I’ll call you to say good night when I get back to my apartment later.”
And then he hung up.
Sandra felt better.
That’s what Stephen was so good at.
Making people feel better.
Which was why he was a two-term senator who sailed to victory in his last election by a whopping twenty-two points.
Sandra pushed the gear of her Audi into drive and drove home to her upscale residential neighborhood and her nineteenth-century New England–style colonial house that she and Stephen had recently restored to its original glory. As she rounded the corner, she instinctively slammed on the brakes, screeching to a stop in the middle of the road. Just ahead, camped out on her front lawn, was a swarm of reporters and cameras and harsh lights and a long line of news vans parked all the way down the street. And one thing was crystal clear in her mind. They were all waiting for her.
CHAPTER THREE
Sandra took a deep breath and continued driving down the street, taking a sharp right turn into her driveway. The throng of reporters surged forward, trampling her front lawn and surrounding her car. She reached up and pressed the button to open the garage, but the door didn’t open. She tried again. And then again. Nothing. The door remained firmly closed. The battery in the remote had been giving her trouble the last few weeks. She knew she should’ve gotten the battery changed. But she kept putting it off, and now the damn thing was kaput. She was going to have to get out of the car and fight her way into the house through the front door.
She grabbed her purse and mentally prepared herself for the ordeal of pushing and shoving her way past the cluster of reporters who would jostle around her to get some kind of statement.
Do not engage with them.
She said it to herself a few more times until she was ready.
And then, she pushed open the door and stepped out of the car. She kept her head down as the reporters descended upon her, excitedly shouting questions.
“What do you have to say about your husband using taxpayer money to squash a sexual harassment claim against him?”
“Do you know your husband’s accuser?”
“Is there more than one woman? Do you have a number? Three? Six? More than a dozen?”
“Were you aware of this claim against your husband?”
“Mrs. Wallage, have you filed for divorce?”
She got knocked in the head with a microphone. One overly aggressive female reporter grabbed a fistful of her white suit jacket and tugged on it, trying to slow her down as she struggled to make it to her front door. Sandra yanked free and kept pushing forward, and then, with the enormity of it all overcoming her, she felt tears welling up in her eyes.
Don’t cry.
For heaven’s sake, don’t cry.
She raised an arm to cover her face, not to protect herself from the flashing lights and prying camera lenses, but to hide the fact that tears were now streaming down her cheeks.
She wasn’t going to make it.
The front door still seemed miles away, and the reporters, who didn’t seem to care that they were on private property, kept blocking her path, shouting insulting question after insulting question.
She was ready to collapse on the lawn and curl up in a ball when the female reporter who had so rudely grabbed her screamed. Everyone stopped for a moment to look at her. She was soaking wet, her hair matted and her clothes drenched.
Nobody knew what had just happened.
And then, Sandra caught sight of a yellow blur sailing through the air, nailing a reporter from the local NBC affiliate right in the head and exploding, splashing him with water.
A cameraman from FOX News got it next as a purple balloon shot out of nowhere and blasted him in the chest, soaking him.
Everyone looked toward the Wallage house and could clearly see two shadowy figures in a second-floor window hurling water bombs down at the reporters.
There was pandemonium as the news crews rushed to protect their expensive equipment. During the chaos, Sandra, sensing an opportunity, bolted for the house. A few reporters chased after her, but she outran them and managed to get inside and slam the door, double locking it behind her.
She dropped her bag on a side table and trudged upstairs to find her two sons, Jack and Ryan, in the bathroom reloading by filling balloons with water from the faucet.
“I suppose as a good mother, I should punish you for scaring those poor reporters outside,” she said, smiling.
“Okay, how about we only get two helpings of dessert tonight at dinner?” Ryan helpfully suggested.
“Tough, but fair,” Jack agreed.
Sandra nodded. “Yes. You need to learn a lesson.”
She stared at her two handsome sons proudly. Jack was the oldest at sixteen, big and brawny with a high-wattage smile and endless charisma. He was only a junior but already the star quarterback of SoPo High’s football team. He was outgoing, popular, and a decent student. He could’ve been better if he pushed himself more, but because he was so important to his coach and to his team, many of the teachers tended to give him a lot of leeway. Sandra was especially proud that her son was brave enough to tell her he was gay about a year ago. She and Stephen had worried at first that he might have a difficult time at school, but to her relief and surprise, nobody even blinked, and his announcement seemed to just make him even more popular with his peers. Ryan, on the other hand, at fifteen, was more quiet and withdrawn. He was leaner than his athletic brother and a foot shorter. He was a talented artist, sometimes moody and unpredictable, whip-smart, on the honor roll, and could be found most nights writing songs and poetry in his room about his search for true love with the amazing woman he had yet to meet. A true hipster at heart. The brothers couldn’t be more opposite if they tried, and she could safely say she loved them both equally. Stephen adored his sons too, naming them Jack and Ryan because he had always been an avid fan of Tom Clancy novels since college.
The boys fought a lot, disagreeing on just about everything, but Sandra knew that in a pinch, they would always have each other’s backs. And it touched her that evening that they had banded together in order to protect their mother.
“Thank you,” Sandra whispered to the boys.
“No worries. We’re just getting started,” Jack said, grinning, as he ambled out of the bathroom back into his bedroom. He crossed to the window and let loose with a red balloon and waited for it to hit its target.
The boys suddenly erupted in laughter.
“Oh man, look at that camera guy running for his truck!”
Sandra walked over and shut the window. “I think they’ve suffered enough.”
“What’s for dinner? I’m starving,” Jack said.
“Turkey meat loaf,” Sandra said. She
