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Authors: Ellen Emerson White

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BOOK: The President's Daughter
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Hearing a noise downstairs, she stiffened. Someone was in the kitchen, obviously trying hard to be quiet. At first, she was scared, thinking it might be a burglar—or an assailant who had gotten past
the Secret Service posted outside, but then, she relaxed. How many criminals sat down to have bowls of cereal?
It wasn't Trudy, because she could hear her sleeping—Trudy had sinus problems, so she kind of wheezed—which meant that it had to be Steven. Only, what was he doing up so early? It could be some kind of sports thing—he was always putting himself on exercise programs and jogging plans. Definitely his mother's child. But he'd been awfully quiet lately—maybe he and his friends were up to something.
Yawning, she climbed out of bed, and the cats followed her as she went downstairs to check. Steven was sitting at the table in his baseball uniform, bent over a bowl of Cheerios.
“Since when do you have games this early?” she asked.
“God, Meg.” He sat up, startled. “You always gotta sneak up on people?”
“We would have been worried if we'd gotten up, and you weren't here,” she said.
“I wrote a note.” He gestured with his spoon.
Since she was up, she might as well eat. So, she opened the refrigerator and took out the orange juice. “I thought Little League was over.”
“It is,” he said shortly.
She poured herself a glass of juice, and refilled his, too. “How come they let you keep the uniform?”
“They didn't,” he said.
Conversations with Steven were not always easy. “So, is this like, an exhibition?” she asked. It had to be something like that, because she and Beth and Trudy had gone to his last game.
He kept eating. “All-Stars.”
Whoa. She lowered her glass. “You made All-Stars? When?”
“Dunno,” he said. “Couple weeks ago.”
That figured. Steven would probably sign with the Red Sox, and no one in her family would have heard about it. “How come you didn't tell me?” she asked.
He shrugged. “Didn't tell anyone.”
Oh. “But, you should have,” she said, “we all—”
“Yeah, sure.” He hunched over his cereal. “Just leave me alone.”
“Are you playing?” she asked.
He nodded.
Good thing this wasn't like pulling teeth. “What position?” she asked.
“Pitcher,” he said.
Wow. “Hey, that's really great,” she said.
He shrugged, putting what was left of his cereal down on the floor so that Kirby could eat from the bowl.
She noticed how neatly he'd put on his uniform and wondered how long it had taken him. His cleats were scuffed, but well-shined, and his pants were carefully bloused just above his ankles. But, it made her sad that he had done this great thing—and not bothered letting them know about it.
“How come you didn't tell us?” she asked.
He scowled at her. “I've been going to practice every stupid day! You never even asked where I was going! No one did!”
“Well—” She flushed, knowing that he was right. “I figured you were going to play baseball with your friends.”
“Yeah, right.” He got up and poured his juice out into the sink, not having touched it. “I bet you don't even care I had my picture in the paper.”
“When?” she asked.
“Couple days ago,” he said.
“Well.” She felt even guiltier. “Did you save it? I want to see it.”
“Because you feel bad.” His voice was as hurt as it was angry. “That's all. I didn't show you, 'cause all you care about is going out with your friends and playing stupid
tennis
. You could care less about me.”
“Steven,” she said, uneasily, “that's not—”
“Oh, yeah? How come I heard you on the phone that time Trudy went out, saying you couldn't go anywhere because you had to stay
home with Stupid Steven?” He mimicked her voice, and Meg flinched at the accuracy of the inflections.
“Well, I—” She twisted in her chair, uncomfortable. “I didn't mean—”
“Yo, save it,” he said grimly. “I so totally don't care.”
She had definitely screwed this one up, from start to finish. “What time's your game?” she asked.
“I don't care if no one comes,” he said. “Like, big deal.”
She put her glass in the sink, too. “Do you care if someone
does
come?”
“You have a stupid tennis lesson.” He put on his cap, very carefully adjusting it in front of the mirror. Preston's influence.
“Yeah, but”—she coughed—“I'm really not”—she coughed harder—“feeling so well. I kind of thought I'd cancel.”
“Yeah, sure,” he said.
“I mean, all that running around. And I'm really,” she coughed as hard as she could, “very sick.” She rested her forehead in her hand. “The doctor says I only have a month to live if I don't rest today. He thinks I should go to a baseball game or something.”
“Yeah, well—” But he grinned as she had a long fit of coughing, falling off her chair. “You'd really skip it? To come to the game?”
She nodded. “Of course.”
“You don't have to or anything, it's not so big,” he said. “I mean, it doesn't matter if no one—”
“I wouldn't miss it.” She got up from the floor. “Do you mind waiting until I get dressed, and then I can come watch you warm up?”
He looked so happy that she felt even worse about having paid so little attention to him lately.
“Yeah,” he said. “I can wait.”
AFTER THAT, FEELING like a complete and absolute skunk, Meg made an extra effort to spend time with him every day and include him in things she did. Steven was noticeably happier, and she felt like even more of a jerk for not realizing that just because he didn't advertise, he needed attention, and maybe even needed
her
.
Her parents and Neal came home a few days before the Convention so that everyone would have time to pack, and her mother—who Meg noticed was much too thin—could have a brief rest. Steven's good mood was contagious, and everyone got along very well—the house hadn't felt so relaxed in months. It was ironic, because the most important part of the campaign was still to come—one way or the other—but, it was nice.
With her mother home, the Secret Service seemed to be
everywhere
. They had a sort of command post set up on the porch, and regular shift changes, and guards patrolling, and the whole nine yards. Her mother spent part of each day out on the patio, lying in the sun, and it was kind of amusing to think of the Secret Service having to watch her the whole time. Her father didn't think it was so damn funny.
On the afternoon before they were going to leave for New York, she saw her father in the upstairs hall and went out to intercept him.
“What kind of stuff am I supposed to bring, Dad?” she asked.
“Well, I don't know.” He glanced at the battered Radcliffe sweatshirt and tennis shorts she was wearing. “Not that kind of stuff.”
She grinned. “You sure?”
“Very.” He leaned forward to tousle her hair, keeping his hand there.
The night before, he'd come into her room while she was reading
Fiasco
—she didn't know enough about Iraq, and had also been reading books like
Hubris
and
A Tragic Legacy
all summer—and sat on her bed for a while, which made it pretty hard to read. “How's it going?” he'd asked finally, and she'd said, “Fine.” “I missed you,” he said, and she said that she'd missed him, too. “Well, I love you,” he said. “I wanted to be sure you knew that.” She'd blushed and focused on the book cover until he gave her a hug, kissed the top of her head, said it was late, and that she should go to sleep. She didn't argue.
“Ask your mother what to pack.” He took his hand away. “She knows those things.”
Meg nodded. “Preston said stilettos and mini-skirts.”
Her father laughed. “Sounds like a good plan.”
Downstairs, the back door slammed as her mother came into the house.
“What's she whistling?” Meg asked.
Her father listened for a second. “‘Rhapsody in Blue.'”
God forbid she pick something less demanding. A Christmas carol, maybe.
Her mother came up the stairs, wearing white shorts and a pale yellow unbuttoned Oxford shirt of her father's over her bathing suit. Meg looked at her, deciding that she must have recessive genes. Three days in the sun—even though she'd been wearing high-SPF sunscreen—and the woman was Rhapsody in Bronze.
“Hi,” her mother said, reaching out to move the hair her father had just ruffled back out of her face.
When her parents felt guilty, they always touched her head.
Meg frowned briefly, wondering why that was. “You look pretty good, considering how old you are,” she said.
“Thanks a lot.” Her mother studied herself with a critical eye. “Do you think I got too much color? I don't want the delegates to think that all I do is lie around the beach.”
“
I
think you look great,” her father said, and her mother smiled a tiny smile.
Yeah, really. Who was she kidding? She knew how good she looked; she had just wanted someone to say it aloud.
And, looking from one to the other, she had the distinct—and appalling—sense that her parents wanted to be a little romantic.
Which was her cue to leave. Immediately.
“I think I'll go get some watermelon,” she said. “Mom, later, will you show me what kind of stuff to bring?”
“What you have on will be fine,” her mother said, and Meg wasn't sure if she was distracted, or being funny.
“Well.” She shifted her weight, feeling very self-conscious. “Guess I'll see you guys later.”
By the time she got to the bottom of the stairs, she heard them laugh softly—and made a point of
not
looking behind herself to see if they were kissing.
Frankly, she would just rather not know.
 
SHE ENDED UP packing dresses, with skirts for being casual. Oh, yeah, real casual.
The Convention was being held in Manhattan—her mother's hometown—and they took a campaign-chartered flight the next day, then rode in the usual small, security-laden motorcade into midtown. When her mother's father had died, some years before, her mother had immediately put the Fifth Avenue apartment where she had grown up on the market—which, at times like this, she probably regretted. Or, anyway, Meg assumed that she probably did, since she would never have the nerve to come right out and
ask
.
So, they were going to be staying at the Waldorf, instead. Like Preston said, the woman had style.
Judging from the crowds gathering on the street as they drove down Park Avenue, the city was pretty proud of this native New Yorker who was running for President. Meg stared at all of the people,
wondering for a swift uneasy second if her mother was actually going to win. The concept of her winning—really
winning
—was something she hadn't let herself think about much. She rubbed her hand across her forehead, the idea very scary.
“Wow.” Steven peered out through the tinted windows. “Are they all here for you, Mom?”
“I went to a very large high school,” her mother said.
Meg smiled weakly. Her mother had actually attended an exclusive private school on the Upper East Side, but it was the right moment to make a joke.
When they pulled up near what was supposed to be a relatively private entrance to the Walfdorf Towers section of the hotel, there were still what looked like hundreds of people standing and waving from behind police barricades, undaunted by the massive group of NYPD officers and Secret Service agents trying to secure the area.
Her mother was probably supposed to be the first one out, but Meg felt so claustrophobic, that she beat her to it. When the crowd saw someone with shoulder-length dark hair, they cheered—and cameras went off all over the place—and she stopped, horrified.
“Not me,” she said quickly.
“They know it's not you,” Steven snorted, climbing out of the car right behind her.
“Come on, kids,” an agent said. “Hustle it inside.”
Her mother was on the sidewalk now—and in no apparent hurry, to the Secret Service's undisguised dismay.
“I've been singing ‘New York, New York' all the way over in the car,” she said.
People cheered, some of them yelling things like, “Go, Kate!”
“One thing's for sure,” her mother was always able to make her voice heard without seeming to be shouting, “it's great to be home!”
There were more cheers.
Meg watched her move along one of the barricades to greet people, flanked by police officers and agents. What a consummate politician.
At least Meg had almost never seen her kiss babies. She'd probably die laughing if she saw her mother kissing babies—although she
had
been known to dandle them, here and there. Once, in New Hampshire, she had shaken hands with Meg and Steven in the middle of a large crowd, then looked appalled at herself and gave them hugs. If the people didn't know who she and Steven were, they probably thought her mother was kind of weird.
“A real pro,” Preston said, next to her.
Meg nodded.
“Come on,” he said, his hand on Neal's shoulder, gesturing for Steven to come over, too. “Let's get you guys upstairs.”
“What about Mommy and Daddy?” Neal asked.
“They'll meet us later.” He ushered them into the discreet lobby, which was filled with smiling Waldorf staffers. “Now, let's—”
“Won't they worry?” Steven asked uneasily.
“What, you don't trust me, kid?” He guided them over to a private elevator. “I just talked to Russell-baby.”
“Is it going to be like this all week?” Meg asked.
Preston looked around the packed lobby and the chaotic street scene outside. “Kid, this is minor league,” he said.
 
THEY WERE STAYING in the Presidential Suite, which seemed really weird—and more than a little premature. Glen had been kind of crowing about the fact that Senator Hawley had apparently wanted to stay there, but it had been given to her mother, instead, and he was either in the Royal Suite—or at another hotel, entirely; Meg wasn't sure which. Anyway, the suite was so fancy, that the word “opulent” would have been a grotesque understatement.
Neal was completely horrified when they walked in, and asked where they were going to
sleep
—apparently assuming that the hotel was going to fill the elegant living room with roll-away beds. The fact that the suite had four bedrooms, and was bigger than most people's
houses,
seemed to have escaped him. He was also upset that there was
no television, until someone pressed a button and a cupboard magically opened to reveal one of the most high-tech screens she had ever seen. When their personal concierge explained that the suite had been stocked with a wide variety of multimedia devices for their entertainment, including dozens of video games and movies, Steven had immediately disappeared in the indicated direction, and she hadn't seen him since. Neal, on the other hand, just stood in the middle of the living room, so afraid that he might break one of the vases or something, that he refused to move at all until Preston sat him down at the antique table in the majestic, formal dining room, and arranged to have some food sent up. Even when very nervous, Neal was usually happy to eat, although he immediately—and politely—asked why there was “funny” cheese on his hamburger, and Meg had to scrape it off for him. Since
she
liked blue cheese, she went ahead and ate it herself, wrapped in a piece of what Neal thought was “too fancy” lettuce.
There were huge flower arrangements everywhere, and baskets with fruit, cheese, candy, and champagne, as well as sliced fruit and vegetable platters, and arrays of freshly-made chocolates on various side tables. A gold plaque on the wall outside the main door listed some of the many world leaders who had stayed in the suite, including every President since Herbert Hoover, the Queen of England, Nikita Krushchev—whose name seemed to be spelled wrong, as far as she could tell—Charles de Gaulle, King Hussein, Menachem Begin—and on, and on. There were famous paintings everywhere—all of them by American artists, the concierge assured her—and Meg wondered whether she had looked as though she suspected otherwise, or even cared one way or the other. Marble fireplaces, huge chandeliers, carefully carved wall moldings, silk draperies, thick and presumably priceless rugs and carpets, Presidential artifacts—including one of John F. Kennedy's actual rocking chairs, a table with gold eagles for legs which had come from Ronald Reagan, sconces provided by Lyndon Johnson—all in all, the place was pretty unbelievable.
Hell, there was even a grand piano. Not that any of them played. But, if she was being honest, she might have admitted that she was also sort of afraid to touch anything. It all seemed way too valuable, and historic.
When her parents finally came in, Meg couldn't help being annoyed that her mother did nothing more than glance around vaguely, pluck a fresh strawberry from one of the fruit plates, and then start making phone calls and reading through the massive stack of messages waiting for her. It had to be difficult to swagger on high heels, but it would be fair to say that her mother's stride did not lack for confidence.
“Aren't you even a
little
impressed?” Meg said, when her mother finally paused long enough to let a campaign minion bring her some espresso.
Her mother shrugged. “I've been here before, Meg,” she said, and promptly went back to what she had been doing.
There were so many people around that she didn't feel comfortable making the sort of cut-her-down-to-size response that that remark required—but she glanced at her father, who looked almost exactly as simultaneously irritated and amused as she was, which made her feel better. At least she wasn't the only one who thought the Candidate just might be in danger of tumbling over the edge into rather off-putting arrogance.
Despite the fact that the suite was
huge
, there were so many campaign people and party officials and so forth coming in and out, that she began to feel claustrophobic, and escaped to the ornate bedroom where she was going to be sleeping. They were supposed to attend a formal dinner later, although her father had already said that Steven and Neal didn't have to go—and half-heartedly extended the offer to her, too, although she knew that he—along with the entire campaign staff—wanted her to show up, to help make her mother look like a Good Parent with Well-Adjusted Children. So, it looked as though she was stuck.
BOOK: The President's Daughter
8.47Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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