Eighteen Acres

by Nicolle Wallace

  Charlotte knew that too many days had passed since she’d left Tara on the campaign trail alone with Ralph to pick up the “Conversations with America.” But she could not have a conversation with America when the only thing going through her mind was I killed my friend and the only man I’ve loved since I’ve had this godforsaken job. I killed him by failing to show compassion or forgiveness.

  It was better to have Tara make the case on behalf of the campaign. Tara was bubbly and enthusiastic. Her public life seemed to have strengthened all of her relationships. Her husband was a doting and involved partner. Their daughter thrived on the campaign trail.

  Charlotte sighed and lay back against the pillows. Sensing her troubles, the dogs stayed close. Cammie lay on top of her, trying to absorb her grief.

  Charlotte knew Melanie was struggling as well. She wanted to tell her that she wasn’t to blame. She wanted to be there for Melanie, but she couldn’t. Not yet.

  She needed to get through the debate. She had four days to prepare for the first of three debates with Fran. She’d walked out of debate prep earlier in the day. The staff had tried to get her to practice, but she couldn’t concentrate. Melanie had broken up the session and told her to get some rest. She knew they were all starting to worry about her.

  That’s why Brooke was there. Melanie had called her the day before and asked her to come out for a few days. Brooke’s company was a distraction but not a comfort. Brooke poured wine and lit cigarettes and made tea and sat with her.

  Every time Charlotte tried to get herself to a place where she could imagine returning to the campaign trail with the kind of energy and focus she knew it demanded at this stage in the game, she’d come up with another excuse to delay it. The debate would be her official reentry point, and she knew she had work to do.

  She opened one of the thick black briefing books and stared at a page of notes on health-care reform. She couldn’t focus on the policy paper. Her thoughts careened from vivid memories of her most intimate moments with Roger, to memories of being a young, happily married mother working her way up to senior management at a Silicon Valley tech company, to memories of the way she and Peter had served as their own strategists during her long-shot run for governor.

  She kept replaying all of the decisions she’d made along the way: the decision to stay at work late each night while Peter was home with the babies, the choices she’d made about leaving the parenting to Peter while she focused on her career, and the little ways in which she’d isolated herself as president. Just when she thought the memories had run their course, they would begin anew, and the debilitating feelings of regret would start all over again.

  She heard a knock at her door. She rose and opened it.

  “Hey,” Brooke said. “Can I come in?”

  “Of course. I just took an Ambien, so I’m not sure how long I’ll be awake,” she said.

  “That’s OK,” Brooke said. “Mark and I have some of our best conversations on Ambien.”

  Charlotte tried to smile.

  Brooke wandered over to Charlotte’s desk and fingered the photo albums stacked on top. “Did Sam put these together for you?” she asked.

  “No, the photo office does it. Those are from our surprise trip to Iraq over Christmas,” Charlotte said.

  “Of course. I have fond memories of taking part in your elaborate ruse to sneak out of Camp David on Christmas Day without the press noticing,” Brooke said.

  Charlotte laughed. “That’s right. We sent you to Christmas services with the kids while Roger and I made our escape.”

  “Didn’t you guys leave in the middle of an ice storm?” Brooke asked.

  “Yes. The secret service didn’t want us on the roads, but Roger insisted,” Charlotte said. She smiled at the memory.

  “Char, you’re going to get through this. You know that, right?” Brooke said.

  “I don’t know. Maybe it’s time to take all these things as signs that the universe has had enough of me,” Charlotte said.

  “Are we going to head down this road? The universe has not had nearly enough of you, and that’s not why you’re curled in a fetal position crying your eyes out. You miss him. You miss him so much that it hurts to breathe. I know how much he meant to you, and I saw how much he adored you, Char.”

  Charlotte’s face crumpled. “I wasn’t having an affair with him,” she said before her voice cracked.

  “It didn’t matter. You guys were in your own world together. Anyone could see it,” Brooke said, patting Charlotte’s hand. “It’s OK to miss him. It’s OK.”

  Charlotte cried softly, and after a few minutes, she went into the bathroom to wash her face. She came back out of the bathroom and sat down on the bed. “I can’t go back out there and ask people to vote for me,” she said.

  “Why? Because your marriage fell apart? Because your husband is shacked up with a reporter? Or because you’re tired? Because those aren’t good enough excuses. You go down fighting, Char, not like this.”

  “I hate you,” Charlotte said.

  “I know. I hate you for inspiring my son to risk his life, but we’re stuck with each other.”

  “I’m sorry about that. Do you want me to talk to him?” Charlotte asked.

  “No. I want you to get out of bed and go claim what is yours—a second term,” Brooke urged.

  “All right,” Charlotte said.

  “Atta girl.”

  “Tomorrow. Tonight I need to sleep,” Charlotte said.

  While Charlotte drifted off to sleep, Brooke e-mailed Sam and Melanie two words: “Mission accomplished.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  Melanie

  Melanie was fuming. Tara was supposed to read the speech exactly as she’d approved it the night before. When Melanie turned on the television to catch Tara’s “Conversation with Miami,” the vice-presidential nominee was defiantly off-script.

  “President Kramer is a great leader and a better woman than me. If Fran Frankel said the sorts of things about me that she says about Charlotte Kramer, I’d feel compelled to respond,” Tara said.

  The crowd applauded.

  “And since President Kramer isn’t here today, and since I know I can trust all of you to keep this little chat just between us”—Tara slowed down when she said “just between us,” and the crowd hooted and clapped louder than before—“let me take on some of the lies our opponent is so fond of repeating about one of this country’s great presidents.

  “It might not be the ladylike thing to do, but we’re voting for a president in four weeks, ladies and gentlemen, not a prom queen. We don’t have time to be nice. It’s time to get real,” Tara said, crumpling the speech on the podium in front of her into a ball and tossing it into the crowd. The crowd was on its feet instantly, cheering so loudly that Tara had to quiet them down before she could go on.

  Voters loved a good fight, and so far, Charlotte had refused to give them one.

  “Annie, get Ralph on the phone!” Melanie shouted.

  Annie appeared in her doorway seconds later. “Line two,” she said.

  “Ralph, what the hell is she doing?” Melanie asked.

  “She’s playing to the crowd,” Ralph said, laughing.

  “I can see that, but it isn’t funny,” Melanie said.

  “Come on, our numbers pop in every market she visits. I know it wasn’t the plan, but what she’s doing is working. People love her,” Ralph said.

  Melanie sighed. “Then why do we bother with prepared remarks, Ralph? And how do we protect Charlotte from being called a liar? She promised there’d be no campaign, and every day this week, Tara has lit the other side up Lee Atwater–style.”

  “I know, I know. But Tara didn’t make any promises.”

  “Ralph, she’s her goddamned running mate. No more freelancing. No shooting from the hip. No audibles called from the road!” Melanie barked.

  “Aye, aye, Captain,” Ralph said.

  “I’m serious, Ralph.”

  “
I’ll talk to her,” he promised.

  “Thank you,” Melanie said, calming down a bit as she saw Tara make the transition from her fiery introduction to the approved stump speech that had been loaded into the teleprompter.

  “How’s the president?” Ralph asked.

  “She’ll be fine. She’s just tired. We gave her the night off. If any of the traveling press asks, tell them she’s cramming for the debate.”

  “Will do,” Ralph said.

  “How are the crowds?” Melanie asked.

  “Huge. We registered ten thousand new supporters in Ohio during the three-day bus tour, and the Florida events have all been moved to larger venues to accommodate the requests for tickets.”

  “That’s great, Ralph. Really great. Charlotte will be thrilled. I can’t wait to tell her.”

  “She called Tara this morning after the morning shows. I think Tara told her about the crowds already.”

  Melanie wasn’t aware that Charlotte and Tara had spoken. “Oh, that’s good. I mean, they should be in frequent contact. Maybe we should set up a daily call between the two of them,” she said.

  “I think they’ve been speaking pretty regularly, but we could put it on the schedule if you want,” Ralph said.

  It wasn’t often that Ralph told her what was going on.

  “Maybe when Charlotte is back on the road and they assume separate schedules, we can add a call to the schedule,” she said.

  “Sounds good,” Ralph said.

  “All right, then. Keep Tara on script, or at least give us a heads-up when she’s planning on playing chief campaign strategist, so I can get the president on message,” Melanie said.

  Ralph chuckled. “The president doesn’t seem to mind her independence,” he said.

  “Charlotte doesn’t have time to worry about her running mate’s disdain for message discipline,” Melanie said.

  Inexplicably, he laughed again. “Good luck with debate prep,” he said.

  “We’ll see you out there in a couple of days,” Melanie said.

  She hung up and returned her attention to the mountain of paperwork awaiting her review. At six-thirty, she turned the volume up on her televisions. The remote was supposed to control one set at a time, but it never worked properly. Suddenly, all of her televisions were blaring.

  Annie rushed in and muted all of them except Brian’s network. “Mind if I watch the news in here?” Annie asked.

  “Of course not,” Melanie said.

  It was one of their little rituals. Annie came in at six-thirty, and they watched the evening newscasts together. During the commercials, Annie gave Melanie all of the West Wing gossip. It was remarkable to Melanie that the people who ran the country had no ability to communicate efficiently with one another, while all of the personal assistants to the people who ran the country swapped intelligence and information effortlessly. Melanie always took her young assistants under her wing, promoting them to better jobs as rewards for their service. She didn’t have any choice but to trust her personal assistants with the most sensitive and vital information imaginable. Melanie was rewarded with their fierce loyalty, around-the-clock service, and a daily download of gossip culled from the other assistants in the West Wing.

  “So, what’s really happening on the road?” Melanie asked.

  “Ralph has been buying drinks every night for the staff,” Annie said.

  “Really?” Melanie was surprised. He always seemed so uptight.

  “Yep. And there’s something else,” Annie said.

  “What?” Melanie asked.

  “Promise you won’t get mad?”

  “Yes,” Melanie said.

  “They’ve started calling you Mean Mommy,” Annie told her.

  “Who has?” Melanie said.

  “The traveling staff.”

  “That’s ridiculous. I’m not mean, am I?” Melanie asked.

  “No. I don’t think so,” Annie said. Annie was so devoted she wouldn’t tell Melanie she was mean even if she thought she was an ogre.

  “Why do they think I’m mean?”

  “They say you’re always reining them in,” Annie said.

  “Reining them in? Excuse me. How about trying to elect Charlotte to a second term so they all have jobs?” Melanie said.

  “I know. As if they could handle your responsibilities,” Annie said, shaking her head.

  Melanie let out a “hmft” and stared at the unread e-mail messages on her computer screen. She was tempted to have IT change her e-mail address to meanmommy@eop.who.gov. She would show them who had a better sense of humor.

  “Mean Mommy,” she said to herself, shaking her head.

  “Want me to get you a frozen yogurt?” Annie asked.

  “Not yet. Maybe after dinner,” Melanie said, leaning back to watch the news.

  They watched Brian first. He was standing in the back of the Miami event. His live reports were the closest Melanie got to him these days. Not calling him back after he’d called with the news about Roger’s suicide had been the last straw. She’d e-mailed him to apologize, and he’d never answered.

  She’d thought about typing him a note after watching his report on Tara’s natural talents on the campaign trail, but she was afraid that he would tell her that he never wanted to speak to her again. That was what she’d said to her ex-husband, Matthew, the last time they’d spoken, and it was the kind of thing you only said when things were so far gone you didn’t care if the person fell off a cliff.

  She rarely allowed herself to think about Matthew, but every time she went through a breakup, she pulled the memories of her failed marriage off the shelf and reminded herself she was damaged goods. Her eighteen-month marriage was the kind of surreal detail of her life that she saw in her Wikipedia entry and had to think about for a minute before she was certain it was true.

  She’d met Matthew in typical Washington fashion—in a green room. Theirs was a cross-party romance. He’d been the chief spokesman for the Democratic leader in the Senate, and she was President Martin’s newly appointed press secretary. They’d flirted over bad coffee and bottled water while the producers connected their microphones and earpieces. The sparks had flown when they took their seats on the set of CNN’s Situation Room for a debate on health care.

  At the time, they’d been two spokespeople at the top of their games. They would become one of Washington’s favorite power couples. The problem with power couples, Melanie soon learned, was that things only worked out when the balance of power was unchanged. If one half of a power couple moved ahead of the other, the whole thing fell apart. As White House press secretary, Melanie’s star had been rising faster than his.

  Melanie had known he was cheating before she actually caught him in the act, because Michael had told her, but she hadn’t figured out what to do about it. Fortunately, the relationship unraveled before she had to do anything. Melanie had come home early from an overseas trip with the president to find her husband’s deputy in her bed watching the Sunday shows. Her husband hadn’t even tried to explain.

  Now, Annie cleared her throat and stood up when the newscast was over. Melanie refocused on her e-mail inbox.

  “Want me to place a dinner order from the Mess?” Annie asked.

  “Sure. The usual,” Melanie said.

  As soon as Annie stepped out of her office, Melanie reached for the remote and replayed Brian’s report. He looked as if he was enjoying himself. His network released a poll as part of its newscast that showed Charlotte two points behind her opponent among women and tied among men. If those numbers hold, Charlotte might win, Melanie thought. She couldn’t believe how backward everything seemed. Roger was dead, Charlotte and Peter were separated, the president was upstairs having a breakdown, and her running mate—an eccentric Democrat from New York who said “y’all” ten times a day, even though she’d never lived or worked in the South—had hijacked the campaign.

  Melanie disliked everything about Tara. She was loud, tacky, and rude. She seemed to
calculate the least presidential approach to every situation and pursue it with vigor.

  Melanie nibbled on a veggie burger and reviewed the debate-prep book—four hundred pages of policy papers on every topic from global warming to assisted suicide. At around nine P.M., she stood to stretch her legs.

  She wandered down to the Sit Room one floor below and chatted with the smokers who inhaled cigarettes two at a time and e-mailed furiously outside the West Wing basement door.

  “Melanie, the president is on the phone for you,” a breathless Annie said, appearing suddenly.

  “OK, take it easy. I’ll take it in the Sit Room,” Melanie said. She stepped into the Situation Room and picked up the phone. “Madam President?”

  “Melanie, I want to get back out there,” Charlotte said. Her voice was groggy, but she sounded determined.

  “I’m already working on it,” Melanie said, grateful for Brooke’s e-mail. “I think I can get you to the evening rally tomorrow,” she said.

  “I want to be at the first event tomorrow,” Charlotte said through a yawn.

  Melanie looked at her watch. The event was in twelve hours. “Yes, ma’am,” she said.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  Dale

  Dale had friends who planned date nights with their husbands after they had kids, but she didn’t think she and Peter would turn to such an artificial device so soon in their newly outed relationship. He’d suggested it, though, so she went along.

  Dale rehearsed what she’d say to Peter at dinner. She was nervous. She knew she bore most of the responsibility for the strain between them, but it still bothered her that on top of everything else, she had to worry about his feelings all the time.

  She dressed for dinner in black pants and a gray sweater. Something about the layer of fog that always hung over San Francisco in the evenings made her colorful television clothes feel all wrong. When she walked into the entryway to greet Peter, he looked surprised that she’d dressed with such care.

  “We really are having a date night tonight,” he said.