Endless Summer, page 13
Cooper and Stacey had dated for three years, until Cooper graduated from Hopkins, moved to Washington, DC, scored a prestigious job with the Brookings Institution, and decided that he had outgrown his college girlfriend. Stacey wasn’t quite as upset as Cooper thought she might be. Because she’d been dating Cooper since her freshman year, she hadn’t had the “full college experience,” she told him. The breakup would be good for them both, she said—what she meant, it turned out, was that she wanted to date other people, starting with the captain of the Hopkins lacrosse team.
Okay, fine, Cooper thought. Good for Stacey. He could meet women at any of the trillion bars in Georgetown. The problem was that Cooper was back to being a freshman—a freshman at adult life—and the women that Cooper met at Clyde’s and the Tombs were clerking for this judge, interning for that senator, researching those initiatives at the NIH, and they intimidated him. Often, when Cooper got home from the bars at night, he called Stacey.
Sometimes she answered; sometimes she didn’t.
Cooper and Stacey got back together briefly ten years later when Cooper was home in Baltimore for Christmas and Stacey, still single, was working as VP of marketing at the Baltimore Aquarium. That interlude fell between Cooper’s first and second marriages, and although Stacey had been eager to get more serious, Cooper was hesitant (though why, he can’t recall) and he’d stopped calling.
Stacey married one of the marine biologists at the aquarium and had two children—first a daughter, Amanda, and five years later, a son, Alec. Stacey and her family lived in Ellicott City, the kids went to parochial school, and husband and wife presumably commuted to work together. Cooper received a Christmas card every year, the tasteful kind with carefully curated photos—skiing in the Poconos, on the beach in Rehoboth—and he thought, Okay, fine. Good for Stacey.
This past Christmas, however, the card included pictures of only Stacey and the kids; the husband, Lars, wasn’t mentioned. A quick check of Facebook confirmed that Stacey was once again single.
At that point, Cooper had been divorced from Amy for nearly three years. He couldn’t call Stacey fast enough—and they had been together ever since. Nearly eight months.
They were happy, he thought. They joked all the time about how their relationship was the “best use of Facebook.” It was good that no one would ever forget your birthday again, but that didn’t hold a candle to being able to reunite with your old flame.
“You’ve been married five times,” Stacey says now. “And divorced five times. I love you, but you’re a bad bet, and although I have some negative qualities, stupidity isn’t one of them. The quickest way to put an end to this relationship is to get married.”
Coop opens the ring box. The ruby is the color of a bleeding heart.
“But I like being married,” Coop says.
“You don’t, though,” Stacey says. “You’ve failed at it five times, Coop. That isn’t normal.”
“Maybe the sixth time is the charm,” Cooper says. He’s trying for levity. Stacey has a great sense of humor; she’s fun, she’s smart and secure, she gets it—it being the world, life—in a way that none of his wives did, and Cooper wants to grow old with her. They can take Viking River Cruises, drive an RV across America, watch Jeopardy!, learn to play bridge.
Stacey starts the car. “There’s something wrong with you, Coop. And I was mistaken before. The quickest way to put an end to this relationship is for you to propose on the sidewalk like that.”
“That was impulsive. I’m sorry,” Coop says. “What if I start over privately here and now? Please, Stacey, will you marry me?”
“No,” she says as she feeds their parking stub into the greedy mouth of the machine at the exit. The barrier rises. “I’m sorry, but no.”
There’s something wrong with you, Coop. Stacey Patterson had the courage to state what no one else would. All his life, people have been telling Cooper he’s an “old soul.” He’s been here before, he was born with an… ease. An… understanding. Who was the first person to tell him this? His mother? A teacher? Geri Gladstone from across the street? Well, whoever it was had done Cooper a great disservice. He’d always trusted his instincts—even after they turned out to be wrong again and again and again. (And again and again.)
Cooper’s most recent ex-wife, Amy, is a psychologist in the District, and in order to find someone who isn’t a close colleague of Amy’s, Cooper has to look in Northern Virginia. Fairfax, as it turns out, where he makes an appointment with a woman named Dr. Theron Robb. Whereas Amy is known as a touchy-feely therapist, Dr. Robb is cool and reserved. Cooper appreciates this. He doesn’t need someone to empathize with him; he needs someone to tell him what’s broken and how to fix it.
Dr. Robb is in her late forties, Cooper would guess. She’s tall, Black, and as slender and graceful as a ballerina—but Cooper must think of his therapist as a person, not a woman.
“You lost your parents in a tragic car accident in 2013 and your sister to cancer in 2020. You’ve been divorced five times.” Dr. Robb pauses. “That’s a lot of loss.”
Cooper nods.
“It’s no wonder you proposed to Stacey,” Dr. Robb says. “I’m sure you were driven by a primal instinct for permanence. Someone who would stay.”
“Maybe?” Coop says. “I’m not completely alone. My nephew Link is living with me this summer, doing an internship at Brookings. We’re close.”
“But he’ll go on to have his own life,” Dr. Robb says. “He won’t be with you forever.”
“True.” Cooper doesn’t like to think about this. Link is the only family he has left, and Cooper loves the kid like a son, always has.
“Why did your marriages end?” Dr. Robb asks.
“Various reasons,” Coop says. “Sometimes it was them, sometimes me. The most recent divorce was me. I wanted out.”
Dr. Robb studies Cooper frankly from behind her glasses. He would love to know what she’s thinking. “When was the last time you were happy?” she asks. “When was the last time things felt right? Can you take me back there?”
“I’m not completely obtuse,” Coop says. “I’ve given this exact question a lot of thought. The mistakes started on Nantucket Island in 1993.”
Dr. Robb laughs, startled. “I hadn’t anticipated that kind of archaeological dig, but I’m game. What happened on Nantucket in 1993?”
“I left my own bachelor-party weekend,” Coop says. “My sister, Mallory, was cool enough to invite me and my two best friends to visit her over Labor Day. And then she had her best friend from growing up come as well, so there were five of us around the dinner table. I can remember when we all hoisted our glasses, remember thinking how lucky I was. That moment was… golden.” Coop sighs. “Then, later that night, my fiancée, Krystel, called to demand that I come home. She was jealous, she was threatened—”
“Controlling,” Dr. Robb says.
“And I left,” Cooper says. “I abandoned my sister, I abandoned my friends. But most of all, I abandoned myself.”
Dr. Robb nods.
“So I guess if I could go back to any point, I would choose that night.”
“I see.”
“A bunch of things happened that weekend after I left,” Cooper says. “Crazy stuff, like from a novel or a movie. And I set them all in motion by leaving. If I had stayed on Nantucket in 1993 instead of going home… my sister’s life, my friend Jake’s life, and my friend Fray’s life all would have been different.”
“That’s a pretty big statement,” Dr. Robb says.
“I know,” Cooper says. “But it’s true.” He drops his head into his hands. “I can’t tell you how many times I’ve wished I could go back and do it over.”
URSULA
On Sunday evenings, Ursula stops working long enough to make two phone calls—the first to her daughter, Bess, and the second to her ex-husband, Jake McCloud.
This is what passes for Ursula’s family life these days.
Bess lives in Washington, DC, at the Sedgewick in Dupont Circle, just like Ursula herself had thirty years earlier. She works for the National Council of Nonprofits, an umbrella organization that consults with and advises nonprofits across the country, and it’s her dream job; Bess has always wanted to save the world and empower the disenfranchised, and in this job she doesn’t have to choose between the homeless and hungry children—she helps everyone who’s in need. Ursula sends Bess money for rent and living expenses, and if and when Bess decides she wants to go to law school, Ursula will pay for that as well.
“How was your week, sweetie?” Ursula asks.
“Long,” Bess says. “I’m working with the Red Cross on their national campaign.”
“That sounds exciting,” Ursula says.
“The director basically offered me a job,” Bess says.
“I’m not surprised,” Ursula says. More likely than Bess going to law school is that one of the nonprofits she’s working with will snap her up as executive director. She has always been more like Jake than Ursula. “Did you do anything fun this weekend?”
“I had a date Friday night with some guy who works for the Nature Conservancy,” Bess says. “I had to spend two hours pretending to be outdoorsy while he described climbing Denali. It was painful.”
“DC is filled with men, sweetheart,” Ursula says. “Find yourself a hot young lobbyist.”
“I am not dating a lobbyist,” Bess says. “But you’re right, those guys are the hottest. Honestly, it’s like hotness and social conscience are inversely proportional.”
“Except for your father,” Ursula says. “A do-gooder and hot.”
“Ew, Mom, please.”
“You’re still so young,” Ursula says. “You should wait at least another five years before…”
“I know, I know,” Bess says. “How was your weekend, Mama? Did the great UDG do anything fun? Depose the bagel guy, maybe?”
Ursula smiles. She’s standing in her living room in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook Central Park. She feels like she could dip her toe in the Bethesda Fountain. She’s still in her running shorts and Lululemon tank, both damp with sweat. She did four laps around the reservoir as soon as the beastly heat of the day eased a bit. “I went for a run in the park,” Ursula says. “So I’m feeling very outdoorsy. And I’m going to order up from Marea after I talk to Dad. The lobster and burrata salad. I’ve been thinking about it all day.”
“You should start dating too, Mama,” Bess says. “I can make you a profile on Firepink? That’s the new one for olds.”
“Ha!” Ursula says. “Every man in this country already knows my profile. That’s what happens when you run for president. You lose your mystique on the dating apps.”
Bess laughs. “I love you, Mama.”
“I love you too, baby,” Ursula says. “Talk next week.”
They hang up and Ursula stays at the window, watching the sky turn purple, and tries to judge how Bess sounded. A bit too much like Ursula herself: lonely, and working too hard.
Ursula and Bess hadn’t always been this close; Bess’s adolescence was a battlefield. Bess challenged Ursula’s political views and called her out on her relentless ambition. Achieving is the most important thing to you. It’s more important than love, Bess said when she was fifteen years old. And wow—Ursula had felt that comment like a slap in the face.
Bess has mellowed as she’s gotten older. She approved of Ursula’s vote against confirming Stone Cavendish as a Supreme Court justice, and when Ursula announced her bid for the presidency a short while later, Bess joined the campaign, courting Gen Z voters.
But the development that brought mother and daughter close, the event that finally made them friends, was Ursula’s defeat on Election Day.
Ursula had been stunned when first Florida and then Ohio swung for her opponent, Fred Page. Ursula de Gournsey and Fred Page weren’t that dissimilar. Fred was a centrist who leaned a little left and Ursula a centrist who gravitated a bit toward the right, but they agreed on more than they disagreed on and their debates had been civil, even collegial. Ursula felt she could afford to be nice to Fred (she hadn’t run a single attack ad) because she was dead certain that she was going to win. All of the polls had her ahead by three to five points. Her campaign had outspent Fred’s campaign by 20 percent. Bayer Burkhart, who served as Ursula’s shadow campaign manager, assured her daily that a de Gournsey presidency was a lock.
So what had happened?
All Ursula could come up with was that when people were alone in the voting booth, they couldn’t bring themselves to vote for a woman.
The problem wasn’t Ursula. It was American society.
Of course Ursula harbored plenty of private fears—that ultimately, she wasn’t likable; that the country saw her naked ambition, her quest for power; that somehow she hadn’t projected her desire to serve as effectively as Fred had. Ursula had focused too much on foreign policy and not enough on controlling the pandemic. She had mentioned Notre Dame too many times, and Georgetown Law; she had seemed like a braggart when she told Anderson Cooper that she was fluent in French, Spanish, Italian. She rarely attended church, despite her Catholic background. She hadn’t seemed maternal enough or like a devoted-enough wife. So much more was expected of a female candidate.
It didn’t matter. Fred Page had won fair and square. Ursula gave a beautiful concession speech wishing Fred the very best and encouraging her supporters to celebrate his victory.
She spent the next two days in their house in South Bend in a numb fog while Jake and Bess dealt with the news vans lined up on LaSalle Street. At night, Ursula would lie on the couch, clicking among the news outlets, listening to everyone’s surprised reactions about the outcome. Bess brought Ursula mugs of tea that she didn’t drink and made her sandwiches she didn’t eat. Bess covered Ursula with a blanket at night and kissed her mother’s temple.
“I’m proud of you,” Bess said. “You’re taking time to process. You aren’t making excuses. You aren’t blaming anyone. It takes an extraordinary person to handle this kind of loss as graciously as you are.”
At these words, Ursula sat up and stretched out her arms. Bess came to her, and finally, Ursula cried. She cried for her broken dreams, dreams she’d nurtured since she was a child; she cried out of embarrassment; she cried for her dead father—she had wanted to make him proud. She cried from exhaustion and bone-deep weariness. She had given the campaign everything she had—nearly two full years of her life, trips to forty-three states, bus rides, flights, hotel conference rooms. How many women, not to mention girls, had told her she was inspiring? How many virtual fundraisers had she attended where she had given some variation of her platform speech, “Straight Up the Fairway”? She spoke out for commonsense politics, against extremist agendas. Ursula would have been a moderate, clear-eyed president who used her intellect and her excellent judgment to govern.
She cried because she had been rejected, plain and simple.
“It hurts,” she told Bess. “It really hurts.”
“I know, Mama, but that’s okay,” Bess said. “Pain means you’re growing.”
The call came three weeks later while Ursula was still emotionally convalescing, still dismantling her campaign, and still working as a U.S. senator from Indiana.
It was Fred Page. He asked Ursula to serve in his cabinet. Attorney general.
This was, needless to say, unexpected. And it wasn’t just a good-guy Fred Page promotional stunt. It wasn’t a “nod to unity.” Fred said, “You’re the most accomplished lawyer I know. I would trust you above and beyond any other candidate on my list.”
Yes, Ursula thought. He’s right. I would be the best at this job.
Ursula told Fred she’d consider it, and she called her executive coach, Jeannie. After an hours-long conversation, Ursula and Jeannie reached some conclusions. Ursula didn’t want to be attorney general. She didn’t want to stay in politics at all; when her senate term was up, she would return to private life. She wanted to go back into mergers and acquisitions. She wanted to live in New York City.
She would do both, she decided.
After she hung up with Jeannie, she went to the kitchen, where she found Jake walking in with a pizza from Barnaby’s.
“We have to talk,” she said.
“Jeannie and I decided—”
“You and Jeannie decided? You didn’t bother to ask me what I thought? Because I don’t matter, because you have no consideration for me or for this so-called family. Bess and I have always bent to your will and now your will is to be an attorney in New York and you think I’m just going to… what? Pick up and move my life there? I’m not, Ursula. I’m staying here.”
Ursula had laughed. “I’m not staying here one day longer than I have to. South Bend is the last place I want to end up.”
Jake stared at her. “I should have stood up to you long ago. Do you know why I didn’t? Because I have always believed that you were special. But I’m not giving in on this. If you go to New York, Ursula, you go alone.”
It was an ultimatum, but was he serious? Was Ursula serious? They let the topic drop; Ursula still had a year of her term left, so going anywhere was a moot point. Maybe Ursula was suffering from PTSD. Maybe she would change her mind and decide that it would be nice to stay in the Bend with her mother and Jake’s parents nearby. Or… maybe Ursula and Jake would finally get divorced. While they were dating, they had broken up a handful of times and seen other people, but they had always gravitated back to each other. In the late nineties, Ursula had had an affair with an associate, Anders Jorgensen. Jake had conducted a one-weekend-a-year affair with a woman named Mallory Blessing for the entirety of their marriage. They had survived all that; surely they would survive Ursula’s presidential loss.
Now it’s four years later. Fred Page will sail easily into a second term, and Ursula is the managing partner at Hamilton, Laverty, and Smythe, the biggest M and A firm in the country. She bought a two-bedroom apartment on the seventy-eighth floor of 436 Park, which is the premier address in Midtown, maybe in all of New York. Ursula lost the presidency and lost her husband—but she’s gained a city. She loves the noise, the taxis, the subway, the sushi restaurants that deliver twenty-four hours a day, the elegant hotel bars, the doormen, the bodegas with their rainbows of floral bouquets out front. She loves the Cuban coffee place and the Vietnamese food truck. She loves racing down to SoHo when she needs something new to wear; she loves the FDNY; she loves the guys who drive the horse carriages in Central Park; she loves the Upper East Side mommies and nannies; she loves the ten-story-high screens in Times Square and the tugboats on the East River. She loves that while everyone knows who she is, nobody cares, because this city is also home to Alicia Keys, Yoko Ono, Sarah Jessica Parker, people far more exciting than Ursula.
