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Sunday moved closer, putting her hands on the sides of his ribs and looking him in the eye. “It does have something to do with you,” she’d said softly, looking wounded. “It’s my first grandchild, and you and I are…you know what?” Sunday had taken a step back, letting her hands fall from his sides. “I’m not sure what we are. I just know that I wanted you there on that day. I want you to be a part of my kids’ lives, and also of my grandson’s life. I feel a lot of things for you, Henry, and I’m not sure why you would slink away on a day that was so important to me.”
Banks was at a loss for words. Other than saying that he felt like heshouldn’tbe there, he had no reasonable excuse for why he’d left.
So instead of talking, they’d eaten a quiet room service dinner while watching a movie in their room, gone to sleep with just a “good night,” and then woken up and done their own things all of Monday morning.
Now, standing in the room as they get ready for the Adoption Council event, Banks feels like he’s somehow fumbled the ball. This trip was supposed to bring them closer together, or to somehow cement their couplehood, and all he’s done is to make Sunday feel like he’s not in this thing. Which he is, he’s just unsure how to show her that he’s in it.
Sunday steps out of the closet in her red sequined gown, turning her back to Banks wordlessly so that he can zip her into it. She looks stunning. Absolutely breathtaking. She turns to look at him, her face uncertain but hopeful.
“Wow,” Banks says softly, looking her up and down. The dress hugs her body and glitters under the soft hotel room lights. “You are a vision.”
As they stand there, facing one another, she reaches up and straightens his bow tie with both hands, tugging it into place. In this moment, Banks has a vision that feels like a “choose your own adventure” novel: he can either do the right thing, the thing that shows Sunday how he really feels and that leads them even further down their path towards happiness, or he can do the wrong thing, which means that this trip will be the last thing they do together.
He desperately wants to do the right thing. Losing Sunday is not a thought he even wants to entertain.
“I got this for you,” Banks says, turning around to pick up a clear box that holds a simple red rose on a wrist corsage. “I hope it’s not too silly or old-fashioned, but I always used to bring a corsage to pick up a date for special occasions when I was in high school, and I wanted to get you one, even if you choose not to wear it.”
Sunday holds her breath as he opens the box. The fragrant scent of the rose escapes and she reaches for it. “No, I want to wear it,” Sunday says, looking into his eyes. “I’m an old-fashioned kind of girl.”
Banks smiles and holds the corsage out so that she can slip her wrist into the band. It looks lovely against her tanned skin and they both admire it for a moment.
“I think our chariot awaits us,” Banks says, holding out an elbow for Sunday. She picks up her small, gold purse from the foot of the sharply made bed, tucking it under one arm as she slips her hand through his elbow.
“Then let’s go,” she says.
They find their limo waiting downstairs right in front of the hotel, and a uniformed doorman greets them with a smile and a discreet nod, opening the back door of the limousine so that Sunday can slide in first. Unlike the previous day’s weather, Monday has been dry and spring-like, bringing sunshine and higher temperatures. Because of this, Sunday has left her coat behind and is instead stepping out in her red dress that leaves her shoulders bare. As she slips into the back of the long, chauffeured car, Banks can see goosebumps on her arms.
He stands there on the curb for a moment, looking up and down the street as the sun vanishes completely, leaving a balmy spring evening with a sky the color of a fresh plum in its wake. There are people on the street walking with purpose, and others wandering aimlessly, holding hands with one another, pushing strollers, or holding phones to their ears as they talk and smile. It’s an evening filled with promise and goodwill, and more than anything, Banks hopes that he doesn’t screw it up. A lot rides on him being able to open his heart completely and let Sunday in—assuming she still wants to come in.
As Sunday gets settled in the backseat, he leans against the door, remembering all the times that he’s ushered Ruby into the back of a car, watching crowds and scanning faces for safety concerns. His haunches are always up in these situations, and he realizes that old habits are hard to break as his eyes skim the people that pass by. No one seems the least bit interested in the fact that the ex-wife of a former Vice President is with him, and for a second Banks can picture a life where he and Sunday can come and go from anywhere they please without recognition. After so many years of having to keep an eagle eye on the world around him at all times, Banks might have a future ahead of him where he can just relax and enjoy his surroundings. The probability of him actually being able to do that is almost nil, but regardless—there’s potential for it.
The Whittemore House is a mansion on New Hampshire Avenue that was built in the 1890s as a private residence. It has since become a popular place to hold events, and on this particular evening, the National Council for Adoption has turned the foyer into an indoor garden, filling the wood-paneled entry with potted plants and hanging flowers. Everywhere they turn, Banks and Sunday are confronted by flower pots that are bursting with rainbows of hibiscus, tulips, plumeria, lotus flowers, hyacinths, lilacs, and calla lilies. There’s a grand piano, shiny and black beneath the overhead lights, and a man in a tuxedo sitting behind it, playing jazz standards.
Photographers motion for Sunday to stand at the foot of the winding mahogany staircase and pose there, flowers flanking her on both sides, as they work to capture an image for the Council’s social media accounts and for their website.
“Mrs. Bond!” a man says, kneeling on the carpet as he holds his camera and its flash up to snap photos of her. “Over here!”
Sunday, ever the professional, stands in the perfect pose with a smile on her face, turning this way and that, smiling at each camera in turn and holding her pose for long enough that each photographer will get their shot. After she does that, she waves at Banks, who has been quietly standing off to one side, motioning for him to join her. He holds up a hand as if to say no, shaking his head, but she insists.
“Henry, I’d like you to be in this photo,” she says, smiling at him as he walks towards her hesitantly. “Please.”
Banks slides into place next to Sunday, feeling completely out of his element. In all the years he’s attended events in Washington he’s never once posed in front of a camera lens, and has on more than one occasion dodged a photographer, trying his very best to stay in the background where he belonged.
“Are you sure the Council will want photos with me in them?” he asks her, dipping his chin and wrapping an arm around her waist.
Sunday smiles up at him, her eyes dancing under the lights. She moves in closer to him. “Will they want photos of me looking happy at their event? Yes. And will posing for photos with you be the thing that makes me happy? Also yes.” She beams at the photographers, nodding at the one she wants Banks to focus on. “Give this guy a big smile first,” she instructs him, readjusting her pose so that she’s facing the correct camera.
Once they’re done at the foot of the stairs, Banks offers her his arm and escorts her into the main room, which is decorated with white linen on all the tables, silver candlesticks with tall, white taper candles, and more flowers—especially on the stage, which is covered with white pots full of hydrangeas and hyacinths and irises and lilacs. It’s a blooming garden of purple, and Banks notices that Sunday’s red dress is particularly lovely next to the shades of lavender and plum as she walks up to the podium to consult with a woman holding a clipboard.
Banks stands beside a round table that has name cards on the place settings. He sees his own, written in a beautiful calligraphy, and next to his, Sunday Bond. It still gives him a thrill to see their names together, and to think of all the times they’d passed one another on the grounds of the White House, or crossed paths in D.C., never knowing that one day they’d be together. He glances at her now, talking animatedly with the woman who is clearly organizing the event, and Banks has the fleeting thought that tonight might be it for them. If he screwed things up badly enough by leaving the baby shower—whether she’s actually angry or not—she could potentially decide that he’s not enough for her. That his hang-ups and baggage make him someone who she doesn’t want to pursue something real with.
And he doesn't want that.
At Sunday's cue, Banks takes his seat, makes polite conversation with the other people who occupy the remaining seats at their eight-person round table, and watches Sunday with admiration as she moves through the crowd, shaking hands, accepting kind words, and smiling at everyone like a consummate pro.
"Hello," Sunday says to the others seated with Banks. She shakes hands with each of them and then sits in the chair that he's stood up to pull out for her. Banks has ordered her a glass of white wine and she takes a small, grateful sip, followed by a much bigger drink from her glass of ice water.
Throughout the salads and the main course, Sunday keeps up a lighthearted, running conversation with the woman to her left, and then when it's time for her to step up to the podium, she turns to Banks and flashes him a quick smile.
