Andrew Young - The Politician

The rest of the night was a blur of celebration and optimism. More than a few people considered Edwards’s smashing success, good looks, and obvious talents, and compared him with the Kennedys. Others wondered aloud if he might wind up in the White House. I certainly thought it was a possibility, and I was hoping to help him get there. Although Cheri was a decidedly nonpolitical person, she stayed by my side into the early-​morning hours, listening to endless talk about the election and Edwards’s future. I drank enough so that she handled the drive home, but I didn’t worry about a hangover. On this night, Edwards had fulfilled my expectations and the state had, as he said, turned toward hope. I felt proud and happy, as if a great new dawn were breaking.

Okay. Is everybody ready to smile?”

“No. Not yet. Hold on just a minute.”

This was take number twelve-or maybe one hundred and twelve-and once again the members of the Edwards clan were out of position and both Elizabeth and I were getting a little frustrated by the effort it was taking to get a nice photo of the family in front of a Christmas tree. The struggle, which also had something to do with Mrs. Edwards’s perfectionism, included a little bit of sniping and complaining, and endless shifting and rearranging. In between shots, I found myself wondering, Just how did I get into this?

In fact, Julianna Smoot had called me at the last minute, asking if I could drive to the Edwards house in posh Country Club Hills (a rich Republican neighborhood he had failed to carry in the election) and take the Christmas photo because she had something else demanding her attention. Julianna had remembered sending me over on election day to put campaign signs in their yard. The picture had to be taken immediately, because the family had waited until the last minute and needed to place their order for cards. I haaidr cardsppily agreed to do it because I had already applied for a job on Edwards’s staff, and it couldn’t hurt to spend some time with the senator-​elect and to meet his wife, who everyone knew was his best friend and most important adviser.

Though small in stature-she’s about five feet two-Mrs. Edwards was known as a powerful person in her own right. She graduated near the top of her class at the University of North Carolina Law School (just behind the senator) and had had a successful legal career under her maiden name, Elizabeth Anania. After their son Wade was killed, she retired and underwent fertility treatments and gave birth to Emma Claire when she was forty-​eight years old. She changed her name to Elizabeth Edwards when her husband entered politics. When I saw her on photo day, she had been through an incredible couple of years that included losing a child, guiding her husband’s election, and having a baby. (Another child, a boy named Jack, would come in the year 2000.) She wanted a perfect picture, and it didn’t seem to be working out.

Part of the problem was the camera, or rather the guy working it. Mrs. Edwards had a fancy digital setup with a telephoto lens, and it took me some effort to learn how to work it. But the whole operation was also affected by the time pressure-we needed a great photo now-and Mrs. Edwards’s desire for every detail to be perfect. I also thought that Mrs. Edwards, who looked like a normal woman of forty-​nine-pretty but a bit overweight-was self-​conscious about getting her picture taken with her husband, who was very youthful and photogenic. Finally, there was the pressure that surrounds every big politician’s Christmas card. These cards are more than mere messages of good tidings. They promote the family’s image, communicate Christian values, and signal who is favored by the powerful and who is not. People left off the list never forget it. People on the list feel honored, show off their cards to friends as status symbols, and keep them as historical mementos.

With so much riding on the photo, I had to struggle to stay cool as I snapped away and Elizabeth came over to check the images in the viewer on the back of the camera. She hated the way she looked in almost every frame, but in the end she had to accept one for the card. I had no idea whether anyone actually liked the picture. All I knew for sure was that it had not been the best time to get to know the Edwards family, and I hoped I’d get a second chance.

While I waited to see how my professional future might work out, I had no doubts about my personal life. Cheri and I had bought a house, and we moved in with my dog, a boxer named Meebo (a mash-​up of My Boy), and a pair of cats named Pepper and Granny. We all got along so well that in January 1999 I ordered an engagement ring, which the jeweler told me would take several weeks to make. On the morning of Friday, February 12, a clerk at the store called to say the ring had been finished early and was ready to be picked up. I hadn’t planned to pop the question so soon, but I was suddenly filled with inspiration and set about creating a night Cheri would never forget.

Fortunately for me, everyone, includi. Pyone, ing the caterers I called-a company called the Food Fairy-loves a romantic. They agreed to go to our house at a little after five o’clock, find a key I would hide for them, and prepare both the meal and a beautiful table-china, crystal, flowers-and put Stan Getz on the stereo. (I wanted a violinist but couldn’t find one who was available.) At about three o’clock, I called Cheri and said my boss had suddenly assigned me-which meant us-to attend a black-​tie event that evening. She didn’t like the idea of racing around to find something to wear and getting ready on such short notice, but when I told her that the governor would be there and it was important for me to attend, she agreed to do it.

By six o’clock, Cheri, who had worked until three-​thirty, had somehow found something to wear, and she looked beautiful, although she was tired and a bit frustrated with me. I managed to get her in the car and down the road just as the Food Fairy truck whizzed past us. “I wonder where they’re going,” said Cheri. As she mused about the truck, I suddenly realized I needed to kill an hour so they could get things ready. I decided I’d drive to one of the city’s few venues for black-​tie galas-the Sheraton Raleigh Capital Center -and use up half an hour or so figuring out that it was “the wrong place.”

The ruse would have worked better if the lot and entrance at the Sheraton hadn’t been deserted, but as we drove up it was obvious that no one was having any kind of event there. Nevertheless, I had Cheri wait in the car while I ran inside to “check.” When I came back out to report it was the wrong place, Cheri pushed for me to call my boss for the proper address. I resisted her. Finally, I said I didn’t feel well and maybe we should go home. I don’t recall her exact words, but they were something like “You don’t ask me to get all dressed up like this on short notice and then just go home. Suck it up, buddy.”

Since I needed to waste more time, I suggested we go to a McDonald’s, where I could get a Sprite to settle my stomach (which to a nurse was ridiculous). When the soft drink didn’t work-“I really feel bad; I think we should go home”-Cheri gave up on me and agreed to call it a night. She fumed on the ride home, though, and when we got to the house she got out of the car without saying a word. She was stomping mad, and I had to hustle to catch up with her at the front door. When I opened it she could smell our dinner cooking, hear the music, and see rose petals on the floor and a table set.

That night we had a candlelight feast that included the juiciest steak I ever had, topped with a concoction of crab and lobster. Cheri’s dessert-a chocolate torte-came with whipped cream, raspberry drizzle, and her engagement ring. When I got down on my knees, my stomach didn’t hurt, but it was filled with butterflies as I said, “You are the woman of my dreams, and I want to spend the rest of my life with you. Will you marry me?” She said yes. After dinner, we called our family and friends and gave them the news. (Her father wasn’t surprised. I had asked for his permission.) We soon set September 11 as the date for our wedding.