Eighteen Acres

by Nicolle Wallace

  “That’s probably a little much for a first meeting, but thank you for the offer. How long have you been on the beat?” Melanie asked, sitting back and trying to look as calm and professional as she could in an unzipped formal gown.

  “About a month.”

  “Have you spent much time with Secretary Taylor yet?” Melanie asked.

  “Not really. I saw him at the state dinner a couple of weeks ago, but he left before I had a chance to introduce myself.”

  “That’s where we met. You came with Dale Smith, right?” Melanie asked.

  “Yeah. She ditched me about forty-five minutes into the night, so, other than the two minutes I spent talking to you, I passed the evening talking to strangers and trying not to drink too much.”

  “I hate it when that happens.” Melanie laughed.

  “Judging by the crowd gathered around you that night, I have a hard time picturing you taking to strangers or drinking too much at a White House function,” he said.

  Melanie smiled. “So, are you and Dale…?” She was suddenly very curious about his relationship status.

  “Are Dale and I what? Dating?”

  “Yes. Are you and Dale an item?” Melanie asked.

  “Definitely not. No one knows what Dale does with herself. I’m convinced she sleeps in front of a live truck so she never misses a chance to be on television. Others think she must be sleeping with a married man.”

  “Interesting,” Melanie said.

  “She said that no one was closer to Roger than you. Said you were responsible for bringing him into the Cabinet three years ago.”

  “I’ve known Roger a long time. We worked together during the last administration, and I knew he and Charlotte would have a real mind-meld. I played Cupid in a way, I guess, but I didn’t make the decision. That was all President Kramer. The president likes Roger’s independence,” Melanie said. “And the two of them have made more progress in three years than their predecessors did in two terms each.”

  Brian agreed with her assessment but felt that the original invasion had been so badly botched it would take a generation or two to repair the damage. Melanie always felt defensive when people suggested that the decision had been a mistake. She felt it was still part of her job to defend the legacies of the previous presidents she’d served. Maybe that was why she was so tired. Presidents Harlow and Martin spent their days golfing and giving speeches for one hundred thousand dollars a pop, and Melanie was still fighting with reporters about their presidencies. She glanced at her watch, and Brian took it as a sign that the meeting was over. She hadn’t really intended to rush him out. Other than his critique of her former bosses, she was enjoying his stories about life as a war correspondent. He wasn’t enamored with his own views on the wars, which was refreshing to Melanie. He didn’t see himself as an expert but rather as the network’s eyes and ears. It was too bad he’d rotated out, Melanie thought.

  “I’d love to get on a trip to the region with the president and Secretary Taylor sometime,” he said.

  Melanie wasn’t sure if he knew about the trip that was hours away. She couldn’t risk it. “I’ll keep that in mind next time we pull together a press pool,” she promised.

  “Thanks, and thanks for your time tonight. I know you’ve got a lot on your plate. I appreciate it.”

  “No problem. Come by anytime,” she said. “I’d get up, but my dress still isn’t zipped, and I’d rather not flash you.”

  He laughed.

  “Can you send my assistant in here if you see her on your way out?” she said.

  “Of course,” he said, flashing his brilliant smile again.

  Melanie watched him walk out. He was more interesting than she thought he’d be. A lot of the new correspondents were boring, predictable, and vain. When she’d first started at the White House, the television correspondents had been some of the most aggressive and well-connected reporters covering the beat. Now she couldn’t remember the last time one of the White House correspondents had been in to speak to her off the record about Charlotte’s agenda or the state of the party.

  Melanie held her dress with one hand and peered into the reception area. Annie still wasn’t at her desk. Melanie saw a copy of her call log on Annie’s desk and walked out quickly to pick it up. There were half a dozen calls from members of Congress with various gripes, three messages from Ralph, a dozen messages from various staffers, and there, at the bottom, the call that Melanie had been dreading since her breakfast meeting in New York.

  “Michael called. He needs to talk to you before the dinner. He said you have his number,” the message read.

  Melanie closed the door to her office and let her dress flop open in the back. She held her breath and dialed Michael from her personal cell.

  “It’s me,” she said.

  “Thanks for calling. Can you meet me tonight?” he asked.

  “I really can’t, Michael. I’ve got to go to this stupid dinner, and then I have to come back here and deal with something for Charlotte afterward. Can it wait until tomorrow? I’ll have plenty of time tomorrow. I could meet you for breakfast somewhere.”

  “I’m not certain I will be able to sit on it for long. Can you excuse yourself at nine and meet me in front of the hotel? The agents will let you back in,” he said.

  “I know perfectly well what the agents will let me do, Michael. But I can’t walk out of the dinner.”

  “Melanie, we need to talk. Tonight.”

  “Fine. Come to where the motorcade parks. I’ll meet you there at nine.”

  “See you then,” he said.

  He had that voice. All reporters had the same thrill in their voices when they were about to break something big. Melanie had heard it so many times she recognized it in anyone. But she’d only heard it in Michael once before: the night she’d first met him and he was about to break the story about Harlow’s lawyer getting indicted. She felt sick to her stomach.

  “Need a hand with your dress?” Charlotte asked, strolling into Melanie’s office in a white gown that rustled when she walked.

  “Jesus, you look incredible,” Melanie said.

  And Charlotte did. The gown was made of layers of white silk that flowed to the floor. It was an Oscar de la Renta custom-made for her.

  “Do you like it? I don’t look like an over-the-hill bride or anything, do I?” Charlotte asked.

  “No. You look regal. And yes, I would love a hand with my dress,” Melanie said, standing to let Charlotte zip her in. “Did you get a chance to read through the speech?” she asked.

  “Yeah, it’s really funny. Thanks, Mel. I wish you were coming to Afghanistan tonight. You need to come with us one of these days. If I lose, there won’t be many more opportunities.”

  “You’re not going to lose. We’ll figure this out. When you get back, we’ll have a plan. Election Day is more than seven months away. That’s an eternity,” Melanie said.

  “Thanks, Mel. At least I won’t have to go to this dinner next year if I lose. Look, I’m not delusional, and you and I both know that the universe is pulling against us.”

  Melanie thought about Michael’s call. “It certainly feels that way sometimes, doesn’t it?” she agreed.

  “It does.” Charlotte nodded ruefully.

  Annie knocked on the door. “Excuse me, I’m sorry, but the motorcade is ready when you are, ma’am.”

  “Thanks, Annie,” Melanie and Charlotte both said.

  “Let’s get this goat rodeo over with,” Charlotte said. “Peter is meeting us in the limo.”

  “He’s coming?” Melanie asked.

  “Yeah. Ralph called him and told him it would be helpful if he were around more.”

  Melanie didn’t say anything. They walked slowly out to the limo.

  “I wish I could fast-forward the evening about five hours,” Charlotte said.

  “I know. Just try to look like you’re having fun, at least.” Melanie laughed.

  They stood outside the limo for a moment.
Melanie thought that Charlotte might tell her what was going on with Peter. She saw her open her mouth to say something, but then Peter appeared, and she got into the car and plastered a smile onto her face for the ten-minute ride to the Washington Hilton.

  Once they arrived at the dinner, Charlotte and Peter put on one of the best shows Melanie had ever seen. They gazed adoringly at each other. They hugged and kissed the reporters. They remembered the names of every reporter’s kid, where they went to school, and where they’d interned the summer before.

  “Where is Jimmy going to intern this summer?” Charlotte was asking the host of Meet the Press.

  “He would love to do something at Treasury.”

  “Have him call Melanie,” Charlotte said.

  Melanie made small talk with a few of the anchors and network executives and then went to find her table. She was sitting with Billy Moore at the network’s head table. As she neared the table, Dale and Billy appeared to be having a serious conversation. He whispered something in her ear and hugged her. Melanie started to turn away, but Billy saw her before she could make a detour.

  “Melanie, join us,” Billy said. Melanie always thought he was too nice to work in the news business.

  “Melanie, Dale, obviously you know each other,” he said.

  “Of course. How are you doing, Dale? All set?” Melanie asked quietly.

  “Yes, thanks,” Dale said.

  “I met Brian today. He came to see me,” Melanie told them.

  “He’s a good guy and a great reporter,” Billy said. He spoke of his reporters with a parent’s pride. “He spent the last six years in Iraq and Afghanistan, and he knows more people there than most of your generals, Melanie.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind, Billy.”

  “And he speaks four languages,” Dale added.

  “Impressive,” Melanie said.

  The lights flashed twice, and the guests took their seats. Melanie looked around at the crowd. The first year of Charlotte’s presidency, the dinner had been packed with celebrities. Movie stars, talk-show hosts, anchors, and television stars all lined up to kiss Charlotte’s ass. Now, with Charlotte down in the polls, a few reality-television stars and the regular cast of on-air news anchors and journalists were the only ones who turned out.

  Melanie checked her watch every five minutes. At ten minutes to nine, she excused herself. Charlotte hadn’t begun her remarks yet. They were still handing out “excellence in journalism” awards to a group of reporters who had done a series attacking Charlotte for neglecting poor pregnant women.

  “What an awful night this is,” Melanie muttered to herself as she walked through the empty hotel lobby.

  “First I catch you half-naked, and now I catch you talking to yourself,” said Brian, stepping out from behind a pillar in the hotel lobby where he’d been reading his e-mail.

  Melanie couldn’t help but smile back. He looked even more handsome in a tuxedo. “I know. I’m officially one of those crazy women who talk to themselves and collect cats, right?”

  “That appears to be the case, but I won’t tell anyone. Hey, are you leaving? I’d love to get out of here myself. This has to be one of the worst Washington traditions I’ve experienced in my short time in this town.”

  “I would love to leave, but my boss hasn’t delivered her brilliant remarks yet,” she said.

  “I meant that I’d love to get out of here as soon as her speech is over,” he said.

  Melanie laughed at his correction. “I’m actually just running out to make a call.”

  “Good. Then I’ll see you back in there, cat lady,” Brian said, smiling.

  “Yes, I’ll be right back.” Melanie turned to leave.

  “Melanie, are you making the round of postparties?” he asked.

  “I usually don’t stay up that late,” she said over her shoulder. She could feel her phone vibrating in her evening bag.

  “Too bad,” Brian said with another smile.

  Melanie didn’t know what to make of that comment, but she enjoyed turning it around in her head as she walked away slowly.

  When she was sure she was out of his view, she scooped her dress up with one hand and quickened her pace. She made her way to where the motorcade had dropped them off two hours earlier. Michael was leaning against one of the press vans, smoking a cigarette.

  “Hey,” he said when he saw her.

  “Hey,” she said back.

  “You clean up pretty good,” he said.

  “That’s better than my last greeting from you. I think it was something like ‘You look like shit,’ ” she said.

  “I’m an idiot. I’m sorry,” he said.

  “What have you got? I need to get back in there,” Melanie said.

  “I have a source who is acting as a middleman for a very close personal friend of the first family. The source says that he, he or she, is ready to go public with photos, phone logs, gifts, and eyewitness accounts that verify an affair.”

  “That’s basically what you told me when we met in New York,” Melanie pointed out.

  Michael took a final drag on his cigarette and then stomped it out.

  “Have you advanced the story at all, or are you still barking up trees?” Melanie asked.

  “My middleman says his source is getting more and more comfortable with the idea of going public to make sure the real Charlotte is revealed. Once I get photos and the eyewitness account on the record, the magazine is going to print the story.”

  “So, you’re not exactly on the cusp of breaking much of anything, Michael,” Melanie accused. “All you have is a source who thinks he has a source who is willing to string together some clues that point to troubles in Charlotte’s marriage. So what? I can knock that down in a round of cable interviews by accusing some Democrats of being on a partisan witch hunt against America’s first female president. And I don’t need to tell you that once we turn the story into one about sexism in the mainstream media, we’ll have no problem changing the subject.”

  “The source is unimpeachable Mel. I wish I could tell you who it is. God, do I wish I could tell you, because you would know how serious this was if I did, but if I blow it, they take the story to the networks.”

  “Wait, you know who the source is?” Melanie asked.

  “Yes. I demanded to know. I told them I wasn’t putting my name on anything unless I knew.”

  “But you won’t tell me?”

  “I can’t,” Michael said.

  “Then what am I doing out here?” Melanie complained.

  “I thought you should know something about the story we’re hearing from the source,” Michael said.

  “What?”

  “It’s not Peter,” Michael said.

  “What?”

  “Peter’s not the one having the affair,” Michael said.

  Melanie looked at him blankly.

  “I’m sorry, Melanie.”

  She felt as if she was underwater again.

  “Melanie, are you going to be able to talk to her tonight? If I can get my source to go on the record, I’m going with the story,” he said.

  Melanie’s ears started to ring. “What do you want me to say to her?” she asked.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “Isn’t that why they pay you the big bucks?”

  “Yeah, right. I need to get back in there. I’ll call you later.”

  “Thanks for meeting me,” he said.

  Melanie turned to go back to the dinner and nearly tripped over Ralph. “What are you doing out here?” she practically screamed at him.

  “I came out to get my things out of the motorcade to go to the afterparties,” he said. “Is everything OK?”

  “Yes, everything is fine, Ralph. You just scared the hell out of me.”

  She made her way back to her table just as Charlotte was taking the podium.

  “I want to thank my husband for being here,” she was saying. Melanie looked at Peter. He was staring right at her. He must have seen her duck
ing and weaving her way back to the table. She smiled and rolled her eyes. He hated these dinners even more than Charlotte did. But he kept staring. Melanie gave him a small wave, and he still just kept staring. Melanie looked behind her, and there, looking up at Charlotte and laughing at one of her jokes, was Dale Smith—directly in Peter Kramer’s line of sight.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Dale

  The ballroom shook with laughter as Charlotte took on every last stereotype and caricature of herself. Some of her harshest critics were wiping tears of laughter from their eyes. Dale laughed and clapped enthusiastically, even though all she could think about was the fact that Peter was sitting twenty feet away from her pretending to be in love with his wife. She hated that this was the last time she’d see him before leaving for Afghanistan.

  She excused herself as soon as Charlotte’s remarks ended and made her way to the motorcade while the comedian was making a crack about Charlotte and Roger ruling the world together. Dale slid into the van that would take them the twenty blocks to the White House as soon as the comedian was finished. She read and responded to the e-mails that had come in since she’d been at the dinner. She smiled as an e-mail from Peter appeared at the top of her messages: “Be safe, and enjoy the experience. I’ll be waiting for you.”

  She exhaled deeply for the first time all night and wrote back immediately: “I promise to be safe and come home to you in one piece. I love and miss you, xxoo. Hey, BTW, Charlotte was hilarious tonight.”

  Dale looked up, and they were moving.

  The motorcade sped back to the White House. Charlotte and Peter got out of the limo at the front of the motorcade and walked into the residence. Press aides came back and told the reporters in the van that they had a “full lid,” meaning that the president was in for the night, and they were free to go. Dale was supposed to walk back into the briefing room and wait for the press secretary to retrieve her and put her and the wire reporters into an unmarked van for the secret ride to Andrews Air Force Base.

  She sat in one of the theater chairs and took her shoes off. “G’night,” she said to one of the other reporters who had taken the ride back with them.