White House: Commander In Chief Part 10

"You're one of the people. They like that. You and President Hamilton. You both are." She nods respectfully, then adds, "So many of us, especially women, dream of fitting in your gla.s.s slipper. Having the attention of the young, attractive president."

"Matthew doesn't-" I cut myself off, then say, "So the rumors have started already."

"Everyone's hoping, ever since he named you acting first lady." She laughs, then says, "We respect him. And you. The White House is not only a place of business; we've taken care of whole families for a long time."

Families. The thought sort of p.r.i.c.ks me in the heart and makes me wonder what a family with my country's president, the man I love, would be like. "Thank you for telling me this."

She smiles. She's been my shadow, along with other members of the Secret Service, and I'm always humbled and almost uncomfortable by the dedication they show. I've learned they speak in codes, and especially use codes for Matt and me. Stacey's also unmarried at forty-four, eats a high-protein diet, and has eyes for Johnson, another member of my Secret Service team.

The rest of the week I spend making plans with Clarissa. I adore visiting places and having a chance to speak and interact with everyone, but I also notice people look at my detail and me with a bit of reverence. Whenever I mention the president, their eyes go wide and it feels like I just mentioned G.o.d.

I want them to know that the president is not only their driven and intelligent leader, but a human being as well-as am I.

If there's one thing I know, it's that the job of the first lady is determined by the first lady herself. I've been thinking of my predecessors, what they're remembered for, and wondering what I will stand for as a first lady.

Jackie Kennedy turned the White House into a showcase of the evolution of America's style and taste. She was a fas.h.i.+on icon, poised and elegant, who was the first to bring a curator into the White House.

Eleanor Roosevelt was a rogue in her time. She spoke about civil rights and women's rights, and to this day she's probably the most powerful first lady to have ever served. At the time, there weren't any female reporters-they were barred from White House press conferences. But Eleanor held her own press conferences, aimed toward female reporters, in turn forcing the media to hire them.

Other first ladies have sat in cabinet meetings. Many of them have been hostesses, planning the state dinners-but most have done so much more. Pus.h.i.+ng for schools without drugs. Improvements in healthcare and nutrition.

So I sit down with Clarissa and tell her I want to define the role the way I feel capable of doing-that I want to represent the president with the same vitality he exudes, keep myself busy and active, having a White House presence in as many states as possible, and not only scheduling talks and visits to schools, hospitals, and workplaces, but inviting citizens over to the White House as well.

I've found the time I've been here so exciting-so inspiring. I wish more people had the opportunity to be so close to all this history and the pulsing heart of America.

"I discussed with the president the fact that I want to make this house open to the public. I want to stay in contact with the people. I also plan to ask him permission to personally address some of the letters that arrive at the White House."

Clarissa is nodding rapidly, taking notes. "Also," she says, "they want to know more about you. Your job is unofficial; the press wonders how much influence you have, if you've got the president's ear. They want to know more about their first lady. Lola is setting up some interviews here in the East Wing."

Nerves. .h.i.t me-but this is an opportunity to shed light on things I care about, not to focus on me. So I agree.

"Excellent!" Clarissa says.

14.

FBI.

Matt The director of the FBI hands the files over.

"Here you go, Mr. President. I was a fan of your father. I, like the rest of the country, suffered a great loss when he was taken from us too soon. I knew you'd want to have this."

"Everything is here?"

"Every single thing, sir."

"I'll read up on it tonight. Expect to hear from me soon."

"Yes, sir, President Hamilton."

15.

WORK.

Charlotte The rest of the week goes by in a frenzy of visits, interviews, and planning the upcoming state dinner. Matt is even more swamped with work than I am, but I can see him make some effort to carve out some time to see me, and it not only touches me, it makes me truly wish for him to know that I support him and what he's doing for our country. That just being close to him and knowing that he wants to be with me as much as I want to be with him is enough.

The bills he's trying to pa.s.s are not easy ones-they will mark permanent changes in our education, healthcare, and energy programs. He's got solid backing from the House, but the Senate will be voting soon-and you really never know how it's going to go.

After dinner one day, we took Jack for a walk along the White House gardens.

It was freezing outside, but I was wrapped in a coat and wore a cap, loving to watch Matt's breath mist in the air as we talked about our day. And how he wouldn't stop poking my reddened nose playfully, wearing the most gorgeous smile.

On our way back into the White House, it was eerily quiet. "I'll never stop feeling awed as I walk around this house," I said.

"It's a privilege not to be taken lightly."

"You know how they say if these walls could speak? These walls actually do. Every piece of art on the walls. Every relic."

We continued in silence.

The usual bustle of the day had calmed down, but it was still in the very air. The electric unfolding of history within these walls. There were births and deaths, celebrations and mourning.

We pa.s.sed the portrait of JFK, glancing downward, humble and charismatic, and the portrait of Matt's dad, in a long red-carpeted hall.

Matt eyed the hall, his gaze warm as he took in my excitement. "Building took seventeen years to complete. Was.h.i.+ngton conceived the idea of it, but he never had a chance to move in."

I watched him as we walked, wanting more.

"It nearly burned in the War of 1812, when the British invaded the capital. Middle of the night, enemy troops threw javelins on fire through the windows, set the attic on fire, and the flames started burning through the floor, then the main floor crashed into the bas.e.m.e.nt. Look at it now." He winked. "Yeah, that's America. You fall, you rise back up stronger than ever." He chucked my chin.

And I laughed, and blushed all over, and nodded.

"The portrait of Was.h.i.+ngton in the Oval? The soldiers looted the house, but the first lady at the time, Dolly Madison, cracked the frame and saved it."

"If the house is set on fire, I'm taking your portrait."

"I want one made of you."

"Matthew!"

"I mean it," he said, then he took my hand and led me upstairs to his bedroom, Jack padding at our feet and dropping to fall asleep by the time we were naked beneath the covers. Matt was drawing me with his fingertips, slowly telling me what part of me he wanted to immortalize in paint.

Matt has been buried under bills and negotiations for the last couple of days. I, too, have stayed busy, but then I wait for night, wondering if Matt will wrap up the day early or not-he's been working so hard that the White House press office is always abuzz with information. Headlines are always pertaining to the White House. Matt is taking the alphabet campaign and absolutely crossing out every . . . single . . . word. As promised.

There are presidents and there are presidents-but we haven't had one like this one in a long, long while. And exactly like this one? Not ever.

I've never been so busy in my life either, but as I wait with my muscles sore from the day I ache for him and our time alone. I wonder what he's doing and whether I'll fall asleep before he reaches me, like I have for the past three nights, or if I'll be awake when he walks into my room and takes every single inch of me that craves to be taken again.

Tomorrow we have our first evening out, a fundraiser for Clean Water Across the Nation-with several celebrities in attendance. Though it's been three days since we made love, I've already realized that Matt meant it when he said he'd be paying me a nightly visit. Every morning I've woken up to the feeling of having been spooned at night and the scent of him on my pillow.

Last night, I was taking a walk outside to clear my head when his best friend from Harvard, Beckett, arrived.

"Is the president still in the West Wing at this hour?"

I nodded.

"Wow." He frowned. "He hasn't answered my calls. Any reason he's so h.e.l.l-bent on getting everything done now?"

"He said he would. He wants to make his first one hundred days groundbreaking and set the tone for the rest of them."

"He's inspired by you," Beckett said, winking and heading over. "I'm going to drag him out of the office, take him out for a run."

"Good. Take Jack with you-he's been restless with the rain and cooped up inside. I don't think he gets a kick out of politics the way Matt does."

His words linger with me.

Do I inspire Matthew, really?

I know that he's driven to succeed, that he inherited a broken kingdom that he must mend, burnt bridges between parties that he has to rebuild, all while navigating the complicated politics of D.C. involving a myriad of players, quite like pieces in a chess game-the lobbyists, the House, the Senate-all while keeping in mind the goals, the will, and the welfare of the people.

When I met his father, President Lawrence Hamilton, I felt so inspired. But nothing in my life has ever inspired me the way watching Matt work does. So I decide that tonight, rather than wait in my room, I'll visit him at the Oval Office when he's back from his run and the halls are quiet.

"What is it?" I ask, alarmed and confused over Matt's expression.

I came to visit him at the Oval. I was barefoot, finding him behind his desk, working behind the light of a lamp. I thought I was being sa.s.sy when I headed over to his desk and tried to prop myself up to the desk top. When I did, something loosened from underneath, and Matt caught it in his hand as it started fluttering downward.

It was a scarf. A pink scarf, that seemed to be tucked into some sort of compartment in his dad's desk.

Now I have a sick feeling in my stomach as we both stare at the pink scarf in Matt's hand.

My lips tremble as a bone-chilling s.h.i.+ver travels down my spine.

"This doesn't belong to my mother," Matt says.

I can't even think about it. I'm too shocked about seeing such a flimsy thing in the Oval, and feel sort of like a voyeur, as if Matt and I just caught his father doing something forbidden.

Matt's expression is a mix of rage and disbelief.

"I'm sorry." I reach out and take his hand. "Do you want to ..."

"I need some air."

Matt stands and steps out of the room, and after a moment, I hear the agents rus.h.i.+ng after him-and I'm alone in this house, with my dreary thoughts and my mind buzzing with worry.

Matt comes back shortly after.

He seems to have cleared his head outside, for he dives straight for the phone.

Matt calls my father over. He was a friend of his father for many years, and I suppose he trusts that whatever he discussed with my dad will never leave the room.

We sit with him in the sitting room adjacent the Oval as Matt asks him questions about his father.

"But you never knew of his interests outside of policy and the White House?"

"I knew-suspected-something changed the year before he was killed. He smiled more, he traveled more. He seemed to get new life injected."

"Could this have anything to do with a woman?"

"Possibly. I don't know for sure. I always a.s.sumed it was him realizing that he was close to done serving as president, and he'd be able to make it up to his family now."

"Thank you, Robert."

Matt seems calm, but only someone who knows him-truly knows him-could detect the tension pulsing in his shoulders.

"Charlotte, I'd like to talk to your father alone for a moment."

I smile when I look into his rea.s.suring eyes, nodding quietly as I go and hug my father. "Thank you, Dad." I kiss his cheek and he pats my hand when I rest it on his shoulder, watching me with pride as I leave.

Something about the way Matt asks makes me tingly. I wonder if he's going to tell my dad about us. It seems in character that he'd want to let him know there's something between us before we eventually move forward and tell the word.

Two minutes later, I'm pretty sure that he did tell him something about us-for when my dad leaves, he's got a spark of mischief in his eye as he waves goodbye.

Matt contacts the FBI next. I'm still rattled by things. As Sigmund c.o.x arrives to the Oval, Matt asks me to stay. As he hands over the scarf, his roiling bronze eyes meet mine, and they look crisp and metallic, cold as I feel.

I know what this finding means. How disappointing it could be-to imagine that his father possibly had an affair what he was president. Especially considering he neglected his mother and son. For the country, it was one thing, but for another woman?

After explaining to c.o.x what we found, Matt slides the FBI files across his desk.

"I want the case reopened and I want a special task investigator working twenty-four seven on this. I want real information on this. I want specifics. Details. I also want this to be top secret. n.o.body but you, those of us in this room, and the special investigator will know."