My sit-down with the Bardens was one of the most powerful interviews I’d ever done. We became friends. They returned to the show on the one-year anniversary of the shooting; I emceed their Sandy Hook Promise gala, and John and I hosted them at the U.S. Open.
They were a big reason I made a documentary on gun violence three years later, Under the Gun, which featured Mark and Jackie. We saw them at Sundance, where the film premiered—I remember John giving Mark a hug when they met.
“Wow,” I said, “you got a Molner hug? You’re a member of a small club.” Now Mark always makes sure to hug Molner whenever he sees him.
THAT TIME WAS full of firsts for John and me. We went to a B and B in Vermont where it rained all weekend; John made fun of me for wanting to leave early to visit the Ben and Jerry’s factory. He introduced me to his parents in the summer of 2012 at the Aspen Ideas Festival—gregarious, flirtatious, handsome Herby, a former CEO turned ski instructor; gorgeous Paula, with her silver bob and sophistication, her boundless curiosity. They’re really different, but such a great couple. At their 50th-wedding-anniversary party, someone toasted, “To Paula, who has all the questions, and Herby, who has all the answers.” （Another thing I learned along the way: Look for a man who has a healthy relationship with his mother.）
It’s so sad to me that my dad never got a chance to meet John, and vice versa, but at least my mom did. When we were visiting her in Virginia, John came to the Giant with us for a little grocery shopping. She needed Advil, so I sent him off to the in-store pharmacy to find some. He came back with a big bottle of the generic brand and pointed out to my mom how many more tablets she could get for nearly half the price. That, among other things, quickly won her over.
As fall gave way to winter, John and I were growing closer by the day. And I started feeling something I hadn’t felt in quite a while: contentment. All those years of failed romances were behind me. Life was good.
I remember one especially tranquil afternoon, sitting on the floor of my dressing room at ABC. Cynthia, my live-wire stylist, had already gone home. Dana and Josie had packed up their hair straighteners and eyelash curlers. No frenetic chatter; the thrum of the fluorescent light had stopped. I inhaled the silence and scrolled through my messages. Then a text came from John.
Call me right away.
81
The Brady Bunch
JOHN WAS NEVER one to mince words, but his text was especially blunt. He hadn’t been feeling well for several months. I never worried about it too much; I thought he’d just had a stretch of bad health—the flu or some other kind of virus. The flare-ups varied in intensity. But he would always get better.
Unlike Jay, John had an internist, so at my urging, he went to see him. The doctor told him it was probably acid reflux and prescribed Prilosec and Tums. He also said it might be “trapped gas.”
We laughed about the imaginary illness and dubbed it “trapped-gas syndrome,” joking that we should establish the Trapped Gas Foundation, or TGF, for people who were “suffering in silence.” The doctor did recommend John see a nutritionist, who told him he was eating too many salads. （Why hasn’t a doctor ever said that to me?）
Throughout the summer, he seemed fine.
Fine enough for us to drive three hours to the Hamptons on weekends, to visit friends in Nantucket, to travel to Iceland in July, where we strapped on crampons and walked across glaciers and rode out-of-control horses, but passed on hákarl, the Icelandic “delicacy” of fermented shark meat.
Early in our courtship, I had floated a trial balloon. “Do you think you’d ever like to get married again?” I casually asked.
“Not really,” he said simply. He had married his high school sweetheart and clearly didn’t seem interested in the idea.
I felt the sting of disappointment, but I was so tired of coupling up and breaking up, I was just happy I was with someone who was normal—mature, kind, emotionally healthy. By this point I’d given up on the idea of some sort of magical Brady Bunch scenario. If John and I were simply “life partners” without the benefit of marriage, I could live with that.
Labor Day weekend, 2013. We were in the Hamptons with Tom and Andy, hanging out by the pool, when John asked me to go for a walk on the beach. I was perfectly happy staying at the house, so I took a pass. I told John he should grab one of the bikes and go by himself. But he looked so dejected, I finally said, “Okay, Molner, I’ll go for a walk on the beach.”
It was approaching the magic hour, late in the afternoon when the sky turns pink and the beach has cooled down. It’s my favorite time of day, and John, not a big fan of “roasting in the sun,” would often relent and walk with me through the shallows as sunbathers gave way to twilight wine-drinkers and barbecuers. John carried an L.L. Bean canvas tote that looked a bit precious; there was a bottle of rosé and two glasses inside. We walked for a bit, then nestled into a pocket of sand protected by seagrass with a perfect view of the ocean. John poured us each a glass of wine. We toasted each other and the end of summer.