White House Autumn (22 page)

Her mother frowned. “How much?”.

“Four thousand, six hundred, and eighty-six dollars,” he said.

“It’s because of the damn money she hides under the board,” Steven said, his mouth full of garlic bread.

“It’s ‘cause she steals from the bank,” Neal said. “I see her do it.”.

Meg put down her fork, offended. “I don’t steal. I just plan ahead more carefully.”.

He shook his head. “You just
cheat
more carefully.”.

“What’s this you’re saying?” Meg lowered an eyebrow at him. “You cheat?”.

“I do not!” Neal said.

“Well, wait.” Meg pretended to be perplexed. “If I cheat
more
carefully, the only conclusion I can make is that
you
cheat
less
—”.

“Meg, leave him alone,” their mother said. “I’m sure that neither one of you cheats.” She frowned. “Although that money trick of yours
is
a little sneaky.”

“Don’t knock it,” Meg’s father said. “Every Administration needs a fiscal wizard.”

“Yeah,” Meg’s mother said wryly, “and I’m stuck with one who’s underage.”

Meg grinned. Winning was nice. Winning
was fun
.

Her mother glanced at her watch. “Well, if you’ll all excuse me, I think it’s time for me to get some work done.”

“You’re not going downstairs,” Meg’s father said quickly.

“Not today,” her mother said. “That, however, does not preclude work.” She reached awkwardly onto her bedside table, moving the phone onto the bed.

As she spoke to members of her staff, setting up afternoon meetings, Meg watched her turn into the President, a change she hadn’t seen very often lately—and was now aware that she hadn’t missed.

Her mother paused, glancing at Meg’s father, who didn’t look very happy, either. “I have to. You know that.”

He sighed, but nodded. “Come on, guys,” he said. “Let’s go do something athletic.”

“Don’t you have to be the First Gentleman?” Steven asked, checking before he got excited.

“Not today, I don’t,” their father said firmly, and Meg wondered if that was meant to be a criticism of her mother. Probably not a conscious one. “Let’s go shoot some baskets, and Brannigan can get some nice pictures out of it.”

Mike Brannigan was one of the primary White House photographers, who was supposed to follow them around and take informal pictures of the First Family. Once, he caught Meg leaving her bedroom on her way to get the book she had left in the West Sitting Hall, her face covered with Noxzema. He had also taken pictures of her swimming at Camp David, and trying to find a place to sunbathe on the White House roof in early March, during an
unexpected heat wave. Meg had complained to her parents, who decided that rather than having evil intentions, Brannigan was simply in the habit of taking photos of
everything
the First Family did. Her mother had given him the firm suggestion that he exercise a little more decorum, particularly in the presence of adolescent women.

It was Meg’s opinion that he was a closet lecher, given to constant secret fantasies. When she broached this to Steven, he said, “Yeah, you only wish,” and since then, Meg had kept this opinion to herself. She also spent a few months checking around corners and behind doors, much to the amusement of the staff. But, after her mother’s warning, Brannigan had confined himself to appropriately chaste shots of her walking Kirby on the South Lawn, studying at the black walnut table in the Treaty Room, and making popcorn with Steven and Neal. Meg still didn’t trust him, and if her father coerced her to play basketball, would be certain to wear something shapeless like one of her most ill-fitting Red Sox t-shirts, old grey sweatpants, and—in all probability—an ancient terry-cloth hat. The hat was the epitome of tacky, and by no means flattering, but it practically covered her eyes, and she would far rather be frumpy than self-conscious.

“You going to play with us?” Steven asked.

“Why don’t you,” her mother said, before Meg could answer. “Get some color in your cheeks.”

Meg was going to sigh long-sufferingly and say, “All right, if I
have
to,” the way she normally would, but rather than start trouble, she smiled brightly and said that she would be delighted. Enchanted. Overjoyed.

She played for almost an hour at the small court—it only extended a few feet past the top of the key—down near the Lyndon Johnson Children’s Garden. Another narrow and secluded section of the South Grounds had been converted to a baseball pitching area,
where Steven had convinced the gardeners to make him a regular mound and home plate. Probably not a permanent addition to the White House grounds. The Camp David staff had gone all-out, making him a perfect place to practice, including a batting cage—and Meg was pretty sure that the Marines and Navy people stationed up there used it regularly themselves when no one was visiting. Which made perfect sense to her—she thought it was pretty damn fun to goof around in the batting cage herself, even though her skills were such that Mendoza seemed like the Splendid Splinter in comparison.

Outdoor activity felt good, but Meg found that she got tired pretty quickly. Frightening how easy it was to get out of shape—and how little time it took. She was going to have to start playing tennis again, even if she could only do it here on the White House court.

And no, it
didn’t
bother her that Melissa Kramer had somehow managed to upset Kimberly Tseng in the ISL finals, and gone home with the No. 1 singles championship. It didn’t necessarily mean that, if things had been different,
she
would be the current title holder.

Maybe.

Steven and her father gave every indication that they were going to play all afternoon, as they scrimmaged against a few off-duty Secret Service agents, a White House electrician with an amazing jump shot, and an uncoordinated, but very tall guy who was on her mother’s speechwriting staff—and Neal was doing his stubborn best to keep up with all of them. Meg, tired of playing—and being elbowed by scrambling opponents—and having her picture taken, moved to a picnic table on the sidelines and sat down to drink some of the fresh lemonade a steward had brought out for everyone. The steward was a pretty fair player in his own right, and—at her father’s behest—had joined in for a few minutes, until he fouled one of the
Secret Service agents so hard that the guy swore at him, and if she and her brothers hadn’t been there, Meg had a feeling that a fist-fight might have broken out. In any case, the steward quickly returned to the Residence, and a National Park Service guy took his place, until he twisted his knee trying to block the electrician, and also had to retire from the game.

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.