A wave of panic washed over me. “I feel like I should be writing this down.”
“Don’t worry. I have everything you’ll need written down in what I like to call the Campaign Bible.”
I exhaled a relieved breath. “Good.”
“But first and foremost, let’s get back to your wardrobe.” Everett crooked a finger, signaling for me to follow him. Racks full of designer clothes ran the length of the front of the conference room. “Since I was short on time, I took the liberty of guessing on your size. We can always alter them later.”
Pop-up signs divided the clothes by designer. Names like Valentino, Ralph Lauren, Marc Jacobs, and Carolina Herrera popped out, and Everett noticed me eying them. “We try to wear only American designers when you’re on the road, but sometimes we slip in some others.” Pointing at the racks, Everett said, “Your wardrobe will be divided into everyday campaign wear, political rallies, and evening wear.”
“I had no idea it would be so complicated. I’m just used to wearing business casual at work.”
“Well, you’re not in Kansas anymore, Dorothy. You could be experiencing up to three wardrobe changes a day.”
“Wow.” Three outfits a day times seven days a week…that was a hell of a lot of clothes. More importantly, it was a hell of a lot of money. I was used to stretching my dollars and pinching pennies when it came to my wardrobe. I had enough to wear for two weeks straight without repeating. Now I wouldn’t even be repeating in the same day.
“Tell me about it. Guess who is in charge of keeping up with what you wear.” Everett poked his chest with his index finger. “Yep, that would be me. I’m in charge of outfitting all the Callahans while out on the campaign trail, and trust me, it’s no easy undertaking.”
“I can’t even imagine.”
“First rule of the trail: you have to be careful about the fabrics you wear at political rallies. No silk, linen, or cotton.”
“Oh, is it some sort of fashion faux pas to wear those?” As the child of missionaries, I’d spent a lot of time in linen and cotton. Although one might think the hem of my dresses reached the floor or I was expected to have covered arms, that wasn’t the case at all, especially in the jungle climates. My dad sometimes gave sermons in shorts, and my mom, my sister, and I often wore sleeveless sundresses.
Everett pursed his lips. “No. It’s more about the fact that if you wear those fabrics, you’ll end up showing your bra-clad tits and thong-wearing ass under the heat of the heavy stage lights.”
“Okay then. I will just be saying no to silk, linen, or cotton.”
“It’s not an all or nothing thing. You can still wear them, but we just have to ensure you won’t be on a stage and that it’s not a particularly sunny day.”
“Got it.”
Everett smiled. “All right. Let’s get you ready to meet America.”
I’d never known picking out clothes could be so exhausting, but it was. Once again, I couldn’t help cringing at the thought of what all of it was going to cost—probably more than my annual salary, and that was only for a wardrobe up until convention season. Then I would need a designer summer wardrobe. It seemed crazy, but man was I going to look totally amazing in the clothes. I almost wished I had gotten to take them with me so I could model them again back in my hotel room, but they were taken for Everett’s team to do alterations and then they would be catalogued. Everett had shown me the computer program that printed the labels that would be added to the garment bags. I had never stopped to think about the process of dressing politicians and their families. It was truly intense.
After I was finished with Everett, I took Bernie’s offer and went to the Jefferson’s restaurant for lunch. I was halfway through my grilled chicken Caesar salad when Bernie came over and sat down with me. I already knew what the news was before he even opened his mouth; his pleased expression gave it away.
“Barrett accepted his father’s offer.”
“That’s great. I mean, we can’t do this without him, right?”
“That’s right.”
“He’s very anxious to meet you, so as soon as you’re finished, we’ll head back upstairs.”
The prospect of meeting Barrett sent my nerves into overdrive. There was no way I’d be able to finish eating now. “I’m ready.”
“Are you sure?”
“As I’ll ever be.”
Bernie nodded. “Then let’s go meet your new fiancé.”
Now there was a statement one didn’t hear every day. Having not dated for months, it certainly wasn’t something I was expecting to hear, least of all today, not to mention any time in the near future. After Walt, I wasn’t sure I ever wanted to be someone’s fiancée or wife. I didn’t want to give my heart away again and risk having it trampled and spit upon by a man who couldn’t keep his pants zipped. But now, here I was, the fiancée of a man who was ten times worse than Walt when it came to being a womanizer. That was a sobering thought. Think of your future debt-free existence. Think of the future. Think of all the brand new Choos.
When I stood up, my legs felt unusually wobbly, and I thought I might face-plant for the second time that day. Taking a deep breath, I pushed forward to walk with Bernie out of the restaurant. It only grew worse when we got onto the elevator. My stomach clenched in anxiety, and my knees starting shaking, which caused me to stumble. Great, Bernie probably thought I’d gotten sauced during lunch.