Commander in Chief
Page 25
“Yes,” I say.
“You’re marrying the fucking president of the United States,” she repeats, disbelieving.
“I’m already his first lady; don’t act so shocked,” I say, laughing.
“He’s like . . . the most coveted bachelor in the land! Hammy! Hammy is marrying you, and you’re marrying Hammy!”
“Kayla,” I groan. “Make sense for a minute. You can’t be all awestruck when you stand by me at the altar as my maid of honor.”
“Your what?”
“You heard me.” I laugh. “It’s going to be a speedy wedding. When Matt told reporters he wanted to marry me ‘today’ he wasn’t exactly joking.”
“So when is it?”
“As soon as we can. It’ll take me at least a month to get everything ready, but—”
“A month. Oh my god!” she cries. “I’m in.” Her voice breaks. “Charlotte, I’m so happy for you. I always thought Sam would propose first and that you’d be sort of heartbroken because you still hadn’t found a guy of your own. Now look at you!”
We laugh, and we reminisce about the days when we were younger, and both promised that we’d always be friends, even if one of us got married and moved across the continent, or became a philanthropist recluse.
After we hang up, I take calls from Alan and Mark, both of whom sound sort of mind-blown and a little sore about it, and then from twelve more friends, a mix of ex-coworkers from Women of the World and old Georgetown friends.
The news travels fast—especially considering it’s on every website. Clarissa shows me a few of the headlines, sounding as ecstatic as the rest of the White House is, and I’ve been hugging the staff members—many who have become warm, gentle presences in my life.
Wedding at the White House!
Say Hello to the First Family
While America continues rising as the undisputed superpower of the world, President Hamilton falls (in love, that is)
Hammy finally to get wed—to his FLOTUS!
Condolences to the women out there: The most coveted bachelor in the world, our very own President Hamilton, is to be a bachelor no more.
In the meantime, Lola is busy fielding the White House press corps, all of whom want to know more details about the wedding.
Within a matter of hours, the excitement in D.C. is palpable in the air, as palpable as the incoming spring. After Grover Cleveland’s long-ago White House wedding in 1886, there’s finally another presidential wedding taking place—and even the international press is reporting on the news.
We’ve been receiving calls nonstop.
“Vogue wants to feature you and the president on the cover of their April issue.”
“Vera Wang wants to design your wedding dress.”
“The designer of the yellow outfit you wore on the Today Show? He called to say he sold out of the outfit and got orders from Bergdorf and Neiman Marcus. He wants to send more designs and is sending a huge congratulations on the wedding.”
“That’s great!” I say.
“Charlotte, the chef wants to know if you’d like a tasting menu prepared this Sunday so you and the president can start looking at dishes—”
Matt
I’m a happy man when I walk into the Oval Office to find one of the White House staffers leaving a pile of letters on my desk. “Oh, I’m sorry, Mr. President,” she says, about to leave. She pauses. “I’m one of those who read the letters and help select the ones we will place on your desk.”
I absently nod. “Thank you.”
“Sir, I also read some of the letters for your father. I’ve been working here for a long time.”
I skim through the envelopes.
“You get some hate mail,” she says.
I keep flipping through the envelopes as I laugh. “Yeah, I don’t doubt it.”
“He got more. Sometimes from the same guy.”
I frown. Raise my head. “And you know this how …?”
“Just the postage, the way the letters were made. Looked like the same guy. He sent you one. It’s not hate mail, just a magazine cut-out of an eye.”
“Where does all the correspondence go?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Do me a favor. Talk to Cox at the FBI about this. I’ll have him contact you.”
“Yes, sir.”
Dale Coin walks in as she heads out. “A bit like a needle in a haystack, no?”
“Yeah, well, haystack’s all we’ve got now.”
23
PLANNING
Charlotte
Work doesn’t stop. In the midst of the wedding preparations, little Matt is coming to the White House.
I’ve been excited about his visit. You just never know when you will meet someone who’s going to touch your life. In ways you’ll never forget, I suppose sometimes good, and sometimes bad. Even the most fleeting encounter can leave the most lasting mark. And since that day Matthew visited Children’s National on Michigan Northwest, where the boy was being treated, and met with young Matt Brems, the seven-year-old boy has held a special place in my heart. Not only because he’s the son of one of the women that I worked with at Women of the World. The boy is simply a fighter, living with an aggressive type of leukemia that he’s fighting to conquer, his dream of visiting the White House becoming a reality today.
“Matt Brems is here, Mr. President.”
“MATT!” the boy cries from the door of the Oval Office.
“Mr. President!” his mother chides the boy, horrified. “Mr. President, thank you for having us.”
“Hey, tiger.” Matt approaches and lifts his hand for a high-five.
I greet the boy’s father and hug his mother, Catherine. “How is he doing?”
“He’s a fighter.”
The boy looks around, smoothing a hand over his tie, his awe of the Oval etched on his face. “I want to be president one day.”
Matt motions for his chair.
The boy approaches with mounting disbelief.
Matt sits him down. Our eyes connect over his parents’ heads—and I know what he’s thinking. That we may have one of these, one day.
“Are you getting married?” the boy asks, surprising us.
“Yes.” I add, “Do you want to come to the wedding?”
“YES!” He giggles happily. “But Sara will be mad she couldn’t come too.”
“Who is Sara?”
“A girl at the hospital.”
“I suppose we should invite all of the children—they’ll be our special guests.”
I glance at Matt, and he stares back at me with this half smile that makes me blush and a look in his eyes that says go for it, baby; it’s your only wedding.
I’m grateful when Matt turns to the boy, giving me a moment to recapture my first lady role.
“Do you think your friends would want to come?” Matt asks the boy.
“Definitely!”
“Can we count on you to deliver the good news?”
“Yes!”
The boy hops off the chair and walks with his chest expanded, as if he just grew a couple of sizes because of the task ahead.
Before they leave, Matt sits across the coffee table from his parents and tells them, “I want you to check all options. I would like to personally support his treatment. I’ll also be starting a special fund in his name.”
“Thank you.” His mother starts crying.
When they leave, my eyes sting too. “Here we are with so much power but no ability to help him.”
A melancholy frown flits across his features. “We do what we can.”
Our eyes connect once again, and my heart somersaults in my chest. The vitality he radiates pulls at me, but the way his steady gaze bores into mine with silent expectation holds me in place.
“Were you thinking what I’m thinking?” I ask.
“We will have one of these in the White House.”
I nod.
Standing less than a foot away, he glances down at me, his gaze admiring as a corner of his lips hikes up. “You’ll make a great mother.”
“You’ll be the best dad.”
“You’re marrying the fucking president of the United States,” she repeats, disbelieving.
“I’m already his first lady; don’t act so shocked,” I say, laughing.
“He’s like . . . the most coveted bachelor in the land! Hammy! Hammy is marrying you, and you’re marrying Hammy!”
“Kayla,” I groan. “Make sense for a minute. You can’t be all awestruck when you stand by me at the altar as my maid of honor.”
“Your what?”
“You heard me.” I laugh. “It’s going to be a speedy wedding. When Matt told reporters he wanted to marry me ‘today’ he wasn’t exactly joking.”
“So when is it?”
“As soon as we can. It’ll take me at least a month to get everything ready, but—”
“A month. Oh my god!” she cries. “I’m in.” Her voice breaks. “Charlotte, I’m so happy for you. I always thought Sam would propose first and that you’d be sort of heartbroken because you still hadn’t found a guy of your own. Now look at you!”
We laugh, and we reminisce about the days when we were younger, and both promised that we’d always be friends, even if one of us got married and moved across the continent, or became a philanthropist recluse.
After we hang up, I take calls from Alan and Mark, both of whom sound sort of mind-blown and a little sore about it, and then from twelve more friends, a mix of ex-coworkers from Women of the World and old Georgetown friends.
The news travels fast—especially considering it’s on every website. Clarissa shows me a few of the headlines, sounding as ecstatic as the rest of the White House is, and I’ve been hugging the staff members—many who have become warm, gentle presences in my life.
Wedding at the White House!
Say Hello to the First Family
While America continues rising as the undisputed superpower of the world, President Hamilton falls (in love, that is)
Hammy finally to get wed—to his FLOTUS!
Condolences to the women out there: The most coveted bachelor in the world, our very own President Hamilton, is to be a bachelor no more.
In the meantime, Lola is busy fielding the White House press corps, all of whom want to know more details about the wedding.
Within a matter of hours, the excitement in D.C. is palpable in the air, as palpable as the incoming spring. After Grover Cleveland’s long-ago White House wedding in 1886, there’s finally another presidential wedding taking place—and even the international press is reporting on the news.
We’ve been receiving calls nonstop.
“Vogue wants to feature you and the president on the cover of their April issue.”
“Vera Wang wants to design your wedding dress.”
“The designer of the yellow outfit you wore on the Today Show? He called to say he sold out of the outfit and got orders from Bergdorf and Neiman Marcus. He wants to send more designs and is sending a huge congratulations on the wedding.”
“That’s great!” I say.
“Charlotte, the chef wants to know if you’d like a tasting menu prepared this Sunday so you and the president can start looking at dishes—”
Matt
I’m a happy man when I walk into the Oval Office to find one of the White House staffers leaving a pile of letters on my desk. “Oh, I’m sorry, Mr. President,” she says, about to leave. She pauses. “I’m one of those who read the letters and help select the ones we will place on your desk.”
I absently nod. “Thank you.”
“Sir, I also read some of the letters for your father. I’ve been working here for a long time.”
I skim through the envelopes.
“You get some hate mail,” she says.
I keep flipping through the envelopes as I laugh. “Yeah, I don’t doubt it.”
“He got more. Sometimes from the same guy.”
I frown. Raise my head. “And you know this how …?”
“Just the postage, the way the letters were made. Looked like the same guy. He sent you one. It’s not hate mail, just a magazine cut-out of an eye.”
“Where does all the correspondence go?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Do me a favor. Talk to Cox at the FBI about this. I’ll have him contact you.”
“Yes, sir.”
Dale Coin walks in as she heads out. “A bit like a needle in a haystack, no?”
“Yeah, well, haystack’s all we’ve got now.”
23
PLANNING
Charlotte
Work doesn’t stop. In the midst of the wedding preparations, little Matt is coming to the White House.
I’ve been excited about his visit. You just never know when you will meet someone who’s going to touch your life. In ways you’ll never forget, I suppose sometimes good, and sometimes bad. Even the most fleeting encounter can leave the most lasting mark. And since that day Matthew visited Children’s National on Michigan Northwest, where the boy was being treated, and met with young Matt Brems, the seven-year-old boy has held a special place in my heart. Not only because he’s the son of one of the women that I worked with at Women of the World. The boy is simply a fighter, living with an aggressive type of leukemia that he’s fighting to conquer, his dream of visiting the White House becoming a reality today.
“Matt Brems is here, Mr. President.”
“MATT!” the boy cries from the door of the Oval Office.
“Mr. President!” his mother chides the boy, horrified. “Mr. President, thank you for having us.”
“Hey, tiger.” Matt approaches and lifts his hand for a high-five.
I greet the boy’s father and hug his mother, Catherine. “How is he doing?”
“He’s a fighter.”
The boy looks around, smoothing a hand over his tie, his awe of the Oval etched on his face. “I want to be president one day.”
Matt motions for his chair.
The boy approaches with mounting disbelief.
Matt sits him down. Our eyes connect over his parents’ heads—and I know what he’s thinking. That we may have one of these, one day.
“Are you getting married?” the boy asks, surprising us.
“Yes.” I add, “Do you want to come to the wedding?”
“YES!” He giggles happily. “But Sara will be mad she couldn’t come too.”
“Who is Sara?”
“A girl at the hospital.”
“I suppose we should invite all of the children—they’ll be our special guests.”
I glance at Matt, and he stares back at me with this half smile that makes me blush and a look in his eyes that says go for it, baby; it’s your only wedding.
I’m grateful when Matt turns to the boy, giving me a moment to recapture my first lady role.
“Do you think your friends would want to come?” Matt asks the boy.
“Definitely!”
“Can we count on you to deliver the good news?”
“Yes!”
The boy hops off the chair and walks with his chest expanded, as if he just grew a couple of sizes because of the task ahead.
Before they leave, Matt sits across the coffee table from his parents and tells them, “I want you to check all options. I would like to personally support his treatment. I’ll also be starting a special fund in his name.”
“Thank you.” His mother starts crying.
When they leave, my eyes sting too. “Here we are with so much power but no ability to help him.”
A melancholy frown flits across his features. “We do what we can.”
Our eyes connect once again, and my heart somersaults in my chest. The vitality he radiates pulls at me, but the way his steady gaze bores into mine with silent expectation holds me in place.
“Were you thinking what I’m thinking?” I ask.
“We will have one of these in the White House.”
I nod.
Standing less than a foot away, he glances down at me, his gaze admiring as a corner of his lips hikes up. “You’ll make a great mother.”
“You’ll be the best dad.”
