The Unexpected Everything (45 page)

Clark gave me a faint smile. “But he did it for you. I mean . . . I wish my dad were more like that,” he said, his voice getting softer with every word. “You're just really lucky.”

I sat there, listening to the rain beat against the car windows, and realized he was right. It was something I would never have believed at the beginning of the summer. But it was true now. I couldn't imagine my dad ever stepping in my way to try to block my path, or wanting anything but for me to be happy.

“I know,” I said, my voice quiet.

I reached my hand over to cover his, and he threaded his fingers through mine. We just stayed like that, neither one of us making any move to get out of the car as the rain fell all around us. I rested my head on his shoulder, and he tipped his head down to rest against mine, and I sensed he was feeling what I was—that there was no need to talk just then. That what we'd said, and the rhythm of Clark's heartbeat, and the sound of the rain, in that moment, was enough.

Clark had started writing again.

He didn't tell me right away, but I knew something was different. I'd come by to get Bertie and he wouldn't be there to greet me, Bertie already wrangled into his leash. He'd emerge a few minutes later, a faraway look in his eye, his mind clearly on other things, and he'd head out to the walk forgetting essential things—his keys, his sunglasses, the dog. He always seemed to be typing things into his phone or scribbling things down on scraps of paper. When I finally asked him if he was writing—as carefully as possible, since I didn't know the rules of writer's block, and whether you could call it back by saying its name,
Beetlejuice
style—he told me that he was. He seemed thrilled but wary, not wanting to tell anyone any details about it, something that was driving Tom bananas.

But maybe he needed to say out loud that he had an idea and it was worth exploring, because after that Clark dropped the pretense and started to work for real. This meant that while he sometimes would take a break to walk Bertie with me, mostly when I picked up the dog now, I would come into the dining
room, where he'd set up his office, and give him a quick kiss, but wouldn't even stop to talk.

I knew the idea had real potential when he let his publisher know he was writing—apparently, she'd called when he was working, and didn't have his defenses up—and she was thrilled. He'd told me one night when we were all hanging out by the pool that he'd even agreed to a reading and book signing in New Jersey in a few weeks and had asked if I'd go with him.

“I haven't done a bookstore event for years, because the first question you always get is about the new book and what it's about.”

“But you can answer that now,” I said, giving him a smile that I hoped looked sweet and innocent. “Like, what would you say, exactly, if someone asked you now?” Clark shot me a look, and I protested, “Tom wants to know too, you know. He promised me twenty dollars if I can get you to tell me the plot.”

“Andie,” Tom called from where he was sitting with Palmer on the side of the pool, “remind me to tell you the definition of the word ‘secret' one of these days.”

Despite our best efforts—including my dad at dinner—Clark hadn't given up any real details, though from the few comments he'd made, I was pretty sure that the new book was about Tamsin's ne'er-do-well older brother, Jack.

But I was beginning to understand just how spoiled I'd been, having a boyfriend with no job and no responsibilities, one who was usually happy to walk dogs with me or hang out all day. Now I had a boyfriend who spent most of his time working feverishly on a new book, his hands flying over his laptop keyboard, like if he didn't get the words down, they might disappear and not come back again. I was glad that
he was working, mostly because he was so happy about it—relieved and terrified and excited all at the same time. But it did mean my summer of Clark having nothing but time on his hands was over. Since he'd started working some nights, we'd been scheduling our dates.

And there was one date in particular that we'd both blocked off. It was this coming Saturday, and I'd marked the date off in my phone with no subject, just a series of exclamation points. It was the night that we'd decided we were going to take things to the next level. It had been my decision. While Clark let me know in no uncertain terms that he was more than okay with this, I didn't feel any pressure from him. This was what I wanted, and now that we had a date marked off, I wasn't so much scared as I was really excited.

Since I knew that if I had nothing to do all day, I would just obsess about what was going to happen that night, I'd packed my schedule full. I had early-morning walks, and then Toby and I were going to Mystic Pizza for lunch—we'd all slept over at Bri's the week before and had a Julia Roberts Rom-Com fest, and when I'd found out that it was an actual pizza place just an hour outside Stanwich, I'd made plans to go immediately. Toby was equally insistent on going, though I suspected mainly because she wanted the T-shirt. Bri and Palmer were busy, so it was just the two of us on a mini road trip. That would take up most of the day, so hopefully I'd be able to go home and get ready and not have too much time to let my thoughts run away with me. Clark had planned a date for us, but he wouldn't tell me what it was, just that it was a surprise, and—I'd made him swear to it—didn't involve either mountains or bikes.

DAD

Hey, hon. Make sure to get some gas

on your way home from Clark's.

I don't want you to run out on the way to Mystic.

ME

Sure. But what do you mean “Clark's”?

I'm at Palmer's. We're watching educational television.

DAD

Don't make me GPS the car again.

ME

Gas. Sure.

Clark says hi.

DAD

Get me a summary of his new book and all is forgiven

ME

I'll see what I can do

Clark says if you promise no

Secret Service agents he'll think about it

DAD

Tell him he's got a deal.

•  •  •

“Hey,” I called on Saturday afternoon as I kicked off my flip-flops in the entryway and dropped my bag by the door. I glanced
at my phone, then picked up my pace. I just needed to take a quick shower. One of my dogs today had been Rosie, who always insisted on sitting on my lap and putting her head out the window while I drove, which meant I was pretty much covered in dog hair and drool—the last thing I wanted before going to eat lunch, especially because I had a feeling Toby would be making comments about it the whole drive up to Mystic. “I'm home,” I called as I headed into the kitchen. My dad's car was in the garage, so I assumed that he was either in the kitchen or in his study. “Okay. I looked into bringing you back pizza, and I'm just not sure . . .” The rest of my sentence died halfway to my lips.

Peter was standing in our kitchen, leaning against the counter, a mug in his hand, looking like he'd never left.

“Andie,” he said, looking over and smiling at me, which was almost as off-putting as seeing him there in the first place. “How are you?”

“Fine,” I said, looking from Peter to my dad, who was standing across the kitchen from him, trying to figure out what was happening. My dad wasn't wearing what had become his summer uniform of jeans and a T-shirt (he'd grown particularly fond of the Captain Pizza one we'd gotten on the scavenger hunt). He was wearing a crisp button-down and khakis, and his hair was sharply parted. It was like the father I'd spent the summer with was gone, and the one who was usually there had just come back. “Um . . . how are you?”

“Oh, can't complain,” Peter said, and I noticed that his BlackBerry was put away, both hands around his mug, like he was giving my father his undivided attention, which worried me more than anything else.

“Peter dropped by so we could talk over some things,” my dad said, and I noticed Peter look from me to my dad, surprised, and a second later I realized why. My dad never would have explained any of this to me before. I wouldn't have been in the need-to-know loop.

“Come on, Alex,” Peter said. “Way to bury the lede! I came here because the results of the internal investigation are going to be announced after the summer recess, and it came down in our favor. Your father is going to be cleared of all suspicion of wrongdoing.”

“Oh,” I said, my eyes darting to my dad, who gave me a smile. “That's good.”

“Good?”
Peter echoed, shaking his head. “It's great. It's what we expected to happen, naturally,” he added after a moment, his tone growing more serious. He looked over at my dad. “Marshall and Stuart are fired, of course. How they ever thought they could get away with something like this . . .”

My dad's phone rang on the counter, and I looked over at it, almost surprised to hear the sound again. I watched it light up and then fall silent again. A second later the ringing started up again, and my dad picked it up and switched it to silent.

“Not a good idea,” Peter said, shaking his head. “All the donors are going to come back around. Best not to alienate them.”

“Pete,” my dad said, shaking his head. “It's just a lot to take in.”

“No time for hesitating. You know that better than anyone. This will be officially announced after the recess, and before it is, we've got to get back in work mode. I'm sure you're more than ready to get back to real life,” he said, glancing around the kitchen, clearly unimpressed. “We should talk about this speech.”

I just stared at my dad, who was nodding and taking his mechanical pencil from his shirt pocket. “What speech?”

My dad was already reaching to take the paper that Peter was holding out for him, and I took a step back so I wouldn't be in the way. “Erickson wants me to headline an event with him in two weeks,” he said, clicking his pencil twice and frowning down at the paper.

“The governor of New York, Erickson?” I asked, and my dad nodded. “But I thought he hated you.”

“Nobody hates anyone for too long in this game,” Peter said, glancing up from his screen for just a second before looking back again. “Nobody can afford it. And Erickson can't look like he's alienating powerful congressmen before an election.”

“But . . . ,” I said, still trying to figure out what was happening. “I thought . . . Are you going to run again?”

My dad looked at me just as Peter said, “Of course he is. We have to do some polling, test the waters, but after the official announcement, there's no reason to delay.” He looked up at my dad. “Alex, I think we might actually be able to come out of this stronger. You took responsibility even though you weren't at fault and stepped aside for the greater good . . . and now you're coming back vindicated.” He smiled wide, which I only ever saw him do on election night. “This is the kind of stuff that's going to set us up nicely on the national stage.” He paused, then started typing into his phone rapidly, like he had been away from it for as long as he was able.

“But . . . ,” I said, remembering the conversation we'd had in his study. Was that just over? Totally forgotten about, knocked down like our old house?

“So we should get to work,” Peter said, heading out of the kitchen. “Alex, I'll just get us set up in your office. We have the speechwriters on a conference call in ten.”

“Speechwriters?” I echoed, feeling like things were happening too quickly.

“You have to get in front of these stories,” Peter said, probably to me, even though he was speaking to his BlackBerry screen. “Otherwise, you lose your ability to shape the narrative. I'll meet you in there.” He headed down the hall to the study, eyes still on his screen.

“So,” I started. I wanted to ask my dad about the movie day we'd had planned for tomorrow, my revenge for when he'd turned last Sunday into a Dean Martin fest, including the original
Ocean's 11
. Since it was my pick, I'd gone with the newer one, mostly just to see his reaction when it started playing. But I knew it wasn't just about movie night. I wanted to know what this actually meant.

“You know how Peter can get,” my dad said, looking up at me for a second before frowning down at the paper again. “He showed up here today and is already going full steam.”

“Right,” I said. I tried to tell myself that nothing had really changed yet, that things were still okay. “I, um, need to go pick up Toby. So I should probably get going.”

“Great,” he said, eyes still on the paper. “I'll see you around later. I assume you're out with your friends tonight?” He didn't wait for my response before heading into the other room. “Not too late, okay?”

A moment later I could hear him talking to Peter, and the sound of CNN's theme music. The TV in his office, which
we'd mostly used to watch John Wayne fight bad guys, was now back to what it usually was doing, keeping him plugged into everything that was happening in Washington.

I stood alone in the kitchen for a moment, trying to get my bearings, telling myself I shouldn't be surprised, not really. But even as I tried to believe this, it didn't change that I felt like someone had just pulled the rug out from under me, and then, for good measure, the floor.

My phone buzzed, and I pulled it out of my pocket.

TOBY