Page 55 of Love Conquers All

It was after one in the morning, so Sylvie decided to write him an email rather than call. She wasn’t sure how to say it aloud, anyway.

Dear Mr. Everett,

I hope this email finds you well. I recognize that it’s highly unusual to say what I’m about to say and ask of you what I’m about to ask, but I see no way forward without it.

I need to understand my father. I need to know who he was, how he thought of my mother and me, and how his final years were. I need to fill in the gaps of his life in order to fill in the gaps of mine.

Could you help me?

Sylvie Bruckson

Chapter Twenty-Six

The first morning of their trip to Washington, DC, Graham woke up at six o’clock, left the hotel, and went for a five-mile run through the ornate streets of the nation’s capital. He ran past the Washington Monument, the Lincoln Memorial, and the Jefferson Memorial; he swept past a few trees that still clung to cherry blossoms despite the lateness of the year. He ran past political men and women in suits, speaking quickly, walking in a way that meant they were needed somewhere promptly. When he took a break near the Smithsonian, he was filled with a sudden memory of thirteen years ago, when he’d staged a protest right here, handcuffing himself to the front doors of the museum with another activist named Marty. He couldn’t fully remember what they’d been fighting at the time. But he remembered the frightened look in Marty’s eye when they’d been shoved into a cop car.

Marty had stopped being an activist after that. He’d gotten a job at a desk in Philadelphia and gone on to have four children.

What had kept Graham going?

Graham continued to run, snaking his way back to the hotel, where he grabbed a cup of coffee from the breakfast room and went upstairs to find Sylvie still asleep. Tenderly, he kissed heron the forehead to wake her, then made another cup of coffee for her in the little machine they had in the room. Sylvie stretched her arms over her head, watching him dreamily.

“You went running?”

“I have to stay young and spry for you,” he teased.

Sylvie giggled. They locked eyes and shared a moment of silence.

“I can’t believe today’s the day,” she said.

“We’re back in action, baby.”

“Just like old times,” Sylvie said. “My father would have hated it.”

But Graham squeezed her hand and reminded her, “Your father wouldn’t stop telling his friends how proud he was of you. Keep that in your head. Not the other stuff.”

Graham wanted to say people could change.

Graham showered and dressed in a pair of jeans and a T-shirt. Sylvie got up, showered, dried her hair, and suggested they wander through town and grab brunch. They were needed at the gala at six thirty, where they’d walk the “green carpet” and smile for staged photographs. After that, they’d be seated at ornate circular tables, drink champagne, and prepare for Sylvie’s award.

After that, the carnage would begin. Carnage by way of words.

At five forty-five, Graham helped Sylvie slip into her dress and zipped it up. As she twisted to see the open back and the shimmer of the black satin, he wolf-whistled. She smacked him lightly on the chest.

“What? You’re gorgeous,” he said.

“I am not,” she said. But the light in her eyes told Graham he saw her own beauty, that it pleased her, that she was thrilled to be out in the world with him.

Because Sylvie was ready to go, her hair glossy and her makeup perfected, Graham had to hurry to get into his tuxedo. He styled his hair with gel and said, “Ta-da!”

“It’s unfair how little time you need to look amazing,” Sylvie said.

But it was true. The effect was startling. Graham hadn’t seen himself in a tuxedo since his wedding day, and back then, the tuxedo hadn’t suited him. In all their photographs, Hannah had looked like a goddess, and he’d looked like a teenager playing pretend.

These thoughts of Hannah and the life they’d shared cropped up from time to time. But when he’d told Sylvie about them, she’d said, “It’s good that you honor your past. I want to learn to do that, too, even with people like Mike. I want to remember the good times. I want to feel grateful for the life I’ve had. It’s been beautiful in so many respects.”

The Journalistic Integrity Agency sent a limo to the hotel to pick Sylvie and Graham up. Under his breath, Graham said, “I bet that limo isn’t an electric car!”

Sylvie giggled. “So much for integrity, huh?”

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