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Prologue
The White House is decorated with giant, glittery pastel eggs and furry stuffed bunnies. A brick walkway that runs along the outside near the back garden is lined with three-tiered topiaries punctuated with daisies and tulips that peek out randomly from between the green leaves like birds perched in trees.
“Ma’am.” A woman in a smart suit and sensible shoes nods at Sunday Bond as they pass one another going in opposite directions.
Sunday’s heels click against the bricks as she walks at a determined clip, wondering where her husband could be. It’s not unusual for Peter Bond, the Vice President of the United States of America, to shuttle himself off to locations unknown and to stay busy for hours doing who knows what. If Sunday were the President—which she’s not, obviously—she would call that man on the carpet at every opportunity and demand to know just what he was doing to be worthy of holding such an important job. Because the last time she checked, her work with the homeless shelter in Alexandria has yielded far more coverage and far more results than anything Peter has done during his time in office.
“Julia?” Sunday pauses in a hallway with gorgeous silk butterflies of all sizes and colors hanging from the high ceiling. As people pass beneath them, the butterflies wave and flutter on their invisible strings; spring has truly sprung within the White House.
“Mrs. Bond,” Julia says, stopping in her tracks. Julia is short and petite and wears glasses that have bright blue frames—her only concession to fashion, as Julia, like the other female staffers, has had her fashion sense completely neutered by the patriarchy of the political establishment. At least in Sunday’s humble opinion.
“Julia, have you seen my husband?” Sunday frowns and tucks a stray curl behind her ear.
At fifty-three, she is still strong and muscled from her five-day-a-week workouts with a yoga and pilates instructor, and her own fashion sense tends to be far more colorful than that of the women who work inside the White House. Today, for instance, Sunday is wearing a belted silk dress in a bright, springy green that shows off her toned figure. She’s chosen a pair of patent leather fuchsia high heels with a strap that wraps around the ankle, and on her ears she’s wearing pink and green rhinestone drop earrings shaped like flowers.
“Uhhh,” Julia says, glancing up and down the hallway, which is empty except for them. “No, I’m sorry, Mrs. Bond. I haven’t.”
“Okay, thanks.” Sunday flashes her a perfunctory smile and walks on, her stride long and purposeful.
In the next wing, Sunday finds a knot of male staffers standing around discussing something in hushed tones. At the sight of the Second Lady they break up, trying unsuccessfully to look as though they’re busy with something important.
“Men,” Sunday says, stopping short. She puts her hands on her narrow hips and widens her stance, well aware that her bare legs are hard to miss; it’s their attention she wants, and even if she has to rely on her looks to get it, she’s going to have these men’s eyes on her. “Who can point me to where the Vice President is hiding today?”
Five sets of eyes move around the room, studiously avoiding one another as all of the men smile at Sunday graciously.
“Not sure, Mrs. Bond,” a young man named Ethan says, straightening his tie. He looks uncomfortable. “I haven’t seen him all morning.”
Sunday is losing her patience and she knows that at leastoneof these knuckleheads has seen Peter wandering the White House as he munches on a bagel and stands looking up at a painting of a former president like he’s some sort of guest or visitor. It’s exasperating, tracking Peter down when he doesn't want to be found.
With a sigh, Sunday keeps walking. Now that she’s growing truly impatient, her steps are getting louder, her high heels punctuating her walk like the keys on an old-fashioned typewriter hitting the ribbon.
“Peter?” she calls out loudly, peering through open doorways and looking into every alcove. “Peter, it’s Easter, for crying out loud. We have hundreds of children with special needs out on the South Lawn, waiting to meet the Easter Bunny, and their parents all want to shake hands with the Vice President, because they were promised a meet and greet.” Sunday is saying this all out loud as she walks, stopping every so often and opening a closed door just in case her husband is sitting at a desk, feet propped up as he peruses the sports scores on his phone.
“Peter Langford Bond,” Sunday says sharply, her voice raising to the point that she’s nearly shouting. “Where the hell are you?”
A woman turns the corner just as Sunday approaches and they nearly collide.
“Oh!” the woman says, a hand flying to her chest as if she’s been startled to the verge of a heart attack. “Mrs. Bond. I’m so sorry.”
“You heard me coming,” Sunday says, sounding as snippy as she feels. “I’ve been yelling down this damn hallway for the past five minutes.” It's completely uncharacteristic for Sunday to lose her cool and snap at a staffer, but her patience is wearing thin as she thinks of all the families outside waiting to meet her and Peter, and she knows thatsomeonein this building is covering for him.
“Yes,” the woman says, sounding placid and noncommittal. “I understand.”
“You do? Then could you please point me toward the last place you saw the Vice President?”
Meekly, the woman turns her body and lifts a hand, pointing in the direction of the kitchen.
“Ha,” Sunday says. “I knew food would be involved. It’s not like we skipped breakfast, but leave it to Peter to drop by the kitchen and try to sneak a piece of bacon or a muffin.” She looks at the woman, whose name escapes her; she’s a minor player, and not someone Sunday interacts with often, but Sunday still softens her tone when she realizes that she's taking her anger out on someone who has nothing to do with Peter's behavior. “Thank you. I appreciate your help.”
The door to the kitchen swings open as Sunday pushes it with her manicured hand, peeking in slowly as though she might catch Peter shoveling in some snack that’s been forbidden by the doctor following his last physical. Things on the list of no-no breakfast items for the Vice President include: full-fat granola; the heavy cream used in hollandaise sauce on his favorite eggs benedict; bacon; sugary pastries and danishes; and pretty much every other delicious thing that Peter loves to shove in his face.
The kitchen is quiet and Sunday sees no one, so she steps all the way inside. The giant slabs of marble that cover the long counters and an enormous island are laden with colorful bowls of fruits and vegetables, and next to the stove is an oversized crate of brown, organic eggs. The clear-doored refrigerator reveals neatly stocked shelves of milk and cream in glass bottles, washed and sorted berries, apples, and lemons, and perfectly stacked containers of yogurt, cream cheese, cottage cheese, butter, and sour cream. There is a pot on the stove, and a large, copper colander in the sink, waiting to strain pasta or rinse veggies or be of some use in the preparation of the food that will end up on tables all throughout the White House.
“Peter?” Sunday tries again, though this time she’s not yelling. There’s a strange echo to the kitchen that makes Sunday feel like she’s not alone. She walks through the long galley where the counters are covered with blenders, two giant mixers with silver bowls, a coffee pot, an espresso machine that looks like a person would need clearance from NASA to run it, and a huge, shiny toaster oven.
“Peter?” Sunday says, but this time it’s almost a whisper. Ahead of her is a huge walk-in freezer, and next to that, a pantry door. From beneath the door of the pantry she can see a warm, yellow light.
Sunday stops right outside of the pantry with her hand on the doorknob. She knows this is a make-or-break moment; a turning point in her life that will send her either this way or that. But nothing can stop her now.
