Eighteen Acres

by Nicolle Wallace

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Dale

  Dale walked down the cereal aisle at Whole Foods in a daze. She’d been out of the hospital for two weeks, and the house they’d rented in Georgetown already felt like a prison.

  The doctors had told her to walk as much as possible, but every time she traveled farther than the house next door, she ended up doubled over in pain. Peter hated seeing her in so much agony and discouraged her daily walks. He showered her with affection, attention, and sympathy. And he didn’t mind that, most of the time, she wanted to sit alone on the couch and stare out at the garden in the back of their house.

  “Do you want to sit outside?” he’d asked the first couple of times he’d seen her staring toward the backyard.

  “I’m fine right here,” she’d said.

  He didn’t seem to take her moods personally, but she knew he worried. She’d heard him on the phone with one of his clients a couple of days after she came home from the hospital.

  “I can’t come out there. No. I can’t leave her for that long. Why don’t you come to D.C.? I’ll take you to dinner, and we can talk it through,” he’d said to one of the athletes he represented.

  Before he’d hung up, she’d dragged herself off the couch and into the shower. She’d shampooed her hair for the first time in several days. After the shower, she was winded, but she’d blow-dried her hair and applied makeup. She’d pulled on jeans and buttoned them gingerly over the incisions on her stomach. It was still tender. She’d put on a white long-sleeved T-shirt and slid into ballet flats.

  She’d walked to the doorway of the room Peter was using as his office. He was sitting in front of his computer. She had watched him for a minute. He hadn’t shaved in a couple of days, but instead of looking bedraggled, she’d thought he looked more handsome. He was wearing jeans and a snowboarding T-shirt the kids had given him. He was tan from sitting on the sidelines at the kids’ water polo matches the week before. She’d still been in the hospital at Bethesda, but she’d insisted that he go. It was the only time he’d left her side. She’d noticed for the first time that he looked thinner than she’d ever seen him.

  Dale had tried to observe Peter the way she would have had he not been her lover. She had tried to envision how she’d react to him if they met on the street. She had tried to imagine how she’d feel about him had he not been bequeathed to her by the leader of the free world.

  He was lovely, she’d decided. She had what she’d wanted for so long. He was hers. Why was she so miserable? She’d walked toward him and put her hands on his shoulders.

  He’d turned around, and she’d leaned down and kissed him.

  “How are you feeling?” he’d asked.

  “I’m feeling better,” she’d said, smiling weakly. “Little by little, right?”

  “That’s what the doctors said.”

  She’d come around and stood between him and the computer. He’d pulled her carefully into his lap.

  She’d winced as she settled in and looked at the screen in front of him. He had been looking at the Washington Journal Web site.

  “You look more like yourself today,” he’d said.

  “I feel more like myself. And you should take that trip I heard you cancel earlier.”

  “No. I don’t want to leave you here. You really shouldn’t drive yet, and if something happens, it would kill me to be on the other side of the country.”

  “Nothing is going to happen, and if it does, I am conveniently located within one mile of four major hospitals. I will be fine. I promise.”

  So he’d gone. And her first big adventure out of the house was to Whole Foods.

  She got to the end of the cereal aisle and realized that she hadn’t picked up any cereal. She carefully turned the cart around, breathing in sharply and bracing herself for impact when someone passed too close to her cart.

  She turned back around and put a can of steel-cut oats in the cart. She’d never made oatmeal in her life, but it seemed like the kind of thing she should be eating in her recovery. She wandered up and down each aisle, putting one random item in her cart every few minutes. When she found herself back in the produce aisle for the third time, she looked at her cart’s contents: a bottle of wine, a carton of half-and-half, a large chunk of cheddar cheese, a bag of lemons, and the container of steel-cut oats. She sighed. She had failed to hang on to her job, and she had failed to put anything in her cart that would make up a healthy or complete meal—not exactly a difficult task at Whole Foods. She left the cart in front of the summer fruit display and left the store without any of the items. She was suddenly exhausted and couldn’t wait to get back to the house she’d wanted to escape from an hour earlier.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Charlotte

  Sam, can you let the dogs in, please?” Charlotte yelled from her desk in the Oval Office. “Sam!” she yelled again, standing to let the dogs in herself.

  When she stood, she saw the vice president in the waiting area outside by her assistant’s desk. Neal McMillan was not the partner that the previous vice president had been to her predecessor, but he was exactly what Charlotte needed. He was someone she trusted, someone who did not crave the spotlight, and someone who had her back and never asked for any recognition or credit for doing so. He was in his seventies, and he had a life outside Washington politics, which grounded him in real-world sensibilities.

  “Neal, come in. You don’t have to wait for a formal invitation. Where is Sam?” Charlotte asked.

  “Here I am, Madam President. I’m sorry. I ran over to the residence to get the bully sticks you asked us to keep here for the dogs,” Sam said, out of breath. She gave each dog a bone, and they settled down in front of her desk to chew.

  “Neal, come sit down,” Charlotte said. “Can I get you some coffee?”

  “That would be lovely, Madam President,” he said.

  “Charlotte. How many times will we have this conversation? You have got to call me Charlotte,” she said.

  “Yes, Charlotte. I’m pretty sure we’ll only have this particular conversation once,” he said with a glint in his eye.

  She leaned forward. “What’s going on, Neal? Is Mary all right?”

  “Yes, Mary and I are fine. We’re worried about you. You are going to lose unless something dramatic happens. We both know that.”

  “Shhh. Melanie says it’s very demoralizing to the young people if they hear us talk like that. But yes, I can read a poll. I was my own pollster the first time I ran for governor. We couldn’t afford a consultant, so Peter averaged all of the polls that the newspapers and televisions stations in California ran. He had a formula for adjusting for their oversampling of Democrats. It was the most accurate system I’ve ever had in any of my campaigns.”

  Neal looked at her warmly. “It makes you nostalgic, doesn’t it?” he asked.

  “What? No, are you kidding? I’m not nostalgic. I just want to hang on to whatever vestige of self-respect I can salvage and get Iraq and Afghanistan to a good place. I get sick when I think about turning the country over to Fran and her left-wing loonies, but we couldn’t campaign, Neal. Not in this climate.”

  “I remember a time when it wasn’t like this. You were making your millions in Silicon Valley, or maybe you were still in college, but there was a time when we all came down here and smoked cigars on the balcony. The fights and the big debates were just for the cameras. Now the cigars and the civility are for the cameras, and what’s real is the fighting.”

  The vice president stood, wandered over to the window, and looked out. The Rose Garden was in full bloom.

  “Charlotte. I’ve got an idea, and I want you to listen and then promise me you will not say anything today. I want to come back here in twenty-four hours, and we’ll finish this conversation. Is that a deal?” he asked.

  “Why? What is going on, Neal?” Charlotte asked.

  “I need you to agree to the ground rules,” he said.

  “I agree,” she said.
>
  “Good. Let’s take a walk, Charlotte,” he said, opening the door onto the colonnade and stepping into the muggy, fragrant summer air.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Melanie

  Melanie looked up from her computer when she heard the White House generators kick in. They were installed decades before to protect the president from service interruptions caused by weather or attack, but more often than not, they powered the air conditioners that cooled the West Wing and the residence during Washington’s summer heat waves. The rest of the District of Columbia was experiencing rolling brown-outs.

  Annie opened her door and stepped inside, wearing a pink and white halter dress that bordered on inappropriate but that she had wisely covered with a demure pink cardigan.

  “Melanie, it’s the third time he’s called. What do you want me to tell him?” Annie asked.

  “Tell him I’m in a meeting,” Melanie said, pulling her black suit jacket around her shoulders. “Is it me, or is it freezing in here?”

  “It’s freezing in here, but apparently, it’s about eighty degrees in the Sit Room, so they turned the AC up in the entire West Wing to cool it.”

  “Tell them we’re going to undo all our progress toward ending global warming if we keep running the AC at fifty-eight degrees,” Melanie said.

  “So you’ll pick up and talk to him?” Annie pleaded.

  “No. Tell him I’m still in that meeting.”

  “I did. He said you loved nothing more than getting pulled out of meetings.”

  “Tell him I’m in the Oval.”

  “He said you’d say that, and he said he knows you’re not, because Charlotte is at the Pentagon for a reenlistment reception.”

  “Tell him I don’t have time to talk to him today, and I’ll call him back when I have time,” Melanie snapped.

  Roger had called her three times in the last three days and twice the week before. He’d called a dozen times since the report came out. She didn’t want to blow him off, but she did not have the energy to deal with his bruised ego on top of everything else she was juggling.

  Some of the Pentagon reporters she knew confirmed what Brian had mentioned about Roger moving out of his house in Wesley Heights and into an apartment in Pentagon City. They’d seen him sitting outside Starbucks with his dogs and a stack of newspapers. She’d heard from the same reporters that he was having a hard time finding consulting work and seats on corporate boards—the kind of offers that traditionally follow decades of government service.

  Annie reappeared in her doorway. “He wants to know when,” Annie said.

  “Who?” Melanie asked, exasperated.

  “Roger,” Annie said nervously.

  “Why are you still on the phone with Roger?” Melanie shouted.

  “I can’t just hang up on Secretary Taylor,” Annie said.

  “Yes, you can, and you must, or I will pick up the phone, and that will end very, very badly for everyone,” Melanie said through clenched teeth. She felt as if her head was going to explode.

  Annie scurried back to her desk.

  Melanie couldn’t hear what Annie was saying. She poured four Aleves and six Zantacs into her palm and swallowed the pills with a swig of Diet Coke.

  “I hate my life,” she said to herself.

  Annie stuck her head in again. “I heard that. Don’t yell at me. I thought you’d want this one. Brian. Line two,” she said.

  Melanie picked up. “Is the first night of the Republican convention a big enough story to crowd out news of my demise?” she asked Brian.

  “Probably not. It would end up inside the paper next to some story about the budget deficit,” he said.

  “Damn,” Melanie said. “You just ruined my plans for drinking myself to death tonight.”

  “Bad day?” he asked.

  “Very.” She sighed.

  “I’m sorry. I just wanted to say hello. I’m flying to Michigan to do that battleground story I told you about last night, so I’ll see you at the convention later this week.”

  “Sounds good. I’ll call you tonight. Where will you be?” she asked.

  “Michigan. I’m going to Michigan. I just said that. You’re busy. I’ll talk to you later.”

  “No, I’m sorry. I’m being rude, I know. You’re going to Michigan for the network’s battleground series. Would it screw things up if I told you Michigan is no longer a battleground state?” she asked.

  “Very funny. Just because you never win it doesn’t mean your party doesn’t spend millions of dollars trying.”

  “You’ve got me there. Have a safe flight. I’ll see you in Philly.”

  As soon as she hung up, Annie was in her doorway again.

  “What?” Melanie barked.

  “Thank God for Brian. He’s the only person who makes you smile like that,” Annie said.

  “Where are the goddamned speechwriters? Did you check the staff table at the Mess? They never miss a meal,” she said.

  “They are standing next to me,” Annie whispered.

  “Oh. My bad. Send them in.”

  They filed into Melanie’s office with their notebooks and sat in the chairs scattered around Melanie’s desk.

  “Hi, guys. How’s everyone doing?” Melanie asked.

  Melanie loved to tease the speechwriters. More than any other White House office, they hung together like a pack. She adored this particular team of speechwriters. They were the unsung heroes of any White House, but this group was exceptional.

  “BlackBerrys, cell phones, and pagers, ladies and gentlemen,” Melanie said, holding out her inbox. The box went around the room, and they dropped their electronics into it.

  “I have a secret mission for all of you. Should you decide to take it, you will not be going home tonight,” she said.

  Their eyes glistened with anticipation. They were in.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Dale

  Dale wiped her forehead with the back of her hand as she stood waiting in the East Wing lobby. She had no idea what she’d been summoned for. A military aide met her and walked her down the red carpet past the Family Theater and the stairs to the East Room. He held the door to the president’s private elevator open for her and pressed three when he joined her inside. She stepped out, and he pointed in the direction of a bright, sunny room overlooking the South Lawn of the White House. Dale’s eyes were still adjusting to the bright light when she heard Charlotte’s voice.

  “Thanks for coming by on such short notice,” Charlotte said, rising from a sofa in the room Dale recognized from photos as the Yellow Oval, so called because it was shaped just like the Oval Office and decorated in bright shades of yellow. One of the dogs sat on the sofa next to Charlotte, and the other two were lying near the air-conditioner vents in the floor.

  “It’s my pleasure,” Dale said, crossing the room to where Charlotte was standing. The dog sitting on the couch lifted her head, looked at Dale, and then put her head down in Charlotte’s lap as soon as she sat down.

  “Please sit. Can I get you something? Coffee? Tea? Iced tea?” Charlotte asked.

  “No, I’m fine,” Dale said.

  “Does Peter know you’re here?” Charlotte asked.

  “No. He’s flying back from San Francisco tonight, and I didn’t mention that you’d called.”

  “That’s probably a good idea,” Charlotte said.

  Dale didn’t say anything. She just nodded.

  “I promise I didn’t invite you over here to talk about Peter. I have an idea about something, and I wanted to see if it was of interest.”

  “I appreciate that,” Dale said.

  “What’s your take on where the election stands today?” Charlotte said.

  “You have a couple of months left to get your numbers up five to six points depending on which poll you’re looking at. Your internals probably show it about a three-to-five-point race, but the trend is more troubling than the gap. People who are just tuning in are more likely to support your opponen
t, if for no other reason than the fact that she’s asking for their support. Fair or not, people who just figured out there’s an election looming have forgotten that you announced that you wouldn’t campaign because you didn’t want to politicize the crash and everything else. Undecided voters think you aren’t even trying.”

  Charlotte stood up and walked across the room to look out at the grounds workers tending to the South Lawn below.

  “I wish they wouldn’t work in this heat,” she said.

  Dale nodded in agreement.

  “You’re exactly right about the election,” Charlotte said, turning and facing Dale. “And Ralph and Melanie warned me that the decision that felt right in the spring would feel awful at this point in the campaign season, so I can’t say I wasn’t warned. I don’t regret it, though. I didn’t see how I could have launched a national campaign and turned on a major fundraising operation while the entire Congress and half a dozen bipartisan commissions were investigating what happened in Afghanistan.”

  Dale nodded. “It was the right thing to do. You treated the voters as if they’re smart enough to understand that there are some things more important than the next campaign.”

  “Right. But that was then. Now I need a game changer,” Charlotte said.

  “That’s what everyone seems to believe,” Dale agreed.

  Charlotte put down her coffee cup and pushed her hair behind her ears. “The vice president offered to resign. He’s a very good man, and I would not have won four years ago without him. He supported my decision not to campaign for reelection, and he’s eager to see how much further we can push the envelope. He offered to step off the ticket if I agreed to replace him with a Democrat so we could run a true unity ticket, something that has always appealed to his sense of nostalgia for the way things used to be in this town.”

  Dale’s eyes widened. “Who would you pick?”

  “What do you think about the New York attorney general, Tara Meyers?” Charlotte asked.