Long Live the Queen

  “Thirty SPF,” Beth said, handing her a tube of suntan lotion. “Minimum. Maybe even forty-five.”

  “Thank you, Doctor,” Meg said, and put some on her face, neck, and exposed leg.

  “Can you get your left arm okay?” Josh asked.

  Probably not. She shook her head and gave the tube to him, Josh smoothing on the lotion very gently.

  “Thank you,” she said, and he nodded.

  “We all have our shades?” Beth asked, already wearing a pair of large white cat-eyes.

  Meg had decided to drape the pair Preston gave her rakishly from her collar, but put them on, instead.

  Josh took the folded baseball cap out of the back pocket of his shorts and stuck it on his head. It was the same cap he’d been wearing the day everything happened, and looking at it made Meg sad. More sad than scared, because she knew he’d had that cap for years, and loved it. Once, she had offered to buy him a new, less battered one, but he had—a mistake, in her opinion—declined.

  “Am I tan yet?” Beth asked, holding out her arms.

  “Bronze,” Meg said.

  “Good.” Beth lowered her arms. “So are you.”

  Unh-hunh. She glanced at Josh, who was putting on some of the suntan lotion himself. “I, uh, I’m glad you weren’t working today.”

  He looked very happy. “Me, too.”

  That said, Meg lay back on the chaise longue, the sun feeling nice and warm. Hot, even. “You know,” she said, “we’re missing the Red Sox, being out here.”

  Beth didn’t even lift her head. “Neal’s going to come out every now and then, keep us up-to-date.”

  “Do you think of everything?” Meg asked.

  “Yes,” Beth said. “I do.”

  They had a low-key afternoon, talking a little, but mainly just lying in the sunshine. Neal, as advertised, appeared every half hour or so.

  “Steven says to tell you the middle relief sucks!” he bellowed over to them on his third trip outside.

  “What’s the score?” Meg asked.

  “They’re up one run, but Detroit has the bases loaded,” he said.

  Great. The outcome of that state of affairs was somewhat predictable.

  They lay in the sun some more, Meg feeling very comfortable, and a little sleepy.

  “We need food,” Beth said. “And something with ice.”

  Meg opened her eyes. “Just yell in to Steven and Neal. The refrigerator in there probably has—”

  “No, I’ll go downstairs.” Beth got up. “Be right back.”

  She didn’t really want to be alone with Josh—which was, almost certainly, why Beth had left. She glanced over, seeing that he looked anxious, too.

  “You’re feeling better?” he asked. “I mean, lately?”

  In some ways, anyway. She nodded.

  “You look better,” he said.

  “Thanks.” She tried to think of something to say. “You do, too. I mean, you have a really good tan.”

  “Caddie tan,” he said.

  Which meant sock, sleeve, and shorts lines. Like the tennis tans she’d always had. Except that she didn’t want to think about tennis—or tan lines she had once had, and that the guy had enjoyed—viewing.

  “You haven’t just been working lately, have you?” she asked. “I mean, you’re having some fun, right?”

  He shrugged. “They’re giving me a lot of hours, and—I don’t mind working extra days.”

  “But, you should have fun, too,” Meg said. “I mean—Christ.”

  “I miss you,” he said.

  She nodded, flushing slightly.

  “Is it okay if I say that?” he asked.

  She had to smile. “Yeah.”

  “Is it, um, mutual?” he asked.

  She looked at him, at his nice, kind face, then nodded. “Yeah. It is.”

  Hesitantly, he touched her arm, his hand feeling very warm. “I just want us to be friends. I mean, if that’s all you want.”

  Here came the conversation she didn’t want to have. She let out her breath. “That’s all I can handle, Josh.”

  He nodded.

  “I do miss you,” she said. “It’s just—everything’s still kind of an effort.”

  He gave her arm a light squeeze, then let go.

  “It doesn’t mean I don’t want to see you,” she said. “I’m just—taking it slowly.”

  He nodded again, and then, the silence was awkward enough for her to wonder what in the hell was taking Beth so long.

  “So, it’d be okay if I maybe gave you a call sometimes?” Josh asked. “On my day off, or whatever?”

  Not necessarily. She felt her muscles tighten. “I can’t go anywhere. I mean, not even downstairs. Or—”

  “This is nice,” he said, waving to include the entire Promenade. “Being in the sun and all.”

  She let some of the tension ebb away. “Yeah. This is fine.”

  “And,” he said, “you know how much I like watching your family’s favorite baseball team.”

  This, from the guy who not only wore his Nationals cap everywhere, but even had a vintage Senators shirt.

  “They’re always entertaining,” he said. “I remember one time when I was watching them, they had this ten-run lead, and—”

  “Josh, you are on unbelievably thin ice,” she said, cutting him off.

  He grinned, and subsided.

  “In fact,” she said, “maybe you should—”

  “Yankees suck,” he said.

  Those were, indeed, the magic words. She laughed. “Okay. You’re forgiven.”

  “Hey, check it out,” Beth said, carrying a full plate and some napkins, Felix behind her with a tray of sweet tea. “Fresh petits fours.”

  Meg loved petits fours.

  “You know,” Beth said, once she was settled back on her chaise longue, with her tea, “there really are worse places to live.”

  “Yeah, really,” Josh said, eating petits fours.

  They both had a point. Meg sighed. “Yeah,” she said. “There probably are.”

  THAT NIGHT, ALTHOUGH clouds had rolled in and it was sort of misty and cool, she and Beth sat out on the Truman Balcony again, Meg drinking Coke, Beth drinking more of the notoriously popular White House sweet tea—to which she, increasingly, seemed to be addicted. The Washington Monument and Jefferson Memorial looked all the more impressive, but somewhat eerie, in the light fog.

  “You and Josh looked like you were having an okay time today,” Beth said.

  Meg shrugged affirmatively.

  “Did you talk?” Beth asked. “I mean, when I left?”

  “I knew you left on purpose,” Meg said.

  “Well, hell,” Beth said, and grinned. “So, you talked?”

  Meg nodded. “A little, yeah.”

  The fog was thickening, raindrops beginning to fall.

  “You going to be specific?” Beth asked.

  Meg laughed, but didn’t elaborate.

  “I tell you the many details of my social life,” Beth said.

  Meg nodded. “Like the time you and Preston had your secret tryst in the Cayman Islands?”

  “The Canary Islands,” Beth said. “I have my bank account in the Cayman Islands.”

  Meg laughed, and drank some Coke.

  It was raining harder, the sound quiet on the cement driveway and grass below them.

  “Anyway,” Beth said.

  Meg shrugged. “He wants to be friends. Maybe come over, on his days off.”

  “That sounds okay,” Beth said.

  Yeah. As long as he didn’t push her.

  They watched the rain, and the trees bobbing slightly in the wind.

  “He’ll be going away pretty soon,” Meg said.

  Beth nodded.

  “I mean, everyone will,” Meg said. Everyone else.

  “You want to talk about that?” Beth asked, her voice noticeably off-hand.

  Did she? No. “Not really,” Meg said, and sighed. “I’m not even ready to think about it.”
>
  Beth nodded, and they stared at the rain.

  “Getting cold out here,” Meg said.

  Beth nodded, and handed her her crutch.

  32

  BETH WAS GOING to leave on Thursday, and on Wednesday night, she suggested that they go outside. For real.

  “Oh, come on,” Meg said. “The balcony’s fine.”

  “We’ll just try it for a few minutes,” Beth said. “And if you completely hate it, we’ll come back in.”

  Where had she heard that one before? Meg sighed. “If we go down there, I have to have agents.”

  Beth handed her the phone. “Here. Let them know we’re coming.”

  It was strange to be followed by agents again—except for going back and forth to the hospital, it had been a long time. And she wasn’t sure if she felt guilty, because of poor Chet, or a little afraid of them.

  Or both.

  Six of them, one of whom was female, accompanied them outside, and Meg assumed that there were others lurking ahead of them in the darkness somewhere. Dogs, snipers, counter-terrorism people—the list probably went on endlessly.

  All so that she could spend a few minutes in what was, technically, her own backyard.

  “We aren’t just going to sit in the Rose Garden or something?” Meg asked, as Beth pushed her wheelchair along the South Drive.

  “Too boring,” Beth said.

  She had a sudden, sinking feeling that she knew where they were going. “You’d better not be taking me down to the tennis court.”

  “It’s nice over there,” Beth said. “Trees and all.”

  Meg slouched down. “God-damn it.”

  Beth stopped the wheelchair at the end of the stone path leading to the court, and the Lyndon B. Johnson Children’s Garden, and Meg used the arm of the chair to push herself up. It wasn’t exactly well-lit down there at night, and she hesitated.

  “I don’t want to fall down,” she said.

  “I won’t let you,” Beth said. “Don’t worry.”

  The walkway was curved and uneven, and she tripped once on a loose piece of rock, but Beth caught her—just as Meg heard a noise which indicated that one of her agents had been about to intercede.

  “Hmmm,” Beth said. “Maybe this wasn’t such a great idea, after all.”

  Too late now. Meg ignored her, making her way to the black chain link fence and—balancing cautiously on her right leg—opened the gate. At first, she didn’t think she could bring herself to step onto the court—but, she wasn’t about to chicken out, with so many damn agents around. So, she limped, very slowly, down towards the two round tables at the far end. Then, she eased herself into one of the thinly-padded metal chairs, so out of breath that she let her cane fall onto the cement with a clatter.

  Jesus. Not too long ago, she had felt like she owned this damn court—that it was her absolute domain, if not her professional future—and now, just trying to stagger the length of it on her crutch was enough to exhaust her.

  And depress her, horribly.

  “You’ve got a lot of nerve dragging me down here,” she said.

  “You’ve got a lot of nerve coming down here,” Beth said cheerfully.

  Meg stared out at the dark, empty court, then down at her leg, feeling a surge of tremendous hatred for the son-of-a-bitch who had ruined all of this for her. Who had ruined her whole life.

  “Nice weather we’re having,” Beth said.

  Meg scowled at her, still having trouble catching her breath.

  “Just an observation,” Beth said.

  They sat there, Meg feeling both furious and devastated, keeping her left fist clenched.

  “So,” Beth said, after a while.

  Meg sighed. “I was going to be a tennis player.”

  Beth shook her head. “Oh, you were not.”

  Oh, yeah? “What the hell do you know about it?” Meg asked.

  “You were going to be a tennis player, like I’m going to win an Academy Award,” Beth said.

  Meg frowned. “You don’t even act.”

  “I know,” Beth said, and looked sad. “That’s why it’s going to be even harder for me.”

  Meg kept frowning at her. “So, what’s your point?”

  “I just think you were destined for other things, that’s all,” Beth said.

  As nearly as she could tell, she was no longer destined for much of anything. “Like what?” Meg asked.

  Beth shrugged. “I don’t know. I guess I wouldn’t be surprised to turn around and see you be the House Majority Leader.”

  Oh, yeah, right. “Never,” Meg said.

  Beth grinned. “Senate Majority Leader?”

  Which was only slightly more plausible. Very slightly.

  “Okay,” Beth said. “How about Assistant District Attorney somewhere?”

  “Assistant?” Meg said.

  Beth laughed. “Yes, my friends, she has an ego and a half.”

  “I do not,” Meg said defensively.

  Beth nodded, looking very amused.

  Okay, she probably did. To some degree. “Even if I wanted something like that—which I don’t,” Meg said, “I’m not going to get to school anyway, so it’s kind of a moot point.”

  Beth gestured around towards the unseen security shadows around them. “They’ll figure something out. I mean, Steven and Neal are getting to go places again.”

  Places like the movies. “Barely,” Meg said.

  “It’s a start,” Beth said.

  Not much of one. “I guess so.” Meg sighed. “Hell, even if they would let me, I couldn’t do it.”

  “You’re still scared?” Beth asked.

  There was a stupid question. Meg frowned at her. “Wouldn’t you be?”

  Beth nodded.

  Right. “Besides,” Meg said, “it’s less than a month away. I have to have more operations, and all kinds of therapy, and they still don’t—”

  “So, take a year off,” Beth said. “Or, at least, a semester.”

  Meg stopped, very briefly, feeling sorry for herself. “You mean, go in January?”

  Beth shrugged. “Why not? That’s what people who get wait-listed do.”

  “Yeah, but—I’d be behind,” Meg said.

  “What,” Beth said, “the world’ll stop if you don’t graduate in precisely four years?”

  It might tilt on its axis, ever so slightly, but it probably wouldn’t actually stop. So, Meg shook her head. “No, but—”

  “What do you think the odds are that I’m going to finish in eight nice, neat semesters?” Beth asked.

  Slim to none. Meg grinned. “Well, I’m kind of more—”

  “Conventional,” Beth said.

  “Yeah,” Meg said.

  Beth nodded. “Well, you Puritans are like that.”

  “It’s a work ethic thing,” Meg said.

  Beth grinned. “Yeah, I’ve heard about that.”

  Most New Englanders had. Of course, if she started college later than she should, she could always make up the lost semester—or two—during the summers, and—then, the obvious solution occurred to her. “Hey, I could go part-time,” she said. “Here in the city.” Especially since George Washington University was literally a few blocks away from the White House. Surely, her parents and the Secret Service could work something out. She looked across the table at Beth, feeling—almost—excited. “That might be—okay. Sort of.”

  “Well, don’t be too enthusiastic,” Beth said.

  Then, Meg thought about the reality of the situation. The way people would stare at her—or maybe come after her, and how the press, and paparazzi would—

  “What?” Beth asked, seeing her expression.

  Meg looked around nervously, even though the tennis court was dark, and quiet, and secluded. “I don’t think I can go out in public. I mean, even if they could keep me safe, everyone’ll—I mean, I couldn’t go anywhere before without people staring, and hanging around and all.”

  Beth frowned. “I guess it’ll be a lot worse now
.”

  “I guess,” Meg said, wryly. And, nothing like having a crippled hand and leg to make herself even more conspicuous.

  Beth was looking at her splint, too. “But you’ll go nuts, if you don’t get out of here at some point. I mean, even if you are—well—”

  “A pariah,” Meg said.

  “Sort of, I guess, but—I don’t think there’s anything evil about it,” Beth said. “I just think people are worried about you. They want to know you’re okay and all.”

  Meg nodded. Judging from the stacks of mail that were still swamping the Correspondence Office, that was probably true. She hadn’t had the energy to look at more than a couple of dozen of them—Preston generally had a few with him—but, she had still been startled by how genuinely heartfelt they were. Letters from people all over the country—and other countries, people she had never met, from places she had never been, who wrote about how hard they’d prayed, how happy they were that she was home again, and how they just wanted to let her know how they felt. Very nice, sweet, thoughtful letters.

  “All these people wrote that they cried,” she said. “You know, when they heard I was safe.”

  “I’m sure they did,” Beth said quietly. “It was really something.”

  “Wait, you saw it?” Meg said. Jesus, there was still so much that they hadn’t talked about yet. “I mean, you were watching television?”

  Beth shook her head. “My stepfather was, and he called us right away.” She grinned. “He hugged me, if you can believe it.”

  Barely. Meg grinned, too. “Who announced it—Linda?” Who was her mother’s press secretary, blonde and aloof, and always all business.

  Beth nodded. “Yeah, you should have seen it. She’s got this big grin on, and the press room’s clapping, and—everyone was pretty happy. I mean, it was sort of scary, because I guess the networks heard something was happening, because they cut to it before she came out, and you’ve got them saying that they knew the President was en route somewhere, and there would be an announcement any time now, and then, Linda comes out with this big—” She stopped, her eyes very bright. “Well,” she said, and looked away, whisking her sleeve across her eyes.

  “Pretty dramatic,” Meg said.