, Kelley Radomile is a cross-dresser.
And Dr. Farley is giving free Botox to any lady who lets him see her tits. And Jennifer Delacourt is not only screwing her psychiatrist, but also the maître d’ at the club. The Racquet Club, that is.”

“Wow, you’re up-to-date on all the sordid misdeeds of the Philadelphia elite,” he said, the glint returning to his eyes. “Speaking of sordid misdeeds, let’s get out of here.”

We rode home in the back of the Suburban in silence, the space between us electric. Outside, rain began to fall, smearing the city lights, and inside, with Alex’s hand on my thigh, my thoughts felt just as blurry. When the car stopped in front of our building, we said good night to Oscar, then ran toward the front doors, water staining the edges of my satin shoes. The doorman was gone for the night, leaving Alex to fumble with the key card, just like when we met all those years ago. As I waited, my mind swam with the nearness of him, with the events of the evening, with what might come next.

Inside, the elevator doors opened and we stepped in, our hair and shoulders moist from the rain. The door slid shut and we were alone.

He stepped over to me and took my face in his hands, kissing me on the mouth while maneuvering me gently to the back of the elevator. His hands moved down my neck and up under my breasts, with all the sureness and haste of a husband. When his hands started to move lower, I pushed him away, thinking of a different marriage, a different man.

The elevator paused at our floor, then slid open. I stepped out and walked as fast as I could in the masses of fabric. His footsteps followed behind me, but slowly, and I beat him to the door.

“Oh, that’s how we’re going to play it,” he said in a funny/sexy voice, teasing me as if I were playing some lover’s game of hard to get.

I opened the apartment door and slipped inside, then moved quickly through the wide rooms until I found myself back in my closet, where the night had begun. I stood in the dark catching my breath, knowing I should feign a headache but also knowing I wouldn’t. Couldn’t. The crystal chandelier snapped on and I felt his arms around my waist.

“You’re not getting away this time,” he whispered, his voice lower and more urgent.

He spun me around to face him, then moved me back against one of the long mirrors, its smooth glass cold on my bare back. He kissed my face and neck, while his hands made their way up under my dress, finding my black lace thong and pulling it down. As his fingers moved up inside me, I stopped thinking of anything but how it felt, how he looked. I stopped resisting, started matching his intensity with my own.

I pulled off his tie and ran my hands up his chest, loosening his shirt out of his pants. His eyes locked on mine, he stepped back, shrugged off his jacket, and unbuckled his belt and pants. He stepped back to me and fumbled for my zipper, but finding only silk-encased buttons, ripped apart the top few and yanked down the dress. I stood there panting in my black lace bra and heels. He lifted me up and held me against the mirror, then entered me.

The motions felt familiar but also dangerously different. This was not the typical weeknight lovemaking or the fastest way to an orgasm or even silly, dirty fun. This was uncompromising desire having its way—the kind that makes even reasonable women turn Lifetime movie crazy. I let myself enjoy every thrust, every part of my body on fire for this man, every motion tipping me further and further toward the inevitable, first for me, then him.

Afterward, we clung together for a few moments, our breath slowing, the sweat on his brow leaving dampness on my forehead.
He separated himself from me and lowered me gently onto the carpet. But my legs were jelly, and we both laughed as I slid down the mirror with a squeak.

He bent down to touch my cheek, then stood up and buckled his pants. I watched as he turned and stepped over me, leaving me a jumble of limbs on a cloud of navy silk. I sat there a moment after he’d left, then stood up and kicked the dress under the hanging clothes and searched for some pajamas.

It was only as I was brushing my teeth that I noticed one of my earrings was gone.

Who cares?
I thought. For the first time in a long time, I felt invincible.

T
he cloudy glass-and-chrome light fixtures hanging in the Lansdowne Lions Club looked like they hadn’t been cleaned in decades, and only about one in four bulbs was working. Tiny pools of light shone down on the crowd, illuminating people as they darted here and there for coffee and doughnuts, and creating a pretty undersea effect, despite the dreadful metal chairs and faux-wood paneling.

The scene felt very familiar to me. The noisy chatter was the same as before a PTA meeting, and the low wooden stage looked like it was set up for one of Gloria’s dance recitals. Plus, Jimmy’s older brother was a Lions Club member, and his six children, my nieces and nephews by marriage, had had their christening and first holy communion parties in rooms as ambiance challenged as this one.

Alex was at the front, chatting with a man in jeans and an untucked golf shirt. In a few minutes, he would be addressing the club members as well as, and more important, about ten percent of the seven-hundred-strong International Brotherhood of Electrical Workers, Local 654. He was standing behind a scratched wooden podium on the stage, in front of a wall covered with plaques listing veterans from four wars and flyers selling everything from guitars
to snowplows. Behind him, in a corner, was an American flag that once hung over Saigon. Front and center, though, looking conspicuously dust-free and bright, was a large blue-and-white campaign sign: “Van Holt for Congress.”

We had made the half-hour drive in Frank’s beat-up Camry because he was afraid a chauffeured Suburban or Alex’s Porsche would have sent the wrong message. And yet, despite Frank’s careful consideration, no one noticed us as we pulled up, and we had to ingratiate ourselves into a crowd of smokers in order to start schmoozing. No one seemed particularly friendly, except for the elderly veterans and their wives, with their soft, papery handshakes and twinkling eyes. One old lady held me in a hug the entire time I spoke with her.

Now I sat in the second row sipping coffee from a paper cup and waiting for the speech to start. After adjusting and readjusting myself in the hard metal folding chair, I forced myself to sit still with my legs crossed at the ankles, hands in my lap, and an “Isn’t this wonderful?” expression on my face. The devoted candidate’s wife.

Beside me on the aisle sat Calvin, preparing to video the event on an iPad, while on the other side sat two Van Holt for Congress staffers: a pretty Indian intern named Sunita in a Bryn Mawr College sweatshirt and Carol, a professorial-looking volunteer in red glasses, a tweedy pantsuit, and an “Equality Now” pin.

At the end of the row sat a large bearded man, his too-small argyle sweater and khaki pants straining from his girth, his purple socks begging for attention. Sunita leaned over and whispered, “Hi, Gerald,” then rolled her eyes at me. I would learn later that Gerald was one of Alex’s groupies.

If elected, Alex would be one of eighteen congressmen from Pennsylvania, and, at thirty-eight, the youngest. His district, the second, encompassed a swath of Center City, University City, and West Philadelphia as well as part of two suburban counties. To
win, he would have to appeal to a wide variety of voters, including suburban blue-collar families; Center City hipsters, socialites, and professionals; the ultraliberal University of Pennsylvania and the middle-class African American neighborhoods that surrounded it; as well as the poorer, high-crime areas of far West Philadelphia where Father Fergie worked. It was a district that almost always went to an ex-union guy or former city commissioner, but since the 2012 redistricting, which added the affluent Main Line to the mix, it was a whole new ball game. If anyone could get the district to vote for a young newcomer, and one with a lineage that included two state senators and a governor, it was Alex. His commercial on YouTube already had more than a million views.

But, still, Frank was nervous. The latest polls had Alex well behind his opponent, a cool-headed ex-judge from Center City named Amanda Bullock. She was smart and tough and she knew how to work the media to her advantage. Just that morning, the
Daily News
quoted her saying Washington didn’t need another “limousine liberal,” especially one who had never struggled to feed his family or pay his bills. It was a tired sound bite, and a little beneath Judge Bullock, but it would resonate, especially here in working-class Upper Darby. Alex had better be prepared.

This morning’s event, a blue-collar double dip of Lions Club members and union representatives, was designed to counter Alex’s image of a bored rich guy with nothing better to do. And if you wanted something done in Philadelphia, unions were a good place to start. I looked forward to hearing what Alex would say; I was pretty sure the only time a van Holt entertained this many union members was when Bloemveld needed a new roof.

It proved to be a tougher room than even Frank expected. Really tough. When Alex began to speak, there was no head nodding or clapping, just poker faces, audible sighs, and chatter. As he segued
into the state of the economy and “making sure we have a strong middle class,” someone actually guffawed.

Alex looked down at his notes. The crowd was getting to him. He began to speak again, but with even less authority. His voice cracked. I thought of all my years of public relations and willed him to keep going, just finish the speech. If he gave up and walked out now, he’d look foolish. Or worse, like a quitter. And here in the front row, ready to document it all—the press.

“Come on,” someone said, irritated. Uncomfortable laughter ensued, and people began to whisper and chat. One man got up and left—signaling to everyone present that Alex wasn’t worth their time, much less their vote. Then someone in the back of the room articulated what many might have been thinking: “Goddamn rich kid.”

My head whipped around to find the wise guy, an overmuscled, unshaven man in a paint-spattered T-shirt, baggy canvas overalls, and an Eagles ski cap, smirking proudly. I knew this type of guy—the kind who spoke too loud at movie theaters and refused to curb his dog—and wished I could walk over and slap him. I fought the urge, turning back to Alex. I realized then that I felt protective of this man on the stage. Like a wife.

I stared at him until I caught his eye, then mouthed three words: “Fuck that guy.” In an instant, his expression changed from fear to amusement. He slipped off his jacket, rolled up his sleeves à la Bobby Kennedy, and began to speak, this time off the cuff and with confidence: “You’re right; it’s true. I
am
a rich guy. And I don’t
have
to work. If I wanted to, I could spend my days going to the club and buying expensive cars. But I don’t. I never have.”

The room quieted; bodies stopped twitching.

“I’ve
always
worked. Every day. Since I was sixteen. First as a volunteer at my local Boys and Girls Club, then with the Peace Corps, and later as an assistant district attorney with the special victims
unit. Because, to quote JFK, ‘Of those to whom much is given, much is required.’”

With the mention of our thirty-fifth president, an Irishman and a veteran, the room silenced, the only sound the quiet hum of the ice maker.

“But mostly I worked, well, because…”

He paused, put his hand over the microphone, then looked back at the crowd with a grin. “Because I fucking hate to golf.”

People laughed and nodded; there was a smattering of applause. Alex had won them over, the mood in the room shifting from uncomfortable to amiable.

I clapped too, my eyes locked on Alex’s sexily sheepish smile. I flashed back to his naked back and sweat-soaked brow, not realizing everyone else had stopped clapping. A while ago.

“Thanks, doll, but you’re the one vote in here I can definitely count on,” he said to me. “At least I think so.”

My cheeks burned and I thrust my hands in my lap. People seemed to like it, though. They laughed and wolf whistled.

After shaking hands outside a day care, then a quick tour of the new dementia unit at a retirement community, Frank informed us that our next appointment—a lunchtime meet-and-greet at a community center—had been canceled due to low interest. We were all sitting in Frank’s car again, Alex and I in the backseat, the passenger seat filled with a laptop, brochures, maps, and a box of breath mints.

“Well, kids, we’ve got an hour to kill, so I guess we should find a place for lunch,” Frank announced, looking back at us. “Preferably a place with voters in our target demographic.”

“And what is that, again?” I asked, trying to sound nonchalant.

“Same as it’s been all year, Abigail. Men aged twenty-five to
forty-five.” He laughed and added, “We’re doing well with women and old people. But the men around here—”

“They hate me,” interjected Alex.

“No, they don’t,” said Frank, rolling his eyes at Alex. “Look at this morning. You won them over. We just have a long way to go.”

“Maybe you need more press. Something big and splashy,” I suggested.

Frank seemed to be mulling it over, but Alex said, “No! Slow and steady wins the race. And besides, Philly press can smell a stunt from a mile away.”

Well, not a well-executed stunt,
I wanted to say, but stayed quiet.

“If memory serves, there’s a diner around here,” said Frank as he put the car in gear. “It’s noon, so it should be packed. Let’s go check it out.” He hit the gas harder than he intended, sending Alex and me backward with a jolt. We laughed and held on.

But Frank’s idea of a “blue-collar” haven, a sixty-year-old diner with torn leather seats, a sloping floor, and a TV tuned to
The Price Is Right,
was almost empty. Only four booths were occupied. Those folks, plus the two waitresses and one host/manager, meant twelve potential votes. Alex would not catch up to Amanda with twelve votes; he needed more like twelve thousand. Alex introduced himself anyway; then we huddled together by the rotating pie case, deciding what to do.

“I don’t get it,” said Frank. “Don’t guys who work blue-collar jobs love diners?”

“Not today,” said Alex with a shrug. “Maybe tomorrow?” The two men looked at each other in commiseration.

“Not tomorrow either,” I offered timidly. “No one I know has time to sit down at a diner in the middle of the week. And certainly not one as slow as this one.” I motioned to the man in the second booth, anxiously drumming his fingers on the table as the waitress ignored him.

Both men turned and looked at me.

“And it’s not just that,” I continued. “Most ‘blue-collar’ guys, as you call them, eat lunch at, like, eleven o’clock, because they’ve probably been up since five. And a lot of them eat in their trucks.” I thought of Jimmy and the red Playmate cooler he filled every night before work: a sandwich, apples, chips, plus at least a liter of unsweetened iced tea he steeped himself.

“Really?” asked Frank, disbelieving. “How did you become such an expert on the daily rituals of the Delaware County working class?”

I smarted at his tone, but Alex stepped up to my defense. “Don’t forget that Abbey grew up around here.” He turned to me. “Where do
you
think we should go?”

I gave it some thought. It was Tuesday at half past twelve. Libraries would be somewhat empty, as would grocery stores. A dead time at the YMCA, except for a handful of Silver Sneakers. The mall at midday? A ghost town.

There was only one place I could think of that always had a line… and a rather long one, at that. In fact, last time I was there, I almost gave up.

“Chipotle.”

“Where?” Alex looked confused.

“Chipotle. You know. The Mexican place. The guy was on
Oprah
.”

He looked at Frank, who immediately whipped out his phone.

“Sustainable… organic beans… recycled napkins… blah, blah, blah,” the older man mumbled as he clicked. “All good messages, so okay.” He shrugged at Alex, then pulled out his keys and held the door.

“After you, Mrs. van Holt,” he said with a hint of sarcasm.

When we arrived at the Chipotle on Sproul Road, close to where I used to drop off Gloria for 4-H camp, the line ran out the door, just
like I had promised. Frank excused himself and darted off to the adjacent supermarket to find something kosher, leaving my husband and me alone for the first time that day.

Watching Alex at a fast-food restaurant, I began to suspect this was the first time in a long time that he had been inside such an establishment—the kind of place where menus hung above your head, not handed to you in a leather folio, and where everyone carried their own tray. But after the Bloemveld cocktail party and the Ballantine Ball, it was nice to share a meal with Alex in a place foreign to
him
but not to me. Funny to watch him struggle a bit, even if it was just figuring out the difference between carnitas and barbacoa.

Alex seemed delighted by the array before him, choosing almost all of the fixings and taking forever to get through the line. When the lady at the register asked if we wanted “chips and guac” too, he looked at me to translate. When I told her “of course,” he seemed thrilled.

And a bit surprised. As we filled our drinks, I reminded myself that Abbey van Holt didn’t get a body like this by eating burritos. I would try my best to eat just half. But after the long morning, and two days of barely any food, it smelled wonderful.

We found the last two available seats at a group table next to two thirtysomething guys in Adam Mechanical shirts. I nodded my head in their direction and mouthed, “Told ya so.”

Alex nodded back, then began to unwrap his burrito.

“Wow, this thing is giant,” he said as he pulled back silver foil and surveyed the tortilla, wondering where to bite first. “And it was only eight bucks!”

“I know. Sam loves it.”

“Who?”

Shit, I slipped up.
Note to self: Never get too comfortable.

“A friend of mine. Nobody.” I laughed and swatted the air like it wasn’t important.

He took a bite, rolled his eyes in ecstasy, then leaned over and whispered: “Tell me, Mrs. van Holt: Are you cheating on me with a man named Sam? At Chipotle?”