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"Teeth check," she whispers to him, smiling wider. "Spinach? Anything?"
"No, you look stunning," he assures her, reaching for her small clutch purse and putting it in his own lap as he begins to applaud along with everyone else in the venue.
Sunday ascends the stairs, letting her hand rest lightly on the small guardrail that's been placed there, and with a wave at the crowd, she steps directly into the spotlight and puts her hands on either side of the podium.
Banks looks up at her from his chair, beaming with pride. She is amazing. Strong. Interesting. Curious. Beautiful. He wants to stand up and shout at the top of his lungs that he's here tonight with the most incredible woman he's ever known. But instead, he keeps his eyes on Sunday, watching as she smiles at everyone, turning her head and nodding appreciatively at their extended applause.
Without warning, the small voice of doubt creeps back into Banks's head; it's the same nagging feeling he'd had at the baby shower, and he feels it again, the voice reminding him that he doesn't truly belong here. But instead of listening to that voice, he claps even harder to drown it out, keeping his eyes on Sunday until her gaze sweeps his direction and lands on him squarely.
Almost imperceptibly, Sunday winks.
"Hello," she says into the microphone. "Good evening, and thank you for having me here this evening to share my story with you." The crowd settles in and there is the light tinkle of flatware against dishes as people continue to nibble while Sunday speaks. "As many of you know, I was once in a rather unenviable position for a woman." She pauses and her face cracks into a wicked smile. "And no," she says, shaking her head. "It wasn't being married to the Vice President!”
Whoops and hoots of appreciative laughter fill the room, along with plenty of surprised sounding cackles.
Sunday nods and laughs with them, then starts to speak again when things quiet down. "Actually, it was a fairly common predicament for a woman: I found myself pregnant and alone in my late teens, and unsure about what to do. I decided to leave the tiny island I'd grown up on, and to have my baby in a quiet suburb right outside the city, and then to put him up for adoption."
The crowd is nearly silent now, hanging on Sunday's every word.
"It was a hard choice, but quite frankly, one I've never regretted. I wasn't part of any sort of open adoption, so I don't know where my son ended up, but I feel strongly that I gave him a chance for a good, happy life, and I know that it was only possible for me to do that through the gift of adoption."
Banks glances around at the other faces that dot the darkened room. Within his line of vision, he can see the misty eyes of several women who are looking up at the stage from their seats, watching Sunday with rapt admiration.
"And then, as my life went forward and I married and started a new journey, I realized that what I really wanted to do was to be on the other end of the gift of adoption, which was to be a mother to a child who, for whatever reason, needed a good home. My husband and I rolled up our sleeves and got to work preparing our lives and our home, and within a short window of time we had two beautiful girls: Olive, a newborn from China, and her older sister Cameron, who was already three when we adopted her that same year from Guatemala."
On the screen behind Sunday appears a giant photo of her girls as toddlers, their grinning faces and black hair standing out as they cling to their much more fair parents. That photo changes smoothly, replaced by others of the girls as they made their way through their elementary years, high school, and finally, one of them as grown women standing on the beach outside of Sunday's house on Shipwreck Key. Between Olive and Cameron is a happy looking Sunday, smiling as she holds her girls close to her sides. When Banks looks at the photo he loves Sunday even more.
Maybe this is a part of life he won't get to experience firsthand, this parenting business. But maybe there are other ways to do it than to have biological children. After all, Sunday is up there now, telling everyone about being a mother through alternative means. Maybe Banks can experience some of the joy simply by being around Sunday's kids and her soon-to-be-born grandchild. And it had felt pretty good to share some of his thoughts with Julien while they were in France, so it's possible that mentoring younger men could offer him something of that feeling of fatherhood. He'll have to see. But the first step is to being open to those kinds of emotions and feelings, and Banks feels--for the first time ever--like he's actually doing it.
The event goes smoothly following Sunday's talk, which is followed by a standing ovation, more photos, and handshaking their way through a crowd that seemed never ending.
Outside the venue, the spring night is that perfect temperature that's neither hot nor cold. The stars are sprinkled over a navy blue sky above, and the thick green grass and trees on the property feel lush and rich, even in the dark.
Banks slips into the back of the limo next to Sunday and scoots over closer to her so that simply turning his head puts her face mere inches from his. They still haven’t spoken much about him leaving the baby shower the day before beyond her questioning where he’d gone, and lunch had been contemplatively quiet on both ends, but he at least doesn’t feel as if she’s angry with him anymore. He grew up feeling that any misstep he made would anger his father or potentially disappoint his sweet mother, and it's a sensation that he can't stand, that of having let someone down.
Gently, and without looking at Sunday, Banks reaches over and laces his fingers through hers. The buildings slide by them outside the limo as they ride smoothly down the street, enveloped in dark, quiet elegance. The windows are tinted, and the people on the sidewalk that late in the evening can be seen, but they can’t see inside the car.
“Hey,” Sunday says quietly, clasping his hand in hers with a firm grip. “What are you thinking about?”
Banks turns to her with a smile. “I was thinking that I’m glad you aren’t mad at me.”
Her face softens. She knows instantly what he's referring to, which is something else Banks has grown to appreciate about her. “Of course I’m not. I was worried about you. I never want you to feel again like you somehow don’t belong in my life, do you understand me? No one cares how we met or why we’re together, and if they do care, then they’re not important to me. Got it?”
Banks gives a single nod, though to him it’s not quite that simple. “I think it will get easier,” he says, clearing his throat, “for me to see myself as something more than security detail. I always feel like I should be blending in with the wallpaper, not standing out. But that’s what I’ve always been: silent, standing by, keeping a lookout. It’s what I do. It’s who I am.”
Sunday watches him with knowing eyes. “And I love that about you, Henry. I need you to keep being who you are, because that’s the guy I was first attracted to.” She pauses. “I wasn’t looking at you as some sort of fixer-upper, like ‘Oh, let me get my hands on Banks and put him in pastel golf shorts and a polo shirt. I can polish him up and turn him into a cookie cutter version of some other guy.’ Not at all—no way.” Sunday gives a shake of her head and her shoulder-length curls sway back and forth. “I want you to beyou. Always.”
Banks looks out the window again. He believes her.
"Excuse me," Banks says, knocking on the partition that divides them from the limo driver. It rolls down with a soft mechanical sound.
"Sir?" the driver asks, glancing at him in the rearview mirror.
"Could you possibly take a different route back to the hotel?" Banks asks, leaning forward in his seat and pointing at the front window. "There's a side street just up there, and if you take it over two blocks, it should lead us right to the courthouse."
"The courthouse, sir?" He can tell that the driver wants to point out that the courthouse will be closed at this time of night, but his job is only to meet their requests, not to offer feedback, so he gives a crisp nod, his chauffeur's cap bobbing slightly as he does. "Yes, sir."
The driver swings the limo down the side street and Banks sinks back into his seat next to Sunday.
