Long May She Reign (76 page)

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THE PLAN WAS
for them to have a private family lunch the next day, before it was time for her to head out to Andrews. In the morning, to her father's barely-concealed annoyance, there was a coffee reception scheduled to be held downstairs in the Blue Room, with the French Ambassador and the First Lady of Mali included among the guests. One of those foreign policy encounters which appeared friendly and informal, but, in all likelihood, involved all sorts of unspoken geopolitical strategies and goals.

Neal was the only one who was enthusiastic about the get-together, and he spent about twenty minutes on a settee in the Center Hall, swinging his legs back and forth, and yapping happily to a very patient protocol aide about how he should behave when he went in to say hello. Of course, he liked meeting absolutely anyone anywhere at any time, and was famous for having long, intense “Do you like your job? Show me all the stuff you do!” chats with everyone who worked in—or visited—or, hell,
walked by
—the White House, but he especially enjoyed official functions. He had even voluntarily put on a tie.

Steven didn't want to have anything to do with any of it, but when her mother remarked that he always looked very handsome in his blue turtleneck, he came out of his room wearing it a few minutes later. Meg didn't feel like making an obligatory “Yes, I'm still sane, and vaguely mobile” appearance, but it would only be a few minutes out of her life, so what the hell—and her mother seemed both abashed, and very pleased, when she suggested doing so. Her father frowned, but made no actual comment.

She didn't have the energy even to consider getting dressed up, but in an attempt to look presentable, she changed into a red cashmere sweater and grey wool pants, fastening her surgical brace over the pants. She also put on her sling, so no one would forget and try to shake hands with her. Then she went to wait in the West Sitting Hall with Trudy and her brothers, until it would be time to go downstairs.

Neal had either taken notes during his meeting with the protocol aide, or gone off and spent ten minutes on the Internet, because he was full of unexpected tidbits, including the fact that Mali had celebrated its annual Democracy Day holiday recently, that the climate was hot and dry during most of the year, and that the country's motto was “One People, One Goal, One Faith.” Trudy listened intently to all of this, asking several questions, and Meg
pretended
to listen, while Steven yawned and ate his fourth cinnamon roll of the day and read the Red Sox articles in the Sunday
Globe
.

When Frank came up, and signaled to her that it was time, she made her way to the elevator, her brothers trailing along behind her.

“I'm staying like,
two
seconds,” Steven said grimly.

His father's child, although by now, she assumed he had steeled himself to face the inevitable, snapped into his First Gentleman persona, and was being warm and charming to one and all.

One of the social aides who had been assigned to the event met them at the elevator door, and escorted them across the hall. There were a lot of people around, including a few reporters and official White House photographers, all of whom perked up when they saw her, and she braced herself so that she wouldn't flinch when they were hit with the inevitable camera flashes.

“This
sucks
,” Steven muttered, and the social aide looked uneasy.

“Hey, you're the one who went and put on your turtleneck,” Meg said. “If you'd said no, they wouldn't have made you come.”

Since they all knew that was true, and that his appearance was, therefore, entirely self-inflicted, Steven scowled. “Yeah, well—you're the favorite.”

Always the ultimate trump card to pull on one another. They'd started having this exact same argument pretty much as soon as they learned how to speak. “I'm not the favorite,” Meg said. “
Neal's
the favorite.”

“
I'm
not the favorite,” Neal said instantly.

More cameras swung in their direction, and they all smiled broad, friendly smiles.

As they went in to the reception, she tried not to limp too badly, but she must not have done a very good job, because people either stared or quickly averted their eyes.

Which made her feel like the god-damn Spirit of '76, but okay, fine, whatever.
She
didn't mind.

Also, like Steven, she would lose the moral high ground if she complained about being down here.

Neal waved at their father, who was over by the windows talking to some guests, and made a beeline for their mother, who was near the fireplace, surrounded by an even larger group, including the First Lady of Mali, and the French Ambassador and his wife. Her mother's French was superb, and the First Lady apparently spoke quite good English, but there were a couple of interpreters strategically posted a few feet away, just in case.

“
Bienvenue
, Madame Her Excellency
et
Monsieur Ambassadeur!” Neal said, as chipper as ever, and everyone standing within earshot grinned.

Christ, no matter what he claimed, the kid wasn't going to go to West Point; he was going to be the Secretary of State someday. Or, possibly, both.

Steven's entire appearance consisted of saying, “
Bonjour,
” and then, “
Excusez-moi,
” before he retreated from the room and went back upstairs.

Despite having studied it in both junior high and high school, Meg's French was pretty lousy, but she was able to produce a reasonably competent “
Bonjour, comment allez-vous? Il fait très beau de vous rencontrer
.” The First Lady and French Ambassador smiled, and responded in kind, but they spoke too quickly for her to be able to translate much of it, so she glanced at her mother, who mouthed, “They want to know how you are.”

Okay, she could do that, too. “
Je suis très bien, merci,
” she said. “
Et vous?
”

She could tell that, although they were trying to hide it, the First Lady and the French ambassador's wife—and most of the other women in their vicinity—were watching the way she and her mother interacted in a subtle “So, what the hell kind of parent
is
she?” sort of way.

Which made her feel very self-conscious, and awkward, and couldn't have thrilled the President much, either.

Without giving it much thought, she leaned against the thin upholstered arm of the nearest gilded chair—probably not a great idea, since it was an irreplaceable antique, dating back to James Monroe—so that she could set her cane down without falling. Then, she reached into her pocket with her good hand, took out the watch she always carried, and passed it to her mother, who looked surprised, but then fastened it around Meg's left wrist, which she gave an affectionate tap when she was done. She also glanced at Meg's slightly too long fingernails on that hand—the only way she could do them herself was to drag her fingers back and forth across the nail file Cheryl had suggested that she tape down on her desk—and Meg nodded, her mother nodding back.

All of which took about fifteen seconds, but visibly put the other two women at ease.

The First Lady asked her a couple of questions in English about college, to which she responded, just as politely. Then, her mother rattled off something, and Meg picked up very few words other than “airplane.” Possibly “vacation,” too.

“
Oui, nous allons nous ennuyer d'elle beaucoup,
” her mother was saying. “
Elle est étée merveilleuse pour avoir sa maison.
”

After Neal answered the same sorts of questions about his school and they had both said a respectful good-bye to everyone, Meg leaned towards her mother.

“
Sacre bleu
, you have another hair-bump,” she said, very softly, so that no one else would hear.

For a split second, her mother eyes widened and she started to lift her hand, then smiled and lowered it. Nevertheless, just for fun, right before leaving, Meg let her gaze drift up to the crown of her mother's head, and shuddered slightly. Her mother seemed determined not to fall for the same joke twice, but then, took a quick peek in the mirror above the fireplace—to Meg's great amusement.

When she and Neal got upstairs, Preston was in the West Sitting Hall, talking to Steven and Trudy, because he had promised to have lunch with all of them. Since it was Sunday, and a day of relative leisure, he wasn't wearing his jacket over his shirt and tie, although it was neatly draped over a nearby chair.

“Taking advantage of the chance to get some extra face time with the President?” she asked.

Preston nodded. “My ambition knows no bounds.”

Which she had no doubt that a number of people down in the West Wing currently believed about the guy with the new corner office.

The chefs cooked enough for a group considerably larger than the seven people who ended up sitting at the table, but it all looked delicious. She was so nervous about going back that she didn't eat much, but as always, having Preston there kept the mood light, and they mostly talked about things like the fact that the next day, her mother would be off to the Nationals game to make her yearly inept throw for Opening Day, with a visit to Camden Yards planned for the Orioles' home opener later in the week.

After she and her father left for Andrews—he was going to accompany her
to
the plane, although not fly on it this time, her mother and Steven and Neal were maybe going to go outside and practice on Steven's pitching mound, which the gardeners had set up, long ago, on one of the most private sections of the South Lawn. With this in mind, the President had changed into tailored khaki pants, a perfectly starched white Oxford shirt, and Top-Siders—which, for her mother, was a very sloppy, even slovenly, outfit. The throwing session was probably going to be funny as hell, and Meg was sorry to be missing it.

After brunch, Dr. Brooks came upstairs and gave her one last checkup, complete with a new prescription and the strict instruction that she absolutely
was not
to spend the rest of the semester in more pain than she could handle, and to call him regularly so that he could adjust the dosage, or change her medication entirely, as seemed to be indicated.

Before it was time to go, she spent about half an hour in her room, patting Vanessa—who accepted this lengthy tribute as her due, but also kept looking warily at the packed duffel bag. After a while, her mother came in, holding a small manicure kit with the Air Force One seal imprinted on it.

Feeling very incompetent, Meg nodded, and her mother sat next to her on the bed—not to Vanessa's delight. She took out a small pair of scissors, put on her reading glasses, lifted Meg's hand into hers, and then very carefully cut the nails. Neither of them spoke during this procedure—Meg was too busy being embarrassed, and her mother was concentrating on what she was doing.

After using an emery board to file and shape each nail in turn, her mother glanced at her splint. “Would you like me to—?”

Meg shook her head, moving her good hand—okay, her entire left arm and half of her upper body—protectively in front of it.

Her mother nodded, lifting her own hands to make it clear that she wasn't going to go anywhere near the splint. As she replaced the manicure tools in the kit, her hair fell forward enough to obscure the side of her face, but Meg knew without looking how sad her expression must be.

They sat there, her mother's hands tense in her lap, and her shoulders drawn up, and Meg realized that she was sitting almost exactly the same way. She suddenly felt tearful, for no good reason—or, maybe, lots of good reasons—and had to swallow very hard a couple of times.

Her mother glanced over, then looked at her more closely. “What?”

Meg shook her head, avoiding her eyes.

They sat silently, for another minute.

“Meg,” her mother said, sounding very serious.

Jesus, this wasn't the time for either of them to start anything. “I don't want to get into stuff,” Meg said. “I'm about to leave, and—I'm about to leave, okay?”

Her mother nodded, then picked up her good hand and dropped a kiss near her wrist. More specifically, her watch.

It was good to have her blatant, public effort to jump loyally to the President's defense formally acknowledged—but she didn't want to talk about it. So she shrugged, her mother nodded, and they left it at that.

She and her father departed from the South Grounds, with a much smaller than usual contingent of reporters and staffers looking on, since it was Sunday. Neal and Trudy gave her big, uncomplicated hugs, while Steven stood there with his hands in his pockets, and said, “Later,” sounding very disinterested. Her mother held her for a couple of seconds—stiff and reserved, as she almost always was when displaying affection in front of cameras, which probably didn't do much to change the minds of those who were of the “she's an unnatural woman who doesn't love her children” school of thought—and whispered, “Please take better care of yourself,” Meg shrugging—stiffly—in response.

She and her father didn't say much on the way over to Andrews, mostly because she was trying to get control of how homesick and close to tears she felt, during the last few minutes of relative privacy she was going to have for the next month and a half.

“I'm sorry if it was, you know, difficult, while I was here,” she said finally, as they drove through the main entrance of the air base. Sorry that she'd snarled almost every time he'd looked at her.

Her father smiled. “August twelfth will always be one of the three best days of my life.”

Her birthday. “Do you still carry them?” she asked.

“Everywhere I go,” he said, and took out his wallet to show her.