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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

I’d think of this day often, later. Whether Blake was lying, I still don’t know. Perhaps he wasn’t deceitful; maybe he just changed his mind. In the end, of course, one doesn’t know how they’ll react to power until they’re offered it.

We stayed at the Wharf until the sun set, then went back to Cricket’s. Wallis made us one of Blake’s favorites, pimento cheese and crackers and dirty rice, and after dinner we borrowed blankets from bedrooms and started a new show. Cricket promptly fell asleep. Wallis, too, as Blake rubbed her back. I, curled on the floor, leaning against the couch near Cricket’s feet, pulled up Atlas’s text from earlier on my phone. I wondered if he’d seen on his screen those three gray typing dots pop up, over and over, throughout the afternoon. I must’ve begun and ended at least a dozen drafts.

By the time I finally composed a reply, even Blake had dozed off. Thanks for coming yesterday, I wrote. Agreed, lots of fun. I was overserved. Too much champagne! Thanks for article info. Still mulling. Talk soon. I ended with a happy face emoji, figuring it was more appropriate than a red heart and a knife.

March

March

Thirteen

Bo and I had the Senate gallery to ourselves. It was a Friday morning, and generally quiet on the Hill; most members of Congress were already back in their home districts for the weekend.

Minutes earlier in the hall, we had run into my dearest friend Todd from the Times. “Hey there, you,” he had said, his tone so simpering it made me want to choke him with his press lanyard. I could only bring myself to nod curtly before he went on his merry way.

As Miles readied himself to speak down on the floor, I had to marvel at how easily Todd was able to stroll from one story to the next, while I was stuck up to the neck in my father’s. Although the hate mail I was still receiving outnumbered the lawyer’s bills by about fifty-to-one, I couldn’t decide which I dreaded more. And there was the matter of Atlas. In the two weeks since the wedding, we’d texted. Friendly stuff. Fluff, really. He’d offered to meet me for lunch at Old Ebbitt, coffee at Blue Bottle, a drink at CityCenter.

I was always busy. Even when I wasn’t.