Commander in Chief
Page 33
He’s back in the Oval in twelve minutes flat.
I’m just that easy.
Or maybe the POTUS is just that good.
He calls the White House physician to come look at me, and he declares both mother and baby to be healthy and the delivery date to be early December. Now I’m visiting with his mother in the Red Room.
“When Matt called to tell me the news, I couldn’t believe I’d be a grandmother so soon,” she tells me, her expression animated, her eyes shining as she passes me a cup of tea and sits across the coffee table from me.
“Thank you, Mrs. Hamilton.”
“Eleanor, please. Have you decided when you’ll announce to the world?”
I shake my head. “We haven’t discussed it. I suppose we can’t keep it to ourselves for very long.” I smile, spreading a hand over my jacket, right over the baby.
Her eyes cloud over, and she pauses midway to taking a sip of her tea. She sets her cup on the table, her expression sober, and almost surreally understanding.
“I know this lifestyle can be harsh, especially with a baby on the way. You feel watched, vulnerable, and like you don’t have the right anyone else does to make a mistake. It gets easier, but never too easy.” She smiles encouragingly, then says, “I could hear the concern in my son’s voice when he told me he was going to be a father. You know he worries he’ll do the same things his father did, make the same mistakes . . .”
She trails off, then continues.
“He is a great man, like his father—ambitious, determined, noble. He will stand by you—he won’t ever want to be the one to hurt you, or abandon you or this baby.”
She becomes misty-eyed and presses her lips as if trying to get a grip, then stands and comes over to take a seat next to me. She takes my hands in hers, squeezing. “Welcome to the family to both this little baby . . . and you, Charlotte. I haven’t had the opportunity to say . . . welcome.”
29
STATE DINNER
Charlotte
Galas are now my life. The gowns, the accessories. I’m swathed in fine fabrics and in Matt’s arms.
“She went from private citizen to public figure and she’s handled it with grace and style. I’m proud of her,” Matthew was quoted staying.
And about my pregnancy rumors, addressing them eight weeks after we found out: “That’s right. I’m going to be a father in six months’ time. I’m kindly requesting to the most shameless of you”—he addressed the press with a warning look and a smirk—“to take it easy on my wife.”
“President Hamilton, is it a boy or a girl?”
“We don’t know yet.”
“Will you want to?”
“That would be a yes.” He grinned.
I restore the tulip beds, and add ducks to accompany the swans in the south fountain.
I’m mistress of the White House.
I plan events where artists dazzle audiences, arranged in our guests’ honor. Arrange for a famous singer to perform the national anthem when someone important comes to visit.
I give talks in middle and elementary schools and invite schools to organize field trips to the White House, where I plan state dinners for the children (which are really lunches), complete with healthy foods.
My weekends I dedicate to the planning of these events, including those held for foreign heads of state.
I try to juggle it all, paying utmost attention to every detail of the state dinners we will be hosting, the next to be President Kebchov’s dinner this weekend. From the linens, to the plates, to the flowers, to the food, to the table arrangement and the entertainment. I want everyone who steps through our doors to be swept away by the elegance and glamor of the White House.
There is a history in every wall, every artifact, a story in every room. Reading about them, knowing Abe Lincoln walked through these halls, JFK and Jackie made love in the same rooms Matthew Hamilton and I do, it’s humbling. So humbling, it’s been hard to believe that I—just a girl, one who had no interest in politics to begin with but was too enraptured by a man to stay away—could deserve it.
But I’m here nonetheless, and I am here to serve, and I want to make a difference.
I want to own up to my childhood dream and take this opportunity to make it a reality. I want to touch lives in the way that Matthew and his father touched mine, the day they came to dinner at my home and treated me as if I had something good to offer. We all do; sometimes we just need someone to tell us.
So I try to keep my schedule heavy on the days Matt is traveling, and lighter when he is home. And sometimes when we both get home after an exhausting trip, we just make love and stay awake all night, talking about our days apart—and I tell Matt how the things we’re doing not only touch others, they touch me too.
The hustle and bustle of the White House is up a notch on the day we host President Kebchov’s state dinner.
The U.S.–Russia relationship has been strained for years.
Kebchov is the one you want to intimidate. You want him well aware of the power of the United States and its leader.
We don’t live in this world all alone. We have neighbors and allies. Enemies, too.
I’ve planned the perfect dinner—all American courses, including Maine lobster and Idaho potatoes.
Matt and I receive President Kebchov and his wife at the door, the sentinel guards standing by as he and his wife exit the car.
“President Kebchov.” Matt shakes his hand.
“Kev is good,” he says with a thick accent.
His wife is clad in gold, with glittering jewels on her wrist and neck.
I chose simplicity for this event. My gown is the color of emeralds. I’m wearing a small pair of emerald studs Matt gave me to match it and no necklace, because my gown is strapless and I like the way my bare shoulders look. I know Matt likes it too.
“My first lady, Charlotte.” Matt introduces me to them, and I shake the president’s hand as he, too, introduces his wife, and she goes on to press a kiss to Matt’s cheek.
“If you’ll allow us the honor . . .” Matt motions us into the White House, where the four of us walk inside to a thousand camera flashes.
The artists entertaining tonight in the East Room are acrobats from Cirque du Soleil, who prepared a special performance just for the occasion.
President Kev is amused, and keeps saying AHHH! whenever the acrobats in their colorful leotards perform gravity-defying feats.
Matt squeezes my thigh, shooting an approving glance my way that tells me he’s happy with the evening so far.
After dinner, the men are in deep discussions that Matt suggests taking to his office, and I remain with the first lady.
“Your husband. He’s very young and virile. Da?” Katarina says.
“Yes.” I smile, and she shoots a covetous glance his way and drinks from her glass of wine.
“He’s also incredibly loving to me,” I say, and her eyes widen as if she didn’t expect this from me.
“I like you!” she declares. “Not as much as I like your husband, but . . .” She grins, and we end up laughing and discussing her duties as a first lady in her country, and the troubles she believes her people face.
“My husband has been very angry at the United States for a long time.” She eyes me. “We haven’t had the same . . . agenda, shall we say.”
“No two countries ever do. That’s what compromises are for.”
She scowls delicately. “Yes, but my husband is not good at compromising.”
“My husband is great at what he does. I’m sure they’ll come to an understanding. May I show you around?” I offer.
We watch as the men head to the West Wing, and I lead her around the White House, telling her stories about our ancestors, funny or interesting tidbits about things that happened in each room.
“How lovely, your passion,” she says.
I only smile.
“You are to have a baby, yes?”
“I’m due December.”
“We never had children. Kev said it was too much, to have brats and be in charge of Russia.”
She sounds forlorn. “I’m sorry to hear that. I’m sure Matthew has his concerns, but I do believe it’s possible to both have a family and be commander in chief.”
I’m just that easy.
Or maybe the POTUS is just that good.
He calls the White House physician to come look at me, and he declares both mother and baby to be healthy and the delivery date to be early December. Now I’m visiting with his mother in the Red Room.
“When Matt called to tell me the news, I couldn’t believe I’d be a grandmother so soon,” she tells me, her expression animated, her eyes shining as she passes me a cup of tea and sits across the coffee table from me.
“Thank you, Mrs. Hamilton.”
“Eleanor, please. Have you decided when you’ll announce to the world?”
I shake my head. “We haven’t discussed it. I suppose we can’t keep it to ourselves for very long.” I smile, spreading a hand over my jacket, right over the baby.
Her eyes cloud over, and she pauses midway to taking a sip of her tea. She sets her cup on the table, her expression sober, and almost surreally understanding.
“I know this lifestyle can be harsh, especially with a baby on the way. You feel watched, vulnerable, and like you don’t have the right anyone else does to make a mistake. It gets easier, but never too easy.” She smiles encouragingly, then says, “I could hear the concern in my son’s voice when he told me he was going to be a father. You know he worries he’ll do the same things his father did, make the same mistakes . . .”
She trails off, then continues.
“He is a great man, like his father—ambitious, determined, noble. He will stand by you—he won’t ever want to be the one to hurt you, or abandon you or this baby.”
She becomes misty-eyed and presses her lips as if trying to get a grip, then stands and comes over to take a seat next to me. She takes my hands in hers, squeezing. “Welcome to the family to both this little baby . . . and you, Charlotte. I haven’t had the opportunity to say . . . welcome.”
29
STATE DINNER
Charlotte
Galas are now my life. The gowns, the accessories. I’m swathed in fine fabrics and in Matt’s arms.
“She went from private citizen to public figure and she’s handled it with grace and style. I’m proud of her,” Matthew was quoted staying.
And about my pregnancy rumors, addressing them eight weeks after we found out: “That’s right. I’m going to be a father in six months’ time. I’m kindly requesting to the most shameless of you”—he addressed the press with a warning look and a smirk—“to take it easy on my wife.”
“President Hamilton, is it a boy or a girl?”
“We don’t know yet.”
“Will you want to?”
“That would be a yes.” He grinned.
I restore the tulip beds, and add ducks to accompany the swans in the south fountain.
I’m mistress of the White House.
I plan events where artists dazzle audiences, arranged in our guests’ honor. Arrange for a famous singer to perform the national anthem when someone important comes to visit.
I give talks in middle and elementary schools and invite schools to organize field trips to the White House, where I plan state dinners for the children (which are really lunches), complete with healthy foods.
My weekends I dedicate to the planning of these events, including those held for foreign heads of state.
I try to juggle it all, paying utmost attention to every detail of the state dinners we will be hosting, the next to be President Kebchov’s dinner this weekend. From the linens, to the plates, to the flowers, to the food, to the table arrangement and the entertainment. I want everyone who steps through our doors to be swept away by the elegance and glamor of the White House.
There is a history in every wall, every artifact, a story in every room. Reading about them, knowing Abe Lincoln walked through these halls, JFK and Jackie made love in the same rooms Matthew Hamilton and I do, it’s humbling. So humbling, it’s been hard to believe that I—just a girl, one who had no interest in politics to begin with but was too enraptured by a man to stay away—could deserve it.
But I’m here nonetheless, and I am here to serve, and I want to make a difference.
I want to own up to my childhood dream and take this opportunity to make it a reality. I want to touch lives in the way that Matthew and his father touched mine, the day they came to dinner at my home and treated me as if I had something good to offer. We all do; sometimes we just need someone to tell us.
So I try to keep my schedule heavy on the days Matt is traveling, and lighter when he is home. And sometimes when we both get home after an exhausting trip, we just make love and stay awake all night, talking about our days apart—and I tell Matt how the things we’re doing not only touch others, they touch me too.
The hustle and bustle of the White House is up a notch on the day we host President Kebchov’s state dinner.
The U.S.–Russia relationship has been strained for years.
Kebchov is the one you want to intimidate. You want him well aware of the power of the United States and its leader.
We don’t live in this world all alone. We have neighbors and allies. Enemies, too.
I’ve planned the perfect dinner—all American courses, including Maine lobster and Idaho potatoes.
Matt and I receive President Kebchov and his wife at the door, the sentinel guards standing by as he and his wife exit the car.
“President Kebchov.” Matt shakes his hand.
“Kev is good,” he says with a thick accent.
His wife is clad in gold, with glittering jewels on her wrist and neck.
I chose simplicity for this event. My gown is the color of emeralds. I’m wearing a small pair of emerald studs Matt gave me to match it and no necklace, because my gown is strapless and I like the way my bare shoulders look. I know Matt likes it too.
“My first lady, Charlotte.” Matt introduces me to them, and I shake the president’s hand as he, too, introduces his wife, and she goes on to press a kiss to Matt’s cheek.
“If you’ll allow us the honor . . .” Matt motions us into the White House, where the four of us walk inside to a thousand camera flashes.
The artists entertaining tonight in the East Room are acrobats from Cirque du Soleil, who prepared a special performance just for the occasion.
President Kev is amused, and keeps saying AHHH! whenever the acrobats in their colorful leotards perform gravity-defying feats.
Matt squeezes my thigh, shooting an approving glance my way that tells me he’s happy with the evening so far.
After dinner, the men are in deep discussions that Matt suggests taking to his office, and I remain with the first lady.
“Your husband. He’s very young and virile. Da?” Katarina says.
“Yes.” I smile, and she shoots a covetous glance his way and drinks from her glass of wine.
“He’s also incredibly loving to me,” I say, and her eyes widen as if she didn’t expect this from me.
“I like you!” she declares. “Not as much as I like your husband, but . . .” She grins, and we end up laughing and discussing her duties as a first lady in her country, and the troubles she believes her people face.
“My husband has been very angry at the United States for a long time.” She eyes me. “We haven’t had the same . . . agenda, shall we say.”
“No two countries ever do. That’s what compromises are for.”
She scowls delicately. “Yes, but my husband is not good at compromising.”
“My husband is great at what he does. I’m sure they’ll come to an understanding. May I show you around?” I offer.
We watch as the men head to the West Wing, and I lead her around the White House, telling her stories about our ancestors, funny or interesting tidbits about things that happened in each room.
“How lovely, your passion,” she says.
I only smile.
“You are to have a baby, yes?”
“I’m due December.”
“We never had children. Kev said it was too much, to have brats and be in charge of Russia.”
She sounds forlorn. “I’m sorry to hear that. I’m sure Matthew has his concerns, but I do believe it’s possible to both have a family and be commander in chief.”
