Charlotte Kramer: Madam President Part 4

"Not lately, but I happen to know that you aren't one of her Facebook friends, so how would you know what was on it?"

"I get a printout once a week. Are you one of her Facebook friends?"

"Of course. She'd be thrilled to know that you're spying on her. Maybe that's part of the problem."

Charlotte wanted to protest that there wasn't a problem with her relationship with her daughter, but she knew he was right. She decided to do what she always did. "If she ends up in the news tomorrow, I'm going to hold you responsible."

Peter was so accustomed to Charlotte's defense mechanisms that he didn't even look up. "I know."

Charlotte sighed loudly. Only Cammie looked at her with concern. "This dog loves me more than my children do," she added.

"The dogs love you a lot," Peter agreed.

"The last point on the Facebook page, Peter, seriously, and I know you agree with this. If she thinks she'll make me squirm, she'll post something provocative tomorrow, just to show me that she isn't under my thumb, and it might be a good strategy for you to gently suggest that she not do that."

Peter finally put down his paperwork and turned to face her. "How about looking at it this way? If she wants to say something about an issue that's very important to her, she may take to Facebook like everyone else her age and write something about your historic speech. Your daughter might act like a socially aware college freshman who cares about issues like abortion rights. That sounds like someone Charlotte Kramer would be proud of. Actually, that sounds like someone I know. Someone I fell in love with more than twenty years ago."

His voice was patient, as always, but his words felt like a reprimand. She scrunched up her face and turned back to her speech, taking out her frustration on the draft in front of her by slashing several pages with large black lines. "You always defend her," she charged.

"Someone has to," he said quietly.

Charlotte decided to let that be the last word on the topic, but she was extremely unsettled by their conversation. She had a strong feeling that she was correct about the likelihood of Penny saying something publicly about the speech, and Peter was correct, too. It was precisely what she would have done.

It was clear where the fault lines had developed in their family when she and Peter had carved out separate lives for themselves years earlier. Going public about his affair with Dale had been the flash point, but Charlotte had always seen it as an inevitable and unavoidable consequence of her long and willful neglect of their marriage during her first run for the White House. Now she was terrified about giving their relationship a second chance, but she also felt hopeful that they were both finally committed to building bridges back to each other. She was more concerned about whether or not she could revive her relationship with Penny.

Since she and Peter had been back together, Penny acted as though she resented Charlotte for diverting Peter's attention away from her. While he was close to both of their kids, he and Penny had a special bond. After Charlotte was first elected president nearly six years earlier, it was Penny who'd asked if they were going to move to D.C. with Charlotte or stay in California with their father. Charlotte and Peter had never even discussed separating the family, but Penny apparently thought that it should be on the table that the kids could stay in school with their friends and their dad would take care of them while their mom went off to D.C. When Charlotte had affirmed that the family would be relocating to Washington, it was Penny who'd argued that it wasn't fair to make Peter move. He'd ultimately convinced the twins that moving to Washington would be a great adventure. But he returned Penny's protectiveness and was not the least bit intimidated by her stubborn streak. He'd had plenty of training in dealing with strong-willed women.

Charlotte, on the other hand, was constantly thrown off by how fiercely independent her daughter had grown after just one year at college. Charlotte saw in Penny the same seriousness that she'd possessed as an eighteen-year-old and fretted that her daughter was growing up too fast. She also suspected that her displays of toughness were a defense mechanism designed to project more maturity than she felt. But Charlotte was running out of time to correct the mistakes that she secretly feared she was making each time she acquiesced to Penny's requests for more s.p.a.ce and independence. She was beginning to think she should be hopping on a plane and planting herself in Penny's dorm until she talked to her about whatever it was that she was so angry about.

Harry, on the other hand, never played games with Charlotte. He was open and affectionate when Charlotte came to visit, and while he seemed to have formed a closer family unit with his new fraternity brothers at college than with his own family, Charlotte was grateful that he had created such a tight-knit support group during his first year. But between Penny's increasingly sarcastic e-mails and comments in their recent calls and Harry's laid-back approach to everything, Charlotte worried all the time that she'd messed up her kids by abandoning them during the years when she actually could have made a difference. Now they were college students and would never live at home again, and she was terrified that she'd screwed them up by never being around.

Charlotte felt a familiar tightening in her stomach and gently pushed Cammie off her legs and stood up to take the dogs out for a final walk.

"I'll come with you," Peter offered.

"Nah, watch your game. I'll be right back. I need the air."

Cammie walked to the elevator and stood outside it, but the two younger dogs had charged down the stairs. Charlotte had to lure Cammie down the stairs with the rest of her sandwich. Charlotte bent down and kissed the dog's soft white nose.

"You're the only one who understands," she whispered.

Cammie licked Charlotte's face and reluctantly followed her down the stairs and out to the South Lawn. Charlotte breathed in the warm air and tipped her head back to look at the sky. Her surroundings were perfectly soothing, but she was on edge. She'd been questioning herself at every turn lately. Charlotte missed her fearless, self-a.s.sured self. She also missed having a chief of staff like Melanie, who antic.i.p.ated her every move and knew when to step in and when to back off. Charlotte threw a couple of b.a.l.l.s for the dogs and watched a car approach the security gate. The large metal bolts that protected the street in front of the White House from car traffic disappeared into the ground, and the SUV rolled through the checkpoint.

As it neared the South Lawn, Charlotte noticed that her friend Mark was hanging out the back window, waving enthusiastically in her direction.

"I always forget how dead this town is at night. Do you know where I can get a drink around here?" He stepped out of the Navigator and rushed to give Charlotte a warm embrace.

Around her, Brooke and Mark acted largely unchanged from their days as the social ringleaders in college, but she had figured out a long time ago that their over-the-top antics were designed to distract and entertain Charlotte. In their real lives, they were pillars of their wealthy community. Mark was a venture capitalist who'd funded a handful of Stanford college students with brilliant technological innovations. He'd turned a couple of them into billionaires. Brooke was the most sought-after interior designer in Northern California. Their son, Griffin, was a senior at UCLA, and their daughter, Finley, was a junior at Berkeley. They were the kind of parents that Charlotte liked to think she would have been if she hadn't chosen a career - a life - in politics. Their children actually talked to them. Finley and Griffin had always been like older siblings to the twins. Charlotte hoped that they'd continue to grow closer now that they were all in California. Neither she nor Peter had much extended family the twins had bonded with over the years, so Brooke and Mark served as the closest thing to an aunt and uncle.

"How was the show?" Charlotte asked.

"Boring as h.e.l.l," he said. "But the seats were awesome."

"It was fabulous," Brooke said, as she teetered in her four-inch Christian Louboutin stilettos on the uneven pavement. She was wearing a leather dress that would have looked ridiculous on anyone else, but with Brooke's Pilates-sculpted body, she managed to pull it off.

"Charlotte, I'm sorry that my wife looks like a hooker. The good news is that I get to go to bed with her, but the bad news is that we sat with your secretary of labor or education or something like that, and I'm sure he thought we were that couple who crashed your state dinner a few years back. I'm surprised that you didn't get a call during intermission."

"Excuse me. This is a four-thousand-dollar Prada dress that I've been waiting for the right occasion to wear. Unfortunately, the right occasion hasn't presented itself in more than a year, so I decided to wear it tonight." Brooke giggled.

"Did I mention that she's drunk?" Mark added.

Charlotte laughed again and let Brooke take her hand. Brooke and Mark were the only people in her life who refused to see her as anyone different from who she'd been when they were all college students at Berkeley. They had been by her side through every personal and professional milestone, and at this point, they enjoyed the fruits of her political success far more than she did. As far as Charlotte was concerned, the very best part of being president these days was being in the company of the few friends she had who got a kick out of the trappings of the presidency. It wasn't as if the kids were around to enjoy riding on Air Force One or spending weekends at Camp David. But Brooke and Mark were thrilled by all of it - weekends at Camp David, state dinners, the White House Correspondents Dinner, the Gridiron Dinner. Nothing made Charlotte happier than watching her friends enjoy themselves at these events that, to her, were only one step above torture.

"Char-Char, thank you for the tickets. We sat with your secretary of education - not the secretary of labor, as my idiotic husband just said. There's a possibility that he will resign after meeting us."

"Is Peter still awake?" Mark asked.

"I think he may have nodded off during the baseball game," Charlotte said.

"Good. We can have girl talk," Brooke said.

"What about me?"

"You can serve us drinks and pretend that you're invisible," Brooke snapped playfully.

Mark feigned offense and led the dogs inside.

"Speaking of girl talk, how's it going with Peter?" Brooke wanted to know.

"Mostly fine," Charlotte said, as they settled into a sofa in the yellow Oval Office on the second floor at the residence.

Brooke leaned in and started whispering in a voice that was louder than Charlotte's speaking voice. "Are you guys getting along? Are you having fun? Are you having s.e.x?"

"Everything is fine."

"You seem tense."

"I have to give a speech tomorrow that's going to create a big political storm, and I'm dreading it."

"I know - the abortion speech. I think it's great, Char, but I've seen you deal with bigger s.h.i.t storms than that, and you're never like this."

"Well, it's not just an abortion speech. It's broader than that, really. It's going to get at the very nature of what a unity government can do around some of the most polarizing social issues. I'm going to frame the debate about reproductive freedom in terms that I hope will be less divisive."

"Blah, blah, blah. Sounds good to me. You'll come out for the prochoice side, won't you? I mean, that's why it's such a big deal, right?"

"Yes, it will be clear which side of the divide I come down on, but I'm not pushing any prochoice policies other than reinstating some of the funding for mammograms and Pap smears and things like that, that are done at women's health clinics like Planned Parenthood."

"Can we go back to Peter for a second, Char?"

"Yes, sorry. What was I saying?"

"That things are fine."

"They are."

"But?"

"Nothing. Things are good."

"Is he staying in line?"

"What do you mean?"

"You know."

"I'm not going to spy on him, for Christ's sake."

"Don't make it sound like such a preposterous suggestion. You spy on everyone else," Brooke retorted.

Charlotte ignored the insult and crossed her legs underneath her. Brooke wasn't going to settle for her one-line answers. "Things didn't fall apart overnight, and they aren't going to get put back together overnight - if ever. But I feel like we're both taking baby steps back toward something that feels better than it has in a very long time."

"And Dale?"

"What about Dale?"

"For one, you made her one of the most powerful people in your White House by appointing her press secretary. That is either insane or brilliant, and I'm still deciding which," Brooke remarked.

When Charlotte didn't bite, Brooke continued.

"And if it were me, I'd be dying to know if they're still in contact."

"I have no idea, but I don't care either way. Peter and I are fine, and Dale is dating a wonderful guy who happens to be my pollster. His name is Warren Carmichael."

"The Iraq and Afghan war veteran? I saw him on Morning Joe the other day."

"That's him."

Brooke made a face that displayed her dissatisfaction at Charlotte's answers and reached out for the c.o.c.ktail Mark was handing her. He'd poured three juice-gla.s.s-sized drinks. Charlotte took one sip and choked.

"What is this?"

"It's an old-fashioned."

"Without the sugar?"

"Brooke and I are cleansing."

"You're cleansing?"

"Juice cleansing. Don't you cleanse?"

"I do not. Why on earth are you guys cleansing? You both look amazing."

"It's the juice, it's a miracle!" Brooke exclaimed. "By day three or four, you're so hungry you could eat the children, but your skin glows and your skinny clothes fit perfectly again. I am going to sign you up for a weeklong cleanse. The juices show up at your doorstep every morning."

Charlotte wondered if she'd be buying five-day juice cleanses that showed up on her doorstep if she still lived in San Francisco. "They'd come right to my front door?" Charlotte teased.

"Yeah, unless the juice delivery guy gets shot first," Mark joked.

Charlotte stayed up with her friends for another forty-five minutes, catching up on gossip and talking about their kids. When she returned to her room, Peter was sound asleep.

What she'd failed to tell Brooke was that she was worried about Peter feeling lonely and isolated. It wasn't like he could walk out of the White House complex and head to Starbucks to read the paper, or play pickup basketball games at the gym, or head outside for a run like he did in San Francisco. Those sorts of outings had to be prearranged with the Secret Service. Peter despised the motorcades and the security and the cameras, so he usually stayed home when he was in D.C. and stretched out his visits to the kids and clients on the West Coast. Living in the White House had to feel like a prison. Charlotte resolved to suggest that they take more trips together to California the next time they were alone. She set her alarm for five A.M. and crawled into bed beside him.

CHAPTER SEVEN.

Melanie Melanie finished her morning meetings feeling both inspired and depressed. On the one hand, she was heartened by the high morale of the troops she'd met. No matter what was said by Democrats, Republicans, and the entire spectrum of media pundits about America's ongoing security role in Iraq, the troops remained loyal to one another and committed to the mission. Being in their midst always clarified things for Melanie and reminded her what she was fighting for day in and day out in the offices of well-meaning but clueless senators and congressmen. On the other hand, she was discouraged by what she knew would translate as minuscule progress on the ground. The public had long since moved on, but thousands of troops remained in Iraq and Afghanistan. To Melanie, that amounted to thousands of sons, daughters, fathers, mothers, brothers, and sisters. Additionally, most of the men and women stationed in both countries had already endured multiple deployments away from their families. At this point, they returned home to little fanfare. Nothing frustrated Melanie more than her inability to refocus the country's attention on their ongoing sacrifice. With prominent voices on the right and the left clamoring for every last American to get the h.e.l.l out of the region, it was difficult to make the case that the effort was worthwhile. She'd invited some of the local leaders from her meetings that morning to Washington to brief the members of the House and Senate Armed Services and Foreign Relations Committees. As she was trading personal e-mail addresses with one of the women serving in Parliament, her a.s.sistant gave her the signal to wrap things up. She used to ignore cues from aides, but sometimes they were a warning about a sudden change in the security situation on the ground. She ended her conversation and moved toward the door.

"What's up?"

"Brian's on the phone."

"It's three in the morning in D.C."

"That's why I interrupted you."

Melanie rushed to the holding room.

"Honey, is everything OK?"

"Everything is fine. I'm sorry I worried you. I told them to tell you that it wasn't urgent."

"Oh, my G.o.d. My heart is beating out of my chest. What are you doing up?"

"I couldn't sleep. I was worried about you and the baby."

"We're fine. I promise."

"When you get back, I think we need to make a plan for you to slow down. I don't think all of the travel is good for the baby, and I know it isn't good for you."

"We'll do that. Don't worry. I'm not straining myself. I slept eight hours, and when I'm not puking, I'm stuffing my face."