Long May She Reign (51 page)

His hand felt warm, and affectionate, and as he flexed it, quite delightful, indeed. Then, he kissed her, which progressed from being friendly, to completely combustible, with remarkable speed, and his hands slid down to lift her up. She could feel him hesitate as he looked at her bed, but then he set her down on the edge of the desk, instead.

“I think we'd better close your door,” he said against her mouth.

Carpe diem, or voice of reason and an inbred, lifelong tendency towards caution? Although it was somewhat challenging to retain complete intellectual clarity, given where his hands were, and what they were doing.

Voice of reason.

She sighed. “We need to spend a lot more time getting to know each other, Jack.”

“Why?” he asked.

Now, how in the hell was she supposed to answer that? “Because,” she said.

He frowned. “A
lot
more?”

She nodded.

“Right,” he said, and took his hands away. “Okay. Right.” He let out his breath, heavily. “Shit.”

He probably didn't want to hear her “I don't know if I can trust you not to post on the Internet, or run off to the tabloids—or money-laden terrorists—with all of the intimate details” explanation.

Or the potentially more accurate “I'm very shy and maybe out of my depth here” spin.

“If I beg, will you look down on me?” he asked.

She must have been more exhausted than she realized, because for a second, she thought he was suggesting something else entirely.

He looked at her uneasily. “What?”

Okay, she had overreacted. Misinterpreted. “Yeah,” she said. “I'll shun you.”

There was some noise out in the corridor, and Meg turned to see Susan's little sister, holding a hand towel and a toothbrush, her expression both uncertain and terribly curious.

Meg quickly jumped off the desk, careful to land on her good leg—and a few feet away from Jack, as though they had not very recently been quite intertwined. “Hi.”

“Uh, hi,” Wendy said, sounding timid.

“Guess I'd better say good-night.” Jack put his hand out—the left one; good for him—and shook Meg's hand firmly. Then he nodded in a friendly way at Wendy, started down the hall, and paused to look back at her. “Can I see you again, as soon as possible, for as long as possible, as
often
as possible?”

Wendy would have no way of knowing what he was actually asking, but Meg was still embarrassed. And then, considerably more so, when Susan came through the stairwell door, presumably to check on her little sister. Was Ed watching, too, subtly, from the security desk? Yes. Great.

“Meg?” Jack asked, looking at her with fairly convincing little-boy innocence.

Everybody else seemed to be waiting for her answer, also, making the pause seem even more pregnant—damn, precisely the word she had
not
wanted to have come into her mind—than it might have otherwise.

What the hell. He'd know that she was at least half-kidding, anyway.

“You bet,” she said.

30

BRUNCH THE NEXT
morning was much nicer and more low-key than she expected, although she wanted to find a tactful excuse not to go when she found out that Susan's friend Courtney—she, of the “Do you
mind
?” remark—was joining them, too.

Ginette also came along, and Susan's parents insisted that she sit
with
them, rather than at a nearby table, watching alertly for media miscreants. On top of that, they actually drew her out, and Meg learned all sorts of things she had never known about Ginette's fondness for figure skating and bluegrass, as well as the fact that she'd spent time both at the Sorbonne
and
the London School of Economics. All of which indicated that they still didn't have much in common, but it was interesting to get a broader perspective.

At one point, there was a camera flash, and Ginette went stomping off—only to discover that it was another Williams parents-and-students group, celebrating someone's birthday and wanting to preserve the festivities for posterity.

Mr. and Mrs. McAllister also established that Courtney was looking forward to graduation, and would be starting an M.D./Ph.D. program at Yale in the fall; that Fred, another one of Susan's friends, was pretty sure that he was going to be spending the summer being an intern at a seedy regional theater; that Juliana hadn't decided whether she was going to major in American Studies or History or Linguistics or Classics or Comparative Literature or Romance Languages; that Meg was currently an English major, sort of, maybe, not really; and that Susan—who had been very quiet—was enjoying her omelet.

Wendy was full of a litany of chirpy questions about life in the White House and so forth, which were certainly preferable to the “so, did it
hurt
when you pulverized your hand?” line of inquiry. For the most part, Meg told the truth, although she couldn't resist a few disgraceful elaborations about the legions of devoted servants who, when she was in the Residence, came to her room very early each morning to sing her awake—in four-part a capella harmony—and then dress her, polish and buff her nails, put her through a full beauty regimen, and otherwise help her get ready for Her Day. Once they had assured themselves that her every need had been met, the lackeys would—in the unlikely event that they had any spare time left—go and minister to her mother in a similarly attentive fashion. But Meg made it clear that serving the Presidential children
always
took precedence over any invariably trivial and tedious request the President or the First Gentleman might make.

At some point during all of this, Meg had the distinct impression that Ginette was going to put her head down on the table for a while. Or, perhaps, directly into her plate.

“Is this what you're
like
?” Courtney asked finally, as though she just couldn't hold it back it any longer.

Susan and Juliana nodded—not necessarily with appreciative joy.

“You have to understand that, unlike the rest of my family, I
am
royalty,” Meg said, “due to a certain illegitimacy factor that we, naturally, never discuss, in public or otherwise.”

“Did you fill Hannah Goldman with this kind of garbage?” Ginette asked, seeming to put her hands on her hips, even though she was sitting down.

It would be tactless to remind her of Preston's approval—or, at any rate, tacit acceptance—of her style and overall political acumen. “No, I gave her a different, yet equally entertaining version of garbage altogether,” Meg said. “The stuff where my mother keeps me on speakerphone during Cabinet meetings, so I can help guide them back on point if they go astray, or find themselves stymied by the ramifications of some of the more complex policy issues.”

Wendy looked impish. “
Yesterday,
she told us the President has a drinking problem.”

Ginette turned to glare at her.

“Don't worry,” Meg said quickly. “I didn't breathe a word about the whole transsexual business.”

Ginette closed her eyes.

Yes, it was a very pleasant brunch, indeed.

*   *   *

SHE WAS BACK
in her room, with her knee propped up, watching one of the Sunday political shows she'd recorded—all things considered, she thought her mother's National Security Advisor was a little too self-important for his own good, and possibly the country's—when the phone rang.

“You made Page Six again,” Beth said, as soon as she picked up.

The original plan had been for Beth to come up to Williams for a couple of days during
her
spring break, but her father had unexpectedly decided to marry his young paramour Jasmine—quite probably because she was now pregnant with twins—and Beth had flown off, grumpily, to be a bridesmaid in Brentwood, instead, returning to Columbia in a generally foul mood.

Christ, they couldn't have found out about Jack
already
, could they? And, really, how much was there to find out, anyway? “What did I do?” Meg asked uneasily.

“You and Dashing-Man-About-Washington Preston Fielding were spotted canoodling for hours Saturday morning in a hotel dining room at a cozy Berkshires hideaway,” Beth said. “He was also seen leaving your dormitory in the wee hours on Friday night.”

End quote, presumably. Meg frowned. “It wasn't wee—he took off after SportsCenter. And the hotel's right on Main Street. That doesn't sound all that hidden to me.”

Beth laughed. “You mean, you
were
canoodling, but you were being open about it?”

Sadly, no. Meg turned off the television. “They also seem to have forgotten the part where there was a reporter from
The Washington Post
sitting with us most of the time.”

“So, it was a ménage à trois,” Beth said, and laughed again.

God, what a horrible image that particular combination was. “I have a feeling she's going to try to call you,” Meg said. “For the interview.”

Beth made a sound which would have been described as rude by almost any definition one might apply.

The appropriate response. “Well,” Meg said, “Maureen can prep you, if you need to—”

“Maureen?” Beth asked.

“She's my father's new Chief of Staff,” Meg said.

It was very quiet on the other end of the line.

“This is going to be a pretty long story,” Beth said, “isn't it.”

Yep.

After talking to Beth, she did, in fact, meet Simon for coffee—which was marred only by the hit-and-run appearance of a couple of paparazzi, who seemed to be convinced that they'd just captured the President's daughter's latest swain on film, and then she had dinner with Jack, Mary Elizabeth, Debbie, from the fourth floor, and Corey, one of Jack's Ultimate Frisbee–playing buddies—who rather predictably referred to each and every one of them as “Dude” at least once during the meal. Jack was clearly hoping to escort her back to the dorm—and her room, but she really
did
have to get some stuff done, and spent the night working, nervously, on a philosophy paper and studying for her Shakespeare midterm, instead.

At about nine-thirty, there was a knock on her door, and she was very surprised to look up and see Dirk, since he almost never specifically sought her out.

“Hi,” she said, and motioned for him to come in, although she didn't really feel like hearing more about what a half-wit she was for not having known about Susan's past.

He hesitated. “I don't want to interrupt you, if you're working.”

“I'm pretty bored, actually,” she said.

Dirk nodded, and wandered into the room. As far as she knew, he was really into hiking and camping and that sort of thing, because he was always trying to organize dorm excursions revolving around the outdoors. Meg had never been much of a nature fan, but now, she pretty much hated the idea of being anyplace resembling a forest. Even the thought of sitting in a large, verdant backyard lacked charm. But, since hiking wasn't a realistic option for her anyway, these days, she had always been able to decline his invitations gracefully.

“So,” he said. “How's it going?”

Maybe this was just a normal JA-wanting-to-touch-base-with-a-freshman-facing-midterms thing, then. Meg relaxed. “Okay. I mean, you know. Kind of a tough few days.”

He nodded.

It was quiet.

He glanced at her door. “Would you mind if I closed that for a minute?”

Okay, so this wasn't standard checking-in. “I guess not,” she said, wary now.

He closed the door, looked around uncertainly, then leaned against the windowsill. “This really isn't any of my business, but, well, some of the guys asked me to—” He stopped. “You know, Susan is a lot better at stuff like this, maybe I should—”

The nightmares, probably. “I'm sorry,” Meg said. “I have trouble sleeping sometimes. But, if it's bothering any of them, they should make sure to tell me, and I'll—” Do
what
, exactly? Stay up around the clock? Never close her eyes again? “Well, I'll try to do better.”

Dirk looked confused.

“I wake them up when I have nightmares,” Meg said, “right? I'm really sorry about that.”

Dirk grinned. “That's nothing. I mean, you ever heard the way Peyton
snores
?”

Actually, yes. It carried all the way up from the first floor. Unkind rumor had it, that people who lived over in North Adams, and other neighboring towns, were awakened by his snoring on a regular basis, and that it even sometimes caused fluctuations in the Richter scale along the Eastern seaboard.

“I should still maybe get Susan, though,” Dirk said. “She's better at—”

Meg shook her head. “You're my JA, too. Go ahead and tell me.”

“Um, Jack Taylor,” he said. “I mean, there aren't a whole lot of secrets in a dorm, you know? And some of the guys kind of wanted me to talk to you.”

Christ, was she going to be blamed for the fact that, on occasion—the previous night having been a notable example—Juliana and Mark were a little, um,
enthusiastic
? How totally embarrassing.

“He's got—not a great reputation,” Dirk said.

Not a news flash. Luckily.

“And the guys were afraid that if you didn't know, you might be—well, that he might not treat you well, and they didn't want that,” Dirk said.

Which was intrusive, maybe, but also sweet as hell. Meg grinned. “Exactly how much of a swath has the guy cut around this place?”

“Well—” Dirk's face reddened. “He's the kind who pretty much gets what he wants, then never calls her again. You know? And I really didn't want to see you—”

Oops, he'd forgotten to cloak himself in the protective coloring of “the guys.”