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The tree is twinkling just to the left side of the television, which is mounted above the small fireplace, and for a second she looks at the tree, losing herself in the flicker of the white fairy lights. The frost and glitter of all the handmade ornaments catches her eye, courtesy of all the years that her daughters brought them home from school, as well as the shiny rhinestone star that she places atop the tree each year.
Memories of past Christmases come flooding back to her as Peter levels his gaze at the interviewer on the screen, speaking earnestly about his stance on gun control. Sunday watches his lips move for a just a moment before the image of him morphs into one in her mind of him sitting next to their Christmas tree in the small house they’d purchased in D.C. just after adopting both girls. Peter, clad only in plaid pajama bottoms and a Penn State sweatshirt, is putting together a Barbie house on the floor next to the twinkling tree, and Olive and Cameron are sitting together in matching holiday-themed pajamas, squealing with glee over their new stuffed animals and dolls.
“Daddy?” Cameron says in Sunday’s reverie, “Do you think Barbie is pretty?” The tiny girl holds up a blonde, curvy doll for her father’s inspection. Peter’s eyes flick up from the dollhouse construction and land on the Barbie. “Not as pretty as you,” he says, winking at her. Cameron smiles with pride.
As Sunday remembers this scene now, she also remembers the barest, most fleeting thought that had skipped through her mind like a stone skimming over a pond:Of course he doesn’t think Barbie is pretty, she’d thought in that moment,but he wouldn’t mind a date with Ken.She blinks now as the whole scene comes flooding back to her. In her mind and in her heart, Sunday had known for years that Peter preferred men—how could she not have known?—a woman’s instincts are almost always stronger than she gives herself credit for. She’d known, and she’d pushed it aside. And looking back now, she’s not even sorry. She’s been fortunate enough to raise two girls and to give them a life they never would have known otherwise, not to mention the fact that she’s gotten to live an incredible life, one that almost no one else gets to experience. So she’s not sorry, not one bit, that she chose to look past the obvious truth and to stay with Peter as long as she did.
“But we understand that you’re going through a divorce now, and that Mrs. Bond is currently living in Florida and will not be joining you on the campaign trail.” The redhead is looking at Peter with a gaze so intense that Sunday is ripped back to the present, all memories of a younger Peter piecing together a dollhouse forced out of her mind’s eye. She watches the screen, listening and waiting for his response.
“All true,” Peter confirms with one crisp nod. “Sunday and I are separated amicably, and while she will not be scheduled to join me for any of my official events, she’s always invited to attend, and she knows that.”
Next to Sunday, Cameron huffs in disbelief. “Come on,” she says under her breath.
“He has to say that, babe.” Sunday reaches over and pats her daughter’s bare thigh, but she doesn’t tear her eyes away from the screen. Certainly Peter can say whatever he wants, as she wasn’t able to extract a promise from him that he wouldn’t disclose anything about her life or her past.
She holds her breath, waiting to see which way this interview will go.
“What do you think the former Second Lady has up her sleeve now? Does she have future plans—maybe to help the former First Lady run her bookshop?” The interviewer smiles for the first time, and Sunday can see her relax a little.
Peter holds his answer for a beat, and Sunday knows him well enough to know that he’s deciding right then and there what he’ll say about her. Her heart picks up its pace in anticipation.
“Sunday is a talented woman who lives for her family,” Peter says carefully. “We’re expecting our first grandchild in the new year, so I would imagine that she’s looking forward to that. Believe it or not, she still offers me bits and pieces of advice, and I take them under advisement.” His eyes lock in on the camera again, but just briefly, and Sunday knows exactly what he’s referring to: the moment in the lawyer’s office in Miami where she advised him to come out and tell the world who he really is. He won’t do it, and she knows that now as she watches his face, but he’d heard her, and he knows that the people closest to him are aware of who he truly is, for better or worse, and that’s all that matters.
“Congratulations,” the interviewer says, beaming at Peter. “That’s wonderful news about your first grandchild.”
“Thank you. And Sunday has a long history with adoption,” Peter goes on, glancing at her through the camera again. “I’d love to see her work with our friends at the National Council for Adoption to see if she can put her experience to use promoting all the wonderful ways that adoption helps build families. It certainly helped to build ours.”
The interviewer smiles her thousand-watt smile at Peter and thanks him for his time, closing out by turning to the camera and saying a few things about her upcoming shows and guests, but Sunday is sitting there stunned.
“Mom,” Olive says. She’s come into the room and has been standing next to the couch, watching the interview alongside Sunday and Cameron. “That’s an awesome idea—you totally should.”
“He meantallof your experience with adoption, didn’t he?” Cameron asks, turning her body on the couch so that she’s facing Sunday. “Benjamin, too, right?”
Sunday nods, looking at both of her girls. “I think so.” She’s still gobsmacked by Peter’s words, and the idea that she could do something as important as work with the National Council for Adoption. Utilizing her former platform as Second Lady isn’t something she’s taken seriously up until this point because she’s been so busy worrying about how to climb out of the deep ditch of her marriage. But with this suggestion from Peter, she’s actually considering it. “I mean…I could do that, couldn’t I?” she asks hesitantly. “I could even tell my story—my whole story—and help people.”
Olive plops down on the couch right between her mother and sister. “Yes!” she says enthusiastically. “You can do anything, Mom. We believe in you.”
“Go for it, Mom. You’ve got this,” Cameron says, leaning forward so she can look at Sunday from the other end of the couch. “I think you should definitely do it.”
Rather than just a prickling of tears, Sunday feels the full onslaught of joy gushing from her eyes and she laughs. “Thank you, girls. Thank you for finding me, and for letting me by your mom.”
The three women wrap their arms around each other in a tear-filled group hug right there on the couch, with the white lights twinkling and with Sunday’s damp towel and bathing suit reminding her that she still needs to change and eat breakfast.
“Knock knock,” comes a man’s voice from the kitchen. Sunday disentangles from her girls and jumps up, tightening the towel around her body just as Banks peeks into the front room. “Sorry,” he says, looking guilty as he hooks a thumb over his shoulder, “your back door was open, and I was running by.”
“No, come in, come in,” Sunday says, holding her towel around herself modestly, as she wonders whether her hair is plastered to her head and if her makeup-free morning face is too scary for Banks to see.
“Actually,” he says with an impish grin. “I was thinking of taking a plunge in the water, and I wanted to see if you felt like a swim. There’s no rip current today,” he adds with a wink.
Sunday looks down at her towel. “I’m already dressed for it,” she says, feeling a surge of carefree joy fill her body. For the first time since she came in from the beach, goosebumps cover her arms, but she’s still not cold. “Might as well head out for another dip.”
Olive stands up. “We’ll make more crepes,” she says with a smile. “Banks, you want some?”
“Love some. Thank you,” he says, his eyes still on Sunday. “Shall we?”
With one quick look back at the television screen where Peter is sitting there with his calm, practiced politician’s smile, she follows Banks through the sun-warmed kitchen and out onto the sand.
The rest of her life awaits her, and suddenly it’s filled with exciting question marks and wonderful unknowns, like what good works she’ll do, and what her life will be like as a grandmother. The thought of holding a new baby in her arms, sweet-smelling and the very embodiment of hope and true love, makes her want to shout to the world how wonderful it is to be alive, to be human, to be a woman.
But for the time being, the most exciting thing that awaits her is the cool, exhilarating sensation of the December waves on her skin, and the promise of hot crepes at her kitchen table with her beloved daughters and a gorgeous man. They’ll laugh and talk and drink coffee together as the sun spills through her kitchen windows and the Christmas tree lights dance and glimmer with cheer in the very next room.
For the first time in as long as she can remember, Sunday doesn’t feel the need to run away from anything.
She’s finally home.
