Long May She Reign (100 page)

Which she didn't.

He looked disappointed. Crushed, in fact. “Jesus, you really aren't going to say it, are you.”

Either he was someone she could talk to honestly—or he
wasn't
. “No, I think I am,” she said. “But, I'm going to need a few minutes to get there, okay?” Get her nerve up, more precisely.

He nodded, but his jaw was clenched.

Damn. “Could I—” She stopped. In certain ways, this was almost worse than facing a raving, knife-wielding maniac. Very dangerous territory. “Would it be okay if I told you about today, first, and how completely, freaking terrified I was?”

His body relaxed, and then, he tightened his arm around her shoulders. “Sounds like a good idea.”

She looked at him. “I
won't
kid, because I love.”

“Sounds even better,” he said.

54

THE PRESIDENT WAS
very prompt.

At any rate, she arrived at the campus on time, and appeared to have only the briefest of press conferences, followed by an exchange of handshakes with college officials, outside. But even though there were agents and aides everywhere, indicating that she was in the building, it seemed to take a very long time for her to show up on the third floor, and Meg limped down the hall to try and figure out where the hell she was.

Then, the elevator opened, and the President appeared, unabashedly elegant in a jazzy red ensemble, albeit sans chapeau. She and her mother both had to stop short, to keep from bumping into each other, Meg almost losing her balance, and an already potentially stressful encounter seemed that much more so, especially given the fact that there were so many people clustered in the stairwell and hallway, watching every move they made.

She wasn't sure where the designated holding room was—the basement Common Room was her best guess—but maybe they should have arranged to meet there alone, first, instead of being forced to exchange greetings in front of such a large group.

Her mother glanced at her cast so swiftly that Meg was almost positive that no one else in the very crowded corridor had caught the deep anguish in her expression. But then, it was gone, and she was already working the hall, introducing herself to people with a dignified, but approachable, “Hello, I'm Meg's mother.”

Tammy was clearly dazzled—to the degree that she actually
curtsied
, and Juliana and Mary Elizabeth, and most of the other people from the entry, were all so busy trying to be cool, that it was obvious that they were pretty impressed, while Susan was standing off to the side, looking, in her polite way, suspicious, and maybe even downright judgmental.

For whatever damn reason.

Jack had come over early, kindly bringing coffee along with him, and while he hadn't dressed up, his Hawaiian shirt was tucked in neatly, and fastened one button higher than usual. He stumbled a little, both over his feet, and his words, when the President shook his hand, and Meg wasn't sure whether to feel sorry for him—or laugh.

It was frustrating that her mother had yet to give her anything resembling full eye contact—or any real physical contact, even—but at least she seemed to be making a good impression on almost everyone else, with only Susan's reserved frown to mar an otherwise clean sweep of her entrymates.

“You're eating a little more?” her mother asked in a low voice.

Oh. Wait. Was that actual, undivided attention? Meg nodded. “I'm trying.”

Her mother touched her arm for a second, right above the sling. “Okay, I'm glad.”

Which was about much more than her recent caloric intake, of course, and Meg caught on to the fact that they were both unbelievably upset about the attack—and entirely unable to show it, in front of so many witnesses, and that was why they couldn't look at each other, or even say a satisfactory hello. She was about to suggest that they go into her room for a minute, by themselves, but Winifred came sidling over and murmured something to her mother, who listened, and then shook her head. Winifred nodded, and stepped away, already lifting her phone to her ear before she had even made it all the way out to the landing.

It was a typical interlude in their lives, but for some reason, it seemed to throw her mother off that much more, and even though this was the person who had given
birth
to her, Meg couldn't think of anything to say to her, either. Which made her feel a tiny twinge of panic, to go along with the general discomfort, and awkwardness, and—

“You played tennis,” her mother said.

Something she had only mentioned in passing, a few days earlier, and, at the time, her mother had seemed either not to be listening—or not to be sufficiently impressed by the information.

Or it might just have made her nervous, because of the negative repercussions for her knee.

“How'd you hit?” her mother asked.

Meg couldn't not grin, feeling—well, okay—proud as hell of herself, even though she wasn't likely to be out there again anytime soon.
Shouldn't
be, anyway. “The ball pretty much has to come right to me, but I wasn't bad. Especially the forehand. I mean, I got really tired after about fifteen minutes, but I played.”

Her mother smiled at her. “When you come home, you'll have to show me.”

Yeah.

And just like that, it seemed so good to have her here—looking incredibly goddamn confident, and powerful, and hell,
presidential
—that, if there hadn't been so many people around, Meg was almost sure that she might lean her head on her mother's shoulder. Or maybe even—perish the thought—
hug
her.

Which her mother must have picked up on, because she moved a step closer. “I can't tell you how happy I am to see you,” she whispered.

At the end of the hall, some of the hostility went out of Susan's posture, and she nodded, seemingly to herself.

“Maybe the two of us should—” her mother started.

Upon which, Winifred reappeared, and her mother inclined her head to listen to whatever she was being told, and then nodded once.

“I'm sorry, you all will have to excuse me for a moment,” she said, and went into Meg's room, Winifred right behind her.

“Is everything okay, or is it some kind of national emergency?” Jack asked.

Hard to tell. “Either,” Meg said, and shrugged. “Or both. I don't know.”

“Hmmm,” he said. “Kind of makes me nervous.”

It probably
should
, given the panoply of dire crises which could be arising, even as they all stood here casually in a college dormitory corridor on a partly cloudy Thursday morning. “Can you do me a favor?” she asked. “I need to spend some time with her, but I'll call you if she's going to be here long enough to have coffee or something?”

“Sure.” He glanced at his watch. “I'll go catch the rest of Art History.”

Unquestionably a swell, if astoundingly academic, guy.

Once it was apparent that the President was going to be engaged for an unknown length of time, everyone else started to wander away, too, but she caught Susan's eye and motioned towards the restroom. Susan shook her head, but Meg motioned again, and, after frowning, Susan nodded and changed her direction to walk in there, instead. Meg followed her in, gesturing for the Secret Service agent who was posted just inside—a woman she didn't know—to step out momentarily, while Susan leaned against one of the sinks, folding her arms.

“You were expecting Medea?” Meg asked, when they were alone.

Susan looked worried. “I don't know. Maybe.”

Oh, for Christ's sakes.

“How'd you
hit
,” Susan said, with undisguised disgust.

What was wrong with that? Meg shrugged. “Seemed like a fair question to me.” A perfectly legitimate question. The obvious question, even.

“She's your
mother
,” Susan said. “She's supposed to say, ‘Hooray!,' ‘Wow!,' ‘Good for you, you spunky little thing!'”

If any of that were to take place, she, personally, would hide behind the nearest large object until, with luck, the President came to her senses again.

“She was supposed to hug you,” Susan said.

Well, that was a more valid criticism, if still presumptuous. But, in all fairness— “I was probably supposed to hug
her
,” Meg said.

Susan nodded. “Yeah.”

When, and if, she met the McAllisters again, she was going to have to remind herself to be openly, cruelly critical about them, afterwards, regardless of whether the reaction was warranted. Meg shrugged. “She's just private. It's totally different, when nobody's looking.”

And her best guess was, that a few minutes from now, her mother was going to hug her like crazy—and then make some sort of bitchy remark about her “If Lost or Stolen” shirt.

“That's a little scary, then, because in public, you always seem like a polite, perfect family,” Susan said.

Meg shrugged again. “When we're alone, we're a polite,
imperfect
family.”

“Well, okay, so are we,” Susan said, sounding somewhat quelled.

Since families could mostly only choose between being polite and imperfect—or
impolite
and imperfect.

“We should really just leave it at that,” Susan said, “right?”

Yup.

When they went out to the hallway, her mother was opening her door to see where she was, and Winifred was walking away, back on her cell phone.

“It was very nice to meet you, Madam President,” Susan said.

“You, too, Susan,” her mother said, and shook her hand. “I can't thank you enough for everything you've done to help my daughter.”

Susan blushed, shrugged, and made a fairly quick exit to the stairs.

Once she and her mother were finally alone in her room, her mother gave her a nearly ferocious hug.

“Are you all right?” she asked.

Meg nodded.

“Are you
sure
?” her mother asked.

Meg nodded, even though she really wasn't sure at all.

“My God, Meg, your hand,” her mother said, her voice shaking. “I can't believe you broke your
hand
.”

Did she mean yesterday—or ever?

“I am so sorry,” her mother said, hanging on to her. “I don't even know what to—they're going to prosecute that monstrous woman into oblivion.”

“She's probably insane,” Meg said, slouching into the hug, without really having the energy to return it, but happy to be a recipient.

“She's
indisputably
insane,” her mother said, “but I don't ever want her walking free again.”

Hard to make an argument for a lesser punishment, when a large hunting knife was involved—and had been used. She had finally seen Paula earlier, in passing, and it turned out that she had needed thirty-two stitches, and her arm was thickly bandaged, but she assured Meg that it was just a scratch, and that there was no need whatsoever to thank her, although Meg did so, regardless. Profusely.

Her mother touched her cheek. “You look so tired. Were you able to sleep at all?”

Barely. Jack had left around midnight, his exit duly recorded by the press, and she'd felt lonely and afraid, and stayed awake for hours, her hand and knee aching intensely, even though she'd propped them up on pillows and several folded sweatshirts. So, Meg shook her head. “Not really.”

“Do you want to come back to Washington?” her mother asked. “You could just take a few days at home, and—”

With the semester winding down? No way. “I'll be fine,” Meg said. In the small picture, anyway. “Don't worry.” To force them onto another topic, she moved back to examine her mother's outfit. “It's nice and all, but you look sort of—I don't know—
French
.”

Her mother nodded. “I know, but it's cut so beautifully that I couldn't resist.”

Which was the sort of flimsy excuse the President always used when she occasionally caught flack for wearing something designed by anyone other than an American. “Well, it might keep me from voting for you, but
c'est très charmant
, regardless,” Meg said.

Her mother smiled, and picked up the huge unfinished cup of take-out coffee that was on the desk. “I confess that I helped myself to some of this already. I assumed you wouldn't mind.”

Not to go too Clouseau on her, but— “I don't mind,” Meg said, and waited for her to start to drink some. “Of course, it's not mine.”

Her mother stopped, mid-gulp.

“It was Jack's,” Meg said.

“Oh.” Her mother frowned down at the cup. “Presumably,
he
won't mind?”

“No,” Meg said, and gave her time to lift it up again. “But, it's decaf.”

Her mother nearly recoiled, and set the cup down. “Yes, of course. I sensed that it was a bit off, at once.”

Yeah. Sure.

“He's a handsome devil, by the way,” her mother said.

Indubitably.

There was a knock on the door, and her mother opened it, listening to the Deputy Chief of Staff tell her something Meg couldn't hear, and then frowned.

“Winnie, I'm sorry, but that did not even remotely pass the test of being important enough to interrupt us,” her mother said.

The fact that the President had a
refined
bark didn't make it any less of a bark.

“Anything bad going on today?” Meg asked, when her mother was sitting in the desk chair again, looking nettled.

Her mother shook her head. “Some minor huffing and puffing. It'll be fine.” She looked at the decaf coffee some more, then shrugged and resumed drinking it. “I must say, I don't think your friend Susan is very taken by me.”

Didn't seem that way, no. “‘How'd you hit?' bugged her,” Meg said.