Eighteen Acres: A Novel (11 page)

“Yes, yes, she’s fine. We had a nice dinner, and we did some shopping. It was good to see her. Are you all set for the trip?”

“Yes, and I can’t wait to get out of here. We go to the stupid press dinner, and then the motorcade comes back to the White House, and we’ll pretend that I’m going upstairs, and then I’ll change, and we’ll drive out to Andrews, right?”

“Exactly. We’ll give the press a full lid. They’ll find out the next day that you flew to Afghanistan overnight. The press that’s going with you will be waiting on Air Force One for you.”

“So they’ll miss the dinner?”

“I guess so,” Melanie said.

“That won’t work.” Charlotte frowned.

“Why not?” Melanie asked.

“Won’t the press notice that some of their colleagues aren’t at the dinner? Won’t that set off alarms? They live for the idiotic dinners.”

“It’s a very small press pool. We’re only taking the wire guys, one newsmag, and Dale Smith and her crew,” Melanie said.

“We’re taking Dale Smith to the front lines?” Charlotte asked, surprised.

“Yeah. I tried to get Billy to send their new Pentagon reporter, but he refused, and I couldn’t pull them out of rotation again. We’ve skipped them twice.”

Charlotte sighed loudly.

“What?” Melanie asked.

“Nothing. It’s just that she’s never seen combat, and I don’t like to use these trips to break in new war correspondents for the networks.”

“Do you want me to call Billy about it? He’d probably make a swap if I said it was a personal request from you,” Melanie offered.

“No, no. Don’t do that. It’ll be fine. I’m more concerned about the press pool missing the dinner and arousing suspicion.”

“Would you rather we let them go to the dinner and then to Andrews in a car that follows yours?” Melanie asked.

“Yeah, I think that’s safer. I don’t want anyone to suspect anything until we are on the ground in Afghanistan.”

“I understand. It’s no problem. I’ll have the press office handle the logistics,” Melanie said, rubbing her head as she sent Annie an e-mail asking her to call the press secretary in right away.

“You look terrible. Are you coming down with something? Go see Dr. Holden for some Ambien or something. You look like you could use a good night’s sleep,” Charlotte said.

“I’m fine. Just tired.”

“Take care of yourself, Melanie. I need you in fighting form.”

“It’ll be good to catch up while you guys are gone. I’ll spend some time with Ralph, and we’ll get a plan together for the campaign,” Melanie told her.

“Yeah, how’s that going? I gave Ralph permission to poll on everything
from my hair to my clothes to my children’s after-school activities. Anything come out of the data that’s encouraging?”

“Not sure. We didn’t go over it in detail yet,” Melanie said.

“Melanie, I’m not an idiot. I know that barring some act of God, I’m in deep shit. All we have to do is leave everything on the field. And we should be able to come up with some way to turn my political position into an asset, don’t you think? We should run the ‘nothing but the truth’ campaign or something that conveys that we have nothing to lose, so we’ll put it all out there and let voters decide.”

“Put it all out there, huh?” Melanie asked.

“Sure, why not? Stand on our record, take questions from real people, do some interviews, and let the chips fall where they may,” Charlotte urged.

“Madam President—” Melanie started to say.

“Uh-oh, I’m Madam President now. Something really is wrong.”

“Is there anything going on that I should know about—anything on the personal side of the house?” Melanie asked.

“No. Why do you ask?”

“It’s just, you know, I need to be read in on everything to do my job effectively, and if there’s something out there that could have an impact on the administration, it’s best if I can plan for it,” Melanie said. “Whatever it is.”

“I’m not sure what you’re suggesting, but I think I resent the implication that I’m withholding information from you.”

“That’s not what I’m saying. It’s just, if there’s anything else I can do to help—to support you,” Melanie said.

“You can start by agreeing to run the campaign and then coming up with some glimmer of hope for getting me reelected.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Melanie said.

Charlotte turned and flung the ball so far that the dogs lost its scent and started to whine for a new one.

“Emma, Emma, it’s over there!” Charlotte shouted, pointing as though the dog could understand her wild gestures.

Melanie watched Charlotte try to cajole the dogs. She wasn’t having much success, and after a few attempts to get them to run down the hill after the lost ball, she pulled another one out of her pocket
and flung it toward the two younger dogs. Cammie remained seated by her side.

Melanie turned to Cammie and knelt down on the ground to scratch her head. The dog raised her lip to bare her teeth and growled.

“Jesus, was it something I said?” Melanie stepped away from the dog.

“Cammie, stop it,” Charlotte said. “Ignore her. She’s tense. She senses that I’m leaving again.” Charlotte planted kisses on the dog’s head.

Melanie sighed and turned to walk back to her West Wing office. “I’m going to go make these changes to the departure plan, Madam President.”

“Thank you, Melanie,” Charlotte said, swinging the Chuck-It back and forth and looking out toward the Washington Monument.

“Anything else I can do for you?” Melanie asked.

“Nothing I can think of,” Charlotte murmured, her eyes not moving from the monument.

Dale

Dale left Peter’s place so late she almost missed the Sunday newscast. She didn’t know exactly when they’d leave for Afghanistan, but she was pretty sure she wouldn’t get to spend time with Peter again before she left. When he’d gotten up to make coffee, she’d followed him to the kitchen. They’d sat on the couch together under a blanket and held hands while they stared at the Sunday morning talk shows.

He’d walked her out to the car and held her to him before she left.

“I don’t want to go now,” Dale had said, clinging to him.

“I’ll see you when you get back. You’re going to be fine. It’s going to be amazing.
You’re
going to be amazing.”

He’d kissed her on the forehead and opened the driver’s-side door. Dale had climbed in, put on her seatbelt, and started the car. Tears had run down her face as she pulled out of the driveway. She wanted to race back inside and assure Peter that she would be fine—that they would be fine.

She made it to the newsroom in time to read through her scripts once while she had her hair and makeup done. She pulled an emerald-green jacket on over black slacks and a black silk tank. She raced into the anchor chair with bare feet twenty seconds before the show started.

“Good Sunday evening,” she said with her dazzling smile. “Violence
rocked Afghanistan again today. Our chief foreign-affairs correspondent has the story.”

While Dale was on the air, the White House press secretary called and left a message with details about the trip: “We’ll leave from the White House immediately following the correspondents’ dinner Wednesday night. You’ll ride in the president’s motorcade from the dinner, and then we’ll put you guys in a car that’ll take you out to Andrews. Bring whatever you need to the press office Wednesday morning before five
A.M.
Call us back if you have any questions.”

Dale rushed to the airport after the newscast to catch the last shuttle to D.C. She called Peter on the way and was relieved to get his voice-mail.

“We go Wednesday. I will call you tomorrow. Love you,” she said.

Dale spent her two days off shopping and packing for the trip.

She stopped by the Patagonia store in Georgetown to look for a thin fleece to fit under her flak jacket. Dale pulled three different sizes and colors and was changing into them in front of a full-length mirror near the back of the store when she saw Stephanie Taylor, Roger’s wife, looking at men’s fleece vests.

She caught her eye and waved.

“Hi, Mrs. Taylor,” Dale said. “Dale Smith. I interviewed you about a year ago about your work with injured vets.”

“Of course, we watch you every night, or I watch you every night. It’s not like Roger’s ever home at that hour,” she said, smiling tightly. “He’s usually off saving the world with Charlotte.”

“I’m so glad you watch. I imagine it’s been a very busy time for Secretary Taylor,” Dale said.

“Yes, he keeps saying it will slow down, but I haven’t seen any evidence of that,” Stephanie said.

Dale smiled sympathetically. Everyone liked Stephanie Taylor. She was the most politically active spouse of any defense secretary in history. She served as an advocate for various veterans’ groups and had testified on Capitol Hill about the need to provide funds for spouses and children of injured troops so they could afford to stay in town while their loved ones recovered at the area’s military hospitals.

“Can I tell you something super-secret and ask you not to tell anyone, not even your husband?” Dale asked Stephanie.

“If I couldn’t keep a secret, people like you would know it by now,” Stephanie said.

“I’m going on the trip this week,” Dale whispered. She’d been given strict instructions not to tell anyone, not even her family, but Roger always accompanied Charlotte to the war zones, so Dale assumed Stephanie knew.

“This week?” Stephanie asked.

“Yes, Wednesday night,” Dale said.

Stephanie looked puzzled.

“I was told by the press office that Roger was a late addition but that he’d decided to come on the trip this week to be there for meetings with his counterpart. Did I get that wrong?” Dale asked.

“The White House press office or the Pentagon press office?” Stephanie asked.

“The White House,” Dale said.

“Of course,” Stephanie said.

Now Dale was confused. Maybe Stephanie was pretending not to know because it was forbidden to discuss the president’s travel to the region.

“I’m sorry. I understand that you can’t say anything. I shouldn’t have mentioned it. I could get in a lot of trouble. Please don’t tell Secretary Taylor,” Dale begged. “If they think I broke the confidentiality agreement, they could cancel the entire trip because of me.”

Stephanie regained her composure and put one arm around Dale’s shoulder. “Don’t worry. I won’t say anything. Is this your first time?”

“Yes.”

“Then you need some of these,” Stephanie advised, walking Dale over to the heavy-duty hiking boots. “Your feet will bleed the first day, but after that, they’ll fit like a glove.”

“Thanks,” Dale said, picking up a pair in her size.

“Be safe over there,” Stephanie told her.

“Will do. And I’d love to interview you again about the work you do for veterans.”

“I’ll look forward to it.” Stephanie smiled, waving over her shoulder as she left the store.

Dale paid for her boots and fleece. She was furious at herself for opening her big mouth. Stephanie’s reaction had been so strange that she double-checked the coded message the White House press office had sent her the day before when she’d asked who was traveling to Afghanistan. It simply read: “In response to your q, POTUS, SEC DEF, dep. COS, NSA, MIL AIDES and Pool.” Translated, the list meant that the president, the secretary of defense, the deputy chief of staff, the national security advisor, military aides, and the press pool were all making the trip.

When she got home, she packed and repacked her bag a dozen times and then lay in bed checking and rechecking the two alarms set for three
A.M.
She was too nervous to sleep. She was already in the shower when the alarms went off. She dressed carefully in a black Akris suit with a purple blouse underneath—the first of three outfit changes before taking off for Afghanistan that night. The black suit was for her live shots on the seven
A.M.
and the six-thirty
P.M.
newscasts. A bright pink strapless gown went into a garment bag for the correspondents’ dinner, and a pair of jeans and a turtleneck sweater were folded and stowed in a tote bag for the flight to Afghanistan. She pulled a coat on over her suit and carried her bags down to the garage.

Dale drove the two miles to the White House and approached the security barricade on E Street where the press office had told her to enter. She rolled down her window, and a Secret Service agent in a black jumpsuit approached.

“Hi. I’m supposed to park on the driveway and drop some things off for transport to Andrews,” she said.

“ID, please,” he said.

She handed him her D.C. driver’s license.

“Pull up to that spot there, and turn off the motor, please,” he said.

Dale did as she was told and held her breath while a large German shepherd sniffed her car and examined the contents of her trunk. There was no reason to hold her breath, but the process was nerve-racking.

“Head up to the next gate, and show him your ID, Miss Smith,” the agent said.

“Thank you,” Dale said.

The large black pillars lowered into the ground, and she drove onto the closed street and toward the next security checkpoint. She was cleared for entry at the next gate and waited while a large iron fence swung open. She drove inside the White House complex and parked in an open spot. She pulled her bag out of her trunk and walked over to a white van, where she saw a couple of reporters she recognized doing the same thing.

“Good morning,” she said to them.

“Morning,” they replied.

Dale left her bag and walked to the spot on the front driveway of the White House where she’d give a report for that day’s morning news show. She had plenty of time before her live shot, so she decided to walk across the street for coffee.

She checked her cell phone and saw a text from Peter: “I will see u at the dinner 2nite.”

“Really? What happened?” Dale responded.

“Ralph must want to improve Charlotte’s poll numbers among sports fans,” Peter wrote back.

“I’ll be the one in pink,” Dale texted.

“I’m sure you’ll be hard to miss,” Peter wrote.