Page 80 of The Americana Playbook

“If she were smarter,” I begin, “she would’ve kicked off her heels and gone long to catch a pass. People loved to see Obama playing basketball. That would’ve helped separate the human from the politician a bit more.”

After all, how could you not stop and smile over an adult taking time out of their day to mess around with kids? Up until now, I’ve seen the glitz of Fitz’s reputation at the gala, and a sliver of the gritty side of his career when he comes home from a tough workout. But now—after watching those kids look at him with nothing but wonder in their eyes—I’ve seen the heart of it too.

“But no,” I continue. “If I were doing this the waytheywanted me to, I’d be following Congressman Cam around. Somehow, I doubt he’d get down and dirty with a bunch of kids.”

“Definitely not. I mean, the guyrowed.” Fitz scoffs. “Total pansy.”

I’m tossed back to high school, where I have images of Cam and his crew friends walking around in their unitards before heading down to the boathouse that flanks the river after classes ended. I shake the vision from my mind, but that becomes more difficult when I catch sight of the sign for where Fitz is heading.

Manhasset.

Immediately, I straighten in my seat. “Where are we?—”

“Chowder sounds about right. And a few dozen oysters.”

Clam chowder sounds good, sure. But what it doesn’t sound is louder than my heartbeat now thumping in my ears.

I wish I could banish Manhasset’s tranquil scenery from my mind—along with the final memories of my hometown—but that would be impossible. Some things are too beautiful to forget, no matter how haunting they might be.

“How mad would your mom be if we had a beer when it’s not even two in the afternoon?”

Turning away from the window, I find Fitz staring at the rearview mirror and peek over my shoulder, finding the black SUV. Of course our babysitters are in tow. But I don’t have space in my head to give them. All my thoughts are focused on what’s ahead of us, which I’ve kept behind me for so, so long.

I return my gaze to the front of the car.

“Let’s find out.”

* * *

Fitz points at the table, swallowing down the rest of his food. “You can’t beat this.”

I’m scraping down the sides of the cup of clam chowder, and regret not following Fitz’s lead and ordering a bowl of it. I pick up one of the three dozen oysters he ordered and slide it into my mouth. Fitz favors the grilled, which I get, they’re fantastic. But I prefer the fresh with a squeeze of lemon and a hefty dollop of Tabasco.

Wiping my chin with a napkin, I pick up my glass of wine. The crisp chardonnay and food have done wonders to calm my nerves.

“You definitely can’t,” I tell him. “But I’m sure you can get close to this in Boston.”

Fitz lifts his shoulder in a half shrug and points at the water. “No place like home though.”

I put my glass down, bringing my shoulders—already covered in Fitz’s blazer—up to my ears.

“You cold? Should we finish up inside?”

I shake my head. It is a little chilly for the end of May since it’s so cloudy, but the reason I snuggle down isn’t to get warmer. I’m drawn to the scent that laces the jacket Fitz draped over me when we sat down an hour ago. Even though he’s sitting across from me, between his taste lingering on my lips—which I swear, cuts through even the wine and seafood—and his smell rising from his jacket, Fitz feels impossibly close.

And somehow, not close enough.

“I thought about buying this place one time,” Fitz says. “Jim and Peggy were looking for a partner, but seems things turned around.”

The Landing is as much a landmark in Manhasset as Captain’s Cottage. The deck wood has grown more worn in the time I’ve been away, from the sea, the weather, or a little bit of both. I sit and take it in, realizing I’m happy in this restaurant Honey used to take me and Madeline to once a week. We’d sit at the bar, eating oysters, crab legs, and hot, crisp french fries while she had a martini.

“Honey used to take me and Madeline down here every Tuesday when my parents were in DC.”

Fitz finishes the last of the grilled oysters. “Guess I picked the right day to take you then.”

I’d call it a happy coincidence, but I let him have this one.

He tips his head to the side for a beat. “What would she think of all this?”

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