Chapter 2: Playing the Part

Honestly, whether as the daughter of my father’s mistress in this era or as someone who ended up here by accident, I suppose I was pretty successful.

I’d always had to play by rules I didn’t write—first, navigating a childhood on the margins, then learning the power of smiling at the right people and keeping secrets tucked tight under my tongue. For a while, I even convinced myself that was just the American way: survive, adapt, move up.

My husband is the Chief of Staff, second only to the Governor, respected above all others in Maple Heights. Outwardly, we always acted like the perfect couple, putting on a harmonious front for everyone.

At every Fourth of July parade, we stood together at the head of the reviewing stand, stars-and-stripes bunting flapping behind us. Folks in town said the Whitakers were pure Maple Heights—a model family. No one ever saw our cracks.

As Mrs. Whitaker, I managed my own family’s business. At any charity gala or dinner party, whoever saw me would greet me with respect.

Even at the Chamber of Commerce luncheons, people would nod my way, their voices warm but always careful. I learned to wear confidence like lipstick—smiling through whatever the day demanded, always sharp, never out of place.

I gave birth to a talented son and daughter. My son became the youngest valedictorian in Maple Heights history; my daughter, with a lavish trust fund, married gloriously into the McAllister family, one of the town’s oldest names.

It all looked so good in the local paper: Caleb’s scholarship to Princeton, Natalie’s wedding at St. Paul’s, white roses trailing down the pews. The kind of milestones that made the front page and filled our mailbox with congratulatory cards.

David gave me everything. He just—like all powerful men of this era—had mistresses, that’s all.

In private, friends would sigh and say, "That’s just how things are, honey." I learned to let the subject slide at book club, pouring another glass of Chardonnay, letting the hum of Oprah reruns fill the background instead of asking why we kept making excuses for men like David.

Everyone said that as Chief of Staff, it was only natural for him to have a few women on the side.

Whispers at the salon, the way Mrs. Leary raised her eyebrows as if this was just a part of the American dream for men in politics. They called it ‘boys will be boys’—as if infidelity were another badge of office, worn with their cufflinks and campaign pins.