Page 2 of A Recipe Called Home

Biting her tongue, she pressed the phone to her ear. “Hi, Becca. Everything ok?” she asked, forcing her voice to sound pleasant.

Her eyes scanned the room again until she spotted an empty table in the corner, dropping her large bag on top of the crumb-sprinkled surface.

“Jules, thank God you picked up. I thought maybe you’d be on the plane already,” she said, almost out of breath. “The secretary is having a meltdown. He just read the draft of the speech for the luncheon tomorrow. Says the tone is too playful to match his authentic self. His words, not mine.”

Becca was good at multitasking, so Jules knew she was likely also replying to a barrage of emails from Steve Monahan, U.S. Treasury Secretary, while she gave Jules this all too familiar feedback. Becca was his chief of staff and Jules had worked with her as a senior speechwriter for the past three years.

“Did you remind him that the lunch is for the Children’s National Hospital and will be attended by sickchildrenand their families?” Jules asked.

“Yes, but he says that he needs to be perceived as a serious leader if he’s going to get another cabinet appointment.” Jules could almost hear Becca’s eyes roll as she said it. They both knew his reputation of being a chilly, calculated politician throughout the beltway.

“A little levity and warmth can’t hurt,” she said. “It’s a room full of sick children. I’m still not sure why he was even asked to speak, honestly. Doesn’t seem like an obvious fit.”

Becca sighed, agreeing with Jules but also reminding her he’s the boss and it’s his speech.

“Alright, I’ll make some tweaks before my flight,” Jules responded, resigned.

This was just about how every speech she’d written lately had gone. The secretary waited until the night before every speaking event to review the draft remarks and then demand changes that made little sense. He was a total control freak who expected perfection, like most of the politicians she’d written for. But it was getting harder and harder to take the feedback. Jules craved more creative control over her words, and working for Secretary Monahan felt like running on a hamster wheel. Speech after speech, it never changed.

Jules had been speechwriting since she moved to D.C. the week after graduation for a communications role with a senator she’d interned with. She fell into the profession while on the campaign trail; their only speechwriter had come down with the swine flu, and the team needed someone to write a speech for the very next morning. Ever since, she’d been writing for politicians throughout Washington, and she mostly liked it. Parts of the job fit her well: the solitude of writing and creating, the rush she felt when watching someone deliver the words she wrote. Mostly, though, Jules enjoyed the way it made her feel useful and kept her busy. Not to mention, it was a respectable and sometimes lucrative job.

“Thanks, you’re an angel. I hope you get to Chicago soon. And don’t worry about a thing while you’re gone. Just focus on getting your grandma better. I’ve got you,” Becca said before ending the call.

Jules looked around to flag down the nearest server; she needed that wine.

Ten long minutes later, she sipped stale chardonnay at the dim, sticky table. Begrudgingly, she opened her laptop to start revisions but couldn’t keep her mind focused as she worried about her grandma and what it would be like to stay at her house without her grandpa Lou. Grief reared its ugly head once again as she remembered the last time she flew home to attend his funeral with her then-fiancé. It had been a hard trip, one that she had tried desperately to forget.

This time would be different, she consoled herself. For one, she wasn’t with Luke anymore, and two, her grandma, who refused to go to an inpatient rehab center after her recent hip replacement, needed her. Spending a month in Riverbend wasn’t exactly what she wanted to do, but she owed it to Grandma Rosa. She was the closest family Jules had.

“Right. The speech,” Jules said aloud to no one. She needed to focus.

Rereading the draft on her laptop, Jules decided the lines she thought were her best work in the whole thing, the parts that felt most authentic and less political, had to go. They were not what the secretary had in mind, clearly. He wanted something more cookie cutter. More campaign speech, less inspirational words for sick kids.

After slicing and dicing the piece enough to satisfy her boss, she emailed it to Becca, signing off with a heartfelt thank you for taking care of things while she was away.

In a way, Jules admired Becca. She was one of those type-A people who flocked to Washington after graduating from a top-tier school, political science degree in tow. Everything about her said “Professional-Woman-With-Goals-To-Achieve,” even her choice of wardrobe, which was always a simple black shift dress. But lately, Jules had wondered if that kind of life, one totally consumed by work and professional success, was what she wanted. Was Becca happy or did she just put on a good front? The questions were never too far from Jules’ mind these days.

Two disappointing glasses of wine later, she boarded the plane. Sitting in the aisle seat of her row, a teenage boy wearing a grey hoodie pulled over his headphones looked up at her as she caught the vague smell of weed.

“Excuse me,” Jules muttered, hoping he’d get up and let her slide into her window seat. No such luck. He grunted and motioned for her to climb over.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” she mumbled as she stepped over his legs, making sure to “accidentally” bump him in the head with her large tote bag.

After pushing her bag under the seat in front of her, she sat back, buckled the seatbelt, and rolled the tension out of her tight shoulders. She could finally relax for a few hours.

The flight to O’Hare was just under two hours, where her mom would pick her up. Jules had made the trip a dozen times, often working straight through, but not today. Her mind was stuck in a loop thinking about her career and how this month-long trip might derail her plans, which only made her feel guilty because Grandma Rosa deserved her full attention. There was a lot to process.

Secretary Monahan didn’t know yet, but Becca planned to leave at the end of the year to start her own public relations and political advisory firm. She wanted Jules to come with her as the firm’s Chief Communications Officer. Logically, it made sense and part of her couldn’t help but be excited to step into a leadership role, but every time she thought long enough about it, her belly flipped and turned sour as a fresh pang of anxiety pulsed in her throat. Jules tried to convince herself imposter syndrome was to blame, but it felt much deeper.

Determined to quiet her thoughts, Jules popped in her earbuds to zone out to the newest true crime murder podcast she’d downloaded that morning. Oddly, it always helped her to relax.

A few episodes later, they landed, and she exited the plane as quickly as possible before heading straight to baggage claim to find her ginormous suitcase that weighed about as much as her. Heaving it out to the arrivals curb, she spotted her mom’s old Honda Civic, shocked to see it still running. Barb had acquired it as a parting gift years ago during a nasty break up.

“Hey, you,” said Barb as she met Jules on the curb. “Look at your dark hair! Last time I saw you, it was blonde!” She turned Jules around by the shoulders to get a better look.

“Hi, Mom. Nice to see you, too,” Jules responded, taking a slow and intentional step back. She’d never been crazy about people touching her hair, let alone crowding her personal space. “I dyed it dark a while ago—it’s easier to manage this way. I don’t have to go to the salon as much.”

In truth, Jules dyed her hair the day she got back from her last trip to Riverbend, after she broke things off with her fiancé, Luke. She wanted to physically match the change she felt inside. It turned out to be a blessing; she spent less money on it now and she liked to think it complemented her sharp features.

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