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Sunday had huffed, her shoulders hunched as she sat there, inhaling the strong aroma of coffee and bacon.
"He'll do whatever he damn well pleases, and we both know that," she'd said, finally taking a fortifying sip of her coffee. "If he's got advisors telling him how things need to look to cast him in a favorable light, then he's going to listen to them, and not to me."
But Ruby had been insistent, and now here she is, sitting on her small deck with her phone in one hand. She taps the screen nervously with her thumbnail, squinting at the water instead of making the call.
Peter,she practices in her head,I want you to cease and desist immediately with any discussion about my personal history.
Peter, there is no way that you actually believe that I'm frigid, or that I alone caused the end of our marriage. And there’s no way that anyone else will believe it either.
Listen, Bucko, you might be the former Vice President, but you have no right to drag me through the mud while you figure out your next move. Leave me alone, or I'll tell your daughters everything--and I mean EVERYTHING—that I know or that I saw with my own eyes. And I don't think you want that.
As Sunday mentally rehearses her speech, she chews on her bottom lip, imagining Peter laughing at any one of these proclamations. He would never kowtow to her or fold at even the hint of a threat from Sunday, but she knows that appealing to him as a father might work. It's a slim possibility, but one she's willing to lean on.
"Peter," she says as soon as he answers her call. "Don't hang up."
"Sunday, if I was just going to hang up on you, then I wouldn't have answered in the first place. I'm busy here, so start talking."
Sunday takes a deep breath and forges ahead. "I heard what you were planning to do, and I am not okay with you talking about my past in relation to our marriage. As a matter of fact, I'm not okay with you talking about our marriage, either, but I'm not sure if I can stop you."
Peter sighs, and it is the deep, world-weary sigh of a man who wants to let a woman know that she's already getting on his last nerve. "Listen, I may or may not do some interviews that involve a discussion of our life together. I'm not sure what exactly is being planned for the interviews, but I'll do whatever my advisors think is best."
"Peter," Sunday pleads. She knows she sounds like she's begging, but she can't help it--she is begging. "Let me get on with my life. Let me go. I gave you what you wanted. I raised your daughters, I stayed with you even though every person in Washington knew you were gay and sleeping around--"
Peter clears his throat angrily here. "This isn't a secure line, Sunday. I don't want you using words that label me as anything inflammatory, and I won't admit to doing anything that might come back to bite me in the ass."
"Fine. While you were out scouring dark, seedy bars for new constituents who prefer to vote with their pants down, I was at home raising your kids."
"They're technically not mine, Sunday."
His words make her blood run cold. She knows that a part of Peter's desire to adopt had been to create a visual of himself as a happy family man, and also to do something that people might view as big-hearted and charitable, but she'd always believed that, deep down, Peter loved being a father to Olive and Cameron and that he felt as she did: that the universe brought them the right girls; that somehow a higher power had known that these weretheirchildren. In fact, she still believes that he feels this way, but Peter knows exactly what to say to hit Sunday where it hurts.
"I'm speechless," Sunday says, standing up from where she's been sitting on her little deck. She walks over to the railing and stares at the powdery sand without really seeing it. "The fact that you would even say that is beyond messed up, Peter. It's deranged. I'm so disgusted by you right now, even if you are just saying things you don’t mean to try and get under my skin.”
Peter sighs again. "Listen, honey, you and I are never going to see eye to eye on this, and that's okay. Men and women are just wired differently."
"We're wired differently when it comes to loving our own children?"
Sunday can almost see him shrugging on his end of the call. "Not necessarily. But I did my job: I provided for them and gave them an amazing life and a fascinating childhood. Now they're adults and they're free to go out and conquer the world. They don't need me. They don't even call me. So mazel tov, kids."
"Olive calls you," Sunday counters angrily. "She was down here a couple of weeks ago, and she told me all the things you two had talked about last time she called."
"Fine. So Olive calls occasionally and needs money for her bakery." Peter sounds bored. "And because I'm her father, I feel obligated to help her out. Is that what you're looking for? An admission that I'm their father?"
Sunday shakes her head even though Peter can't see her. "No. That's not it at all. Iknowyou're their father, but sometimes I'm not sure that you do. For years you’ve put politics first, then family.”
"Cameron never deigns to call--not even for money."
"Can you blame her? Thanks to you, she won't call me either. She thinks I stayed too long, and she lost all respect for me as a woman."
"Feminism is destroying the world," Peter says, sounding annoyed.
"Menare destroying the world. How many wars can you name that have been started by women?”
"I'm sure the truth lies somewhere in between, but listen, Sun, I need to cut you off here. I've got a meeting to attend, and we're just talking in circles here."
"Do not speak about me in your interviews, Peter. I will not stand for it."
"Then sit down for it, because if our marriage comes up, I'll say whatever I need to say. Take care, Sunday." Peter ends the call.
