Eighteen Acres

by Nicolle Wallace

  “Halibut or salmon?” Peter asked.

  “Are you ordering from Asiate?”

  “Yeah. As soon as you land, I’ll put in our order,” he said.

  “I want a steak.”

  “You got it. I’m not going anywhere. Relax. You’ll get here when you get here.”

  “I know. I just hate to waste any of our time together traveling,” she said.

  “Me, too, but it’s awful out there. Listen, Steve is at his daughter’s prom, so Danny will be outside my door. He knows you’re coming…” Peter trailed off.

  All of Peter’s regular Secret Service agents knew her by now, but Steve had been there since the beginning. The Secret Service had a narrow and all-consuming mission: to protect the president and her family from harm. While they could not participate in arranging a rendezvous, a protectee’s wandering eye was not the responsibility of the Secret Service.

  “OK. I hate the stupid shuttle. I should have taken the train,” Dale moaned.

  “You hate the train, too. Relax, honey. I’ll see you soon,” he said.

  As Dale sat waiting for the delayed seven P.M. shuttle to La Guardia, she remembered the very first time she’d met Peter.

  She had flown out to California to do the first interview with the country’s first-ever “first man.” At twenty-nine, she was one of the youngest network reporters on the White House beat, and the interview was a major get.

  She had thought he’d seem emasculated by his wife’s success. Nothing could have been further from the reality she encountered that day. He was the center of the family, and their teenage twins clearly worshipped him. He also had a full workload and a staff of deputies, nannies, and personal assistants swirling around him that rivaled the size of his wife’s entourage.

  He’d been pursued by NFL teams after two seasons as UCLA’s starting quarterback, but he’d passed on the NFL and finished college. After that, he’d gone to law school and turned to the business side of sports, where he was known as one of the last honest brokers in the sports agency world. Athletes knew him as someone who would die for them. He’d built one of the most successful shops in the industry, and when his wife became governor of California, he’d thrown himself into his own business with even greater fervor.

  When Dale had started the interview, she’d made good use of the extensive research she’d done on the first man, asking him about one of the professional football players he represented who’d gone straight to the NFL after one year at Miami and probing him for his views about the debate over the college football ranking system. Dale’s father was an orthopedic surgeon who worked on dozens of famous athletes, and as an only child, Dale had no choice but to absorb his passion and encyclopedic knowledge of sports. Dale and Peter had talked for more than an hour before she turned on the cameras.

  Although he was humble and funny when the cameras were rolling and spent the interview praising his wife’s record and vision, she’d seen glimpses that day of a sharper, more sarcastic side to his personality that she found surprising. She’d left Sacramento with new respect for the president-elect and more than a twinge of jealousy that Charlotte Kramer had found time for a career and a relationship—a balancing act Dale hadn’t quite mastered.

  Dale smiled now at the memory. She had a recurring nightmare that she and Peter would be discovered and that he would deny knowing her. She knew it was ridiculous, but they’d been so careful not to leave any trace of their relationship that she worried she would be easy to erase if that ever became necessary. That was why Dale replayed every conversation, every kiss, every moment together, over and over, so that there would be a record somewhere of their shared history, if only in her mind.

  They had seen each other again at Charlotte’s inauguration, when Dale had conducted a short interview with the first couple that was to air the night of the inaugural address. He’d been friendly, but Dale had assumed he was turning on the charm with the new White House press corps to curry favorable coverage for his wife’s administration.

  As Reagan National filled with other delayed travelers, Dale played back one of her favorite memories: their first kiss.

  Peter had traveled with Charlotte on her first European tour. It was his first and last overseas trip with the president. Dale traveled to cover the president’s first meetings with European leaders, and she had been promised an exclusive interview with President Kramer. She’d been sitting in her assigned seat on Air Force One listening to her iPod and skimming the Wall Street Journal when a clean-cut White House aide touched her arm and asked her to come to the president’s cabin.

  She had smoothed her hair and popped a mint into her mouth before she stepped over the sleeping correspondent in the seat next to her and into the aisle. As she’d traveled the long distance from the press cabin to the president’s private quarters, Dale had felt the eyes of curious White House staffers on her. She’d smiled at a couple of junior press officers she recognized in the staff cabin and glanced quickly into the senior staff cabin, where she caught a glimpse of a snoring secretary of state.

  The aide had smiled. “They handed out Ambien before we took off,” he’d said.

  Dale had smiled back. “I’ll take any leftovers.”

  The aide had knocked softly on the door to the president’s cabin. A cheerful Air Force One steward had answered right away.

  “I have Miss Smith for the president,” the White House aide had said.

  “Right this way,” the steward had replied.

  Dale had stepped into the president’s cabin and crossed her arms in front of her body. She felt frumpy in her black leggings and long sweater.

  “Hi, Dale,” the president had said coldly. She was wearing jeans and a crisp white blouse.

  “Hello, Madam President, how are you doing?” Dale had asked.

  “Just fine. Now, tell me what you know about Maureen’s work for ‘thugs,’ as your network put it tonight.”

  Maureen was the president’s nominee for attorney general, and her confirmation was in serious trouble. Making matters worse, Dale had an exclusive source with mountains of dirt on her. Dale’s network had devoted eight minutes—an eternity in network news—to a long report about her work for corrupt politicians.

  Dale had swallowed and steadied herself against the wall while the president glared at her. She felt unprotected without the hovering White House staff or any of her crew around. She’d looked around the cabin and noticed a stack of Sports Illustrated magazines and the John Adams HBO special on DVDs.

  “Madam President, I spoke to Melanie about this earlier. Our reporting on your nominee is backed by rock-solid sources who thought you’d never pick her because of her record of defending white-collar criminals and former elected officials who are now sitting in jail.”

  Dale was trying to hold her ground, but she’d known she was mounting a futile defense. She’d felt herself sliding toward the door so she could return to the safety of the press cabin as quickly as possible.

  Charlotte had said nothing but continued to glare at Dale.

  “Honey, how do you turn on the DVD player?” Peter had shouted from the next room. “The kids want to watch a movie.”

  The president, looking slightly irritated, had shouted back, “I’ll be right there.” She’d looked at Dale and said, “I hope you didn’t travel for the interview, because the interview is off.”

  Dale’s stomach had sunk, and she’d turned to leave as soon as the president left the room. She was halfway back to the press cabin when the same aide who had retrieved her grabbed her arm again.

  “Can you come into the conference room for a minute, please?” he’d asked.

  Oh, God, what now? Dale had thought. She’d sat on the couch in the empty conference room, assuming that Melanie was on her way in to threaten to cut off all access to administration officials. Melanie and the president were already known for their one-two punches with reporters who crossed them. To Dale’s surprise, Peter Kramer had walked in, wear
ing faded jeans and a sheepish smile and holding a plate of chicken wings and two beers in outstretched hands as though they were peace offerings.

  “Hey, I’m sorry about that. That wasn’t about you in there,” he’d said.

  “Really? Because it sure felt like it had a lot to do with me.”

  “No, she had a lot of pressure to appoint Maureen. They go way back, and she’s been lobbying for the attorney general job since before the primaries were over as a reward for supporting Charlotte,” he’d said.

  “This will be a very long four years if your wife refuses to do any interviews with me,” Dale had said.

  “She doesn’t stay mad,” he’d promised.

  They were both quiet for a minute, and then Peter had launched into a playful probe of press corps gossip. He wanted to know who was married, who was dating, who was cheating, and whom Dale liked and disliked. They’d finished the plate of wings and their beers.

  Dale had put her head in her hands and sighed. “Thanks for the snack.”

  Peter had looked at her for a long moment. “Why does it bother you so much that she’s mad?” he’d asked.

  “Because I was just assigned to cover her for the next four years, and if she hates me, I won’t be able to do my job.”

  “The next four years, huh?” he’d said, with a smile that started in the corners of his eyes and worked its way down his face.

  Dale had smiled back. “Easy for you to say.”

  “Listen, she scares the shit out of me sometimes, too. But she is trying to do right by everyone, so just, you know, don’t take it personally,” he’d said.

  Then he’d checked his watch and stood up and stretched his arms above his head, revealing a very flat, tanned stomach that Dale couldn’t peel her eyes away from. When she’d returned her gaze to his face, he was smiling at her again.

  “I’m glad you’re on the beat, Dale,” he’d said, and it was clear that the visit was over.

  Dale had gone back to the press cabin and thought about how to tell her boss that her exclusive interview had been pulled. They’d sent an extra crew over to shoot the interview, and now it was off. And to spite her, and the network, the White House would probably do an interview with one of her competitors. Great start, Dale had thought.

  The interview was never rescheduled during the overseas trip, but every time Dale had looked up from a live shot or during a press conference, Peter Kramer was looking in her direction. Sometimes he would smile at her or wave at her and the other reporters. Other times, he’d pause just long enough to catch her eye and mouth a quick “Hi.” Dale had found herself thinking about their chat in the conference room more often than she knew she should.

  After midnight in Budapest, where they had made their final stop of the five-day trip, Dale had finished taping a stand-up for a morning show package and walked back into the hotel where they were staying. The bar area was empty; the rest of the reporters must have hit the town on their expense accounts.

  “Still working?” a voice had asked from a booth near the back of the bar.

  She’d turned around and noticed the Secret Service agents first, and then she’d seen Peter Kramer sitting at a table with his wife’s deputy national security advisor and chief of staff. There were two others at the table whom Dale didn’t recognize.

  “Just finished,” she’d said.

  “Care to join us?” he’d asked.

  “Sure, that would be great.”

  Melanie had watched her suspiciously, but the others were nice enough. Dale had told them about the raunchy conditions on the press charter. The press charter was a leased commercial plane that followed Air Force One around the world carrying the press corps. On the flight from London to Budapest, a couple (both of them married, not to each other) had engaged in noisy sexual activity that had every one of the reporters angling for one of the twelve press seats on Air Force One.

  Three bottles of wine and two hours later, she and Peter had outlasted the others and sat in the booth talking about college football, the sorry state of skiing in the Northeast, and the downfall of the Tour de France from steroid abuse.

  “You are wasting your time covering the White House. You should be covering sports. No one cares about politics. Everyone loves sports,” he’d said, winking at the Secret Service agent standing a few feet away.

  If the agent had noticed Peter’s gesture, he didn’t let on. He’d stared directly ahead and seemed to try to fade into the wall.

  “But if I didn’t cover the White House, you wouldn’t get to buy me drinks at strange dark bars in foreign countries that you have to follow your wife to,” Dale had said. As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she would have killed to pull them back.

  “So the truth comes out,” he’d said.

  “No, no, that’s not what I meant.”

  “It’s what everyone thinks, and no one says it out loud. I’m actually glad you did say it out loud. Especially if it’s what you’ve been thinking since our first meeting in Sacramento,” he’d said.

  “No, no, I swear to God, it is not what I think.”

  “No? I think it myself. I am a pathetic husband following the leader of the free world around while I visit museums with the wives.”

  “No, I swear, that is not what I think,” Dale had insisted again.

  “Then what is it, Dale, that you really think?” Peter had asked, staring directly into her eyes.

  She’d looked away and tried to pull her thoughts together before she spoke again. “What I really think is that you are amazing,” Dale had said quietly, without looking him in the eye. She’d glanced nervously at the Secret Service agent. He didn’t appear to be listening to their conversation, but Dale had lowered her voice anyway and leaned closer to Peter. She was close enough to notice a small scar under his chin and the lines around his eyes and mouth.

  She’d taken a breath and noticed that he had moved closer to her. Their legs touched under the table. The wine had emboldened her, and she placed her hand on top of his. He’d looked down at her hand and seemed to stop breathing for a second. She’d continued without making eye contact.

  “What I really think is that your wife seems to have no idea how utterly amazing you are, and I’ve decided that if I ever have what she has, I would never take it for granted, and what I really think…” Dale was still talking when his mouth met hers. His free hand had moved to her shoulder, turning her body to face his. She’d moved her hand from the table to the back of his head and pulled him closer. For the first time, she’d noticed that a horribly remastered version of U2’s “Beautiful Day” was playing. As they’d kissed there in the dark, near-empty bar in Budapest, with a Secret Service agent staring straight ahead as though nothing out of the ordinary were happening, Dale was aware of how badly she’d wanted this to happen since she’d first met Peter Kramer. When they’d stopped kissing, they sat with their foreheads touching. His fingers were still tangled in her hair and they were both breathing deeply. He’d kissed her closed eyelids and the top of her nose. She’d sat perfectly still.

  “I guess it was only a matter of time before that happened,” Peter had said.

  She’d smiled as he pulled her hands into his and held them. “What does your agent think when you do things like this?” she’d asked, glancing at the Secret Service agent assigned to protect Peter.

  “When I do things like this?” he’d asked, kissing her again.

  She’d smiled and pulled away.

  “For the record, I don’t do things like this,” he’d said. “But I would assume that unless you get very angry at me, which I hope you never do, and come at me with a dagger, he won’t do anything at all,” Peter had said. “Think about the things JFK’s agents saw. This is nothing.”

  “So, we’re safe from the United States Secret Service. That’s one less thing to worry about,” Dale had said.

  “Yes. I guarantee you they have seen much worse. Do you have any ideas about what to do about everyone else
?” he’d asked.

  “I’m thinking.”

  “OK, well, let me know if you come up with anything.”

  “How would I do that?”

  He’d reached over, picked up her cell phone, and entered his personal cell-phone number into it under the name “Budapest.” He’d placed her phone back on the table and took her hand again. “This is a very bad idea,” he’d said.

  “I know,” she’d agreed.

  “And as much as I would like it to—and believe me when I say that I would like it to—this probably shouldn’t happen again.”

  “I know,” she’d said, smiling.

  “I should probably get upstairs,” he’d said.

  “I know.”

  “Are you going to say anything other than ‘I know’ to me before I pull myself away from you?” he’d asked, kissing her hands again.

  “Sweet dreams,” she’d said.

  “Thanks,” he’d said, laughing.

  He’d kissed her on the lips one last time and then rose and walked out of the bar. The agent had followed him without looking back at her. After fifteen minutes, she’d gone upstairs to her room, one floor below his, to catch a couple of hours of sleep.

  In the morning, she’d reached for her BlackBerry before her eyes were completely open. She was sure that someone must have been down there at four A.M. and seen them. She was sure that someone had phoned her news director and told him to fire her for kissing the president’s husband.

  But no one had e-mailed.

  No one had called.

  She couldn’t look at him when they had boarded the plane for the return trip to Washington, but she was thrilled when he’d smiled at her after they landed at Andrews nine hours later.

  She and Peter had immediately struck up a friendship. It started with short text messages. Because he’d maintained his sports agency, he was allowed to keep a private cell phone and an e-mail account that was secure but not part of the official White House system. He would e-mail her from his work account about a college football game he’d seen, and she’d send him funny stories from the sports section or snow conditions from the ski resorts in Tahoe and Colorado. Eventually, their e-mails turned to near-daily phone calls, and sometimes she’d come up to his East Wing office, where they’d chat about everything from the news of the day to the personal lives of the White House staff. Dale had told him about her frustrations at the network, and Peter had sought her advice about how to handle the public relations predicaments some of his young athletes faced. They’d never talked about the night in Budapest, and it didn’t happen again for a long time.