First Lady
USAN
E
LIZABETH
P
HILLIPS
IRST
L
ADY
To Cathie Linz, Lindsay Longford, and Suzette Vann—dear friends and three of the finest romance writers ever to set foot in DuPage County. Thanks for keeping the faith!
The following people, big and little, were especially helpful as I wrote this book and I thank them all: Jill Barnett, Marlene Cerny, Mary Kilchenstein, Ernie Locker, Susan Nicklos, Mary Jo Putney, Tillie Phillips, and John Roscich. Also Mommy Katie, Granny Lydia and my darling nephew Caleb; Nancy Heller and her beautiful granddaughter Natalie; Cathie and her adorable nephew Joshua. My continued appreciation to Steven Axelrod, Carrie Feron, and everyone at Avon Books.
LEANOR
R
OOSEVELT
Cornelia Litchfield Case had an itchy nose. Otherwise, it was a very elegant nose.
Over the next six and a half months, Nealy grew so thin that the tabloids began . . .
As Mat Jorik shifted in the chair, he bumped his elbow against the edge of the . . .
Nealy was gloriously invisible. She tilted back her head and laughed, . . .
Where had he seen her? Mat studied the woman more closely as she looked . . .
“Ma-ma-ma!” Mat dreamed he was cleaning out a latrine. As the dream progressed . . .
“I’m not sleeping with you!” Lucy declared. ”how do I know you don’t have lice . . .”
Mat gazed down at the naked baby playing with his toes in the bottom of the . . .
Nealy took a deep breath as she broke the kiss. Mat let her go, then gave her . . .
Nealy felt all the blood draining from her head. “Lucy, I’m not doing this!”
Lucy loved the Waynes. They were dopey, and Bertis had already lectured her . . .
Mat spent the night alternating between wakefulness and fever-hot dreams.
For one eternal second, Nealy stood there with an idiot smile on her face . . .
Rain pummeled the Winnebago as they crawled across the flat Illinois landscape . . .
Mat choked—not easy to do with a mouth as dry as dust.
Mat rushed to the door and twisted the knob, but it didn’t budge.
Charlie shook hands with Mat while Bertis hugged Nealy and tweaked Button’s toes.
Mat had to tell her the truth. He’d known that last night.
Mat found Nealy in the hollyhocks a short time later.
Nealy had planned to approach Lucy privately about this, but since Mat . . .
“Hollings has been in the Senate for twelve years, Cornelia! I forbid you to go any . . .”
He was in love! Mat felt as if he’d taken a hockey puck right to the head.
Mat gazed at the woman in the doorway and felt everything inside him melt.
Nealy sealed herself away in her bedroom with her briefing book and a laptop . . .
C
ORNELIA
L
ITCHFIELD
C
ASE
had an itchy nose. Otherwise, it was a very elegant nose. Perfectly shaped, discreet, polite. Her forehead was patrician, her cheekbones gracefully carved, but not so sharp as to be vulgar. The Mayflower-blue blood that rushed through her veins gave her a pedigree even finer than that of Jacqueline Kennedy, one of her most famous predecessors.
A French twist contained her long, fair hair, which she would have cut off years ago if her father hadn’t forbidden it. Later her husband had suggested—oh-so-gently, because he was always gentle with her—that she leave it long. So there she was, an American aristocrat with a hairstyle she hated and an itchy nose that she couldn’t scratch because hundreds of millions of people all over the world were watching her on their televisions.
Burying a husband sure could take the fun out of your day.
She shuddered and tried to swallow her hysteria as she crept another inch closer to falling apart. She forced herself to concentrate on the beauty of the October day and the way the sun gleamed on the rows of grave markers at Arlington National Cemetery, but the sky was too close, the sun too near. Even the ground felt as if it were pushing up to crush her.
The men on either side of her moved closer. The new President of the United States gripped her arm. Her father clasped her elbow. Directly behind her, the grief of Terry Ackerman, her husband’s closest friend and advisor, rolled over her in a great, dark wave. They were suffocating her, stealing the air she needed to breathe.
She beat back a scream by curling her toes in her neat black leather pumps, biting the inside of her bottom lip, and mentally launched into the chorus of “Goodbye Yellow Brick Road.” The Elton John song reminded her that he’d written another song, one for a dead princess. Would he now write one for an assassinated President?
No! Don’t think about that!
She’d think about her hair, her itchy nose. She’d think about the way she hadn’t been able to swallow food since her secretary had broken the news that Dennis had been assassinated three blocks from the White House by a gun fanatic who believed his right to bear arms included the right to use the President of the United States for target practice. The assassin had been killed on the spot by a Washington, D.C., police officer, but that didn’t change the fact that her husband of three years, the man she’d once loved so desperately, lay before her in a gleaming black casket.
She broke her father’s grip to reach up and touch the small enameled American flag she’d pinned to the lapel of her black suit. It was the pin Dennis had worn so frequently. She’d give it to Terry. She wished she could turn around right now and hand it to him, perhaps ease his grief.
She needed hope—something positive to cling to—but that was tough even for a determined optimist. And then she hit on it . . .
She was no longer the First Lady of the United States of America.
A few hours later, that small bit of comfort was snatched from her by Lester Vandervort, the newest President of the United States, as he regarded her across Dennis Case’s old desk in the Oval Office. The box of Milky Way miniatures her husband had kept in Teddy Roosevelt’s humidor had disappeared, along with his collection of photographs. Vandervort had added no personal touches of his own, not even a photograph of his deceased wife, an oversight she knew his staff would soon correct.
Vandervort was a thin man, ascetic in his appearance. He was fiercely intelligent, almost entirely humorless, and a confirmed workaholic. A sixty-four-year-old widower, he was now the world’s most eligible bachelor. For the first time since the death of Edith Wilson eighteen months after Woodrow Wilson’s inauguration, the United States had no First Lady.
The air inside the Oval Office was climate-controlled, the three-story windows that rose behind the desk bulletproof, and she felt as if she were suffocating. As she stood by the fireplace, staring blindly at Rembrandt Peale’s portrait of Washington, the new President’s voice seemed far away. “. . . don’t want to appear insensitive to your grief by broaching this now, but I have no choice. I won’t be remarrying, and none of my female relatives is remotely capable of handling the job of First Lady. I want you to continue in that role.”
As she turned to him, her fingernails bit into her palms. “It’s impossible. I can’t do it.” She wanted to scream at him that she was still wearing her funeral clothes, but excessive displays of emotion had been leached out of her long before she’d come to the White House.
Her distinguished father rose from one of a pair of couches covered in cream damask and assumed his Prince Philip posture—hands clasped behind his back, weight toward his heels. “This has been a difficult day for you, Cornelia. You’ll be seeing things more clearly tomorrow.”
Cornelia
. Everyone who mattered in her life called her Nealy except her father. “I’m not going to change my mind.”
“Of course you will,” he countered. “This administration has to have a competent First Lady. The President and I have considered it from every angle, and both of us agree this is the ideal solution.”
She was an assertive woman, except when it came to her father, and she had to steel herself to challenge him. “Ideal for whom? Not for me.”
