Mr. President

Page 12

 
Home is a two-bedroom bachelor pad near the Hill. A far cry from the 132 rooms and endless acreage of the White House, it’s modern and the perfect size for me to own it—not for the thing to own me. I’m also three blocks from my mother. Though she has a busy social schedule and a new boyfriend that has for five years tried to get her to marry him without success, I like to keep my eye on her.
My German Shepherd Lab mix is barking when I insert the key into the lock. He’s sleek black, and the media calls him Black Jack. He’s more famous than the Taco Bell dog. He’s got eyes nearly as black as his fur and is thankfully past the phase where he would gnaw all my shoes to dust. He is at the door, barking three times. I open and he leaps.
I catch him in one arm, shut the door with the other, and set him down. He pads next to me to the kitchen. I adopted him once I did a showing to raise awareness of adopting. Jack was a puppy then, the mother found on the streets, curled up on him and his two dead sisters.
The White House is going to be a far cry from where he started.
I press the play button on the answering machine.
“Matthew, Congressman Mitchell. Congrats—you can count on me.”
“Matthew, Robert Wells, thank you so much for the opportunity you’re offering my daughter. Of course you can count on the family’s support … Let’s do lunch sometime.”
“Matt.” A random female voice comes up next. “I hope you get this message. I’m … I’m pregnant. My name is Leilani. I’m pregnant with your babies … they’re twins. Please, they need their father.”
I pull out a glass-bottled Blue Moon beer from the fridge and a plate from the warming drawer.
I delete the messages, turn on the TV, prop my feet up, and start eating as I wait for Wilson.
He wanted to meet and I told him 10 p.m. was the earliest I could do.
He lets himself in and grabs a beer, then drops down on the couch to my right. He’s pushing fifty. Still single, he tags his nephew on his off days from the Secret Service.
Surprising that he hadn’t reached out to me after I dropped the presidential bomb across the country.
He eyes me for a moment, steepling his hands as he looks me square in the eye. “So here we are.”
“Here we are.” I grin and take a swig.
Wilson looks as if he never expected to say that, a fact I find slightly amusing.
“Saw the announcement. Never thought I’d hear you say it, dammit.” He drags a hand over his bald head and drops it, eyeing me as if waiting for an explanation.
I just lift my beer in toast.
“Why?” he asks.
“Nine years, a lot of time to think about it. It was always there …” I turn a finger, symbolizing the wheels in my head.
“Some say you should have waited another term, until you’re a little older.”
“Yeah, I don’t think so. America can’t wait anymore. Day off?”
“I quit.”
Lifting the beer to my lips, I pause midway.
“You’re going to need me,” Wilson says. “And I want in.”
I’m shocked to silence. Then I push myself to my feet as Wilson rises (habit, I suppose), and I shake his hand. “I’ll get you back in the White House.”
“No, I’ll get you there. In one piece. I know many ladies who will be grateful for that. And your mother, too.”
“She hired you?” I ask, torn between laughing and groaning as we settle back in our seats.
“No. I’d made my choice. But she did call. She’s worried.”
“I stayed in the shadows to appease that fear of hers, Wil. I can’t stay there anymore.” I shake my head, then study him in curiosity. “When do you start?”
“Tomorrow,” he says.
We’re so used to each other, we’re not for greetings or goodbyes, that he stands and leaves.
I grab the remote to change channels when the anchors begin discussing my team selections.
“That’s right, Violet, it seems Matt Hamilton is more interested in bringing fresh blood to the campaign than experience. We’ll have to see if the method proves effective as we head into election year . . . We have a dozen or more names confirmed as part of the campaign team. One of the youngest signed on as political aide, ex-Senator Wells’s daughter . . .”
Nothing I don’t already know. A picture of Charlotte flashes on the screen. She’s wearing my father’s pin on her lapel. I lean forward in my seat and simply look at her, the smile on her face, the look in her eyes, and I can’t fucking believe how gorgeous she is.
“A puzzle as to her inclusion in the permanent staff and speculation on why Matt Hamilton chose her …”
“Gut instinct,” I tell them, sitting back once the image disappears, raising my beer and taking a swig.
“She seems to have a solid Catholic background and a penchant for helping those in need. That angelic face will definitely not gain any haters …”
“Plus she’s pure and untouched by you,” I say, setting my beer aside and watching the pictures of her flash across the screen.
It’s been nine years since my father’s funeral, but I still remember the way she cried, as if my father had been hers.
“We have a snippet of her in Matt Hamilton’s arms at the funeral of President Hamilton. Think there’s any romantic entanglement?”
“Not yet,” I mumble. Whoa! Did I just say that?
Not happening, Hamilton. Not now.
Fuck.
I finish my meal and carry the plate to the kitchen, dropping it into the sink. I frown and lean on it when her face filters back into my mind. Charlotte, in that shimmering yellow dress. Carlisle’s confirmation that she’d agreed to join the campaign. I’m confused by how much that affected me. How much I want her around.
I head back to the living room to hear the rest.
“Not really. Hamilton has been very careful with that, a very discreet man.”
“It’s true that since his abrupt departure from the White House he’s been amassing the public’s sympathy and support—the amount of fans he’s gained so far is unprecedented for an Independent and donations are reportedly pouring in before the fundraisers begin. It’ll be interesting to see what this team of rather young but impressive people do. Original and inventive strategies to reach the public and a massive online campaign are expected.”