Chapter 26
Chapter Twenty-Six
T he first morning of their trip to Washington, DC, Graham woke up at six o’clock, left the hotel, and went for a five-mile run through the ornate streets of the nation’s capital.
He ran past the Washington Monument, the Lincoln Memorial, and the Jefferson Memorial; he swept past a few trees that still clung to cherry blossoms despite the lateness of the year.
He ran past political men and women in suits, speaking quickly, walking in a way that meant they were needed somewhere promptly.
When he took a break near the Smithsonian, he was filled with a sudden memory of thirteen years ago, when he’d staged a protest right here, handcuffing himself to the front doors of the museum with another activist named Marty.
He couldn’t fully remember what they’d been fighting at the time.
But he remembered the frightened look in Marty’s eye when they’d been shoved into a cop car.
Marty had stopped being an activist after that. He’d gotten a job at a desk in Philadelphia and gone on to have four children.
What had kept Graham going?
Graham continued to run, snaking his way back to the hotel, where he grabbed a cup of coffee from the breakfast room and went upstairs to find Sylvie still asleep.
Tenderly, he kissed her on the forehead to wake her, then made another cup of coffee for her in the little machine they had in the room.
Sylvie stretched her arms over her head, watching him dreamily.
“You went running?”
“I have to stay young and spry for you,” he teased.
Sylvie giggled. They locked eyes and shared a moment of silence.
“I can’t believe today’s the day,” she said.
“We’re back in action, baby.”
“Just like old times,” Sylvie said. “My father would have hated it.”
But Graham squeezed her hand and reminded her, “Your father wouldn’t stop telling his friends how proud he was of you. Keep that in your head. Not the other stuff.”
Graham wanted to say people could change.
Graham showered and dressed in a pair of jeans and a T-shirt.
Sylvie got up, showered, dried her hair, and suggested they wander through town and grab brunch.
They were needed at the gala at six thirty, where they’d walk the “green carpet” and smile for staged photographs.
After that, they’d be seated at ornate circular tables, drink champagne, and prepare for Sylvie’s award.
After that, the carnage would begin. Carnage by way of words.
At five forty-five, Graham helped Sylvie slip into her dress and zipped it up. As she twisted to see the open back and the shimmer of the black satin, he wolf-whistled. She smacked him lightly on the chest.
“What? You’re gorgeous,” he said.
“I am not,” she said. But the light in her eyes told Graham he saw her own beauty, that it pleased her, that she was thrilled to be out in the world with him.
Because Sylvie was ready to go, her hair glossy and her makeup perfected, Graham had to hurry to get into his tuxedo. He styled his hair with gel and said, “Ta-da!”
“It’s unfair how little time you need to look amazing,” Sylvie said.
But it was true. The effect was startling. Graham hadn’t seen himself in a tuxedo since his wedding day, and back then, the tuxedo hadn’t suited him. In all their photographs, Hannah had looked like a goddess, and he’d looked like a teenager playing pretend.
These thoughts of Hannah and the life they’d shared cropped up from time to time.
But when he’d told Sylvie about them, she’d said, “It’s good that you honor your past. I want to learn to do that, too, even with people like Mike.
I want to remember the good times. I want to feel grateful for the life I’ve had.
It’s been beautiful in so many respects. ”
The Journalistic Integrity Agency sent a limo to the hotel to pick Sylvie and Graham up. Under his breath, Graham said, “I bet that limo isn’t an electric car!”
Sylvie giggled. “So much for integrity, huh?”
But they knew they had to play the part. No false moves till Sylvie was up on stage.
The limo drove them to a convention center not far from the Washington Monument.
It slipped into a line with other limos and luxury vehicles, all of which stopped dramatically to allow those inside a beautiful entrance, long legs and bright tuxedos and stylish hairdos.
Graham reached over to take Sylvie’s hand and was surprised at how quick her pulse was. It was clear she was frightened.
“See you on the other side?” Graham whispered.
“Let’s rock.”
Because he was on the right-hand side and closest to the “green carpet,” Graham opened the door and stepped into a thousand photographer flashes.
He kept the door open for Sylvie and extended his hand so she could put her dainty one into his.
As she got out, he was suddenly reminded of what she’d looked like at sixteen: pink-haired, wild, and eager to fight. She was still the same Sylvie.
“Sylvie Bruckson!” a photographer cried. “Look this way!”
Graham and Sylvie were tossed from one photographer to another, told to look this way, then that, to stand over here and tilt their heads and smile!
Graham was sweating, and he knew the photographs would show how slick he looked.
But Sylvie looked as cool as a cucumber.
When a few reporters stuck their microphones into her face and asked questions about the Journalistic Integrity Agency, Sylvie answered like a politician—with her goals in mind.
“I think it’s an important event,” she said. “Other journalists have been on the front lines of major environmental disasters over the years. They’ve worked hard to get the word out. It’s essential to elevate these voices, to remind journalists of why we do this work, and to keep the fire alive.”
Sylvie knew a few of the journalists from her days in the field. These people, she hugged, asking them how they were and where they’d worked recently.
“I was over in Dubai breaking a story about this heinous start-up,” one of the journalists said.
“I totally panicked halfway through. I was like, I can’t do this.
I can’t keep following these people around.
I can’t keep pestering them with questions.
I thought I was going to break. But then I remembered that time we were in Mexico together. ”
Sylvie beamed. It was clear she remembered it, too.
“I stood my ground,” the journalist said, her smile gleaming. “I knew I was going to see you at this event, and I wanted to be able to share that with you.”
Sylvie squeezed the journalist’s shoulder. “It should be you being honored tonight.”
“I don’t think that’s true,” the journalist said. “You’ve been at this a whole lot longer than I have.”
Sylvie raised her shoulders. Graham thought it was incredible that she gave nothing away.
“This is my boyfriend, Graham,” Sylvie said a moment later. “He was with me from the beginning, staging protests across Nantucket Island and making posters. We started the environmental club at the high school, if you can believe it. That’s how big of nerds we were.”
“I did the same thing!” The journalist laughed and shook Graham’s hand. “I’ve never met any of Sylvie’s boyfriends before. This is quite a treat.”
“I know. She usually works alone, but she let me come out tonight.” Graham smiled.
Sylvie swatted him playfully.
Suddenly, across the green carpet, Graham spotted Ralph Finster, the CFO of Next Generation Nantucket Designers. His blood boiled. He had half a mind to run over there and give Ralph a piece of his mind. To remind him of his hypocrisy.
This was why Sylvie was in charge. She wasn’t as hotheaded. Not anymore, at least.
Ralph Finster saw Sylvie and decided to approach her. Graham couldn’t breathe. He watched as Sylvie extended a hand, saying, “Mr. Finster, it is a unique honor to finally meet you in person.”
Ralph beamed at her—his prize-winning pony. “The pleasure is all mine, Ms. Bruckson. Goodness, the work you’ve done over the years inspires me. I can’t say enough about it. My youngest daughter did a report about all you’ve done over the years.”
“Was it your daughter who nominated me?” Sylvie teased. “If so, I have to find her and thank her.”
“It wasn’t, no. We were well aware of your work long before that report came out. She got an A plus, by the way.”
“I’m sure she did,” Sylvie said.
There was something slimy about Ralph Finster, Graham thought. Something he couldn’t put his finger on.
Ralph tipped his head toward Graham as though curious about why Graham was so quiet.
“This is my boyfriend,” Sylvie hurried to say. “Graham.”
“Graham, it’s a pleasure. You have a wonderful partner here,” Ralph said, shaking Graham’s hand.
But if Graham wasn’t mistaken, he thought he caught a flicker of recognition behind Ralph’s eyes. He turned away, eager to move on. But one of the event planners was already approaching to tell them it was time to take their seats.
“I’ll see you at the podium,” Ralph said, waving them away.
Sylvie slipped her hand into Graham’s. They were led to a round table near the front, seated with several Washington, DC, politicians and other elite journalists.
Glasses of champagne were poured. Graham bit his tongue to keep from telling Sylvie that Ralph Finster had looked at him so strangely. Maybe he was imagining things.
One of the elite journalists—a woman in her sixties—leaned across the table to ask Sylvie, “Are you nervous?”
“Of course, she’s not,” one of the politicians said stiffly. “She’s put herself in far more difficult situations than this. Today, it’s all about champagne and pretty dresses. Right, Sylvie?”
Sylvie smiled. “Just champagne and pretty dresses. That’s right.”
Graham’s heart was pumped with expectation.
He thought Sylvie’s mother had nothing to live for. Maybe that was why she got so depressed. She couldn’t find the beauty in the world any longer.
But Sylvie could never have that problem. She lived and breathed the world’s beauty.
He reached under the table to squeeze her hand. It was going to be okay.
It had to be.