The President's Daughter (19 page)

Read The President's Daughter Online

Authors: Ellen Emerson White

BOOK: The President's Daughter
11.53Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
Meg and Steven and Neal sort of stood around, Meg baffled by motorcade protocol.
“This way, kids,” an agent said. “We have to get moving, kids.”
They were ushered into the seventh car; the President's two children—whom they had met upstairs—and the Vice-Presidents' children were all in other cars.
“Wow.” Steven reached for the button to open his window and look at the long line of cars. “I bet this is really expensive.”
“Hey.” One of the agents in the front seat turned around. “I'm sorry, but you have to keep the windows up, kids.”
Guiltily, Steven jerked back his hand.
“It's just a precaution,” the man behind the wheel assured them. “We have a lot of rules around here.”
They sure did.
 
AT THE CAPITOL, the Secret Service brought them up to the platform, facing out over the grassy mall that led to the Washington Monument. The theory was that the new President could look west and out over the country that way. Pretty whimsical, but definitely picturesque. They were supposed to sit in the front row, the entire Congress and other invited guests in chairs spreading out behind them. Everyone smiled as they went by, and cameras were going off like crazy.
“Where's Mommy and Daddy?” Neal asked, as they were seated on one side of the podium.
“Back there.” Meg gestured with her head. “They have to wait inside until everything's ready to go.”
“Do we have to keep smiling, in case the television cameras are pointed at us?” Steven asked, letting his teeth show.
Meg looked around, alarmed. “You think they're pointing at us?”
“They always film the families,” Steven said.
Well—yeah. “I don't know.” Meg shrugged nervously. “Look happy or something, I guess.”
There were hundreds upon hundreds upon thousands of people below the platform, waiting to see the President-elect, hundreds and thousands of blurred faces—with untold millions more tuning in on television.
Neal gulped. “Meggie, I'm scared.”
She took her eyes off the winter-clouded sky, afraid to look anywhere else, afraid of all the people. “Why?”
“They're all staring at us,” he said.
“No,” she said, flat-out lying. “They can't even see up here.”
“But, what if they can?” He looked at the massive crowd, and then around the packed platform.
Meg shook her head. “They can't. I swear they can't.”
“I don't feel good,” he said uneasily.
“Oh, God,” Steven groaned. “I'll die if he gets sick.”
“He's not going to get sick.” Meg closed her eyes, knowing, however, that he was fully capable of doing just that.
“I don't like it, Meggie.” Neal's face was very pale. “I really don't like it. I want Mommy and Daddy here.”
Jesus. “Steven, trade places with him,” Meg said. What if Neal got sick on national television? What if
she
got sick on national television?
Now, Steven looked scared. “I'm not sitting over there.”
“All right, all right,” she said impatiently. “Trade places with me, then.”
His face was now as pale as Neal's. “What if they wonder why we're doing it?”
She shook her head. “Nobody'll notice.” Maybe.
He stood up, unsteadily, and she sat down between them. Neal's hand shot over and she took it, praying that he wouldn't get sick.
“Meg, I feel kind of funny, too,” Steven said, his voice very small.
Who didn't? “Come on, you're fine.” She made her voice hearty, in comparison. “This is going to be fun.”
“Are you scared at all?” Neal asked.
“Why would I be? Mom and Dad'll be out here in a minute.” She changed the subject. “What do you think they'll have to eat at the luncheon?”
“Squab,” Steven said glumly. “And I'll get sick.”
Meg had to grin. “You know, I bet everyone watching this on television thinks we have green faces.”
“You mean,
you're
scared?” Steven asked.
“Well, sure,” she said, without thinking. “I'd be kind of a jerk if I wasn't. Besides, no one's looking at us, anyway.”
Neither of her brothers seemed to be convinced, and just as she was starting to feel pretty sick herself, there was a flurry of activity on the platform, everyone standing up and looking behind them towards the Capitol itself.
“What is it? What is it?” Neal asked, sounding petrified as he tried to see over all of the people.
The Marine Band went into “Hail to the Chief.”
“I think it's Mom and Dad,” Meg said.
THE PRESIDENT AND the First Lady came out to the platform with her parents, and the crowd cheered and applauded for several minutes, while they waved, and then finally, took their seats on either side of the podium.
Her mother, cheeks bright with excitement, smiled down the row at them, and her father leaned over, touching each one of their left shoulders for a second. Meg felt her nausea ebbing at the security of having their parents there, and saw her brothers relaxing, too.
The ovation finally died down, fading into near-silence, and it was time for her mother to be sworn in. Her parents looked at them, and Meg felt a strange long privacy in the seconds of eye contact, the people and noise blotted out, as if—for that brief moment—no one except their family existed. The intensity was kind of scary, maybe because it was so powerful, and no one else in the world had been part of it. Her parents were up now, and she saw their fingertips barely touch before they got to the podium, where the Chief Justice of the Supreme Court was waiting with an open Bible.
And it was very quiet.
“Raise your right hand and repeat after me,” the Chief Justice said, the sound echoing through the speakers.
Her mother put her left hand on the Bible, lifting her right hand, and Meg could see it shaking slightly.
“I, Katharine Vaughn Powers, do solemnly swear,” he said.
“I, Katharine Vaughn Powers, do solemnly swear.” Her mother's voice was clear and strong, going out over the people.
The Chief Justice smiled at her. “That I will faithfully execute the office of the President of the United States.”
“That I will faithfully execute the office of the President of the United States,” her mother said.
“And will, to the best of my ability, preserve, protect, and defend the Constitution of the United States,” he went on.
“And will, to the best of my ability, preserve, protect, and defend the Constitution of the United States,” she said.
“So help you God,” he finished.
“So help me God.” Her mother's head tilted up for an instant, and Meg looked up, too, hoping that if there
was
some kind of higher power up there, he or she was listening.
“Thank you, Mr. Chief Justice,” her mother said.
“Thank you, Madam President,” he said.
The Marine Band started in on “Hail to the Chief” again, and everyone was standing and applauding, the now-former President and other government officials moving to shake her mother's hand. Before any of them could, Meg saw her parents tightly grip right hands, and then her mother turned, giving the three of them a quick, conspiring wink.
President. Her mother was the President of the country.
The Leader of the Free World
. Feeling sick again, Meg wanted to sit down, but everyone would notice.
“Meggie, clap!” Steven hissed, elbowing her.
Meg clapped, everyone clapped, and her mother—the President—stood there, smiling and waving—with the entire country, and probably most of the entire
world
, watching her. She gave her speech, and people went wild, interrupting her with applause about every third sentence. Speaking from only a few note cards, without prepared typescript—nothing new there, although obviously there was a copy of what was supposed to be the final draft of the speech scrolling on the teleprompter—speaking with sincere conviction and strength, it was clear that this was now the President of the United States. A calm, confident, and very hopeful President of the United States. Also, a very funny President of the United States.
After the ceremony ended in a confusion of more handshaking and applause, they went to a Congressional luncheon, then down Pennsylvania Avenue in the motorcade to watch the Inaugural Parade—which was long, and got very dull—from the official viewing stand. Then, finally, they were in the White House, standing in the entrance hall where they had been only a few hours earlier.
Only now, this was their
home
.
“Well.” Her mother smiled at the four of them, then at Glen, and Linda, and Preston, and the many other new Presidential aides grouped around them, as well as the Curator and the Chief Usher.
“There are a few matters that need your attention, but the only thing you really need to do is sign those Cabinet appointments,” Glen said. Then he grinned, which made him look about ten years younger. “Madam President.”
“Quite right.” Her mother grinned back, then looked at the family. “What do you all want to do?”
“Can we check this place out?” Steven asked.
“Absolutely.” Her mother gave him a one-armed hug, then glanced at various aides. “I'll want to see all of you in the Oval Office at four-thirty, for a few minutes. Linda, why don't you go down to the Briefing Room, and tell them I'll be in to make a statement and take a few questions at five. I think that's all.”
“Madam President?” the Curator asked. “Do you want me to accompany—”
“No, thank you, although that's very kind,” she said. “I'd like to be alone with my family for a while.” She nodded a nod of dismissal, and her aides and the White House permanent staff members dispersed, most of them heading for the West Wing and their new offices, others moving towards the East Wing. Her mother watched them go. “This could really grow on me,” she said.
Meg's father laughed. “You're a wonderful President.”
“Come on, let's look around already,” Steven said impatiently.
“Quite right.” Their mother struck out across the marble floor, between two pillars to the red carpet.
A number of Secret Service agents had stayed behind—they all had protection everywhere, except for the family quarters on the second and third floors of the Residence—but, they seemed to be making an effort to melt into the woodwork, and trailed them at a discreet distance.
Neal pointed to a plaque on the floor that said “1817, 1792–1902, 1952.” “What's that?”
“Those are the dates for the original building, and the reconstructions,” their mother said.
It seemed sort of obscure—but, okay, why not?
They walked down to the East Room, past some guards, who smiled. Neal stopped in the doorway, his mouth open.
“It's beautiful,” he said, his voice hushed.
“Wow. Cool.” Steven went in first, stepping carefully on the well-polished oak floor, staring up at the gold chandeliers and tall, gold-draped windows, paintings of George and Martha Washington dominating the huge room. He paused by the grand piano, which was held up by gold, carved eagles, instead of regular legs. “Come on, Meg, play ‘Greensleeves.'”
“I know other songs,” she said.
“Then, how come you never play 'em?” he asked.
Well, he had her there. Meg glanced back at one of the guards, then hesitantly touched middle C on the piano, the sound echoing across the room. “Are we allowed to play this?”
“We live here,” her father said.
Oh. Right. She sat down on the gold-and-white upholstered bench. “I bet even ‘Greensleeves' sounds professional on this.”
“Hey, check it out!” Steven said, from one of the two doors near the fireplace. “What's this one?”
Meg went over to join him. “The Green Room, stupid, can't you tell?”
“Just 'cause it's green, they call it the Green Room? I think
that
's pretty stupid.” He sat down in a green chair, trying to look solemn.
Neal laughed, and promptly stretched out on a stiff green, gold, and white striped couch, pretending to be asleep.
“Cute,” Meg said.
“I think it is,” her mother said, going over and pretending to tuck him in. Then, she pointed through another door. “Steven, what do you think this room is?”
He got up, looked through the door, and snorted. “The
Blue
Room, right?”
Their mother nodded.
“They've got a wicked lot of imagination, hunh?” he said, and wandered over to the huge windows at the end of the oval room. “Is that like, the backyard?”
Okay, she was officially unimpressed by his powers of recall. “We've
been
there, Steven,” Meg said. To Congressional picnics, and a couple of Fourth of July celebrations. He and Neal had even played T-ball out there once.
For some reason, that made both of her parents laugh.
“Been there, seen
that,
right, Meg?” her mother said.
Hey, she'd come by the attitude honestly. She looked up at the ceiling—which had yet another massive chandelier. “Is that yellow room we were in before above this?”
Her father nodded, then went over to join Steven by the windows. “That porch out there is the South Portico.”
As far as Meg knew, they had come in through the North Portico. “What's a portico?” she asked.
Her father shrugged. “A porch.”
“A porch with a roof supported by columns,” her mother elaborated.
“Oh,” her father grinned at her, “the woman thinks she's smart because she's President.”
“Oh, Christ,” Steven said, from yet another doorway. “This's the Red Room, right?”
“Watch it with the Christs,” their father said, and Steven saluted.
Next was the State Dining Room, gold and comparatively austere, with a painting of Lincoln frowning down from over the mantelpiece.
“What, is this like, if the Queen or someone comes?” Meg asked.
Her mother nodded. “If the Queen comes.” She opened yet another door. “This is the Family Dining Room.”
Which was cheerful enough, but large and very formal. Meg stared dubiously at the long mahogany table, a silver antique tray covering most of it. “We
eat
here?”
“Tonight, we will,” her mother said. “But, usually, we'll be upstairs. Although it isn't much better.”
Meg folded her arms, not wanting to start trouble. “Is the whole house like this?” Namely, chandeliers, antiques, paintings—and nothing that looked at all comfortable.
Her mother looked at her. “Pretty much.”
“I figured,” Meg said.
Her mother opened her mouth to say something, then stopped. “Well. Would you like to look around downstairs now?”
Meg shrugged and followed her down what seemed to be a private staircase, leaving her father and brothers behind. “Are you mad about tonight?” she asked.
“It's not too late for you to change your mind and come,” her mother said.
Meg sighed. She probably shouldn't have brought it up—her not going to the Inaugural Balls had been an issue for weeks now. “I'm sorry, I'm just really not into it. But I don't want you guys to be mad at me.”
“‘Disappointed' is a better word,” her mother said. “I think you'd have a good time.”
Or else, die of embarrassment.
Her mother stopped, leaning back against the railing, which looked a little precarious, considering that it was a spiral staircase. “Well, as your father and I have said, we're not going to
make
you come.”
“But, you're disappointed,” Meg said.
Her mother laughed. “Yes. I may not go myself.”
Meg smiled uncertainly. “That's a joke, right?”
Her mother just laughed.
They took a quick tour of the busy kitchen—where chefs and sous chefs and prep cooks and butlers and so forth instantly snapped to attention, when they saw her mother. Then, they went across the hall to the medical area, which included treatment rooms, her mother's new doctor—who was a Navy Rear Admiral—reception areas, and several on-duty nurses—and, once again, everyone sprang to their feet when they saw the President poke her head in.
A reaction her mother did not seem to find at all unsettling. She also seemed to find it routine—already—that Winifred, the new deputy chief of staff, and Frank, who was now officially her personal aide, kept appearing every so often, and saying something quiet to her, and she would nod, shake her head, or murmur something back in response.
The Ground Floor Corridor was actually more cool than the Cross Hall upstairs, because the ceiling curved upwards, and it looked sort of subterranean—and futuristic. They checked out the Map Room, the odd old North Hall, and the Curator's reference-book-cluttered office—and then met back up with her father and brothers in the Diplomatic Reception Room, which was large and oval, dominated by painted wallpaper that showed early American scenes, with a lot of what looked like Pilgrims.
After that, they wandered through the China Room—which bored Meg almost as much as it did her brothers—the Vermeil Room, and the Library. They didn't take the time to visit it, but apparently, there was even a bowling alley on this level, built underneath the
North Portico. None of them had ever particularly bowled—but it was kind of neat to have it right in the house, in case they wanted to or something.

Other books

Surrender to Love by Adrianne Byrd
A Regency Christmas My Love by Linda Hays-Gibbs
Satan Wants Me by Robert Irwin
Hell Is Burning by Morgan Kelley
With This Kiss by Bella Riley
Borrowed Time by Jack Campbell
The Sea by John Banville
Coming Unclued by Judith Jackson
Under His Sway by Masten, Erika