tuition for every child or grandchild of his household staff. As a result, they are fiercely loyal to him. Willing to look the other way when our arguments grow loud, or when they hear me crying in the bathroom.
“Claire, try this wine. It’s incredible.”
I know better than to disagree with him. Once, early in our marriage, I’d said, “It tastes like fermented grapes to me.”
Rory’s expression had remained impassive, as if my words hadn’t registered. But he’d lifted my glass from the table, held it in an outstretched hand, and then dropped it to the floor where it shattered, red wine puddling on the hardwood and rolling toward the expensive rug underneath the table. Norma had come running from the kitchen at the sound of breaking glass.
“Claire is so clumsy,” he’d said, reaching across the table to squeeze my hand. “It’s one of the things I love about her.”
Norma, who was crouched down cleaning up the mess, looked up at me, confused about how my glass had ended up on the floor three feet away from the table. I’d been mute, unable to say anything as Rory calmly began eating his dinner.
Norma carried the soggy towels into the kitchen, then returned with another wineglass and poured me more. When she’d gone, Rory set down his fork and said, “This is a four-hundred-dollar bottle of wine. You need to try harder.”
Now, as Rory stares at me, waiting, I take a tiny sip from my glass, trying and failing to find oak undertones or the hint of vanilla Rory claims are there. “Delicious,” I say.
After tomorrow, I’m only drinking beer.
* * *
When we’re done eating, we move into Rory’s office to go over a few talking points for the speech I’m giving at tomorrow night’s dinner. We sit, facing each other across his desk, me with my laptop balanced on my knees, my speech pulled up in a shared Google doc. This is Rory’s preferred platform. He uses it for everything, since it allows him to access anything any of us is working on, at any moment. I’ll be working on something and suddenly I’ll see his icon pop up on my screen and I’ll know he is there, watching me.
It’s also how he and his long-time personal assistant, Bruce, communicate without documenting anything. In a shared doc, they can say things to each other that they might not want to put into an email or text message, or say over the phone. I’ve only seen and heard little snippets over the years. I left you a note about that in the Doc. Or Check the Doc, I put an update in there you’re going to want to read. The Doc is where they’ll discuss my disappearance, hypothesize about where I went, and perhaps outline their plan to track me down. It’s like a private room that only Rory and Bruce can access, where they can speak freely about things that no one else can know about.
I bring my attention back, asking several questions about the group I’ll be speaking to, focusing my energy on the success of the event. Bruce huddles in his corner of the office, taking notes on his laptop, adding our comments into the speech as we speak, and I watch him on my own screen, a cursor with his name attached to it, the words appearing as if by magic. As he types away, I wonder how much he knows about what Rory does to me. Bruce is the keeper of all Rory’s secrets. I can’t imagine he doesn’t know this one as well.
When we’re done, Rory says to me, “They’re going to ask you about next week’s press conference. Don’t answer any questions. Just smile and bring the conversation back around to the foundation.”
The buildup to announcing Rory’s candidacy has been excruciating. Leaked rumors every few days, tons of media speculation about Rory picking up where his mother left off.
Marjorie Cook had been famous for her bipartisan negotiating skills, her ability to swing the most difficult and conservative senators toward more moderate policy. There had been quiet talk of a presidential run, long before Hillary or even Geraldine Ferraro. But Marjorie had died of colon cancer Rory’s freshman year of college, forever leaving a mother-shaped hole that filled with a potent combination of insecurity and resentment that often bubbled over, burning those who dared to keep his mother in the foreground when discussing his political future.
“You haven’t given me any details about the press conference to