“I’m glad you came, Grace,” Lauren says, and gives my elbow an affectionate squeeze. “I’m under no illusions that this is a man’s world and Washington is built for men. But that doesn’t mean we women don’t have an opportunity to use our own advantages.”
She winks at me and I can’t help feeling a bit skeezy, like she’s a madam and I’m her new recruit.
“I’ll see you tonight.”
***
I packed in five minutes even though Trey gave me ten, and so I’m stuck with a suitcase full of nothing to wear to the impromptu dinner with the Darrows. In the stale air of my tiny D.C. apartment, I sift through my sparse closet, struggling to find something sufficiently elegant.
I give up and grab a black boatneck shift dress, part of a suit but acceptable for dinner and cocktails without the jacket. I add a matte gold necklace that touches my collarbone and release my hair from its twist so the curls tickle my shoulders.
Is Jared going to make me change my hair?
I shake off that thought. These curls are mine. Growing up, they were always a tangled wreck. My mom finally gave up on them, forcing me to cut my hair short. Since college, I’ve let my hair grow long and kind of wild.
It’s not a very congressional look. In fact, several members of Congress have mistaken me for a staffer. While most women want to look younger than their chronological age, youth works against me in Congress.
I follow Lauren’s directions to a high-end seafood place known for its private cubbies and dining rooms, making it a favorite for political meetings. I’ve even heard the members of the waitstaff are required to sign non-disclosure agreements.
The host shows me to a high-walled booth where the Darrows are already seated. Up close, I can hardly believe Aaron’s real; he looks like Brooks Brothers rolled him right off a factory line.
The Secret Service agents posted nearby stand out like hippies at a Republican fundraiser.
“Grace, I heard you stole the show today.” Darrow is at his dimple-cheeked best, his handshake smooth and firm, his tone rich with promise and warmth. “Well done. I told Lauren months ago we should have you on the main stage.”
“And I invited her, just as you asked,” Lauren replies.
“Terribly sorry you couldn’t make it at first.”
“But I guess Pelosi’s cold was a mixed blessing.”
“And aren’t we all glad you changed your mind?”
Whoa. Watching these two is like an Abbott and Costello sketch. They volley lines seamlessly, as if they’d rehearsed it.
“Thank you again for the invitation to the panel, and for dinner.” I follow Darrow’s lead and pick up my menu, ordering a pinot grigio when Lauren asks for a cocktail. Finally, when we’re settled, I add, “I have to say this dinner invitation is intriguing.”
“Like any successful man, I do what my wife tells me to do,” Darrow says with a laugh, but Lauren’s eyes frown. “I mean, Lauren spoke so highly of you that I felt we must get to know each other better.”
“We do have some similar issues,” I begin, mentally sifting through the dozens and dozens of briefs I’ve read, and the position papers I’ve formulated. “Water rights. Higher ed to support the tech industry. Asian trade agreements.”
We drift into a policy discussion over three courses, debating policy impacts and national versus state legislation. Lauren keeps pace with us, injecting sharp comments that make it clear she’s every bit as well-versed on the issues as her husband.
And it dawns on me: she didn’t go hard on policy during the panel discussion today because that’s not what first ladies do.
After coffee is served, I finally ask the question that’s been hanging over my head like a cartoon speech bubble all night. “I appreciate our talk and this opportunity, but what do you want from me?”
I hold my breath, expecting him to ask me for an endorsement. Even though we’re both Dems from the West, I can’t. Not yet—not until Conover chooses me, or doesn’t. If I came out in favor of Darrow now, I’d lose all credibility if I joined Conover’s ticket. I’d undermine him.
“Grace, despite your obvious command of the issues, you and I both know you’re a one-issue candidate.” Darrow lets that hang in the air, and it gets under my skin.
“I’m not a candidate. I’m a congresswoman,” I bite out.
“That’s not what I meant. America knows you, Grace, for your personal tragedy. You’re a household name. That matters.”
“I know.”
Aaron holds up his finger, indicating he’s not finished. “But it doesn’t matter enough.”