The Hopefuls(110)

They sent us a beautiful gift when our son, John, was born—a blue quilt with his name and birth date embroidered in the corner. I called Ash to thank her, but she didn’t answer, so I left a message. She responded with a text, which was fine with me. Texting (didn’t you know?) is the best way to keep in touch with people you don’t really want to talk to.

I do feel guilty that we’re Viv’s godparents, and I make sure to send presents on her birthday and Christmas and whenever else I think to. I’m sure this will slow down over time, that over the years I’ll send fewer things and then eventually stop. I can imagine that when she talks about us, she’ll say, “They were friends of my parents a long time ago, but we never see them now.” She’ll probably look at the pictures of the four of us and try to figure out why these random people were chosen to be her spiritual guides. I’m sure Ash will water down the relationship in her retelling. “We spent so much time with them in DC,” she’ll say. “Matt ran your dad’s first campaign in Texas.” But as Viv’s friends have their godparents show up at graduations with presents and envelopes full of money, I doubt she’ll care about any of that. She’ll just understand that she got pretty screwed in the godparent department.

The Dillons still send a Christmas card each year, one long letter that’s signed from Viv and written in her voice. It gives updates on Ash and Jimmy and recaps the year with some pretty priceless lines: “With all the jewelry she’s selling (and it’s a lot!), my mom says I’m still the most precious jewel of all.” “And, Praise be to God! It’s finally time to celebrate Jesus’ birthday!” It goes without saying that the card is decorated and designed by Ash, a Santa stamped on the outside of the envelope, a baby Jesus at the end of the letter.

I always want so badly to read this card out loud to Matt, since no one else could fully appreciate how ridiculous it really is, but I never bring it to his attention, afraid that mentioning the Dillons when I don’t need to will bring up bad memories. So I just leave it on top of the pile and pray that he sees it.

For the most part, I don’t miss the Dillons—not exactly, anyway. But there are times when Ash is the only person I want to talk to, when there’s something that only she would understand. Last week, we were at our block party and I watched Matt talking to our neighbors. He seemed a little too smiley, a little too friendly, like he was trying to win these people over, like he was campaigning. (We didn’t choose this district by accident. The real campaign will be along soon, I know.) And I was dying to call Ash and tell her about it, describe what it was like to watch Matt performing for them, auditioning in the middle of his real life. But I didn’t, obviously. I just turned and asked Ginny a question about Bunco and then nodded and smiled as she talked for the next twenty minutes.

—

Of all that I hate about DC, there are things I’ve learned to love, or at least to appreciate. There are fall days in October that are so beautiful they take your breath away. The sky is blue and the sun is strong and the air is finally the tiniest bit crisp. Most of the East Coast is already bundled up in their winter coats, but we get to appreciate the last of the sunshine, to hold on to it a little while longer.

And then there’s the way that people come here, earnest and full of dreams, believing that they can make a difference. That’s the thing about DC—people are always leaving but that makes space for the new transplants, the crowds that keep flooding in, full of energy and wonder.

You can see it on their faces as they walk down the street. You can spot the new people from the way they smile at the monuments, how they stare at the White House as they pass outside the gates, feeling thrilled and thinking, I’m here, I’ve made it. That’s what I see, mostly, when I walk around now, which is for the best, because it’s not easy to stay annoyed in the face of so much optimism. It’s hard to ignore that much hope.





Acknowledgments


I owe so much to my editor, Jenny Jackson, and my agent, Julie Barer. Both offered encouragement, wise notes, and patience with each draft of this book, and I’m honored to have such brilliant women on my team.

I am (as always) incredibly grateful for the support and kindness of my family. Thank you to my wonderful parents, Pat and Jack Close; my brothers, Chris and Kevin Close; Susan Close; the adorable Ava and John Henry Close; and Scott and Carol Hartz.

Many people were gracious enough to share their stories and experiences of working on campaigns and in the administration with me. Thanks to Peter Newell, Kenny Thompson, Casey Breitenbeck, and Bobby Schmuck for putting up with my strange questions and helping me figure out the right career paths for my characters. And while I’m at it, thanks to all of the great people from Obama-world who have adopted me into the group—you are all so much nicer (and much less annoying) than the characters in my book.

I am indebted to Steve Brown, who took time from his busy schedule to explain everything I needed to know about the Railroad Commission and Texas Politics.

Moriah Cleveland is an amazing writer-friend, and I’m so appreciative to her for always being my first reader and offering edits and e-mails to help me along the way.

No place feels like home until you find true girlfriends. Thank you to all of the Muttons—Amy Cogan, Chrissie Graham, Emily Hines, Megan Hughes, Theresa Lepow, Stephanie Schott, and (DC transplant) Mary Colleen Bragiel for helping to change my mind about this place. In the DC game of highs and lows, the time I got to spend with all of you was my high. My low is obviously that everyone keeps moving away. Come back, please!