“It would be the highlight of my week,” she said.
He sat gingerly on the edge of the bed in the space Dale created for him. “Am I hurting you?” he asked.
“Not a bit,” she said.
He lay back cautiously, then settled into the space she’d left him. He closed his eyes and was asleep in minutes.
Dale ran her fingers across his arm while he slept. He put one hand over hers and sighed deeply. She closed her eyes and tried to rest before the doctors came through on their morning rounds. Every time she closed her eyes, Charlotte’s press statement replayed in her mind: “Peter and Dale are involved in a close personal relationship; Peter and Dale are involved in a close personal relationship; Peter and Dale are involved in a close personal relationship.”
Thank God her father had been on the flight when Charlotte delivered her speech. Her parents were staying at a dorm near the hospital for families of wounded soldiers, but when they were all in her room together, the mood was tense. The news about Dale’s relationship with Peter had shaken her father. And he wasn’t alone. Charlotte’s personal approval numbers had plunged to the teens.
Dale hadn’t read the thousands of e-mail messages she’d received since the crash, but she was following the news as closely as she could. Members of both political parties and several editorial pages had called for Charlotte’s resignation. Others called for investigations into the crash and urged Charlotte to announce that she would not seek reelection. The nastiest and most personal criticism came from Charlotte’s nemesis on the Washington Post editorial page. She’d written every day since the crash, and the latest was titled “Impeach the Ice Queen.” It accused Charlotte of neglecting the American people to “hopscotch” around war zones in humvees and helicopters, said she deserved to have her “hunky” husband leave her, and urged the Senate to begin impeachment hearings to remove Charlotte from office because of her “reckless and willful endangerment” of the news crew traveling with her in Afghanistan.
The harsh newspaper coverage paled in comparison with the death watch under way on television.
Since arriving in Germany, where there was satellite television, Dale’s days consisted of sleeping, watching cable news, and trying to reassure her parents, Peter, and the doctors that she wasn’t in pain. Mostly, she wanted them to leave her alone so she could watch the coverage of the crash and the political fallout. Each time a correspondent or anchor began a news report about Charlotte or the investigation into the crash, CNN blasted ominous music and filled the screen with a giant graphic that read, “A President in Crisis.” MSNBC simply ran “Is Kramer Finished?” under every newscast or interview it broadcast, and Fox News was obsessed with the fate of Roger Taylor. All of the cable channels were running an endless loop of exclusive interviews with marriage counselors, child psychologists, pollsters, feminists, security experts, pundits, reporters, politicians, and former politicians. The networks were doing daily polls on everything from Charlotte’s chances of being impeached to the perils of dating in office. The news anchors began each evening newscast joined by experts and historians who described Charlotte’s presidency as “squandered,” “swallowed by scandal,” and “finished.”
Dale turned up the volume when one of the stations teased a segment called “Dale Smith: The Other Woman.” She hoped it would air before Peter woke up again.
Dale knew she was lucky to be alive, and she was thankful that Peter was there with her. And of course, her parents provided some comfort. But she was frustrated about being on the sidelines for one of the biggest stories of the century, not to mention the biggest political crisis since Watergate. And the fact that she was a key figure in the very presidential crisis she yearned to cover made her begin to wonder if her career would recover. She tried to imagine herself in front of the White House, reporting on the calls for impeachment. She couldn’t make out exactly what she’d say to carve herself out of the story, but surely her producers would help her finesse her scripts.
Her head started to ache, and she reached for the painkillers the nurse had left on her last visit.
Peter stirred in his sleep, and Dale quickly muted the television. He didn’t approve of her cable news addiction. “You shouldn’t watch the coverage. It upsets your parents,” he’d said the night before. She’d changed the channel, but she knew that what upset her parents was their new reality, to the extent that they understood it. Dale’s mom had been bombarded with e-mails from her friends. “That’s not your Dale that President Kramer nearly killed, is it?” they’d asked. “Is she having an affair with Peter Kramer? Is she in trouble?” their friends wondered. Her father still hadn’t looked Peter in the eye or spoken to him about anything other than Dale’s condition.
The phone rang, and Dale reached over and picked it up on the first ring so it wouldn’t wake Peter.
“This is the White House operator. I have the president for Ms. Smith,” a friendly voice said.
“Thank you,” Dale said quietly. She looked over at Peter. He didn’t stir.
“Hi, Dale. Are they taking good care of you?” Charlotte asked.
“Yes, ma’am,” Dale said.
“That’s good to hear. Please call me Charlotte.”
“Thanks for calling. I know how busy things are for you. I’ve been trying to follow it from here.”
“It’s a full-fledged media circus.”
“The press loves a crisis,” Dale said.
“That’s for sure.”
“Do you want to talk to Peter?” Dale asked, realizing that she might have called for him in the first place.
“No, just tell him we’ll be at Camp David this weekend if he wants to say hi to the kids,” Charlotte said.
“No problem.”
“Any idea when they’ll send you to Bethesda?” Charlotte asked.
“They’re moving me early next week.”
“I heard you had a second operation a couple of days ago.”
“Yes, they went back in to make sure nothing was bleeding.”
“And everything looked good?” Charlotte asked.
“Yes, they took care of everything.”
“Good,” Charlotte said.
Dale wanted to ask Charlotte how she was coping. She wanted to know if she was feeling the strain of the media frenzy and the political pressure. She wanted to tell her that the Washington Post editorial page was full of jerks. She wanted to tell her to hang in there.
“Thank you again for calling,” Dale said.
“You’re welcome. Let us know if you need anything,” Charlotte offered.
“I will. Thank you, Madam President,” Dale said.
Charlotte hung up. Peter stirred again.
Dale’s back felt stiff, and her hips were starting to ache from spending so much time in bed. She wiggled her arms and legs to get her blood moving.
Peter yawned and stretched his arms above his head. “Who was that?” he asked.
“Charlotte. She called to see how we were doing.”
He turned on his side to face her. “I’m going to rent a place for us in D.C. so we can be near the hospital.”
“Charlotte sounded good—unfazed, if that’s possible,” Dale told him.
“It’s possible. She thrives in disasters. What do you think about Georgetown?” he asked.
“Why don’t we just stay up in Connecticut so you can be close to the kids?”
“Because the only doctors in that part of Connecticut are for the horses, and I want you near first-rate trauma centers.”
“I’m not going to need ongoing trauma care,” she said.
“I don’t care,” he said. “I want you near the best doctors, just in case.”
“Whatever you say,” she agreed.
It felt good to have someone else make the decisions, and at least they were finally making plans together.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Charlotte
Charlotte thought her chest might burst when she caught her first glimpse of her kids. S
he rushed to them as soon as she stepped off Marine One at Camp David.
“Hi, guys,” she said.
“Hi, Mom,” Harry said.
Charlotte pulled Penelope and Harry into a hug.
The dogs raced toward her, and she looked up to see her parents, Brooke, and Mark standing a few feet away. She smiled at them. Cammie jumped into her lap and licked her entire face. Emma and Mika wriggled next to her. Charlotte laughed.
“How about a hug for your dad before you get covered in dog slobber?” her father teased.
“I’m coming,” she said. She embraced her parents and her friends and then pulled the kids aside.
“Let’s take a walk,” she said to Penelope and Harry. “I want to talk to you.”
She told them that Congress was investigating her administration, that Roger had made a decision that she didn’t support about putting the reporters on Marine One, and that it was unlikely she’d be reelected. She left out the topic that was of greatest interest to them.
“Are you and Dad getting divorced?” Penelope asked when Charlotte finished.
“I don’t know, honey,” Charlotte said. She knew the answer was yes, but she didn’t think it was fair to confirm this to the kids before she and Peter could speak. Besides, she couldn’t give the kids one more thing to worry about. They were too young to worry about their parents as much as they did.
Harry looked concerned. Penelope was trying to act mature, but Charlotte saw worry flash across her face.
“I would be fine. I want Dad to be happy. Just like he wants me to be happy,” she said.
The kids looked skeptical.
“Daddy’s friend is a nice lady,” Charlotte said. “And things with Dad and me are complicated, but we both want the best for each other.” Harry and Penelope were looking at her as if she was full of it. “Is anyone hungry? I’m starving. Let’s get some food,” she said.
They made their way back toward the main house. Charlotte was aware of her daughter’s eyes on her. She couldn’t explain the intensely contradictory things she was feeling to a teenager. She could not make her children understand that, while it was painful, setting Peter free made her feel generous for the first time in a very long time. As difficult as it was to tell them that their father loved someone else, Charlotte was certain that this was a blow she’d survive. She took a deep breath and tried to smile.
Penelope had a very serious look on her face.
“Penny, what’s wrong?” Charlotte asked.
“I don’t want you to be alone, Mom,” she said.
“I’m not alone, honey, and you don’t have to worry about me. I promise,” she said. “I could never be alone with Brooke and Mark following me everywhere I go. You know, we are going to give them their own seats on Air Force One for Christmas if we win.”
Penelope didn’t look convinced.
“Maybe we could go to school in D.C.,” Harry said. “Then you wouldn’t be at the White House by yourself.”
Penelope looked panicked.
“Is that what you want?” Charlotte asked Harry.
“Sure,” Harry said.
“I’ve got one rule. One thing you need to promise me you’ll do for me. Will you promise me you’ll do this one thing every day?” Charlotte asked.
“What?” Penelope asked.
“You need to swear you’ll do it,” Charlotte said.
“What is it?” Penelope said.
“I swear,” Harry said.
Charlotte looked at them and wondered how she had given birth to such decent children.
“I need you to promise me you’ll tell the truth—to me, to each other, to Dad, to your friends, to Gammy and Gramps.”
“I don’t want to go to school in D.C.,” Penelope said.
“I know, sweetie.” Charlotte laughed, putting her arm around Penelope.
They finished the loop, and Harry went inside to work on homework while Charlotte and Penelope shared a pot of tea and some chocolate-chip cookies.
“You sure you’re OK with all this?” Charlotte asked Penelope.
“Mom, it’s not like we didn’t know.”
“Right,” Charlotte said, wondering what exactly Penelope was referring to. She was afraid to ask.
Charlotte wondered if the topic of her troubled marriage was something Penelope would want to discuss in detail. While Charlotte was practicing answers to questions such as “Do you still love Dad?” Penelope received a text from a friend and excused herself.
Charlotte pushed away her tea and looked around for an open bottle of wine. With Brooke and Mark in residence, one couldn’t be far away.
“Am I disturbing you?” Mark asked, appearing in the doorway.
“No, no, come in,” Charlotte said. “Thanks for being here this weekend.”
“Where else were we going to be, Char?”
Charlotte smiled.
“How are you holding up?” Mark asked.
“My strategy is to keep plowing forward,” she said.
“That makes sense, for now,” Mark agreed.
“I’m curious. Did you guys know?” Charlotte asked.
“About Dale?”
“About Peter. Did you know?” she asked.
Mark looked at her for a few seconds before he spoke. “I figured it out,” he said. “But I didn’t know who, and he never said anything to us. I swear.”
“Then how did you know?” Charlotte asked.
“During the campaign, he’d call every night and ask us how you were doing. He’d complain about leaving you out on the trail by yourself to be home with the twins, but when he was on the trail with you, he’d torture himself about leaving the twins home alone. At some point, during that first year, he stopped asking us how you were doing. It was as if he’d given up or run out of energy or something.”
Charlotte felt her chest tighten a bit, and she nodded. “Oh, well. Everything is out in the open now,” she said, forcing a smile.
“Charlotte, I’m so sorry. What can we do?”
“You’re already doing it,” she said, standing. “I’m going to lie down for a few minutes before dinner. Don’t let my dad drink too many cocktails.”
Mark gave her a hug before she left the room.
Charlotte went into her bedroom and closed the door. She sat on the bed and willed herself not to do the one thing she’d wanted to do more than anything else for the past several days. She’d thought of a dozen different ways to start the conversation: Roger, what you did was inexcusable, but we have to find a way through it, or Roger, I need to ask you to resign permanently from DOD, but I want to find a way to keep you as my friend, or Roger, what the hell were you thinking? You ruined everything. She put her head in her hands and forced herself not to pick up the phone and ask the operator to connect her to Roger, as she had done hundreds of times before. Losing Roger made her feel more alone than losing Peter to Dale.
After a dinner of salad, crab cakes, and baked potatoes, Charlotte asked everyone to move into the family room. As they arranged themselves on the comfortable sofas and chairs, she tapped her wine glass and cleared her throat.
“I want to thank all of you for being here this weekend,” Charlotte said. “Obviously, it’s been a difficult week, and not one day went by that I didn’t draw on all of you for strength. I’d like to raise a glass to my wonderful children, Penelope and Harry, to Mom and Dad, and to the ever-present Auntie Brooke and Uncle Mark.”
“Here’s to the bravest woman in America,” Mark added, raising his wine glass.
“That’s one word for it,” Charlotte’s father said.
They all laughed and drank and talked with the dogs sprawled across their laps. Charlotte stood to refill the plate of cookies, and Brooke followed her into the kitchen. When the door closed behind them, Brooke turned to her friend.
“In the end, Peter was too weak for you, Char. Too needy.”
“I suppose,” Charlotte said.
“You’re better off. I swear to God, you�
�ll be fine. It’s the public aspect of it that has you off your game,” Brooke said.
Charlotte nodded. “I know. I’m worried about the kids, but I know it’s better this way with Peter,” she said.
“Did you and Peter talk?” Brooke asked.
“We didn’t exactly have time for a heart-to-heart. And I’m fairly certain that this is not how he’d have wanted to go public with his affair, but I didn’t see any other way for them to be together, and obviously, they should be together right now.”
“I don’t know at what point you’ll cross into martyrdom, Char, but it is remarkable that you’re always fretting about everyone else.”
“We both know that’s not true. It’s my fault that my family is in this situation. I didn’t even try to make Peter a part of any of this.”
“It’s not as if you had a lot of people to turn to for tips on how to make it work,” Brooke scoffed.
“And now I get to add ‘first president to be divorced in office’ to my bio. Not the kind of history I wanted to make.”
Brooke looked at her without a scrap of judgment on her face. “He took the easy way out, Char,” Brooke said. “It’s not your fault.”
“I should be mortified, but I can’t even get to it yet. I feel sick about Roger and sad for my children and angry at myself for letting my marriage disintegrate before my eyes. I should be humiliated, but I don’t have the bandwidth.”
Brooke put her arm around Charlotte’s shoulder. “We can both boss Mark around for now, and you have to know that you’ll find someone else. You’re forty-seven years old and hotter than you were in college. We’ll find you some dot-com gazillionaire or something when this is all over.”
“I thought they all went broke,” Charlotte said, smiling at her friend.
“We’ll find one who stuffed money in his mattress during the roaring nineties.”
“I don’t know what I’d do without you guys,” Charlotte said.
“I don’t think you’ll ever find out. Mark is ready to move to D.C. to head the morale committee. He e-mailed Melanie to find out if he can travel on all the campaign trips.”
“Oh, God, the campaign,” Charlotte said, her face falling.
Eighteen Acres Page 17
