Eighteen Acres

by Nicolle Wallace

  “I know,” Melanie said. “I’m sorry.”

  “It never crossed your mind that you could have shared this, that you could have trusted someone else. You’re a one-woman band. You and Charlotte against the world, so help you God.”

  “That’s not fair,” she said.

  “No? Do you think I would keep it from you if I heard that Fran was dumping her running mate?” he demanded.

  “I don’t know,” Melanie said.

  “You don’t know? Well, that’s great. I would not keep it from you. I might tell you not to tell Charlotte, but I would not keep it from you.”

  “I should have told you,” she said.

  “Yes, you should have told me.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said again.

  “You’re sorry that I’m angry,” he answered.

  Melanie was silent.

  “See, that’s why this isn’t going to work,” he said sadly.

  She looked at him. “What are you saying?”

  “I’m not saying anything at one in the morning. I’m going to sleep at home tonight. I need to be up at the crack of dawn,” he said.

  “Me, too. Can’t we just go home and sleep on it and figure things out later?” she asked.

  “I can’t deal with this right now, Melanie,” he said.

  She watched him pack up his things and walk away from her. She stood there until she heard the northwest gate close behind him. She saw Walter and Sherry sitting in the front seat of the SUV parked on the other side of the driveway. She walked over to the car and climbed into the backseat. Walter and Sherry were quiet.

  “Hi, guys,” she said.

  “Good evening, Melanie,” Walter said, smiling at her sympathetically.

  She sent an e-mail to Charlotte’s stylist, asking her to bring a dozen suits to the convention for Tara. The stylist wrote back: “Desired look?” Melanie replied: “Less Erin Brockovich, more Jackie Kennedy.”

  She e-mailed Annie to make sure she was traveling to the convention in the morning, and she typed out a lengthy note of congratulations to the speechwriting team. Charlotte’s convention speech was a masterpiece, and they’d written a fiery address for Tara as well. Melanie leaned back and closed her eyes.

  “It’s almost over,” Walter said from the front.

  “Yep,” Melanie said. “Sure is.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  Dale

  You sure you want to watch it?” Peter asked.

  “Yeah. I mean, it’s not like I’m going to have a breakdown or anything. I know the interview could have been mine, but like you said, it wouldn’t have changed anything,” Dale said, reaching for the remote.

  Peter sat down next to her, and they turned on the network Dale had spent the better part of five years working for.

  “We have some breaking news to share with our viewers,” the anchor said.

  “He is so pissed about this,” Dale said, leaning forward and staring intently at the screen.

  “How can you tell?” Peter asked.

  “He is trying so hard to smile that his face muscles are in spasm. See?” Dale pointed to the bottom left side of the screen.

  “What do you know, you’re right,” Peter said, laughing. “Do you really think Billy and Brian kept the Tara announcement a secret from the anchor?”

  “I wouldn’t have guessed that they would have, but it’s obvious from his face that he had no idea,” Dale said, laughing and relaxing for the first time since they’d returned the night before from Washington. “This is going to be fun,” she said, reaching for the can of Coke Peter had brought in for her.

  The anchor tossed to Brian.

  “At around eight P.M. last night, Alan, we were invited deep inside the White House residence, where the president of the United States shared a secret announcement only with us. We’ll have that secret here, exclusively, on the other side of the break,” Brian said, tossing back to the anchor.

  Peter looked at Dale to gauge her mood. “How are you doing?”

  “I’m fine,” she said.

  “All right. I’ll stop fretting,” he said.

  “Here we go,” she said.

  “If you’re just joining us, we have some breaking news. Our very own Brian Watson is reporting on a dramatic development from President Charlotte Kramer—a decision that could make this week’s Republican convention very, very interesting. We’re going to go to Brian now. Brian, what can you tell us?” the anchor said.

  “Thanks, Alan. We were invited to the White House residence last night—the part of the White House rarely seen by the public because it’s where the first family actually lives. But we were invited there last night for an exclusive interview with President Kramer, Vice President Neal McMillan, and Tara Meyers. Some of our viewers might recognize that name. Tara Meyers is the New York State attorney general. She is a Democrat, and after tonight, she will be the vice-presidential nominee for the Republican ticket. The vice president will step down at the end of his term, and President Kramer has replaced him as her running mate with Tara Meyers, a Democrat and the current attorney general for the state of New York,” Brian said.

  “Brian, what do we know about how this came to be?” the anchor asked.

  “In my exclusive interview with all of the parties involved, I asked the vice president why he was stepping down, and he told me, quote, ‘It is time to see how far we can push the process,’ end quote, a reference, Alan, to what he described as the very nasty and partisan nature of the last several presidential campaigns.”

  “Interesting, Brian. And what do we know about Tara Meyers? She is a woman, obviously, and that makes the Kramer-Meyers ticket historic in more ways than one.”

  “That’s right, Alan. Obviously, Charlotte Kramer is sending all sorts of messages here. First, she’s picked a Democrat, and she joked with us last night that the right wing of her party, which has given her all sorts of grief over the last four years, might appreciate her a little more now that there’s a Democrat who could be standing, as they say, a heartbeat away from the Oval Office,” Brian said.

  “Fascinating. Historic. And only here. Stay with us for continuing coverage of this breaking news. We’ll be right back with Brian’s interview with President Kramer, Vice President McMillan, and the Republican Party’s new vice-presidential nominee, Democrat Tara Meyers,” the anchor said.

  Dale clicked the television off and took a deep breath, blowing it out through her lips with a loud shushing sound. She had overestimated her ability simply to observe the world that she had been a part of for so long. “Honey, I think I’m going to go for a walk,” she said.

  “Want some company?” Peter asked.

  “No. I think I need a head-clearing walk along the water.”

  “I understand. Will you bring your cell phone in case you want a ride back?”

  “Sure,” she said. She was wearing black yoga pants and running shoes, and she put on a fleece jacket over her long-sleeved T-shirt. San Francisco was freezing in August.

  “I’ll see you in a little bit,” Peter said.

  Dale hurried out the front door.

  Once outside Peter’s Pacific Heights Victorian, she crossed Divisadero and walked into the Presidio. The old military base made her feel as if she was stepping back in time. She made her way through the Presidio and down to the waterfront. She walked along the dirt path toward the Golden Gate Bridge and tried to breathe deeply. She had spiraled into a funk that she could no longer figure out how to pull herself out of. It wasn’t just that she’d lost her job. She’d lost everything that went with it.

  She knew she was lucky to be alive. She also knew she was lucky Charlotte had created a circumstance that allowed her to be with Peter. Charlotte had paid a hefty political price for doing so, one that might cost her the election. But Dale had not asked Charlotte to give up Peter for her. She wasn’t sure she knew how to be with him in the real world, and there was no one to turn to for advice. She didn’t have any friends or
hobbies. Work had always crowded out everything else. Without it, she had no idea who she was.

  More than anything, she hated that she was so cold to the one person who was truly there for her. Peter spent every waking moment trying to make her happy, and she knew she was wearing him down with her sulking. She had tried to recapture the excitement she used to feel with him during their secret meetings and brief encounters, but she didn’t know how to be excited about anything anymore.

  She stopped to watch the fishermen pulling in their lines. The fog had come in, and a cool mist was blowing into her face. She closed her eyes and threw her head back. Get a grip, she said to herself over and over.

  Watching Brian do the interview that she had been promised wasn’t torture, but it didn’t feel like her life anymore. She knew what she had to do. She had to reclaim something for herself. She needed a job. She’d call her agent again when she got home. There had to be someone in local news in San Francisco who would value her experience enough to put her on the air.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  Charlotte

  Melanie, these aren’t right, are they? I’m only down two points among likely voters? That can’t be, can it?” Charlotte asked as they jostled along the highway on a bulletproof, state-of-the-art bus somewhere in the middle of Ohio.

  Since Charlotte had promised not to campaign, they’d embarked on a four-week “Conversation with America,” and even though it wasn’t a campaign trip, they’d decided to travel by bus. Her staff hated the bus, but Charlotte enjoyed seeing more than the airports and runways of the cities she visited.

  In the weeks since the convention, Charlotte’s poll numbers had inched to within striking distance of her opponent. The crowds that came out to see Charlotte and Tara were huge. Donations poured in through her campaign Web site. Most of the contributions were returned because of Charlotte’s no-campaign pledge, but without the expense of television advertisements, they didn’t need the money, anyway. Besides, Charlotte and Tara were a media sensation.

  Tara’s speech had electrified the Republican convention. Instead of walking out and refusing to nominate Charlotte for picking a Democrat, as some in the media had predicted when the news broke, the party faithful had been delighted by Tara’s tough line on terrorism and her sharp attacks on Charlotte’s opponent. While Charlotte’s speaking style was elegant and nuanced, Tara went for the jugular with blunt language and crowd-pleasing applause lines.

  The network and cable news shows couldn’t get enough of the Charlotte and Tara Show. They ran packages on their clothes, their hairstyles, the significance of the first-ever all-woman ticket, and the impact on women and girls in America and around the world.

  None of the staff on the bus paid any attention to the feel-good aspect of their all-female ticket. It was crunch time, and Melanie and Ralph were laser-focused on moving Charlotte’s numbers among the voters who’d delivered her original victory four years earlier. Those were the easiest votes to recapture, and with the choice coming down to two women, Charlotte or Fran Frankel, the “women’s story” had less impact on undecided voters than the idea of a bipartisan “unity ticket” running the federal bureaucracies.

  Reporters and media outlets polled voters across the battleground states about their views on Charlotte’s selection of Tara as a running mate. Most of the reviews were positive, but voters remained skeptical that their leaders could do much of anything to change Washington. Charlotte didn’t blame them.

  She looked around at the gaggle of staff, secret service agents, and political consultants traveling on her bus and concluded that she was either insane or brilliant for tapping Tara. She watched Tara as she listened intently to something her husband was saying. He was obviously her closest political advisor. Charlotte felt a flash of envy for what was clearly a seamless relationship between their personal and professional lives. Charlotte had experienced her happily married years, and they were followed by her professionally successful years, but she and Peter had never figured out how to be happily married and professionally satisfied at the same time.

  “Look, look!” Tara shouted as one of the cable channels aired the newest cover of Time magazine.

  “Look, Madam President—that picture was taken last night at the event,” Tara exclaimed.

  It was a shot of Charlotte and Tara doing a “fist bump” on stage with thousands of supporters cheering in the background. Under the shot, in huge letters, it read: “Kramer’s Kryptonite.”

  Charlotte smiled back at Tara. She had succeeded in changing the conversation.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  Melanie

  Melanie, can you or Ralph go through the polls with us?” Charlotte called.

  “Coming,” Melanie answered from the front of the bus, where she was going over the data with Ralph and trying to read the bill from the stylist who’d helped Tara with her look for her convention address. After throwing a tantrum about how frumpy the elegant suits looked on her, she had stuffed all of the clothes into duffel bags and squirreled them away somewhere. Two weeks later, she was back to wearing cheap, tight skirts and blouses that looked as if they’d been purchased in the young teens section. Melanie put the statement into her bag and made her way toward the back of the bus.

  “What are you two doing up there?” Charlotte asked. She was sitting at the head of the small table in the back. Tara and her husband sat next to her, and two of Tara’s aides from the AG’s office were on the other side.

  “We’re trying to figure out where to steer this jalopy next,” Melanie said, growing dizzy from facing backward. “Hang on,” she said, looking down at her phone. “It’s Brian.”

  Charlotte raised an eyebrow.

  Then Melanie’s other cell phone rang. She looked at the number quickly. It was Michael from the Dispatch. She picked up Michael’s call. “I need to call you right back,” she said to him.

  “Don’t hang up,” he told her.

  Melanie was afraid she wouldn’t get Brian’s call in time. He was barely talking to her. “Brian, hang on one second,” she said, holding one phone on each ear.

  “Roger shot himself,” Michael and Brian said in unison.

  “What?” She didn’t know which one of them she was talking to, but she dropped one phone when the bus lurched suddenly to one side.

  “The cleaning lady found him this morning in his apartment in Pentagon City,” Michael said. She’d hung up on Brian. “He’d been dead for hours, so it must have happened last night.”

  “Jesus Christ,” Melanie said. Charlotte was eyeing her suspiciously.

  “He left a note,” Michael said.

  Melanie was silent. She was using all of her mental energy to command her body not to throw up the moon pie she’d eaten for lunch.

  “For Charlotte,” he said.

  “I’m going to need to call you back,” Melanie said.

  “Hurry.”

  Melanie stood in the doorway that separated the back section of the bus from the front. She looked around on the ground for her other phone. She didn’t see it. She took two deep breaths and turned around to face Charlotte. “Can I talk to you?” she said.

  “What, what is it?” Charlotte asked.

  “Why don’t you give us a minute?” Melanie said to Tara, her husband, and her two aides.

  “They can stay,” Charlotte said.

  “Fine.” Melanie’s mouth was watering, and her ears were ringing. “Roger killed himself,” Melanie said, turning and throwing up on the floor of the bus as soon as the words were out of her mouth.

  Melanie apologized to the military aides who swarmed the area with 409, paper towels, and Lysol. She stepped over her mess to sit down next to Charlotte. Ralph followed, careful not to step in Melanie’s vomit.

  “She needs to get back to the White House as quickly as possible to do a statement from the East Room. If we do it tonight upon arrival, it will air on tomorrow’s network morning shows,” Melanie said. “It needs to be somber—something alon
g the lines of ‘My thoughts and prayers are with his family, he was a dedicated public servant,’ and so on,” she said, typing the same thought in an e-mail to the speechwriters that she was sharing with Ralph, Charlotte, and Tara on the bus.

  A nurse from the White House medical unit handed Melanie a ginger ale with a straw in it. “Melanie, drink this, and we’ll get more fluids in you once you keep it down,” the nurse said.

  Melanie looked up briefly and mouthed “Thank you.” She put the soda down on the table without taking a sip.

  “Do we cancel the next event, or do we do the event and go to Washington afterward?” Ralph asked as the bus continued down the interstate toward a five P.M. “Conversation with Ohio.”

  Melanie looked down at her BlackBerry and noticed that her hands were shaking. She moved them under the table and tried to focus on what Ralph was saying. “I’m sorry, what was the question?” she asked.

  “The next event—keep it or cancel it?” Ralph asked.

  “I’m not one-hundred-percent sure we should cancel it, but if we go forward with an event, how does she handle a question about the suicide? I’m worried that she gets a question, answers it, and then the tape that they run in a continuous loop about the suicide is from a campaign-style event. That would be bad,” Melanie said, frowning at her BlackBerry. It wasn’t getting a signal and had not transmitted her e-mail to the speechwriters. She held it above her head at various angles until it transmitted.

  “If we pull the plug on the event, the local Republican committee will go crazy,” Ralph said.

  “So you suggest we go to Washington after the event?” Melanie said.

  It wasn’t like Melanie to solicit Ralph’s opinion. He looked at her to determine whether she was patronizing him. “If we cancel,” Ralph said, “we would need to promise that this is the next event we do when we return to the ‘Conversation with America’ tour. The tickets were gone in fifteen minutes, and the crowd has been waiting for four hours.”

  “My gut says cancel it, but I could be convinced that canceling would be interpreted by the press as an overreaction. I don’t know. It’s a close call,” Melanie said with uncharacteristic indecision.