The similarly titled documentary is another story altogether. Released shortly after the book, the film plays to packed festival audiences and goes on to win an Academy Award for Best Documentary. Nearly fifty million viewers watch as Gwendy gives her tearful acceptance speech. She spends the majority of the next few months doing interviews with national publications and appearing on various morning and late-night talk shows. Her agent is over the moon. She’s back on the fast track again and more in demand than ever before.
Gwendy first meets Ryan Brown, a professional photographer from Andover, Massachusetts, during the making of the Eyes Closed documentary. The two strike up an easy friendship and, in an unforeseen turn of events for both, it grows into a relationship.
On a cloudless November morning, while hiking along the banks of the Royal River near Castle Rock, Ryan pulls a diamond ring out of his backpack, gets down on a knee, and proposes. Gwendy, tears and snot streaming down her face, is so caught up in the moment she finds herself unable to utter a single word. So, Ryan, ever the good sport, shifts to his other knee and asks again. “I know how much you like surprises, Gwennie. C’mon, what do you say? Spend the rest of your life with me?” This time Gwendy finds her voice.
They’re married the following year at her parents’ church in the center of Castle Rock. The reception is held at the Castle Inn and, despite Ryan’s younger brother drinking too much and breaking his ankle on the dance floor, a good time is had by all. The father of the bride and the father of the groom bond over their mutual admiration of Louis L’Amour oaters, and the two mothers spend the entire day giggling like sisters. Most folks predict now that Gwendy is hitched, she’ll settle down and concentrate on writing novels again.
But Gwendy Peterson does love surprises—and she has one more up her sleeve.
Born of simmering anger and frustration at the cruel and discriminatory manner in which many AIDS victims continue to be treated (she’s particularly incensed that Congress recently voted to retain a ban on entry into the country for people living with HIV, even as more than two-and-a-half million AIDS cases have been reported globally), Gwendy decides—with her husband’s blessing—to run for public office.
Suffice to say, her agent is not pleased.
Gwendy pours her heart and soul into a grassroots campaign, and it quickly catches fire. Volunteers show up in unprecedented numbers and early fund-raisers exceed all expectations. As one notoriously stingy pundit notes: “Peterson, with boundless charisma and energy to match, has not only managed to mobilize the young vote and the undecided vote, she’s found a way to stir the merely curious. And, in a state as tradition-steeped as Maine, that may well prove to be the key to a successful fall.”
It turns out he’s right. In November 1998, by a margin of less than four thousand votes, Gwendy Peterson upsets incumbent Republican James Leonard for the District One Congressional Seat of Maine. The following month, just days after Christmas, she makes the move to Washington, D.C.
So, there you have it, the story of how Gwendy finds herself eleven months and eight days into a two-year Congressional term, peddling her idealistic ideologies (as Fox News referred to them during last night’s broadcast) to anyone who will listen, and often being referred to—with a not so subtle hint of derision—as the Celebrity Congresswoman.
The intercom on her desk buzzes, yanking Gwendy out of her time machine. She fumbles with the keyboard, closing the video window on her computer screen, and presses a blinking button on her telephone. “Yes?”
“Sorry to disturb, but you have a meeting with Rules and Records in seven minutes.”
“Thanks, Bea. I’ll be right out.”
Gwendy glances at her wristwatch in disbelief. Jesus, you just woolgathered away forty-five minutes of your morning. What’s wrong with you? It’s a question she’s asked herself a lot lately. She grabs a pair of manila folders from the top of the stack and hurries out of the office.
5
AS IS OFTEN THE case in this corner of the world, an earlier meeting is running late, so Gwendy arrives with plenty of time to spare. Nearly two dozen House Representatives are crammed into the narrow hallway waiting to enter Conference Room C-9, so she positions herself by the water cooler in the outer lobby, hoping to review her notes in private. No such luck—it’s been that kind of morning.
“Forget to do your homework last night, young lady?”
She clenches her jaw and looks up from the open folder.
Milton Jackson, longtime representative of the state of Mississippi, is seventy years old, looks ninety, and is the spitting image of what a buzzard would look like if it fluttered down from a telephone wire and slipped on a Men’s Wearhouse suit. In other words, not pretty.
“Of course not,” Gwendy says, offering her brightest smile. From day one at her new job, she recognized that Milton was one of those men who loathed anyone with a positive outlook on life or was simply happy, so she really turns it on. “Just doing some extra credit. And how are you this fine December morning?”
The old man squints at her, as if he’s trying to figure out if it was a trick question. “Ahh, I’m okay,” he finally grumbles.
“Leave her alone, Milt,” someone says from behind them. “She’s young enough to be your granddaughter.”
This time Gwendy’s smile is genuine as she turns to her friend. “I’d know that sweet voice anywhere. Good morning, Patsy.”
“Heya, Gwennie. This old coot bothering you?” Patsy Follett is in her mid-sixties and as cute as she is petite. Even in the stylish high-heeled boots she’s wearing, Patsy stands barely five feet tall. Her bobbed hair is dyed platinum and her make-up is, shall we say, plentiful.
“No, ma’am, we were just talking strategy for today’s meeting.” She looks at the congressman. “Isn’t that right, Mr. Jackson?”
The old man doesn’t respond. Just studies them from behind thick eyeglasses like they’re flying insects splattered against the windshield of his brand new Mercedes.
“Speaking of strategy,” Patsy says. “You still owe me a return call on that education budget, Milt.”
“Yeah, yeah,” he grumbles. “I’ll have my secretary get back to you with a date.”
Gwendy glances down at the floor and notices a piece of toilet paper stuck to the heel of one of the old man’s loafers. She carefully reaches out with the tip of her shoe and nudges it free. Then, she slides the toilet paper against the wall so no one else will step on it.
“Or maybe you could just pick up the phone all by yourself and call me back later today,” Patsy says, arching her eyebrows.
Milton scowls and elbows his way toward the front of the crowd without so much as a goodbye.
Patsy watches him go and lets out a thin whistle. “Boy, that ugly mug of his is enough to make you want to skip breakfast. Maybe lunch, too.”
Gwendy’s eyes widen and she tries to hold back a giggle. “Be nice.”
“An impossibility, dear girl. I am cranky as a hornet today.”
A murmur ripples through the crowd and they finally start inching toward the entrance of the conference room.
“Guess it’s that time again,” Patsy says.
Gwendy puts out a hand, gesturing for her friend to go ahead of her. “What time is that?”
Patsy smiles, and her tiny, make-up–laden face lights up. “Time to fight the good fight, of course.”
Gwendy sighs and follows her friend inside.
6
TWO HOURS LATER, THE door to the conference room bangs open and thirty representatives stream out, every last one of them looking like they could use a handful of Tylenol or, at the very least, a cold shower.