White House Rules (13 page)

The big public school visit had to wait until Mom got back from the teachers' conference in Texas. Tara had switched the day of the First Lady's keynote address so Mom could be with Ran when she met Gaithers. Meanwhile, Dad was leaving for London for a whole week.

Miranda invited Tara up to consult on an outfit for her big meeting with the Hollywood agent. “I don't want to look too young, Ms. Colby,” she said. “Or like I'm trying to look too much older, either. It has to be just right—sophisticated and confident, but fresh and trendy at the same time.”

Tara rifled through the clothes hanging in Miranda's closet and picked out a pair of caramel slacks, a matching blouse, and slim gold belt. Then she went across the hall to borrow Elizabeth Campbell Righton's brown suede blazer and a pair of high-heeled chocolate suede boots. Sameera watched critically—wouldn't her cousin look too plain in all that brown? But once Miranda was dressed, with her long blond hair combed straight over her shoulders, a small gold cross at her throat, and red, red lipstick, all three of them were satisfied.

“This is perfect, Ms. Colby,” Miranda said, checking herself out in the mirror. “It's so…Hollywood.”

“Without being totally starlet wannabe,” added Sameera. “He's going to be impressed.”

“How was your date with JB last Saturday, Ms. Colby?” Miranda asked. The girls were curious about her take, even though JB had told them he'd had a great time.

The usually poised older woman blushed. Actually blushed. “He's amazing,” she said. “Now if you'll excuse me, girls, I've got work to do.”

“She was starry-eyed,” Sameera said, smirking.

“Sort of like you were the last time you saw Bobby.”

“Yeah, but he has to tell her the truth about his kids, Ran.”

Miranda's attention shifted back to her appointment. “Why don't you wait up here for me, Sparrow?” she asked hesitantly. “I'll—er—I'll let you know how it goes, okay?”

Sameera raised her eyebrows. “Why? I want to be right there with you. I can't wait to hear what Gaithers has to say.”

“Sparrow, I don't…I mean…he wants to meet just with me, I think. And your mother.”

“Please, Ran? I'll be as quiet as a ladybug, I promise. Hey, why didn't they name me that instead of Peanut? I wouldn't mind being called Ladybug; it's better, don't you think? Anyway, I won't say a word.”

“Yeah, right. That would be a first.”

Sameera felt a bit hurt. “When do I ever take over a conversation, Ran?”

“How about all the time? You've got lots of opinions, Sparrow. And lots of words. You're a journalist, remember? Don't get me wrong—I like it, usually, but…well, it's
my
day today.”

“Mom has as many strong opinions as I do, and you want
her
.”

“I know. But that's not my choice. Gaithers's secretary insisted that your mother had to be there. I would have liked to meet with him alone, actually.”

“Forget the ladybug. I'll be as quiet as a Cougar, I promise. You won't even know I'm there.”

Miranda sighed. “Okay, Sparrow. Come along, then.”

Sameera found it excruciating to keep her promise to stay silent, as it turned out. First of all, Gaithers was late. Mom and Miranda paced by the hearth until someone came in to announce that their guest was getting his security clearance.

Miranda tried two different poses by the mantel. “Which one?” she asked Sameera anxiously.

“They're both fine. You're beautiful.”

Minutes later, JB escorted in a short man wearing a gray suit and black turtleneck. Sameera took a quick look; this visitor had to be Gaithers, even though he looked ten years older than the photos she'd found online.

Their visitor strode away from the agent, who'd stopped just inside the door, and headed straight for Mom. “Mrs. Righton, I am so thrilled to meet you,” he said, grabbing both of Mom's hands and ignoring Miranda and Sameera completely.

“We're glad to meet you, too, Mr. Gaithers,” Mom said, taking the briefest of steps backward as the short man gazed up into her face.

“Let me cut to the chase,” said Gaithers, still clutching Mom's hands and moving even closer. “My people have heard rumors that you might be trying to make the movie rating system your issue of choice during your husband's administration. I came to beg you to reconsider on behalf of the entire entertainment industry.”

“You've heard that, have you?” Mom asked, easing her hands out of his and surreptitiously smoothing her palms against her skirt. “And you wanted to come here and talk about it? That's interesting. I thought that option was part of a private discussion that only my office staff knew about. And that you came here to meet my niece—not me.”

“Let's keep things on the table, Mrs. Righton. I'm known as a straight talker, which is one of the reasons I've made it in this business. If the First Lady starts an anti-entertainment crusade, we stand to lose—”

“A lot of money,” Mom finished. “Well, that's unfortunate, Mr. Gaithers, isn't it? Now, don't you want to meet my niece?”

Sameera was literally biting her tongue to keep herself from leaping into the conversation. She noticed that her mother didn't reveal the fact that she'd settled on her domestic issue just a couple of days before—to provide America's homeless children with shelter, education, and a hopeful future. Mom and Tara and the rest of her staff were working on the details of releasing the news to the media.

The First Lady's frosty tone of voice must have registered with the agent. His eyes scanned the room until they found Miranda, who had listened to the conversation without moving a muscle. “Of course I came to see your niece,” he said. “Meredith, right?”

She's
Miranda,
you idiot,
Sameera thought, fighting hard to keep the words from hurtling out of her mouth.

“It's Miranda,” said her cousin.

Gaithers started walking around Miranda slowly, reminding Sameera of a tourist circling a statue. “Oh, she
is
lovely. I've been watching the news coverage, and she simply lights up a screen when the camera finds her, doesn't she?”

Why is he talking about her like she can't hear him?
Sameera thought.
This guy's a loser, Ran. Can't you see that?

“Thank you, Mr. Gaithers,” Miranda said. “I've been acting in community theater since I was little. Would you like to hear me audition?”

He gave a short, condescending snort that might have been a laugh. “Definitely not. It's the visuals I care about, and you've certainly got those. Call my secretary to set up a photo shoot the next time you're in California. Here, take this.”

He handed Miranda a card and turned back to the First Lady. “Mrs. Righton, I hope you reconsider which battles you plan to fight. I have a lot of friends in the industry who'd love to help the president get his job done. Not to mention see that young girls like your niece get a shot at their dream.”

He doesn't need your help,
Sameera thought.
And neither does Miranda.
“James grew up in California,” Mom said curtly. “He's got plenty of support in Hollywood. Thank you for coming, Mr. Gaithers.”

Miranda glanced at the tea table set for four, but Mom took their visitor firmly by the elbow and led him to JB. “Can you make sure Mr. Gaithers finds his way safely out of the White House, JB?” Mom asked.

“I'd love to, ma'am,” the agent answered with conviction.

Once they were alone, Miranda let loose. “Aunt Liz! You were so…so unwelcoming!”

“I know, Miranda. I'm sorry. I couldn't take another minute with that man.”

The two red spots burning on Miranda's cheeks reminded Sameera of stop signs. “Well, it's easy for
you
to blow him off! You'll never have to worry about money in your life—or ever go back to milking cows. Thanks for blowing
my
one shot at leaving!”

“Calm down, Miranda,” Mom said, taking a sip of ice water. “He told you to call his secretary. James has plenty of friends in California; I'm sure we can find a place for you to stay if you'd like to pursue this.”

Sameera shot Mom a surprised look, but still didn't say anything. She was going to keep her promise to stay quiet if it killed her.

“I know you don't want to be a dairy farmer for the rest of your life,” Mom continued. “I get that. I'm hunting around for some meaningful work for you in the White House, but as I said, if you want to go after this opportunity, we can make it happen.”

“I just might,” Miranda said firmly, but the spots began to fade. “I'll let you know.”

“I'm hungry,” Sameera blurted out, sitting down and helping herself to a raspberry scone with clotted cream. It was exhausting to keep herself from using words; she'd never realized how much she relied on them.

“Me too,” said Mom, sitting down and pouring the tea. “Come on, Miranda. I'm on your team, remember?”

Miranda sat down, her anger disappearing like the clotted cream on Sameera's plate. “Okay, Aunt Liz. He
was
kind of a jerk, wasn't he? I guess it wouldn't hurt to send some photos, though. Anyway, thanks for having him here.”

Those Campbell women,
Sameera thought, remembering her grandmother's volatile temper.
They get riled up quickly, but they cool down just as fast.

When the First Lady and her entourage got back from their Texas visit later that week, Mom was flying high. Her No American Child Without a Home initiative (NACWAH) had been received with much support and delight by the teachers. Now she was planning to focus on her refugees overseas who'd been neglected for a while.

Meanwhile, the press was fawning over Sameera's father as he hobnobbed with the Prime Minister and royalty in London. “
Finally
, we have a president with the savoir faire to impress the America bashers in Europe,” gushed a morning talk show host who seemed entranced with Dad's trim, handsome appearance in tails and top hat at Buckingham Palace.

The Residence's private phone rang that night, and Miranda picked it up. “It's for you, Aunt Liz,” she said, her voice breathless and excited. “It's Senator Banforth.”

“Victoria Banforth? For me? I wonder what she wants.”

The girls could guess. They exchanged grins as they overheard the First Lady accepting the senator's invitation to Sunday supper.

“Since your father's gone, I thought it might be fun,” Mom said, after the conversation was over.

“Definitely, Mom.”

“Yeah, great idea, Aunt Liz.”

The girls' voices were suspiciously casual, and Mom gave them one of her long squinty-eyed looks, but neither of them broke down and confessed.

Senator Banforth told Mom that she was planning to wear jeans, so the girls and the First Lady dressed casually. Sameera noticed her cousin taking extra care with her mascara and lipstick, and trying on about eight pairs of earrings.

“I'm meeting my future husband, Sparrow,” Miranda said. “Take some footage with my camera, will you? I want to document this historic night for our kids.”

When they walked into the senator's elegant colonial Virginia home, Sameera was overwhelmed with frustration on her cousin's behalf. Thomas Banforth had invited another guest to Sunday supper—Kaylie, a tall, slender brunette, who was a fellow student of his at Georgetown Law School.

“Why is
she
here?” Sameera hissed into Miranda's ear.

“No worries,” Miranda whispered back calmly. “She can't thwart destiny.”

Kaylie didn't seem impressed by the First Lady, First Daughter, or the First Niece. She commandeered the conversation easily, describing how she was putting herself through law school by modeling swimsuits for a catalog. The company she worked for was family friendly, she reassured them. “Just like your husband's administration, Mrs. Righton.”

Tommy's mother, in return, didn't seem impressed
or
reassured by her son's date; Sameera watched her take stock of her guest's low-cut minidress and black fishnet stockings.
That outfit's going to be mighty distracting in the courtroom,
Sameera thought.
I'll bet nobody notices the murderer she's defending.

But despite all the scenery Kaylie had to offer, and the fact that she probably had the brains to match, Miranda was right not to worry about the competition. Sameera noticed Kaylie's spiky-heeled foot caressing Tommy's ankle under the dinner table, but all through the meal he shifted his chair progressively away from his date's and closer to Miranda's. By the end of the evening, Tommy and Miranda were at the piano together, singing through his mother's hymnal. Meanwhile, Miss Swimsuit sat glowering on the couch as Senator Banforth tried convincing Mom to join a Bible study for women that took place on Capitol Hill.

Sameera, too, was sitting quietly in an armchair, fighting an intense bout of Bobby deprivation as she watched her cousin and the senator's son.

“It's a completely bipartisan group of women,” Senator Banforth was saying. “We keep prayer requests confidential, and we support one another in other ways, too. You need friends you can trust to survive this job, Liz.”

“I know,” Mom said. “Whoever said it was lonely at the top must have been a First Lady. I'll come, definitely.”

“Did Tommy go to public school, Senator Banforth?”

Sameera asked suddenly.

“Call me Vicky, my dear. Yes, he did, but we live in McLean, remember? The D.C. schools are different. I think the Clintons might have considered it for Chelsea, but it would be tough to be the First Daughter
and
the only white person in the entire school.”

Yeah, well, I'm not white,
Sameera thought.
So
I
can go where no First Daughter's ever gone before.

“Your son seems to have turned out okay,” said Mom. “And he grew up in the limelight. You started this when he was about three, right? How'd you get through those tough teenage years?”

Sameera rolled her eyes. Like
she
was tough.

“The only thing I did right with Tommy when he was a teenager was letting him learn from his mistakes—and being there to bandage up any wounds.”

“What mistakes, Mom?” her son called from the piano, where he and Miranda had stopped playing to eavesdrop on the conversation. He burst into a song at the top of his lungs, and Miranda joined in heartily: “Victory in Jesus, my Savior forever…”

Kaylie rolled her eyes and looked at her watch. “Look at the time, I've got to go,” she said quickly. Sameera had almost forgotten she was there.

“Tommy!” Senator Banforth called. “Your guest is ready to leave.”

The two-person choir came into the living room, with Tommy looking sheepish. “Sorry, Kaylie. Those hymns totally remind me of my childhood. They help me relax, and what with the pressure of papers and projects and stuff, I definitely need to do that. Want to come join us?”

“That isn't how I usually spend my free time,” Kaylie said haughtily. “I'll drive myself home. It's a good thing we brought my car instead of yours. Thanks for dinner, Senator Banforth. It was lovely to meet you, Mrs. Righton.” Her tone belied the words.

“I'll drive you back to your apartment later, Tommy,” Senator Banforth said smoothly, getting Kaylie her coat and escorting her to the door. “Thanks for coming, my dear. God bless you in your studies.”

Once again, Miranda and Sameera exchanged glances that would have included jubilant fist punching if they'd been alone. After Kaylie was gone, Tommy and Miranda headed straight back to the piano and resumed their hymn sing as though his date's departure had been a minor blip in their perfect harmony.

“I'm a regular Sparrowblog reader, you know,” Senator Banforth said as the three of them settled back down in the living room. “I even tried to come up with my own list of three treasures, but I had a hard time.”

“I did, too,” Mom confessed.

Sameera was astounded. “You guys both read that post?” First a random Austrian guy, now Senator Banforth, and even her own mom. Just how far did her intergalactic circle extend?

“Thomas got me hooked on Sparrowblog,” Senator Banforth admitted. “Even during the campaign, I read it regularly. The comments are especially fascinating, aren't they?”

“I browse through Sparrowblog all the time, sweetheart,” added Mom. “And so does your dad. I even comment sometimes, as
anonymous
. So what was on your list, Vicky?”

“I had a long one when I was younger, I'll tell you that much. But now I only have one thing on my list.”

“What's that?” Sameera asked.

“A contrite spirit,” the senator answered.

Mom was nodding knowingly. “I hear you,” she said.

“Why is that so important?” Sameera asked.

“It's the ability to admit when you're wrong and a desire to change all bundled up together,” Mom explained.

“You get mellow with time, Sparrow,” Senator Banforth said. “We single gals over fifty aren't as picky as we used to be.”

Mellow?
Sameera thought.
Or desperate? Don't go chasing after any contrite convicted felons, Senator.

“The amazing thing, my dear,” the older woman was saying, “is when your short lists match.”

“You mean if both of you pick the same qualities?”

Sameera asked.

“You got it. If your top nonnegotiables mirror his, that's when you know he's a keeper. Even two out of three would be a good indication of compatibility.”

I'll have to share that nugget of wisdom with my intergalactics,
Sameera thought, wondering how high courage, honesty, and tenderness ranked on Bobby Ghosh's list.