First Lady (40 page)

She wore her shiny brown hair in a funky little cut with a pair of small oval barrettes holding back her bangs. The complexion problems that tormented so many girls her age had passed Lucy by, and her sweet, smooth skin was mercifully free of the thick cosmetics she’d once hidden behind. Her fingernails were no longer bitten to the quick, and she held herself with new assurance. Nealy’s heart swelled with pride.

Lucy studiously ignored James Litchfield as she marched over to stand next to her. “So . . . do you want to come listen to my new CD?”

Nealy had already listened to Lucy’s new CD, and she wasn’t fooled. “Later, honey. Dad and I are discussing my political future.” And then, just to stir things up . . . “He’s still fighting me about going after Hollings’s seat.”

“Really, Cornelia, Lucille’s much too young to understand this. I hardly think she’s interested.”

“I’m
very
interested,” Lucille shot back. “I even get to work on the campaign.”

He gave a dismissive sniff. “You know nothing at all about campaigning.”

“I know that some of the seniors at my school are eighteen, which means they can vote. And all the kids my age have parents who vote. Me and Mom are working on a brochure just for teenagers so they’ll understand what their senator does.”

Nealy still wasn’t used to having Lucy call her Mom instead of Nell. It had only started a few weeks ago, and Lucy had never talked to her about it or asked permission, she’d just started doing it. Button, on the other hand, had been calling her
ma
—usually shrieked at the top of her lungs—since that day three months ago when they’d all walked out of the house in Iowa.

Not all of them, she reminded herself. One member of their makeshift, not-quite-a-family had stayed behind.

But Nealy had learned not to think about Mat unless she was alone, and she forced her attention back to the battle of wits going on between Lucy and her father.

“. . . so I asked Lardbutt—”

“Lucy . . .” Nealy’s voiced sounded a warning note.

“I asked
Mrs. Fegan
if Mom could come in and talk at a school assembly, not about her campaign—that’d be so obvious even a moron could see through it—but about the contributions of First Ladies. Mom’s got lots of good stories, like how Abigail Adams was a women’s libber, and Nellie Taft got the cherry blossoms planted in Washington, and Edith Wilson ran the country when Woodrow was sick.”

“That wasn’t exactly a contribution,” Nealy reminded her. “Edith Wilson nearly drove the country into a constitutional crisis.”

“I still think it was cool.”

“You would.”

Lucy folded into her favorite place, the easy chair across from Nealy’s desk, and spoke with all the aplomb of a seasoned campaign manager. “We’re going to whip Hollings’s a—butt in the primary.”

James Litchfield narrowed his eyes, but he was too cagey to openly reprimand Lucy. At the very beginning, Nealy had made it clear that was her job, and he’d quickly discovered that she meant what she said. The fastest way out of her life was to show open hostility toward either of her girls.

Her poor father. She’d actually begun to feel sorry for him. The girls had been a bitter pill for him to swallow, but swallow it he had. At the same time, he’d also been forced to deal with the unrelenting publicity her disappearance had caused.

For the past three months, Nealy had been subjected to the type of tabloid scrutiny usually reserved for drugged-out movie stars. Everyone she’d come into contact with during her seven days on the road had been interviewed. Bertis and Charlie had done her proud, and Nico hadn’t been the disaster she’d feared. Even the Celebrity Lookalike Contest organizers had received their fifteen minutes of fame. Everyone had been interviewed except Mat, who’d told the story in his own way and, to this day, refused to appear on camera.

Nealy had gone public only twice—in an obligatory Barbara Walters television interview and in a
Woman’s Day
feature that had been accompanied by informal photographs of her with the girls. Exposing them had been a difficult decision, but she knew they’d be hounded by paparazzi if she didn’t, and
Woman’s Day
was the perfect forum. Besides, Lucy thought it was cool.

Through it all, her father had stood relentlessly behind her. His teeth had been clenched, his jaw rigid, but he’d been there for her, even six weeks ago when she’d finally stepped aside as Lester Vandervort’s First Lady.

Taking her place were the three women she’d hand-picked for the job. Two of them were longtime congressional wives wise to the ways of Washington. The third was Lester’s feisty twenty-two-year-old niece, an outspoken Ivy League graduate who provided a perfect contrast to the older women and the stuffy president. Although Nealy continued to advise the triumvirate, they were growing more confident in their job, which gave Nealy time to concentrate on her own future.

The girls were her first priority. She knew she had to have help with Button if she was to run for the Senate, but it wasn’t easy finding what she was looking for. She and Lucy had interviewed dozens of candidates before they’d found Tamarah, a nineteen-year-old single mother with a nose ring, a ready laugh, and a determination to finish her education.

Tamarah and her six-month-old baby Andre now lived in a small apartment over the kitchen. Nealy and Lucy had been a little jealous of how quickly Button, Tamarah, and Andre had taken to each other. But even with child care, Nealy tried to make the majority of her phone calls during her toddler’s naptime, then do her planning and paperwork late at night. It left her bone-tired, humble, and even more committed to helping single mothers who didn’t have her financial resources.

“I still can’t believe you’re serious about this,” her father said.

“She’s . . . like . . .
so
serious.”

“I’m not addressing you.”

“Like, I have opinions, y’know.”

“Far more opinions than a
child
needs.”

Lucy was too shrewd to make the insolent response that would force Nealy to send her to her room. Instead, she gave him a wily smile. “In four years, I’ll be a voting citizen. And so will all my friends.”

“Doubtless the republic will survive.”

“And the Democrats, too.”

Oh, this was too rich. Nealy had grown to enjoy watching the two of them go at it.

In the beginning, she’d counted on Button’s baby charm to win over her father, but he’d been far more interested in Lucy. Her father loved a worthy opponent, and the fact that Lucy had declared herself his mortal enemy before they’d ever met had whetted his competitive instincts.

Nealy had recently begun to wonder if they didn’t look forward to their sparring matches. They had the oddest similarities. Each was stubborn, crafty, manipulative, and absolutely loyal to her.

Squid stirred beneath her feet. “I’m going to make a formal announcement in ten days. Terry’s setting up the press conference now.”

As soon as she’d confided her plans to Terry, he’d asked to be appointed her press secretary. She’d been touched and delighted.

“Dad, I understand this puts you in an impossible position, and I know you have to stay out of it, so I’m not planning to—”

“Stay out of it?” He assumed his Prince Philip posture and gazed at her from beneath his noble brow. “My daughter, the former First Lady of the United States, is running for the Senate, and you expect me to stay out of it? I hardly think so. I’ll have Jim Millington contact you tomorrow. Ackerman’s good, but he’ll need help.”

She couldn’t believe her father, after all his posturing, had finally backed down. Jim Millington was the best campaign manager in the business.

Lucy needed to make sure she could relax her guard. “So you’re not going to give her any more crap about this, right?”

“Lucille, this is not your concern. I’ve done my best to dissuade her, but since she’s refused to listen, I have no choice but to support the campaign.”

Lucy grinned at him. “Awesome!”

Nealy smiled and rose. “Why don’t you stay for dinner, Dad? It’s pizza night.”

Something that almost looked like disappointment passed over his stern features. “Some other time. Your stepmother and I are meeting the Ambersons for cocktails. Don’t forget that she expects all of you for Sunday brunch.”

“She expects Button, you mean,” Lucy muttered.

Nealy’s stepmother was horrified by Lucy, but she adored Button, who was currently wearing one of the outrageously expensive outfits she’d bought her.

“That’s because Beatrice has never cursed at her dinner table.”

“It was an accident. And this time could you ask her to, like, please buy some Dunkin’ Donuts or something?”

Her father scowled at Lucy as if she were an unbearable nuisance. “If she forgets, I suppose you and I will have to go out and purchase some ourselves.”

“You mean it?”

“Unlike some people, I’m not in the habit of rattling away just to hear myself talk.”

Lucy grinned. “Cool.”

Somehow they all survived the Sunday brunch. That evening, Nealy rocked Button to sleep, then helped Lucy with her history project. At eleven o’clock, when the house was finally quiet, she made her way to her bedroom, undressed, and slipped into a robe.

During the day, she did her best not to think about Mat, but nights were harder, and Sunday nights the hardest of all, maybe because they marked the beginning of a new week without him. At first she’d tried to talk herself out of it, but that just seemed to make her sadness spill over into Monday. Finally, she’d learned to give in to her Sunday night blues.

The first time I spoke with Cornelia Case, she was hot to trot, and no wonder, since her husband, the former president of the United States, was—are you ready for this?—GAY! Her lust slid over me like cheap lingerie . . .

It was the story Nealy had imagined, but not the one Mat had written. She sat in the window seat, remembering how she’d felt when she’d held the
Chicago Standard
in her hand and seen his exclusive.

The first time I spoke with Cornelia Case, she was rescuing a baby at a truck stop outside McConnellsburg, Pennsylvania. Rescuing babies is something she’s good at, since she’s been trying to do it most of her life. When she fails, as she often does, she takes it more personally than she should, but more about that later.

I didn’t know she was Cornelia Case then. She was wearing navy shorts, cheap white sneakers, and a yellow maternity top with some ducks marching across it. Her hair was cut short, and she had what looked like an eight-month pregnancy sticking out in front of her.

None of the stories written about her ever mention that the lady has a temper, but, believe me, she does. For all her polish, Nealy Case can go after you when she gets upset. And she was definitely upset with me . . .

The
Chicago Standard
had published Mat’s story in six parts that had been quoted and analyzed in every media outlet in the world. In the articles, he’d detailed both the girls’ plight and how Nealy had come into their lives. He’d described the incident at the covered bridge, dinner at Grannie Peg’s, and the Celebrity Lookalike Contest. He’d written about meeting Bertis and Charlie, and the night he’d confronted Nealy about her identity. Mabel and Squid had come alive as his story unfolded, along with Nico and the house in Iowa.

In every article, he’d made his own decisions about what should be on or off the record. On the record were the details of her escape, her frustrations with being First Lady, her enthusiasm for picnics, Frisbees, convenience stores, and two motherless little girls. At first she’d been stunned that he’d revealed so much about the girls, but by appeasing the public’s curiosity so quickly, he’d called off the bloodhounds and done more to protect their privacy than an army of security guards.

Also on the record were her political ambitions as well as her aversion to being around healthy babies, although, as Mat wrote about it, her neurosis no longer seemed like such a weakness.

Off the record was her sexual relationship with him and everything about Dennis Case. He’d asked for her trust, but she hadn’t been able to give it. Now she admitted she should have remembered his rock-solid sense of responsibility and not passed judgment so swiftly.

Although he’d exposed far more of her private world than any other journalist, he’d also transformed her from a national icon into a living, breathing woman. He’d described the way she cared about people and her delight in the ordinary, her deep sense of patriotism and her love of politics—although she didn’t appreciate being labeled a “dewy-eyed optimist.” He made her seem more vulnerable than she thought she was, but she appreciated the way he stressed her deep knowledge of national and international affairs.

Only as he described his own relationship with her did he become vague, which left her to do the clean-up work. Barbara Walters hadn’t made it easy.

BW
:
Mrs. Case, in Mat Jorik’s series of articles in the
Chicago Standard,
he describes your feelings about the girls at some length, but he doesn’t say much about your relationship with each other. Would you care to comment?

CC
:
Mat is a fine journalist, and he wrote about what happened in more detail than I ever could. I don’t think he left much out.

BW
:
But how would you describe your relationship?

CC
:
Two hard-headed adults trying to figure out what was best for the girls. Emphasis on the hard-headed.