“Hey, Ann, can you come here a sec?” Mitt Romney called out, sinking into the cushions of a walnut-colored easy chair, his legs outstretched on a matching ottoman. Romney’s blue work shirt was tucked into faded jeans; sockless ankles peeked out from his New Balance sneakers. He paused as Ann Romney entered from the kitchen, where she was baking chocolate-chip cookies. “Sweetie,” he continued, “what are some of the items we gave away at the Yankee swap?” It was a September morning, and the Romneys were closing up their summer house in Wolfeboro, N.H. The place, which is vast and uncluttered, had a decidedly empty-nester vibe. Framed family photos were clustered on shelves; half-packed bags were strewn around the kitchen. The silence in the living room was accentuated by the distant whine of motorboats on Lake Winnipesaukee. After years of traveling entourages, the Romneys now live alone. There were no staff members or aides or handlers; no phones rang. Nothing announced the presence of an almost-president, other than a sign on the porch: “Ann and Mitt Romney: Tennis, Volleyball, Water-Sports.” A single Cadillac SRX was parked in the driveway as a flock of geese orbited overhead. “Darn geese,” Romney said, “keep pooping all over the lawn.”
Posted on: Tue, 07 Oct 2014 02:15:31 +0000
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