Her father was easily the oldest player out there, but he was very competitive, and spent regular time up in the third floor workout room—unlike certain world leaders—so, he was more than holding his own. Steven was, literally and figuratively, in over his head, but that didn’t stop him from driving down the lane repeatedly, and boxing out everyone in sight. Neal was plucky, but left the court a couple of times to eat cookies at the picnic table.
Starting to get bored—and a little chilly, Meg decided to go inside and either start answering her backlog of email, or maybe bang on the piano in the East Room for a while. To call her musical repertoire limited was a considerable understatement, although Josh sometimes taught her simple tunes. Very simple. She wanted to learn things like Rhapsody in Blue or the 1812 Overture, but mostly he only showed her stuff like basic Christmas carols and the Pink Panther theme.
“How about one more?” Mike Brannigan said, pointing his camera from the far end of the court. “Why don’t I take one of you wiping your face with that towel?”.
“Why would I wipe my face?” Meg asked. “I’m not perspiring.” Much.
“Meghan doesn’t perspire,” Steven said solemnly. “She glows.”
“Right.” The ball came flying out-of-bounds in her direction, and she caught it. “You, on the other hand,” she snapped a hard pass at him, “sweat.”
“Yup,” he agreed, trying a hook shot that just barely grazed the backboard. “You only wish you were a guy, so you could, too.”
Meg nodded. “I confess.” She picked up the towel without thinking, blotting her face, and heard the camera click.
“Thanks, Meg,” Brannigan said. “Good shot.”
She blushed, putting her terry-cloth bucket hat back on. “See you guys later,” she said, nodding politely at everyone before wandering away, her agents behind her. God forbid they let her walk across the backyard by herself.
Preston, who had been come out a few minutes earlier to watch them play, joined her. Ordinarily, he definitely would have jumped right into the game—he was a fast, smooth, and sleek player—but he was wearing a suit and tie and dress shoes, so he had mostly stayed on the sidelines.
“Heading for the house?” he asked, when he caught up to her.
No, she was going to race to the Southwest gate, and make her escape into the city, eluding anyone and everyone who attempted to follow her. Then, she would have extensive, appearance-altering plastic surgery, and start life anew in a faraway land.
They walked around the cement circular drive surrounding the central part of the South Grounds, passing the Herbert Hoover White Oak and the Bill Clinton and Franklin D. Roosevelt Small-leaved Lindens. Her mother didn’t have a tree yet. She had some roses, though.
“How’re you feeling?” Preston said.
Meg shrugged. “Kind of tired. I guess I’m out of shape.”
“No, I meant about today,” he said. “Having your mother home.”
Weird question. How did he think she felt? “Oh,” Meg said.
“Well—I mean, you know. I’m glad.”.
He nodded. “Me, too. Things okay with old Joshua?”.
She blushed. “Yeah.”
“Good,” he said.
They walked along, and he kicked a dried leaf that gardeners had somehow missed raking up. Off with their heads.
“I’ve had some phone calls from People,” he said.
Meg scuffed her Adidas Barricades along the cement, looking for a leaf of her own to kick. “How come?”.
“Because of everything, they want to extend your interview, or at least, change the focus a bit. I told them it would be up to you and your parents.” He glanced at her. “What do you think?”.
Meg scuffed harder. “What did Dad say?”.
“I thought, in this case, that it might be better to find out your opinion, first,” he said.
Meg looked over at the putting green—which the current occupant of the Oval Office never used, although she had once caught the President idly, and quite happily, swaying back and forth on the old-fashioned swing nearby. “What do they mean, ‘extend the interview’?”.
“It means that you’d have to answer a lot of difficult, and potentially very painful, questions,” he said.
Right. “Oh,” Meg said, her face tightening. “‘You mean like, How does it feel to have some maniac blast away at your mother with a rifle he bought illegally at a damn gun show’?”.
Preston nodded. “Phrased somewhat more delicately.”
Swell. Absolutely swell. She moved her jaw. “What if I don’t feel like talking about it?”.
“That’s your prerogative,” he said.
She sighed and walked over to sit down on the white cast-iron bench underneath the treasured Andrew Jackson Southern Magnolia trees, since it was slightly more secluded than the benches right by the South Portico. “What àoyou think?”.
He sat next to her. “That you should think it over, then discuss it with your parents.”
“Who would almost certainly say that it was her choice. “What would you do?” she asked.
“I think I’d extend the interview,” he said.
Not the answer she would have expected. Meg frowned. “Why?”.
He looked tired. “Meg, they’re going to write about it, anyway—the article won’t make much sense, otherwise. This would give you a chance to say what you think, in your own words, instead of them putting together their version.”
Like they weren’t going to put their own spin on her quotes, anyway? “What if it had happened the day the issue closed?” she asked. “Would they have stopped the presses?”.
“It didn’t happen then,” he said.
Granted, but—“What if—” she started.
He shook his head. “Don’t talk ‘what ifs.’ They’re never worth much, but in the White House, they’re pointless. Let’s deal with where we are, Meg, not where we wish we were.”
Preston was rarely testy, so he must be really worn-out today. Which meant that she probably shouldn’t give him any more grief than necessary. Her head hurt, and she took off her—very stupid—terry-cloth hat, rubbing it against her eyes.
“They’re not about to ignore the situation,” he said. “Wouldn’t you feel better having some control over it?”.
Meg shrugged.
“I’m sure you would.” He grinned. “Seeing as I know how much you hate having people put words in your mouth.”
Well, a stilted joke was better than no joke at all, so she half-smiled.
“In the long run, I think it might make things easier for you,” he said. “The more you talk about it, the faster you’re going to be able to get over it.”
Had he, perhaps, not noticed that the Leader of the Free World was still having trouble sitting up?. “Get over it,” Meg said. Flatly.
He looked even more tired. “Get past it. Get through it. Get beyond it. Take your pick.”
Every response that came to mind was snappish, so she just shrugged.
“You want to talk about it?” he asked.
God, no. She shook her head.
“Want to come hang out in my office for a while?” he asked.
Normally, yes—but, in this case, no. “No, thanks,” she said. “I think I’m going to go play the piano.”
“Still trying to learn some Gershwin?” he asked.
Trying, and failing. She nodded.
“Keep up the good fight,” he said.
THEY HAD THICK corn chowder for dinner—Trudy’s familiar recipe, although the chefs prepared it—and dessert was a choice of puddings: chocolate, butterscotch, and rice. No tapioca. Downer.
Trudy took Steven and Neal up to the solarium to watch television, and Meg kept them company for a while. But then, she got bored—her brothers loved reality shows, which she did not—and went downstairs to see what her parents were doing.
Glen and the National Security Advisor were on their way down the hall, presumably having just met with her mother, and the
y were clearly very distracted, but nodded at her without breaking stride.
When she knocked on her parents’ door, there was no answer, and just as she turned to go to her room, her father said, “Come in.” Meg opened the door cautiously, not sure what she might have interrupted. But, if her mother was holding a high-level meeting, Glen wouldn’t have left—and her father probably wouldn’t be in the room at all.
Her parents were alone, and her father was sitting on the couch, watching the Celtics and glancing through the New York Times, while her mother was in bed, going through papers and reports, the telephone on her lap.
Even though it was quiet, the room seemed—tense. Very tense. “I, uh—” Meg put her hands in her pockets. “I’m about to go check my email and all, but I thought I’d say hi.”
Her parents nodded.
“What are your brothers doing?” her mother asked.
“Still watching junk.” Meg looked at each of them in turn, wondering if she’d walked in on the aftermath of an argument. There was definitely a weird energy in the room. “Well. I’ll probably say good-night now, in case I fall asleep or something.”
“You look tired,” her mother said.
And how. Meg nodded. “Kind of. Does, um, Kirby need to go out?”.
“Frank just took him,” her father said. “And I’ll run him out again before I go to bed.”
“Oh. Okay.” Meg backed up. “Well, good-night.”
It occurred to her that she should have hugged her mother, so she went over there, hugging her clumsily, trying not to jar her shoulder or side. Then, she crossed the room to hug her father, not wanting to play favorites.
“Preston tells me People is agitating to come back,” he said, and her mother, who had just been lifting the telephone receiver, put it back down.
“They, um, want to change it,” Meg said.
“Update it?” her mother asked.
Not to put too fine a point on it. “I guess so.” Meg didn’t look at her, afraid to see her reaction. “Preston said it’s up to me. And, um, you guys, too, of course.”
“Do you want to do it?” her father asked.
Hell, no. Meg shrugged. “Well, I don’t really think it’s necessary.”
“I rather expect it is,” her mother said. “It will seem ridiculous, otherwise.”
Meg checked her expression before answering—it was more blank than anything else. Her face was tight, but it had been that way ever since it happened. She sure looked older, though. For the first time—probably ever—her mother actually looked her age. Looked older than her age.
“I think it’s a good idea,” her mother said.
In what universe? Meg sighed. “You mean, I have to?”.
“You don’t have to. It just seems sensible to me.” She glanced at Meg’s father. “Don’t you think so?”.
“No,” he said.
As far as she could tell, most of the country thought—inaccurately—that her father was nothing more than an easygoing, bland man, probably because, in public, he went out of his way to be pleasant and avoid anything controversial. In private, it was a whole other ballgame, and she was pretty sure that he was the only person in the world—literally—whom her mother occasionally found daunting. Or, anyway, equally tough.
“And why would that be?” her mother asked stiffly.
“That woman gave her a terrible time,” her father said. “Why put her through it again? My God, Kate, things are rough enough as it is. Why make things worse?”.
Meg drifted towards the door, not wanting to witness—or be part of—an argument. She was pretty sure that her parents fought a lot, but almost never directly in front of her. This was a lousy time to start.
“I’m trying to make it easier,” her mother said through clenched teeth.
Her father started to say something, looked at Meg, and then abruptly left the room. Meg kept her eyes down, embarrassed.
“I have to get back to work full-time,” her mother said defensively.
Meg tilted her head, confused, then caught on to the fact her possible interview really had nothing to do with why her parents were angry at each other. “Well, sure,” she said. “I mean, if you’re well enough.”
“I’m fine,” her mother said, and it sounded so familiar—and so false—that Meg didn’t respond, concentrating on the way her Topsiders curled up in the front. Like elf shoes. She leaned back on her heels, making them curl even more.
“Would you mind leaving me alone?” her mother asked, her voice oddly blurred.
Meg looked up. “Alone?”.
Her mother nodded, face turned away, good hand up at her eyes.
Jesus, was she crying Her mother never cried. Not even when her father had died. “Mom?” She approached the bed. “Wouldn’t you rather that I—”.
“No!” her mother said. “Just leave me alone.”
Meg backed up towards the door, feeling guilty—and worried. “I’m sorry,” she said, and hurried out.
Too rattled to go into her room, she headed for the East Sitting Hall, planning to go lie on the bed in the Queen’s Bedroom, and stare up at the damn canopy, or something. But, it was getting late, and with her luck, Lincoln’s ghost would show up. She veered towards the Yellow Oval Room, instead, so she could go stand out on the Truman Balcony, and look at the Washington Monument. But her father was already at the window, arms folded, his back to her.
She was going to say something, thought better of the idea, and closed the door very quietly. Maybe, just this once, she would risk Lincoln’s ghost.
“WHAT DO YOU expect?” Josh asked, as they sat in the school library the next day. “When people are upset, they get in fights.”
She blushed. “Not everyone’s that much of a jerk.”
“It doesn’t make you a jerk,” he said. “It’s normal.”
Maybe.
Josh reached out to move some hair away from her face, Meg leaning her cheek against his hand. “He’s worried about her. Of course he’s upset.”
“But, she’s hurt,” Meg said. “You can’t yell at someone who’s hurt.”
“What, you’re going to wait until she’s better?” he asked.
“No, I—” Meg frowned. Where had that come from? “Aren’t you listening to me? I’m talking about my father.”
He nodded.
What, was he looking for some damn Freudian slip or something? If so, she had absolutely no intention of cooperating.
“I just get the feeling you’re mad at her,” he said.
Meg shrugged, even though he was right.
After her parents’ argument, and lying in the Queen’s Bedroom for an hour, staring at the canopy and the chandelier, she had gone to her room, climbing into bed to watch the news. Naturally, her mother was the main story, and the station showed film of the President leaving the hospital. She came out, the grey cape swinging in the wind, and instead of the quick wave and jump into the car she had promised, she stood there—without moving or smiling—as if daring someone to shoot her. Meg had watched, both angry and proud—mostly angry—as agents swarmed closer, and her mother still didn’t move, studying the crowd. Then, with a brief nod to the press, and an even briefer wave, she strode to the car, relieved agents crowding her inside. Meg had turned off the television after that, lying in the darkness, so furious at her mother for taking stupid chances that her fists clenched under the blankets. How many people would have the courage to walk outside after being shot, and give someone a perfect opportunity to do it again? Only, why did it have to be her mother? Why couldn’t it be someone else’s mother? Anyone else’s mother.
“Meg?” Josh said.
She looked up.
“Would you rather talk about something else?” he asked.
Yes. And yes. And yes again. “I don’t know.” She sighed. “Did you see what she did when she left the hospital?”.
He nodded.
“That was really selfish,” Meg said. “Pulling a stunt like that.”
/> “It was brave” he said.
Meg shook her head. “With three kids at home, afraid someone’s going to hurt her, and they’ll never see her again?” And an expressionless husband who must have had to fight every instinct he had to grab her—but just stood off to her left, watching the crowd in the same alert, silent way the Secret Service was.
Josh folded his arms on the table, leaning towards her. “Would you rather she had come out, burst into tears, and run to the car?”.
Meg looked at him, both amused and irritated. “No.”
“So, it could have been worse,” he said.
It could have been unspeakably worse—but there was no point in going into the various possibilities.
“Do you want to talk about something else?” he asked.
God, yes.
“Well.” He blinked a few times. “Okay. Then, we will.”
Christ, she was turning the poor guy into a basket-case. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I just—that conversation would go way downhill.” Speaking of which. She looked around at the crowded, but reasonably quiet, library. “And you’re really the only one who’s talking to me lately.”
“It’s a weird situation,” he said. “People don’t know how to handle it.”
All things being equal, she should probably be appointed the chairperson of that particular club. She slouched forward, putting her head on her arms. “Do you mind if I rest?”.