Eighteen Acres: A Novel (12 page)

Dale smiled and put her phone back into her purse. She ordered a mocha and sipped it slowly as she walked back toward the front lawn of the White House. She laughed to herself as she thought about an alternative report for her morning live shot: “Today, the president will accompany her cheating husband to the White House correspondents’ dinner, where she will pretend to enjoy the company of her disrespectful and annoying press corps. Immediately following the dinner, President Kramer will get into a motorcade, where the slut her husband is sleeping with will ride in a car behind her to Andrews Air Force Base. From there, President Kramer will sneak out of Washington en route to Afghanistan.”

Dale laughed at her own dark humor and took another sip of coffee. The sugar and caffeine were hitting her system and warming her
from the inside out. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d eaten.

She bounced through her morning live shot and the rest of her day. The president’s schedule included a meeting with her economic team to discuss the challenges facing small businesses, an event honoring Women’s Heart Health Month, and a meeting with the British prime minister.

After her live report for the evening newscast, Dale went into the ladies’ room in the West Wing of the White House and stepped into the floor-length pink gown. Layers of fabric skimmed her body. She slid into a pair of heels and stuffed her cell phone and BlackBerry into her evening bag. A few of the correspondents shared a car to the Washington Hilton. They arrived seconds before all roads were closed to accommodate the arrival of the president’s motorcade.

The White House correspondents’ dinner was jokingly referred to as Washington’s “Prom Night.” Reporters, not known for their devotion to fashion or style, donned formal attire one night a year, and many tried to pull off looks that didn’t flatter their figures or the decade. The president, not known for her affection for the press that beat her up day in and day out, had to attend hours of cocktail receptions followed by a four-hour dinner in which her success would be determined by how hard she made them laugh. She’d also have to endure a comedy act by some B-list celebrity who would tell a new version of the same jokes they told every year about Charlotte wearing the pants in her marriage and scaring the crap out of everyone from her husband to her Cabinet.

No wonder Charlotte can’t wait to get to the war zone
, Dale thought to herself.

She passed through the metal detectors and made her way to her table. Billy was already there.

“You ready for tonight?” he whispered.

“I think so. Thanks for making them take me,” Dale whispered back, hugging him warmly. He was her biggest champion at the network, and his close relationship with Melanie had come in handy more than once.

“They’re lucky to get you. I told Melanie that if anything happens to you, I’ll kill her,” Billy said in a low voice.

Dale laughed nervously.

“You got a custom-fitted flak jacket, right?” Billy whispered in her ear.

Dale nodded.

“Take care of yourself over there, Dale. I need you in one piece.” Billy hugged Dale again before turning to greet the secretary of the treasury, who was seated on his other side.

Charlotte

Charlotte had thirty minutes to kill before the motorcade would leave to take her to the press dinner.

I’d rather be water-boarded,
she thought to herself.

She considered walking down the hall to say hello to Peter but didn’t have the energy for the charade. She was furious that Ralph had called him and ordered him to come. Charlotte hated to subject him to the same stupid jokes year after year about being “Mr. Charlotte Kramer.”

She thought about calling Roger, but he’d told her earlier in the day that Stephanie hadn’t taken the news about the trip very well. Charlotte didn’t want to complicate things any further for him.

She and Stephanie had been friends since Charlotte had arrived in Washington, but the relationship had cooled recently. Stephanie had turned down Charlotte’s last few invitations to Camp David, and she’d canceled a dinner date at the last minute the week before.

Charlotte figured Stephanie was drained from the breast-cancer scare or frustrated by the demands on Roger’s time, but she couldn’t imagine that there was anything she had done to put Stephanie off. She’d given Roger time off, sent her personal physician with Stephanie to the oncologist, and sent flowers, fruit baskets, books, and movies to Stephanie while she waited for the test results.

And when Roger had, at first, refused to come on the trip, she hadn’t pushed. But when he’d called her over the weekend with the news that he’d changed his mind, she’d been elated. He was the closest thing she had to a partner.

Charlotte looked out the window and saw the motorcade lining up on the driveway below. She stood and went into her dressing room to get ready. She’d had her makeup and hair done earlier. The dogs were out for a session with the trainer, and the house felt empty without them underfoot. She changed into the gown she’d had flown down from New York for the occasion and walked back toward the West Wing to discuss final details for the trip with Melanie before they left.

She stopped outside Peter’s suite of rooms on her way out. She heard the evening news on inside and proceeded toward the staircase without knocking.

Melanie

Melanie stared at the simple black Vera Wang gown she’d pulled out of her closet that morning. She’d meant to grab a different one, but they all looked the same at four-thirty in the morning. She kept all of her black formal dresses in a separate closet in her apartment, and she tried to keep track of which one she wore which years, but the dresses and the dinners all blurred together. She put it on in her office and stepped into a new pair of Jimmy Choo’s. She buzzed Annie’s desk to ask her to come in and zip her dress, but Annie didn’t answer. She struggled with the zipper herself but gave up after a muscle spasm ripped through the side of her neck.

“Damn,” she said under her breath.

She opened her door and peered out to see if there were any suitable dress zippers in the waiting area. Brian, the new Pentagon reporter at ABC, was standing there smiling at her.

“I heard some banging around in there, but I didn’t want to interrupt,” he said, flashing a mouth full of teeth that were so white they looked as if they’d glow in the dark.

“Oh, hi. Do we have a meeting now?” Melanie asked.

“You’re supposed to ‘meet and greet’ me for five minutes before tonight’s dinner. If this is a bad time, I can call Annie and reschedule,” he said.

“No, no, it’s fine, come in. Just don’t look at my back, I’m half-naked,” Melanie said.

He smiled and took a seat in front of her desk. “I would offer to help, but that seems a little inappropriate,” Brian said.

Melanie’s eyes moved from his green eyes to his perfect haircut and down to his masculine jaw line. He looked like a Ken doll.

“Unless you’d like me to help,” he added.

She couldn’t decide if it was tacky or endearing that he was trying to flirt with her. He was at least five years younger and very attractive in a perfect, anchorman-in-the-making kind of way.

“That’s probably a little much for a first meeting, but thank you for the offer. How long have you been on the beat?” Melanie asked, sitting back and trying to look as calm and professional as she could in an unzipped formal gown.

“About a month.”

“Have you spent much time with Secretary Taylor yet?” Melanie asked.

“Not really. I saw him at the state dinner a couple of weeks ago, but he left before I had a chance to introduce myself.”

“That’s where we met. You came with Dale Smith, right?” Melanie asked.

“Yeah. She ditched me about forty-five minutes into the night, so, other than the two minutes I spent talking to you, I passed the evening talking to strangers and trying not to drink too much.”

“I hate it when that happens.” Melanie laughed.

“Judging by the crowd gathered around you that night, I have a hard time picturing you taking to strangers or drinking too much at a White House function,” he said.

Melanie smiled. “So, are you and Dale … ?” She was suddenly very curious about his relationship status.

“Are Dale and I what? Dating?”

“Yes. Are you and Dale an item?” Melanie asked.

“Definitely not. No one knows what Dale does with herself. I’m convinced she sleeps in front of a live truck so she never misses a chance to be on television. Others think she must be sleeping with a married man.”

“Interesting,” Melanie said.

“She said that no one was closer to Roger than you. Said you were responsible for bringing him into the Cabinet three years ago.”

“I’ve known Roger a long time. We worked together during the last administration, and I knew he and Charlotte would have a real mind-meld. I played Cupid in a way, I guess, but I didn’t make the decision. That was all President Kramer. The president likes Roger’s independence,” Melanie said. “And the two of them have made more progress in three years than their predecessors did in two terms each.”

Brian agreed with her assessment but felt that the original invasion had been so badly botched it would take a generation or two to repair the damage. Melanie always felt defensive when people suggested that the decision had been a mistake. She felt it was still part of her job to defend the legacies of the previous presidents she’d served. Maybe that was why she was so tired. Presidents Harlow and Martin spent their days golfing and giving speeches for one hundred thousand dollars a pop, and Melanie was still fighting with reporters about their presidencies. She glanced at her watch, and Brian took it as a sign that the meeting was over. She hadn’t really intended to rush him out. Other than his critique of her former bosses, she was enjoying his stories about life as a war correspondent. He wasn’t enamored with his own views on the wars, which was refreshing to Melanie. He didn’t see himself as an expert but rather as the network’s eyes and ears. It was too bad he’d rotated out, Melanie thought.

“I’d love to get on a trip to the region with the president and Secretary Taylor sometime,” he said.

Melanie wasn’t sure if he knew about the trip that was hours away. She couldn’t risk it. “I’ll keep that in mind next time we pull together a press pool,” she promised.

“Thanks, and thanks for your time tonight. I know you’ve got a lot on your plate. I appreciate it.”

“No problem. Come by anytime,” she said. “I’d get up, but my dress still isn’t zipped, and I’d rather not flash you.”

He laughed.

“Can you send my assistant in here if you see her on your way out?” she said.

“Of course,” he said, flashing his brilliant smile again.

Melanie watched him walk out. He was more interesting than she thought he’d be. A lot of the new correspondents were boring, predictable, and vain. When she’d first started at the White House, the television correspondents had been some of the most aggressive and well-connected reporters covering the beat. Now she couldn’t remember the last time one of the White House correspondents had been in to speak to her off the record about Charlotte’s agenda or the state of the party.

Melanie held her dress with one hand and peered into the reception area. Annie still wasn’t at her desk. Melanie saw a copy of her call log on Annie’s desk and walked out quickly to pick it up. There were half a dozen calls from members of Congress with various gripes, three messages from Ralph, a dozen messages from various staffers, and there, at the bottom, the call that Melanie had been dreading since her breakfast meeting in New York.

“Michael called. He needs to talk to you before the dinner. He said you have his number,” the message read.

Melanie closed the door to her office and let her dress flop open in the back. She held her breath and dialed Michael from her personal cell.

“It’s me,” she said.

“Thanks for calling. Can you meet me tonight?” he asked.

“I really can’t, Michael. I’ve got to go to this stupid dinner, and then I have to come back here and deal with something for Charlotte afterward. Can it wait until tomorrow? I’ll have plenty of time tomorrow. I could meet you for breakfast somewhere.”

“I’m not certain I will be able to sit on it for long. Can you excuse yourself at nine and meet me in front of the hotel? The agents will let you back in,” he said.

“I know perfectly well what the agents will let me do, Michael. But I can’t walk out of the dinner.”

“Melanie, we need to talk. Tonight.”

“Fine. Come to where the motorcade parks. I’ll meet you there at nine.”

“See you then,” he said.

He had that voice. All reporters had the same thrill in their voices when they were about to break something big. Melanie had heard it so many times she recognized it in anyone. But she’d only heard it in Michael once before: the night she’d first met him and he was about to break the story about Harlow’s lawyer getting indicted. She felt sick to her stomach.

“Need a hand with your dress?” Charlotte asked, strolling into Melanie’s office in a white gown that rustled when she walked.

“Jesus, you look incredible,” Melanie said.

And Charlotte did. The gown was made of layers of white silk that flowed to the floor. It was an Oscar de la Renta custom-made for her.

“Do you like it? I don’t look like an over-the-hill bride or anything, do I?” Charlotte asked.

“No. You look regal. And yes, I would love a hand with my dress,” Melanie said, standing to let Charlotte zip her in. “Did you get a chance to read through the speech?” she asked.

“Yeah, it’s really funny. Thanks, Mel. I wish you were coming to Afghanistan tonight. You need to come with us one of these days. If I lose, there won’t be many more opportunities.”

“You’re not going to lose. We’ll figure this out. When you get back, we’ll have a plan. Election Day is more than seven months away. That’s an eternity,” Melanie said.

“Thanks, Mel. At least I won’t have to go to this dinner next year if I lose. Look, I’m not delusional, and you and I both know that the universe is pulling against us.”