Mr. President
Page 3
“Robert? One last time. This one? Orrrr this one?” My mother’s voice floated into my bedroom from across the hall.
“This one.” My father sounded distracted. He was probably getting dressed.
There was a pregnant pause, and I could almost feel my mother’s disappointment.
“I think I’ll wear this one,” she said.
My mother always asked Dad what to wear for special evenings. But if he didn’t pick the dress she wanted, she wore the one she’d hoped he’d choose.
I could picture my mother putting away the black one and carefully setting the red dress down on the bed.
My father didn’t like it when my mother got too much attention, but my mother loves it. And why not? She has stunning green eyes and a thick mane of blonde hair. Though my dad is twenty years older and looks it, my mother looks younger by the day. I dreamt of growing up to be as beautiful and poised as she is.
I wondered what time it was. My stomach growled as the scent of spices teased my nostrils. Rosemary? Basil? I got them all mixed up no matter how many times Jessa, our housekeeper, explained which is which.
Downstairs, the chef from some fancy restaurant was cooking in our kitchen.
The Secret Service had been preparing the house for hours. I was told the president’s food would be tasted before it was served to him.
The food looked so delicious I’d gladly taste every morsel. But Father asked Jessa to bring me back upstairs. He didn’t want me to attend because I was “too young.”
So what? I thought. People used to get married at my age. I was old enough to stay home alone. They wanted me to act mature, like a lady. But what was the point if I never got to act the part they’d been grooming me for?
“It’s a business dinner, it’s not a party, and god knows we need things to go well,” Dad grumbled when I tried to plead my case.
“Dad,” I groaned. “I can behave.”
“You really think Charlotte can behave?” He shot my mother a glance, and my mother smiled at me. “You’re not eleven until next week. You’re too young for these events. It’ll be nothing but talk of politics. Just stay up in your room.”
“But it’s the president,” I said with so much conviction my voice trembled.
My mom stepped out of her bedroom in that glorious red dress that tastefully draped over her figure and spotted me eagerly peering down at the excitement downstairs.
“Charlotte,” she said, with a sigh.
I straightened up from my crouched position.
She sighed again, then walked to her bedroom, picked up the phone on her nightstand, dialed an extension, and said, “Jessa, can you help Charlotte get dressed?”
My eyes widened and, miraculously, Jessa suddenly swept into my bedroom, smiling gleefully and shaking her head. “Girl! You’d cajole a king out of his crown!”
“I swear I didn’t do anything. Mother simply saw me peeping and must’ve realized this is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.”
“All right then, let’s put your hair into a nice long braid,” Jessa said as she started pulling open the drawers of my vanity. “Which dress are you going to wear?”
“I only have one option.” I showed her the only dress that still fit me, and she helped me carefully slip it on.
“You’re growing too fast,” she said fondly as she ushered me to the mirror. She stood behind me and brushed my hair.
I looked at my reflection and admired the dress. I liked how blue the satin fabric was. I imagined standing next to my mother in her red dress and my father in his perfectly tailored suit. Entering my parents’ forbidden, mysterious world was exciting—but nothing was more exciting than meeting the president.
When the president arrived, a group of men trailed in after him, all of them in suits. They were tall and handsome, but I was too busy looking at the young man directly beside the president to notice much.
He was gorgeous. His hair was the color of sable, and although it was combed back, it was unruly at the ends and curled at the collar.
He was an inch taller than the president. His suit seemed crisper, more tailored. He was staring at me, and although his lips weren’t moving and his expression revealed nothing, I could swear that his eyes were laughing at me.
President Hamilton shook my mother’s hand before greeting my father. I pulled my eyes away from the young man next to him and saw the president’s lips curl a little as he looked down at me. When it was my turn, I took his hand.
“My daughter, Charlotte—”
“Charlie,” I corrected.
Mother smiled. “She insisted on not missing the fun.”
“Smart girl.” The president grinned at me, gesturing to his side with obvious pride as he drew the young man beside him forward. “My son, Matthew. He’s going to be president one day,” he said conspiratorially.
The man that I couldn’t stop staring at laughed quietly. It was a low, deep laugh, and it made me blush. Suddenly, I didn’t want to shake his hand. But how could I avoid it?
He took my hand in his—it was warm and dry and strong. Mine was soft and trembling. “Absolutely not,” he said and winked at me.
I smiled at him shyly and realized my parents were watching us carefully. “You don’t look like a president,” I blurted out to President Hamilton.
“What does a president look like?”
“Old.”
President Hamilton laughed. “Give me time.” He pointed at his shiny white hair and slapped Matthew’s back then let my parents lead him into the dining room.
The adults focused on talking politics and bills, while I focused on the delicious food. When my plate was clean, I summoned the waiter and quietly asked about seconds.
“Charlotte,” my father warned.
The waiter looked at my father, wide-eyed, then at me, just as wide-eyed, and I tried to very quietly repeat the question.
The president regarded me with interest.
Feeling worried, I wondered if it was bad manners to ask for more before they all finished.
Matthew had a serious expression on his face, but his eyes seemed to be laughing at me again. His gaze didn’t leave me as he said to the waiter, “I’ll have seconds too.”
I shot him a grateful smile, then started feeling nervous again. His smile was so powerful. I could feel it piercing my heart.
I glanced down at my hands resting on my lap and admired my dress. I hoped Matthew thought I looked pretty. Most of the guys at school did. At least, that’s what they told me.
“This one.” My father sounded distracted. He was probably getting dressed.
There was a pregnant pause, and I could almost feel my mother’s disappointment.
“I think I’ll wear this one,” she said.
My mother always asked Dad what to wear for special evenings. But if he didn’t pick the dress she wanted, she wore the one she’d hoped he’d choose.
I could picture my mother putting away the black one and carefully setting the red dress down on the bed.
My father didn’t like it when my mother got too much attention, but my mother loves it. And why not? She has stunning green eyes and a thick mane of blonde hair. Though my dad is twenty years older and looks it, my mother looks younger by the day. I dreamt of growing up to be as beautiful and poised as she is.
I wondered what time it was. My stomach growled as the scent of spices teased my nostrils. Rosemary? Basil? I got them all mixed up no matter how many times Jessa, our housekeeper, explained which is which.
Downstairs, the chef from some fancy restaurant was cooking in our kitchen.
The Secret Service had been preparing the house for hours. I was told the president’s food would be tasted before it was served to him.
The food looked so delicious I’d gladly taste every morsel. But Father asked Jessa to bring me back upstairs. He didn’t want me to attend because I was “too young.”
So what? I thought. People used to get married at my age. I was old enough to stay home alone. They wanted me to act mature, like a lady. But what was the point if I never got to act the part they’d been grooming me for?
“It’s a business dinner, it’s not a party, and god knows we need things to go well,” Dad grumbled when I tried to plead my case.
“Dad,” I groaned. “I can behave.”
“You really think Charlotte can behave?” He shot my mother a glance, and my mother smiled at me. “You’re not eleven until next week. You’re too young for these events. It’ll be nothing but talk of politics. Just stay up in your room.”
“But it’s the president,” I said with so much conviction my voice trembled.
My mom stepped out of her bedroom in that glorious red dress that tastefully draped over her figure and spotted me eagerly peering down at the excitement downstairs.
“Charlotte,” she said, with a sigh.
I straightened up from my crouched position.
She sighed again, then walked to her bedroom, picked up the phone on her nightstand, dialed an extension, and said, “Jessa, can you help Charlotte get dressed?”
My eyes widened and, miraculously, Jessa suddenly swept into my bedroom, smiling gleefully and shaking her head. “Girl! You’d cajole a king out of his crown!”
“I swear I didn’t do anything. Mother simply saw me peeping and must’ve realized this is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.”
“All right then, let’s put your hair into a nice long braid,” Jessa said as she started pulling open the drawers of my vanity. “Which dress are you going to wear?”
“I only have one option.” I showed her the only dress that still fit me, and she helped me carefully slip it on.
“You’re growing too fast,” she said fondly as she ushered me to the mirror. She stood behind me and brushed my hair.
I looked at my reflection and admired the dress. I liked how blue the satin fabric was. I imagined standing next to my mother in her red dress and my father in his perfectly tailored suit. Entering my parents’ forbidden, mysterious world was exciting—but nothing was more exciting than meeting the president.
When the president arrived, a group of men trailed in after him, all of them in suits. They were tall and handsome, but I was too busy looking at the young man directly beside the president to notice much.
He was gorgeous. His hair was the color of sable, and although it was combed back, it was unruly at the ends and curled at the collar.
He was an inch taller than the president. His suit seemed crisper, more tailored. He was staring at me, and although his lips weren’t moving and his expression revealed nothing, I could swear that his eyes were laughing at me.
President Hamilton shook my mother’s hand before greeting my father. I pulled my eyes away from the young man next to him and saw the president’s lips curl a little as he looked down at me. When it was my turn, I took his hand.
“My daughter, Charlotte—”
“Charlie,” I corrected.
Mother smiled. “She insisted on not missing the fun.”
“Smart girl.” The president grinned at me, gesturing to his side with obvious pride as he drew the young man beside him forward. “My son, Matthew. He’s going to be president one day,” he said conspiratorially.
The man that I couldn’t stop staring at laughed quietly. It was a low, deep laugh, and it made me blush. Suddenly, I didn’t want to shake his hand. But how could I avoid it?
He took my hand in his—it was warm and dry and strong. Mine was soft and trembling. “Absolutely not,” he said and winked at me.
I smiled at him shyly and realized my parents were watching us carefully. “You don’t look like a president,” I blurted out to President Hamilton.
“What does a president look like?”
“Old.”
President Hamilton laughed. “Give me time.” He pointed at his shiny white hair and slapped Matthew’s back then let my parents lead him into the dining room.
The adults focused on talking politics and bills, while I focused on the delicious food. When my plate was clean, I summoned the waiter and quietly asked about seconds.
“Charlotte,” my father warned.
The waiter looked at my father, wide-eyed, then at me, just as wide-eyed, and I tried to very quietly repeat the question.
The president regarded me with interest.
Feeling worried, I wondered if it was bad manners to ask for more before they all finished.
Matthew had a serious expression on his face, but his eyes seemed to be laughing at me again. His gaze didn’t leave me as he said to the waiter, “I’ll have seconds too.”
I shot him a grateful smile, then started feeling nervous again. His smile was so powerful. I could feel it piercing my heart.
I glanced down at my hands resting on my lap and admired my dress. I hoped Matthew thought I looked pretty. Most of the guys at school did. At least, that’s what they told me.
