Page 68 of Marriage (Red, White &) Blues

Pretty much, if they signed the document and took the money, they were agreeing toneverspeak the name Parker. My name. Not even in passing. Not just the last name, but any version of Gloria and/or Blake Parker. That included our first names. My mother wasn’t allowed to say her daughter’s name to anyone. Exactly what Carl had offered but with more stipulations and in legalese. Leave it to Robert to have to get the last word in.

“I’m not taking that money,” Carl said. “Man thinks he can buy me off?”

“Then don’t take the money,” I said, “but this offers you some protection.”

“It’s says I can’t say my daughter’s name,” my mom said, shaking her head.

“Where’s our safety net?” Carl asked the attorney. “I’ll sign when I see his promise to not come after me, Liz or my family in writing. He’ll have to send it to Michigan, but I’m sure he already has our address.”

“So, you won’t sign. When I get my assurances in writing. Not before.” Then he shoved the papers back at the man who took them and left abruptly.

Honestly, being a Parker became less fun by the day. Not being Blake’s wife. I loved being Blake’s wife. But being a Parker kind of sucked. I wanted this campaign to be over yesterday. I wanted my life back.

The invitation arrived in the mail on Tuesday.

I couldn’t wait.

But the same day, in that same bundle of mail, we received yet another invitation—the directive kind, not one we could decline—to yet another brunch. This one at the country club. With way more people.

On Sunday, the Parkers sent a car because, you know, how dare we drive ourselves? In any other circumstance in which the Parkers weren’t involved, I loved riding in a chauffeured car. But last night I’d dreamed of beating Robert with a horsewhip—and no, not inthatway.Gross. I just beat him over and over until Blake walked into the room we were in, pulling the whip from my hand to begin beating his father more. I woke up smiling.

How sadistic was that? I’d dreamed of beating a man bloody and woken up with a smile on my face. I needed help. I wore pink chiffon, pink pumps, and my hair up in a twist. My husband wore brunch navy blue.

We stepped outside into the bright, sun-filled day. It smelled of late summer. The gladiolus, echinacea, and bee balm bloomed in brilliant red, violet, purple, pink, and white. Orange and cream and lavender. I loved the front of the house now. He’d had the property re-landscaped while we’d been out on the campaign trail.

Now that we were home for good, I wanted to spend this glorious day picnicking in the garden he’d created. I thought about picking up a hobby, maybe crafting. Possibly knitting, cross stitch, or embroidery. Maybe I could try my hand at watercolor. Pen was the artist in our family, and yes—family. Made family was just as valid as born family. I’d never had time for creative endeavors growing up, being the scholarship kid at school, I had to work and study my butt off to keep my scholarships and get new ones for college.

“Let’s just skip out today,” I said conspiratorially to my husband. “They won’t miss us. I promise. We’ll just tell them, ‘What do you mean? We were there the whole time.’” And I flipped my hand in the air in that ‘whatever’ way rich women flipped their hands.

He laughed as he sighed. “I wish we could. I’m done with all of this.”

“Let’s hop a plane—it doesn’t matter where we go. You pick. Let’s just go. We’ll see the world. We’ll go someplace that no one knows the Parkers. We can just be Blake and Gloria.”

“Sweetheart,” he said placatingly.

“What? Why can’t we?”

“Because I want to use today, in public, to tell them we’re done.”

My whole body began to vibrate. “Seriously? Likedone, done?” I might’ve sounded a little too excited.

“Serious, babe. We’re getting our life back.”

The chauffeur stood by the back seat of the car with the door open. Blake glanced over to him and then back at me, smiling. “Ready to get your life back, Mrs. Parker?”

“I couldn’t be more ready.” I slid in first, with my husband following. The chauffeur closed the door while we buckled our seatbelts.

I slouched back against the seat, imagining our lives once we no longer had the specter of this horrible campaign hanging over us.

“Careful,” he said and I narrowed my eyes on him. “You don’t want to mess your hair.” Oh—right. My hair. Adair and Emily would have a field day running me down if I showed up with a hair out of place. I pushed into a more rigid seating position, dropping my hands onto my lap.

As we rolled up into the parking lot, I thought about how beautifully old world the main building looked. For a moment, I was transported back in time to the nineteenth century, where the stately three-story, white mansion with the attached solarium welcomed us in a very grandfatherly fashion.

Then my thoughts moved to all the wealth that strode through these doors on a daily basis. The yearly membership fee cost more than most Americans made in a year. Lastly, I started to get pissed thinking about how much good all these wealthy Vermonters could provide if they’d put their minds to do so. Damn Vermonters.

The chauffeur, I didn’t even get his name, why didn’t I get his name? He opened the door for us. Blake slid out first, holding his hand out to help me out next. I straightened my dress, nodded once, and then smiled up at Blake.

“Ready to make this brunch my bitch,” I whispered, and both Blakeandthe chauffeur chuckled. As I’d forgotten that he stood close enough to hear me, my cheeks turned pink.

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