Page 5 of The Holiday

They’d all been wonderful husbands, and Heather is convinced that the fact that they’d lived and loved long before she met them made them all the better at being husbands. She’d never once been jealous of their first wives, their grown children, their grandchildren, or the years they’d lived before she was even born. She just considered herself lucky to be loved by such big-hearted men.

“I’m sure you’d make Dave happy beyond all reason,” Marigold says now, wiggling her toes as she admires the freshly applied green polish. “Has he popped the question yet?”

This question troubles Heather, because oddly, he hasn’t asked her to be his wife. “Well,” she says, licking her teeth as she remembers the way he dodged her hints at marriage. “Not exactly. But I think we’re getting closer.”

“Hey,” Marigold says, sliding her feet into the flip-flops she’s brought with her to the salon. “If you’re happy, I’m happy. I’m on Team Heather. Always.”

Heather appreciates the support—she truly does. But something is nagging at her as her manicurist finishes putting on the final coat of hot pink polish. Something about the way Dave tuned out when she mentioned a winter wedding…she’s not sure, but she’ll have to get to the bottom of it soon if she wants to be the next Mrs. David Hutchens. And she most certainly does want that.

Sunday

The sound of silverware tinkling against plates and dishes is the backdrop to the dinner at Sunday’s round table. She’s added as many chairs as she can fit so that there’s room for her, Banks, both of her girls—Cameron and Olive—and their respective men, Liam and James. Squeezed in between the girls is their father, the ex-Vice President, Peter Bond.

“Is Owen okay in that playpen?” Sunday asks as she starts to stand up and make her way into the front room to check on her sleeping grandson.

“He’s fine, Mom,” Cameron says. Sunday sits again. “Let’s talk about how things are going here,” she says, reaching for the dish of rice pilaf to scoop some onto her plate. “What are you doing to stay busy these days?”

Sunday knows that things are a bit stilted with her ex-husband sitting there at the dinner table, and she even understands why, but she doesn’t feel the least bit apologetic about inviting Peter to join them. He’s recently given up his bid for the presidency, and while Sunday knows he has a vibrant and colorful social life in D.C., she’d seen his face on the evening news announcing his intention to pull out of the race and known immediately that, deep down, Peter Bond was lonely. Dark, cold, concrete basement lonely.

After enough years of being married to the man, Sunday knows him well enough to know that, in spite of his bravado, his tough exterior, and his smooth political jargon, he is a man who feels adrift in the world. And regardless of which young, muscled male model he’s currently going home to at night, he could use a quiet holiday with his family. And for better or worse, Sunday and Peter share two girls and a grandson with one another, and in Sunday’s book, that makes them family.

“Oh,” Sunday says to Cameron across the table, “I stay busy. Banks and I walk on the beach a lot, and I read. I spend a fair amount of time at the bookstore with Ruby, and we have our book club meetings. I’ve made friends here. It’s a nice life.”

“You seem too young to be retired,” Peter observes. He stabs at the roast chicken on his plate, and while his words sound aggressive and accusatory, Sunday is aware that he’s just trying to make a point of some sort. “How are things going with the adoption board? Do they keep you busy at all?”

Sunday sits up straighter; she’s proud of her work with the National Adoption Council, and after giving up her infant son as a young, single woman, she knows that the adoption process is an important and beautiful thing, and she wants to do everything she can to support and promote it.

“We have a Zoom meeting once a month.” Sunday is cutting her chicken slowly with a knife, her fork holding it in place on her plate. “And I fly up to D.C. every three months for the quarterly board meeting. It’s going well.” She nods and puts a bite of chicken in her mouth, chewing thoughtfully. “I think Julia Roberts is going to co-chair our next fundraising event.”

“Wow!” Olive passes the bread basket to James, her boyfriend of several years. They own a bakery in Connecticut, and she inspects the bread and rolls that Sunday has nestled into the wicker basket and wrapped in a linen napkin. “That’s awesome, Mom. Good work.”

This praise makes Sunday smile. She watches her beautiful daughters as they eat and pass dishes around the table beneath the small crystal chandelier in her dining area, marveling at the way that fate brought her family together in the first place. Sunday and Peter had decided to adopt Cameron from Guatemala when she was a small baby, and a few years later, Olive had joined them from China. Her own daughters are a shining example of the miracle of adoption, and Sunday loves them both deeply.

“Have you considered moving back up there permanently?” Peter asks as he snatches a roll from the passing bread basket. “There’s so much going on in the city. You could really get involved there and not waste these years of your life baking under the sun down here.” Peter waves his butter knife around casually. “It’s beautiful and all, but it’s kind of dead here, politically speaking.”

Banks clears his throat and Sunday senses that he wants to speak up in her defense. To stop him, she slides her hand onto his thigh beneath the table and squeezes gently.

“Well, Peter,” she says with a patient smile. “I like it here. And I don’t feel like I’m wasting these years of my life. I’ve never been as involved or interested in politics as you are, and frankly, I feel like I’m contributing by being a part of the National Adoption Council. Banks and I are happy here.” She turns to face her boyfriend, melting a little as she looks into his eyes and smiles. In return, he holds her gaze.

“What about you, Dad?” Cameron asks her father. Her eyes flash as she looks at him, and Sunday feels a wave of gratitude towards her eldest daughter for stepping in. “Now that the White House is off the table, what are you going to do? Aside from the obvious?” She arches one eyebrow at him, letting him know that she is, in fact, referring to his extracurricular activities that involve dark bars, strange men, and nameless interludes.

Peter shoots her a warning look. “Well, Cameron. I’ve decided that I can best serve this country by using my power in different ways.”

Olive, generally the sweeter and more pliable of the Bond daughters, splutters as she sips her ice water. “Dad,” she says imploringly. “What does that evenmean?”

Peter looks mildly flustered, which is unusual for him. He hadn’t even looked ruffled a couple of years earlier when Sunday caught him with his pants around his ankles—quite literally—in the food pantry of the White House kitchen with Adam, their head chef.

“It means that I can use the fame I have to do good things,” Peter says, sounding pious. He sets his silverware down gently and places his elbows on the table, lacing his fingers together as if he is about to start a very important lecture. “In fact, I’ve signed on to make a documentary that I think will be a huge hit at the Sundance Festival.”

The table goes quiet; all movement stops. Just then, Owen wakes up in the front room and lets out a yowl to inform the world that he’s up and wants attention.

“What’s it about?” Sunday asks, unable to stop herself. She can scarcely imagine.

“I’m taking part in a documentary about what it means to be a closeted gay man in America.”

The silence continues. No one says a word, but Owen continues to yelp from the playpen. Cameron sets her napkin on the table and stands as if to go and retrieve her son, but Banks stands first, holding up a hand.

“I’ve got him, Cameron,” he says. “Please, you finish eating with your family.” Before anyone can protest, Banks makes his way to the front room and leaves Sunday, Peter, their daughters, and Liam and James to sit with this bombshell.

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