29
STATE DINNER
Charlotte
Galas are now my life. The gowns, the accessories. I’m swathed in fine fabrics and in Matt’s arms.
“She went from private citizen to public figure and she’s handled it with grace and style. I’m proud of her,” Matthew was quoted staying.
And about my pregnancy rumors, addressing them eight weeks after we found out: “That’s right. I’m going to be a father in six months’ time. I’m kindly requesting to the most shameless of you”—he addressed the press with a warning look and a smirk—“to take it easy on my wife.”
“President Hamilton, is it a boy or a girl?”
“We don’t know yet.”
“Will you want to?”
“That would be a yes.” He grinned.
I restore the tulip beds, and add ducks to accompany the swans in the south fountain.
I’m mistress of the White House.
I plan events where artists dazzle audiences, arranged in our guests’ honor. Arrange for a famous singer to perform the national anthem when someone important comes to visit.
I give talks in middle and elementary schools and invite schools to organize field trips to the White House, where I plan state dinners for the children (which are really lunches), complete with healthy foods.
My weekends I dedicate to the planning of these events, including those held for foreign heads of state.
I try to juggle it all, paying utmost attention to every detail of the state dinners we will be hosting, the next to be President Kebchov’s dinner this weekend. From the linens, to the plates, to the flowers, to the food, to the table arrangement and the entertainment. I want everyone who steps through our doors to be swept away by the elegance and glamor of the White House.
There is a history in every wall, every artifact, a story in every room. Reading about them, knowing Abe Lincoln walked through these halls, JFK and Jackie made love in the same rooms Matthew Hamilton and I do, it’s humbling. So humbling, it’s been hard to believe that I—just a girl, one who had no interest in politics to begin with but was too enraptured by a man to stay away—could deserve it.
But I’m here nonetheless, and I am here to serve, and I want to make a difference.
I want to own up to my childhood dream and take this opportunity to make it a reality. I want to touch lives in the way that Matthew and his father touched mine, the day they came to dinner at my home and treated me as if I had something good to offer. We all do; sometimes we just need someone to tell us.
So I try to keep my schedule heavy on the days Matt is traveling, and lighter when he is home. And sometimes when we both get home after an exhausting trip, we just make love and stay awake all night, talking about our days apart—and I tell Matt how the things we’re doing not only touch others, they touch me too.
The hustle and bustle of the White House is up a notch on the day we host President Kebchov’s state dinner.
The U.S.–Russia relationship has been strained for years.
Kebchov is the one you want to intimidate. You want him well aware of the power of the United States and its leader.
We don’t live in this world all alone. We have neighbors and allies. Enemies, too.
I’ve planned the perfect dinner—all American courses, including Maine lobster and Idaho potatoes.
Matt and I receive President Kebchov and his wife at the door, the sentinel guards standing by as he and his wife exit the car.
“President Kebchov.” Matt shakes his hand.
“Kev is good,” he says with a thick accent.
His wife is clad in gold, with glittering jewels on her wrist and neck.
I chose simplicity for this event. My gown is the color of emeralds. I’m wearing a small pair of emerald studs Matt gave me to match it and no necklace, because my gown is strapless and I like the way my bare shoulders look. I know Matt likes it too.
“My first lady, Charlotte.” Matt introduces me to them, and I shake the president’s hand as he, too, introduces his wife, and she goes on to press a kiss to Matt’s cheek.
“If you’ll allow us the honor . . .” Matt motions us into the White House, where the four of us walk inside to a thousand camera flashes.
The artists entertaining tonight in the East Room are acrobats from Cirque du Soleil, who prepared a special performance just for the occasion.
President Kev is amused, and keeps saying AHHH! whenever the acrobats in their colorful leotards perform gravity-defying feats.
Matt squeezes my thigh, shooting an approving glance my way that tells me he’s happy with the evening so far.
After dinner, the men are in deep discussions that Matt suggests taking to his office, and I remain with the first lady.
“Your husband. He’s very young and virile. Da?” Katarina says.
“Yes.” I smile, and she shoots a covetous glance his way and drinks from her glass of wine.
“He’s also incredibly loving to me,” I say, and her eyes widen as if she didn’t expect this from me.
“I like you!” she declares. “Not as much as I like your husband, but . . .” She grins, and we end up laughing and discussing her duties as a first lady in her country, and the troubles she believes her people face.
“My husband has been very angry at the United States for a long time.” She eyes me. “We haven’t had the same . . . agenda, shall we say.”
“No two countries ever do. That’s what compromises are for.”
She scowls delicately. “Yes, but my husband is not good at compromising.”
“My husband is great at what he does. I’m sure they’ll come to an understanding. May I show you around?” I offer.
We watch as the men head to the West Wing, and I lead her around the White House, telling her stories about our ancestors, funny or interesting tidbits about things that happened in each room.
“How lovely, your passion,” she says.
I only smile.
“You are to have a baby, yes?”
“I’m due December.”
“We never had children. Kev said it was too much, to have brats and be in charge of Russia.”
She sounds forlorn. “I’m sorry to hear that. I’m sure Matthew has his concerns, but I do believe it’s possible to both have a family and be commander in chief.”
“Ah, youth.”
“Maybe it is youth, or maybe simply determination.”
“Is your husband not concerned he’ll leave his child fatherless? Like his father?”
I raise my brow. “No. We trust the Secret Service to keep him safe.”
“But they couldn’t keep your beloved President Law safe.” She eyes me. “It would be a shame to lose such a perfect example of masculinity to a mistake.”
I manage to keep my expression neutral, my gaze direct. “Thank you for your concern, but my husband and his administration are stronger than ever and will continue to be,” I say, my tone no-nonsense.
Katarina leaves early, and her husband remains with mine—I’m not sure where, but somewhere in the White House, probably the Oval, where all the big stuff is discussed.
I’m exhausted, so I hit the bed in the Queens’ Bedroom, unsure of when Matt will be done.
I keep replaying my conversation with Katarina as I drift off to sleep.
I have a nightmare. It’s dark and I’m aware that I’m dreaming, but everything feels too real to be a dream. The fear pulses through me, the regret, and the confusion.
Carlisle is bloodied, and I look and follow the trail of blood to Matt. He’s lying down, not breathing, his hand holding a small one, and it’s me, lying in that same pool of blood, his father’s pin bloodied on my lapel.
I sit up in bed with a gasp, then glance around as the world spins. My throat constricted, my heart beating, I’m dizzy. I scramble out of bed in search of the bathroom and realize I’m not in my apartment. I’m in the Queens’ Bedroom. In the White House. I inhale, then grab a robe and step outsi
de. My agent Stacey stands up at attention.
“Everything all right?”
“Yes, just getting some water, thank you.”
I head to the kitchen and notice Wilson down the hall—and my eyes instantly jerk to the side to see Matt seated in the yellow sitting area.
“You’re back,” I gasp.
“Got in a while ago.”
“How did it go?”
“Not as well as I wanted, but better than I expected.” He scrapes his hand over his jaw and looks at me, then at Wilson, and Wilson scats.
The fear of my nightmare wanes with his presence.
I’m aching, his piercing coffee eyes, his infectious smile, his husky voice, and the way I want to be with him greater than my fear.
His low, sexy voice is like a blanket around me. “How are you? Are you uncomfortable?”
“I don’t have time to be uncomfortable.” I smile.
I head over to him and he draws me to sit on his thigh. “You outdid yourself tonight.” He cups my abdomen. Kisses it. “You look tired.” He peers at my face, his gaze too penetrating. Too knowing.
“A little. I think it went well. The Kebchovs were definitely impressed. The first lady was impressed by you, but I’m getting used to that.”
He frowns and strokes a hand over my hair, and I angle my head into the touch, stroking my hand up his chest. There’s a nearly imperceptible darkening in his eyes, a hunger lurking all of a sudden in his irises.
“Let’s get you to bed.”
“Are you coming with me?”
He doesn’t answer, simply leads me there.
Once in bed, he strips me, and then strips himself. I cuddle into his chest, in his arms, Matt sitting with his back propped against the headrest. “Rest, Matt,” I groan, kissing his pec, caressing the dusting of hair on his chest.
“I will. I’m just thinking.” He kisses my forehead.
I reach up to press his face against mine, stroking his hair, until I feel him turn his head into my hair and close his eyes, able to catch a few hours of sleep before the hum of the early-morning White House begins, and it’s a full day for the both of us again.
During the week, I have another group of important visitors at the White House. Kids from a local art school arrive, and I’ve set up small tables in the East Room so we can all do a White House–themed project.
One of the six-year-old girls calls me to her table and asks, “Like this?”
I reach over and adjust the paper so I can see it. Just then, she lifts the brush and smears paint on my cheek, and I laugh when I see Matt stop at the door—the room falling silent for a second, followed by a round of gasps from the little kids.
“Children—” I straighten up, still laughing as I grab a napkin and start to wipe my cheek—“we have a special visitor. It’s the president!”
And how I love the expressions on their faces as Matt leans forward into the mic at the podium at the end of the room. “Whoever painted the first lady,” he says, winking, “good job.”
I laugh and he walks over, leans over to the little girl, and assures her, “She looks even more beautiful than she did this morning.” He takes the napkin from me and wipes off the paint, smiling.
We look at each other over the children. Both of us thinking there will be one of ours here before we know it.
30
CROWDS
Matt
“My intention to pass a carbon tax for all carbon emissions is unwavering. The very air we breathe has been polluted for years. That’s not happening anymore.”
“Mr. President.” Coin is at the door, interrupting my session with one of my advisors. “There’s been an incident.”
He leads me to the adjoining room and turns on the TV.
I watch Charlotte walk out of the Virginia elementary school to a crowd of reporters and fans, the Secret Service struggling to keep the area secure.
A little boy tries to break through the security line. He’s pushed back, falls, and the line breaks, the crowd engulfing Charlotte.
I see her duck protectively over the little boy that fell, while Stacey fights to open up room to pull her out of there.
“Where is she now?” My tone sounds menacing, even to me.
I lost my father—in the blink of a second.
I see the pool of blood. Hear the damn phone call. See the damn news all over again. Feel the damn loss.
“On her way, sir,” Wilson tells me after checking into his speaker.
“I want to see her when she gets in.”
I head back to the Oval and stare down at my desk, clenching my hands together as I try to breathe. I’ll lose my shit if I ever lose her. I’ll lose my shit if anything happens to her or our children. I spot the FBI file for my father. A reminder of how justice hasn’t been served to one out of hundreds of thousands of evildoers in this country. I grab the file and toss it into my drawer, the frustration of Charlotte being careless suddenly getting to me too fucking much.
Charlotte
Well, that wasn’t supposed to happen.
I’m still in shock over the number of people coming to my visits. It seems the crowds only keep growing, their obsession with me nearly rivaling their obsession with Matt.
“Charlotte, please, a picture with me!”
“Charlotte, would you please intercede for my boy, he was suspended—”
“Charlotte, do you know what you’ll be having?”
I’m heading back to the White House, and a doctor is tending to some scrapes on my arm in the back of the state car. I caused them myself. Well, maybe. A little boy—he couldn’t have been more than four—was getting trampled as he tried to reach me, and I threw myself forward to try to protect him.
I’ve already been scolded by Stacey and the rest of my detail, the men shooting each other concerned looks, and I’ve already heard them speaking into their mics. Explaining what happened to the president.
The fact that this has already reached Matt’s ear and possibly worried him makes me feel worse about it all.
I’m exhausted when we get back to the White House. I reach my room and remove my pumps, exchanging them for a pair of pretty ballerina flats, and the floor is quiet—except for the staff. I find myself heading to the West Wing.
I just have to see him. I crave him like air. He’s the anchor that holds me down in this new and frightening, exhilarating experience, and he’s the reason I want to do better than well. He’s the reason I even have this opportunity in the first place.
I also want him to know I’m fine.
Dale Coin intercepts me on the way to the Oval Office entrance.
“Charlotte. I want to touch on the fact that the president is taking no prisoners during this administration—”
“Coin.” The word is bit out from the door.
The command makes Dale stop speaking—both our eyes flying to Matt, standing at the door of the Oval.
My heart stops when I notice the steely admonishment in his eyes that he sends his chief of staff’s way, as if he has no right to talk to me like that.
I think my knees are knocking together, or maybe it’s my heart.
I’ve never seen Matthew angry. Not really angry. Not like this.
Dale nods at him and whispers to me apologetically, “The president has enemies. All focused on finding his weakness.”
Matt’s vexation is so evident, I can feel it like a tumultuous ripple in the air, though he fights to keep it under control as he waits until Dale Coin moves away from me.
I glance at Matt. Stare at his tie and the thick column of his throat as I walk inside. I close the door behind me as Matt rounds his desk, then leans forward, his arms braced on the desktop as his eyes meet mine disparagingly and he slowly rips out the words, “You’re my first lady. You cannot act like you’re a normal twenty-three-year-old out there. You can’t risk your safety. You will NOT risk your safety. Do you understand me, Charlotte?”
His stare drills into me, and we stare at
each other across the ringing silence.
“Matt, he was getting crushed. He was just a boy trying to give me a drawing he made for me.”
He grits his jaw so tight, I can see a muscle flexing angrily in the back, his glare burning through me. “You want to make your mark and I’m proud of you for that,” he growls, clearly struggling for control. “But for all that’s holy, baby, do not ever—ever—put yourself in danger again. Do you fucking hear me?”
His voice is deathly low, deathly quiet.
Suddenly angry and frustrated, because I know Matt doesn’t seriously want me to stand by and watch a boy come to harm, I spin around, open the door, and start heading down the hall, wordless.
Wanting to cry for some reason.
Matt catches up with me, taking my arm and leading me up the stairs and to the residence.
He releases me in my bedroom, exasperated, his frustration evident on his face.
“What the hell was that?” he growls.
“I’m sorry I scared you!” I yell. “I was scared too! I didn’t want to make a scene in the Oval—that’s like sacred space. But all the attention was on me, Matt, everybody trying to save me—nobody thinking of the little boy.” My voice breaks and my lips begin to quiver. I purse them.
His eyes darken as he looks at me. He works the back muscle of his jaw like there’s no tomorrow.
Matt looks clearly tortured, torn between wanting to hug me and shake some sense into me. “You did a brave thing, Charlotte, but for the love of god,” he rips the last word out, trying to sound patient but failing as he takes my shoulder in his hand, squeezing, “think of what could have happened to you. You’re over four months pregnant and you’re pushing yourself too much—too fucking much. I don’t like it.”
“I’m just keeping busy, Matt! Trying to do my part the best I can. I like what I do, and with the baby on the way I’m trying to do as much as possible before it’s born. You’ve been so busy, and I don’t like it when I start to miss you . . .”
I drop my gaze to his throat, my voice quieting over my confession.