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"You're allowed to say it to me," Banks says. "And I'm going to tell you that no matter how lovely a woman is, eight months pregnant is a great time to just sit on a lily pad and let everyone else wait on her. No need to go crazy with photo shoots and creating content or whatever it is."
Sunday blows out a breath and puts her hands on her hips as she assesses Banks. "So true." After a minute, she crosses the room and climbs up onto the bed next to him and they lay on top of the covers together. Sunday curls her body into his, resting her head on his shoulder as he pulls her close. "But before we do anything else, what would you say to spending a little time right here?"
A smile crosses Banks's face and he reaches for the remote on his nightstand. With one push of a button, the blackout curtains start to roll down and cover the giant window that looks out onto the city.
* * *
After spending Friday night and all day Saturday exploring the D.C. like a couple of tourists who hadn't lived there for the majority of their adult lives, Sunday and Banks arrive at the rented condo in Georgetown where the baby shower is taking place.
Banks has mentally prepared himself for a lot of things: for tiny cupcakes with miniature pacifiers resting on top of buttercream icing, for little blue sailor outfits and for womenoohingandahhingover every gift, and maybe even for games of some sort where everyone tries to pin the tail on the...pregnant woman? No, that can't be right--but games nonetheless.
What he isn't prepared for is to walk into this photo-worthy condo with a gaggle of women in tiny dresses and ridiculously high heels standing around holding cocktails in one hand and cell phones in the other. And what he's even less ready for is for the crowd of women to part and for Peter Bond to be standing there in the center of the room, holding his own cocktail as he holds court with the young women. Banks's feels an uneasiness settle in the pit of his stomach.
Peter Bond. Former VP, total douchebag. He and Sunday had been married for thirty-some years, during which time he'd slept with every willing and available man in Washington D.C. And the worst part, in Banks's mind, was that Peter had made no secret of his activities or his preferences. Sure, the general voting public thought that their Vice President was a family man with two beautiful adopted daughters and a vivacious wife at his side, but everyone in D.C. knew that he was a cad who frequented the darkest corners of gay bars around the world.
Peter lifts his drink in Sunday's direction, giving her a smile as he looks her up and down.What kind of nerve is this? Banks thinks, watching Peter put on a little show for the ladies where he acts like his ex-wife is his friend and a woman he admires. Banks puts his hands into the pockets of his navy blue pants nervously and glances in Sunday's direction; he can see her jaw clench as she grits her teeth.
"Sunday, darling," Peter says, keeping a thick cushion of air between them as he leans in and makes a vague gesture at kissing her cheek. "You look wonderful."
Sunday says nothing, but she smiles in a way that looks physically painful. "Peter," she says, "this is Henry Banks. He's--"
"Jack and Ruby's security detail. Sure." Peter nods at him crisply, but shoots Sunday a puzzled look before glancing at Banks. "Quite the set-up you have down there on the pirate island, isn't it, chap?" He looks at Banks, but makes no move to shake his hand, which would have been proper etiquette for two men greeting one another at an event such as this.
Banks nods and pulls a hand from his pocket, thrusting it in Peter's direction so he can't ignore it. "It is," Banks says, keeping his voice even. "I love Shipwreck Key. I'm hoping to retire down there."
Because he clearly has no choice other than to ignore it and look like an ass or to take it, Peter shakes Banks's hand, but looks at Sunday again. "Did Ruby loan him to you for the trip? D.C. is just as safe as it's always been." Peter gives a booming laugh, making sure that everyone around them hears his hilarity.
Banks wants to punch him, and Sunday looks like she isn't far behind. "Henry is here as my date," she says with an edge to her voice so sharp that it could cut the giant, blue-frosted cake sitting on the counter of the open kitchen. "We're together."
Peter takes a long, theatrical moment to respond. He puts one hand to the side of his face and the other in the pocket of his chinos as he looks at the ground, pretending to consider this fact. Finally, he glances back up at her, and when he does, the rest of the conversation in the room has stopped.
"Well," Peter says. "Looks like you've moved up in the world, Sunny. Got you a man with some muscle and a dream to retire to an island so he can fish and nap all day. A real step up from being married to the V.P."
Sunday's face is turning red, but before she can blow, Cameron waddles over, one hand rubbing her pregnant belly. She puts a hand on her father's elbow and tugs him away.
"Daddy," Cameron says, "I need you to help Olive open that bottle of champagne." She points in her sister's direction, shooting her a meaningful look. Olive spins around, looking for a bottle of champagne to busy their father with. Peter concedes this loss with a single nod of his head before he backs away, but Banks doesn't feel as though Peter has lost at all; if anything, he got in a few digs.
"Honey," Sunday says, opening her arms to her daughter and pulling her in close. Sunday's eyes fill with happy tears. "You look amazing. I'm so excited."
Cameron laughs as Sunday continues to cling to her. "Me too, Mom."
When Sunday finally lets go of her daughter, she turns to Banks. "Henry is here as my date," she says, smiling proudly at Banks. He can hardly take it--she looks so happy and expectant and proud to be introducing him as her date that it very nearly erases Peter's jackass behavior. Almost.
"I'm so glad you're here," Cameron says to him, smiling warmly. Sunday's daughters may or may not recognize him as a former omnipresent figure around the White House, but if they do, they politely pretend that their former indifference towards one another was just a part of the gig.
"Hi, Henry!" Olive shouts from across the kitchen, lifting a hand as she passes another bottle of champagne off to her father, who pops the cork into a dishtowel as the other shower guests whoop and cheer unnecessarily. "Can I make you a mimosa?"
Banks almost says no out of habit, but then he remembers he's not on duty, so he nods and smiles. "That would be great."
"Okay, hi," says a girl in a floaty pink dress with sparkly silver sandals on her feet. She's about five feet tall and so blonde that her hair is almost white. Banks is mildly intimidated by her biceps, which are chiseled and rounded. "I'm Emberly, Cameron's favorite sorority sister."
"Hey, you're not her favorite sorority sister!" A redhead with her hair clipped up in a curly pile on top of her head is standing in front of a wall that appears to be covered with astroturf. She's holding an iPhone in a glittery purple case in one hand as she turns her head to frown at Emberly. "I'm the one who found this space, and I amobsessedwith it." As if seeing Banks for the first time, she turns around fully, looking him up and down. "You should let me get a photo of you here," the redhead says, waving him over with an authoritative hand gesture. "Here. Just stand here."
Banks does not move. The "here" she's pointing to is a spot in front of the astroturf wall, and for the first time Banks notices that there's a neon sign hanging in the middle of the wall that's turned on. The light is pink and the sign says, "Baby, you're FABULOUS."
"Um, no thank you," Banks says, hoping that this sounds appreciative yet firm. He will not be getting a photo taken by a bossy redheaded sorority sister under a sign like that. As the young lady walks towards him, he turns to Sunday, panic rising in his chest.
"Oh, Carmen," Sunday says to the redhead, intercepting her as she approaches Banks. "It's so lovely to see you."
