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Back Ladies of the House Save as PDF
Chapters (59)
  1. Cover
  2. About the Author
  3. Praise
  4. Dedication
  5. Epigraph
  6. January
  7. One
  8. Two
  9. Three
  10. Four
  11. Five
  12. February
  13. Six
  14. Seven
  15. Eight
  16. Nine
  17. Ten
  18. Eleven
  19. Twelve
  20. March
  21. Thirteen
  22. Fourteen
  23. Fifteen
  24. Sixteen
  25. April
  26. Seventeen
  27. Eighteen
  28. Nineteen
  29. Twenty
  30. Twenty-One
  31. Twenty-Two
  32. Twenty-Three
  33. Twenty-Four
  34. Twenty-Five
  35. May
  36. Twenty-Six
  37. Twenty-Seven
  38. Twenty-Eight
  39. Twenty-Nine
  40. Thirty
  41. Thirty-One
  42. June
  43. Thirty-Two
  44. Thirty-Three
  45. Thirty-Four
  46. Thirty-Five
  47. Thirty-Six
  48. Thirty-Seven
  49. Thirty-Eight
  50. Thirty-Nine
  51. Forty
  52. July
  53. Forty-One
  54. Epilogue
  55. Acknowledgments
  56. Author’s Note
  57. Ladies of the House - Reader’s Guide
  58. Questions For Discussion
  59. Excerpt

Miles’s tone was gentle, but I felt defensive, all of a sudden, about my father. “I mean, Senator Darley,” I said. “Everyone knows she’s full of shit.”

“You’re right,” Miles said. “But your last name is in the sound bite. You get what I mean? Folks are out for blood. Since they can’t have Gregory Richardson’s, they’ll settle for yours. If you aren’t careful.”

Atlas popped into my mind. You called it my story.

Still, I nodded at my boss, anxious to prove myself. Which I planned on doing, just after I retreated to the quiet of my office, closed my door, and screamed out my frustration into my lumbar pillow. When Miles was gone, Bo and L.K. sandwiched me in a group hug I didn’t ask for, but also didn’t hate.

Nine

The trendy thing to do in DC is name restaurants after fruits or flowers. A new establishment in Shaw had decided, apparently in all seriousness, to call itself Fruits & Flowers. It was the kind of place that didn’t have a phone, didn’t take reservations, and didn’t blink an eye when diners wanted accommodation based on their ideological dietary choices. Washingtonian raved, the Post guy declared it mandatory eating, and so it was inevitable that Wallis wanted to meet me there midweek. Fortunately, it was cheap eats, so I agreed.

“Pomegranate hummus,” she said when I found her shivering in line outside. “I’m so hungry I might eat the entire bowl myself.”

“Wallis, my God, your hair,” I said. Her natural caramel brown was now highlighted with strokes of gold and—wait for it—pastel princess pink.

“I got the urge to do something. So I did. I did a thing.” The guy behind us asked if we were in line. Wallis rolled her eyes and we shuffled closer to the unmarked door.

“I wanted to make a statement, especially at Mac’s stupid wedding. They might be able to ignore us, but they won’t be able to ignore this new look. Oh, you’re gaping at me like you hate it. No, Daisy. Seriously, if you tell me you hate it, I will cry.”

Pivot around the question, I always reminded Miles, when the truth would hurt. “You are very trendy and beautiful.”

“She said sarcastically.” Wallis ran her hands down the arms of her coat.

“I’m not being sarcastic,” I said. My hair—dark brown, one-note, in need of a root touch-up—was pin straight and shoulder length, usually parted in the middle. Hairstylists were always suggesting a change, but I’d take this cut to my coffin. “I don’t think you’re capable of doing anything I truly hate.”