New York Times  bestseller Twenty years after the publication of the bestselling All’s Fair , James Carville and Mary Matalin look at how they—and America—have changed in the last two decades.   James Carville and Mary Matalin have long held the mantle of the nation’s most ideologically mismatched and intensely opinionated political couple. In this follow-up to All’s Fair, Carville and Matalin pick up the story they began in that groundbreaking bestseller and talk family, faith, love, and politics in their two winning voices. If nothing else, this new collaboration proves that after twenty years of marriage they can still manage to agree on a few things. A fascinating look at the last two decades in American politics and an intimate, quick-witted primer on grown-up relationships and values,  Love & War provides unprecedented insight into one of our nation’s most intriguing and powerful couples. With their natural charm and sharp intelligence, Carville and Matalin have written undoubtedly the most spirited memoir of the year. *The New York Times bestseller * “Compelling … A solid memoir of political lives from both sides of the spectrum.”— Kirkus   “Compelling … the voices are the glue for and the animating features of an ultimately tender book that shines a light on their successful union, not to mention the Crescent City, and shows how big and small a role politics plays in our lives.”— USA Today James Carville is an American political consultant, commentator, educator, attorney, and prominent liberal pundit. Mary Matalin is an American political consultant well-known for her work with the Republican Party. Matalin and Carville live in New Orleans with their two daughters. Chapter 1: You Can Always Go Home Again MARY It was a New Orleans summer night in 2007. Dusk was just ending and the air was thick, like a cocktail of air and water. I ventured outside to walk the dogs. The street was dark, weirdly quiet. I looked back at the empty house we’d just moved into, a rambling mansion by my standards, but certainly not by the standards of New Orleans, a world unto itself, a distinctly American city with a romantic European grandeur. I wondered what the new house, and a new city, would bring us. After twenty years of holy and unholy matrimony—including storms, hurricanes, wars, disruptive house moves that James always hated, raising two daughters into teenagehood and our own separate moments on the frontlines of political battles, presidential elections, punditry pontification and, yes, if I can go braggadocio on you, even history—we had worked out a way of living together, staying together and being happier. There had been too many trials. Even more errors. One thing we learned: if peace could visit us, even illusively, it required well-thought-out living arrangements. James and I needed space. Mostly from each other. To be happy under the same roof, we required our own offices, our own bathrooms and our own closets. We needed a well-functioning kitchen with a double sink, a big icebox and enough room so our family, all of us—true foodies and amateur cooks—could concoct our meals. We needed a dining room for big gatherings, a lair for mass viewings of TV football games, and a hangout place where our daughters, Matty and Emerson, could be with their friends, inclusive of but not restricted to pajama parties. I had my own personal requirements: windows that open for fresh air, a garden where all my animals could run. I needed bookshelves, lots and lots of shelves for my old books, loved and cared for and purchased over a lifetime, way before I had girls who grew up to be book junkies and collectors themselves. Once it had seemed like a huge luxury, but I was now dependent on a soaking tub for temporary escapes from reality. A fireplace wasn’t mandatory but greatly appreciated. James had his own list of must-haves. He gave me explicit instructions: if we were going to move to New Orleans, we couldn’t live in the French Quarter (tough for kids), we could not be on St. Charles (too much traffic), and we had to be near his work (he was going to try teaching at Tulane) and a place for his daily jog. But there was more: the house had to have super air-conditioning (Southerners are psycho about their fake chilled air), a killer shower with strong water pressure (no longer available in the era of environmental wackos and efficient toilet flushing). And most of all, he needed a private space where he could close the doors and never have to interact with any of my animals. And a special “steam” component in the shower was not mandatory but greatly appreciated. Nobody got 100 percent of the must-haves on their list. These were the grounds for opening negotiations. On a family visit to New Orleans, I had gone house hunting alone. This gave me a distinct advantage. But there was no other way. James hates shopping for real estate almost as much as he hates snow. He opted instead for daytime drinking and lame