Chapter Fifty
Of course I’ve been to the Renwick Gallery, duh. Hello, design student? Artist?
I mean, comeon. Ilovethe place. That’s one of the benefits of living in DC—all the museums. Obviously, I haven’t had as much free time lately to go exploring as I used to.
Wednesday evening, I leave the West Wing after sending Elliot on to campaign headquarters with Casey and the detail. Depending on how long this takes, either I’ll meet him at headquarters, or go straight to the residence when I’m finished. The Renwick Gallery is a quick walk from the White House to the reddish brick building with tan trim. When I arrive, I find Camden standing outside and waiting for me.
“Hey,” he says, giving me a more-than-friendly smile I feel a little guilty over. It’s the eager anticipation I see there that triggers the guilt.
“Hey.” I know Camden’s still interested in maybe pursuing something with me, but I find I no longer have the energy to pretend to be interested.
Except I also don’t want to hurt his feelings. He’s good at his job, and Elliot needs him on the campaign.
He gets the door and opens it for me. “After you.”
“Thanks.”
The cocktail party is being held in the Grand Salon. At least I don’t feel underdressed. Most everyone here looks like they came from the office, because it’s not a formal affair. Once we check in, one of the organizers attaches herself to us and starts to introduce us around. Camden and I paste on our smiles and shift into schmooze mode.
Ihateit. I hateeverythingabout this, but at least my mask is intact and effective.
Finally, about two hours in, we manage to ditch our handler and Camden goes his way to talk to donors while I go mine. I end up sitting at a table and speaking with a guy from Detroit who’s involved with one of the auto manufacturers.
“Ah, Jordan Walsh.” I involuntarily flinch, but the woman’s voice from just behind me feels like nails on a chalkboard.
When I look up to see Congresswoman Grace Martin standing there, I stand more as a force of habit than because I want to accord her any respect. “Congresswoman.”
“May I join you?”
Oh, go fuck yourself…“Certainly.”
As she lowers herself into a chair, her smile doesn’t fool me. I didn’t think there’d be any lawmakers at tonight’s event, but looks like she’s managed to slink in here, anyway.
Thank god I’ve got a glass of wine in my hand. I’m going to need another one to deal with her, so I signal to one of the servers that I’d like a refill.
She starts talking with the gentleman I was chatting with, and I totally don’t understand her position. She enthusiastically argues one side of the latest trade tariff issue with China—the exact opposite position that she voted for—before flipping to the other side and arguing that perspective, to the point her new debate partner seems confused wherehestarted on the topic, much less what she really thinks.
This is a prime example of why Grace Martin is so fucking dangerous. She’s not loyal to a party, or a position, or a platform. I’m not even sure she’s loyal to the damn country and Constitution.
She’s loyal first and foremost to herself.
We’re joined by two other men while the Detroit guy ends up leaving to speak with someone else.
The conversation, of course, drifts into “moral issues.”
Fuck me.
I could be rude and just get up and leave, but that would be noticed. I can’t afford to piss off potential donors.
Meaning I need to time this right.
That’s why I drink my wine and hope I’m not too drunk to stumble my way back to the White House by the time I’m finished here. I even tune out for a few minutes, until my focus returns toward the end of Grace Martin monologuing about “family values.”
“…and that’s what my voters want. They want Washington DC’s values and decisions to reflect them and theirs. Because that’s who built this country.”
Ohh, there went the record screech in my brain. “Not exactly, Congresswoman.”
Who said that?
