Eighteen Acres

by Nicolle Wallace

  Melanie giggled. “How do you know everything?” she asked as she slid off her bar stool.

  Michael put the bar tab on his room and steered Melanie out to the front of the hotel. They sat on a bench, and he pulled out a pack of cigarettes.

  “Stay here while I go get matches,” he said sternly.

  “Yes, sir,” she said.

  As she sat on the bench, the presidential motorcade pulled up. The SUV carrying Charlotte and Tara pulled into a covered area, and they exited without seeing Melanie, but the press van came to a stop directly in front of where she was sitting.

  Brian was the first one out. “Meet you guys in the bar in ten minutes,” she heard him say to the rest of the press.

  She watched him pull a tape out of his cameraman’s bag and write something on it. Then she saw him check his BlackBerry. Finally, he looked up and saw her. She smiled and waved.

  He walked up to the bench and sat down. “How’s it going?” he asked.

  “Living the dream,” Melanie said.

  “Looks like you’ve had a long night already,” he said, smelling the martinis on her breath. At least she hadn’t started smoking yet. He hated the smell of cigarettes.

  “I’m fine,” she said.

  “I thought about calling when I saw the papers this morning,” Brian said.

  “What are you referring to?” Melanie asked.

  “Come on. I know you saw it. Everyone saw it,” Brian said.

  The Washington Journal had run a front-page story on Ralph’s rising prominence in Charlotte’s inner circle, particularly with Tara. The headline read “Mind Meld” and the photo they ran showed Ralph whispering in Tara’s ear just before she went onstage. The story made it clear that Ralph’s success was likely to bring about Melanie’s demise.

  “I couldn’t be happier for Ralph. He’ll make a great chief of staff,” Melanie said.

  Just then, Michael walked out and approached the bench. Brian stood up.

  “Hey, man,” Brian said, reaching his hand out to shake Michael’s hand.

  “How’s it going?” Michael asked.

  “Good. Just back from the event,” Brian said.

  “How was it?”

  “Good crowd, the standard stump speech, no news.”

  Michael smiled. “At least I didn’t miss anything.”

  “Definitely not. Uh, OK, then, I’ll leave you guys alone,” Brian said, turning to leave.

  “Actually, Brian, I need to file something for the Web site tonight. Would you mind walking Melanie up to her room? I think she’s a little wiped out.”

  Melanie felt pathetic.

  “Of course. Melanie, do you have your key?” Brian asked.

  Now they were talking to her as if she was eight years old. She pulled out the envelope carrying her keys and held it in front of her face.

  “You ready?” Brian asked.

  “Sure,” she said, embarrassed that Michael had dumped her on Brian but incapable, in her current state, of doing much about it.

  She stood and tried to stop the spinning. She must have swayed, because Brian’s arms were suddenly around her.

  “Are you sure you’re all right?” he asked.

  “Can we sit here for a minute?” she asked.

  “Sure,” he said.

  They sat back down.

  “You don’t have to stay here with me,” Melanie said. “You can go meet your friends at the bar. I’ll get up to my room just fine.”

  “I’m not going to leave you out here,” he said.

  “There’s not a lot of crime in… where are we, again? I can’t remember.”

  He laughed. “I can’t remember most of the time myself.”

  Melanie leaned back against the bench and looked up at the sky. “Have you noticed that there are more stars in the red states?” she said. “Blue states have all the culture, but red states have all the stars.”

  He leaned back and looked up. “You might be right about that,” he said.

  She loved sitting next to him. “I miss you,” she said without looking at him.

  He didn’t say anything.

  “I know I screwed up, and I know you think I’m saying this now because I’m drunk, but I really miss you. And I’m sorry,” she said.

  He looked at her. “I know,” he said.

  Melanie wasn’t sure if he meant that he knew she was sorry or that he knew she missed him.

  “I understand why you were frustrated when we were together,” she said.

  He sat there looking at the stars and then turned to face her. “Don’t worry about it, Melanie,” he said.

  She didn’t know how else to say she was sorry, and she was too scared to come out and ask him for a second chance. Before she could say anything else, he stood up.

  “Come on. Let’s get you into bed.”

  He held out his hand, and she took it. They walked inside hand-in-hand and passed the bar area. A couple of the reporters looked up at them, but most were too busy swapping gossip and planning their postcampaign trips. Of course, if Charlotte won, they’d be positioned to get jobs covering the White House. Some of them would skip vacations to claim their spots in the White House briefing room.

  Melanie didn’t even look over at the bar. She was focusing on putting one foot in front of the other without falling on her face. “Have you ever seen such a nice carpet?” she asked Brian without looking up.

  Brian looked down and laughed. “It is pretty nice,” he agreed.

  Melanie concentrated on walking normally.

  When they arrived at her room, she handed him her key and leaned against the wall while he opened her door. Once inside, he sat her down on the bed and sat in a chair across from her.

  “Thank you for taking care of me,” Melanie said.

  “You’re welcome,” he said. “Do you want to brush your teeth and wash your face, or do you want to get into bed?”

  “I’ll go wash up,” she said.

  She went into the bathroom and brushed her teeth. When she came out, Brian was still sitting in the chair. He was reading his BlackBerry.

  “You can go down to the bar. I’ll be fine.” Melanie said.

  “Where are your pajamas?” Brian asked. Melanie pointed at her suitcase. He opened it and pulled out a white tank top and some white cotton pajama bottoms. “These?” he asked.

  She nodded. He handed them to her and smiled.

  “Put them on. I won’t look.”

  She wished he would. She changed and slid into bed.

  Brian had laid two Aleves on her nightstand with a large bottle of water. “Take these,” he urged.

  She swallowed them and drank a third of the bottle of water.

  “Get some rest, Melanie,” he said.

  She didn’t want to fall asleep, because she knew that when she got up, he’d be gone, but she couldn’t fight it for long. When she got up to use the bathroom, she was alone. She looked at the clock. It was three forty-five. She contemplated a trip to the gym, but her head was pounding, so she climbed back into bed. She couldn’t fall asleep. She got up at around four-thirty and packed for the five A.M. bag call. Her news clips were dropped off at five-fifteen, and as her eyes glazed over the stories about how the election was now Charlotte’s to lose, she knew she was finished.

  She wasn’t even angry at Ralph or Tara anymore. Ralph was succeeding in squeezing her out because he wanted it more than she did, and Tara’s only crime was her ambition.

  At six A.M., she went next door to Charlotte’s room for the daily briefing. She sat quietly in the corner while Ralph went over the overnight polls and the press secretary did a readout of the daily papers. She listened as the speechwriters went over the message for the day. The plan was for Charlotte to go after Fran’s record of voting against troops in the field, and Tara would take a swipe at her for voting for higher taxes. Melanie had lost the debate over whether to go after Fran in the final days. They were locked in a death match against their opponent, and it seemed
to be working. When they finished prepping Charlotte for the day’s events, Melanie lingered after the rest of the staff had filed out.

  “I’m sorry I missed the event last night,” Melanie said.

  “You earned a night off. I heard you had a few cocktails,” Charlotte said, raising an eyebrow.

  “Yes, a few too many,” Melanie said, rubbing her head.

  “Want some Aleve?” Charlotte asked.

  “I’ve taken five since I woke up.”

  “Good. Have some coffee. Somehow, the advance guys got Starbucks to open early for us,” Charlotte said.

  Melanie was always amazed by Charlotte’s wonder at occurrences like this. She refilled her cup.

  “Is everything OK?” Charlotte asked.

  “Yes. Why?” Melanie asked.

  “You seem a little too calm. It’s not like you,” Charlotte said.

  “I got an update from Tara’s personal assistant, and apparently your running mate’s skirt comes within inches of her knees and her bra isn’t showing, so I feel good today. Let’s go do this,” Melanie said, grinning at Charlotte. Charlotte stifled a laugh and nodded at her Secret Service agent, who also appeared to be stifling a snicker as he opened the door.

  Tara was waiting for them in the hallway outside Charlotte’s suite. “Good morning,” Tara chirped.

  If she’d heard Melanie’s crack about her outfit, she didn’t let on. She was wearing a bright pink suit that was at best a half-size too small for her, but at least it was longer than the skirts she usually wore. The blouse underneath was straining at her chest, but it was buttoned up over her cleavage, and her bra wasn’t showing. Melanie winked at Tara’s personal assistant, who smiled nervously and shrugged her shoulders.

  “Good morning, Tara. You look lovely today. What are you hearing?” Charlotte asked.

  Tara gave Charlotte a rambling report about all the people she’d heard from since Charlotte last saw her seven hours earlier. Tara’s friend in Denver had e-mailed to say she liked Charlotte’s speech about national service. Tara’s hairdresser in Albany had suggested that Charlotte wear her hair down more often. Her former pollster had seen some promising poll numbers in New Jersey and New York, and her deputy in the attorney general’s office had a suggestion about a political ad Charlotte and Tara could run about crime.

  “Isn’t this great information, Melanie?” Charlotte said, smiling at Melanie.

  “Fantastic. It’s like a real-world focus group,” Melanie said with a laugh.

  They piled into the limo, and Tara and Ralph kept interrupting each other to share their latest ideas for the final days of the campaign. Melanie could see that Charlotte was getting dizzy trying to follow the conversation. Melanie caught Charlotte’s eye and smiled. She raised her eyebrows and looked out the window. Charlotte laughed a little, and soon Melanie was laughing, too. By the time Tara and Ralph noticed that Charlotte wasn’t paying attention to them anymore, it was too late. Charlotte and Melanie were laughing so uncontrollably they were crying. Melanie took a sip of water, and before she could swallow it, she was hit by a giggling fit that caused the water to fly out of her nose. At this, Charlotte came undone and started taking deep breaths and wiping tears from her face.

  “Ignore us. I think we’re a little punch-drunk,” Charlotte said to a mystified Ralph and Tara.

  “Actually, I might still be technically drunk-drunk,” Melanie said, causing Charlotte to laugh even harder.

  The two of them had barely recovered when the limo pulled up to the next event. They stepped out of the car and stood by the limo together.

  “Do you believe it’s over in less than a week?” Charlotte said to Melanie.

  “Thank God,” Melanie said.

  “I’m with you. I don’t even remember when I was that excited to be out here,” Charlotte said, watching Tara as she signed autographs and took photos with the supporters who’d gathered backstage.

  “I don’t think you were ever quite that excited,” Melanie said. “I mean, that is not normal, but it is impressive.”

  “You’re right,” Charlotte said, squeezing her arm. “We’re going to be able to relax in a second term, Mel, you’ll see. It will be so much better. No pressure, no drama.”

  Melanie nodded and smiled at her, but at that moment, they both knew that it wouldn’t happen. Their relationship had come full circle. They stood there, next to the limo, not as a president and her chief of staff but as two friends who’d been to hell and back.

  “Go on, we’ll talk after the event,” Melanie said.

  Charlotte was too intuitive to miss the significance of the moment. “Melanie, we’ll find a place where you can be your own boss. No Ralph, no seven-thirty senior staff meetings. We’ll find something cushy and wonderful,” Charlotte whispered.

  Melanie’s eyes were starting to tear up, and she didn’t want Charlotte to get emotional before the rally. “We’ll figure it out. I’m not going anywhere,” she said, smiling.

  The advance woman led Charlotte to the place backstage where she’d hold until she was announced. With the music blaring and the crowd roaring, Charlotte took the stage. Melanie stood off to the side watching. Tears streamed down her face when the crowd erupted in a five-minute standing ovation for Charlotte after she ticked off her administration’s accomplishments in fighting terrorism. Charlotte caught Melanie’s eye a couple of times and smiled. Melanie kept clapping and tried to wipe her tears when Charlotte wasn’t looking.

  Toward the end of the speech, Melanie looked down at her BlackBerry. Brian had e-mailed. “How are you feeling this morning?” he wrote.

  She looked for him on the press platform at the back of the room. He was looking right at her and waved when she spotted him.

  She wrote back: “I owe you for last night. Please let me take you to dinner to make up for it.”

  “No way,” he replied.

  “Am I that unforgivable, or is a meal insufficient penance?” she wrote.

  “If you’re serious, meet me at DCA at nine A.M. the morning after the election,” he wrote.

  She didn’t write back right away.

  “P.S. Bring a passport and a bathing suit,” he wrote.

  She smiled. “Deal,” she wrote.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  Dale

  It wasn’t glamorous, but Dale found comfort in the rigors of her new routine. She woke before sunrise for her morning live shots and compiled reports for the noon, five, and six P.M. newscasts. She stayed up—no matter the time zone—for a live shot for the station’s eleven P.M. newscast. Her forced exile from network news had renewed her appreciation for the basics. She took pleasure in the writing, reporting, and tracking of her packages and pushed out of her mind the indignity of doing it for a local station again. The bleakness of doing nothing while the campaign neared its dramatic end would have been more than she could take.

  But covering the campaign for a San Francisco station was like stepping back in time. Instead of covering the alleged infighting between the president’s chief of staff and her top political advisor, Dale was assigned a feature story on the campaign’s bag handler. He grew up in Marin County and graduated from UC Berkeley with a degree in political science. After the convention, he drove to Washington, D.C., and waited outside the White House until a staffer came out to talk to him about volunteering for the campaign. He’d been awarded a full-time position traveling on Tara Meyers’s plane and delivering the senior staff’s luggage to their rooms when they arrived in each new city.

  The differences between working for a local affiliate and working for the network didn’t stop with the stories she was assigned to cover. While the national press corps enjoyed hot breakfasts at the hotels where the president and Tara spent the night, the locals were “prepositioned” for the day’s major speech the night before. Many nights, Dale didn’t even sleep in the same city as the candidate.

  Dale was relieved to travel separately from her former colleagues. Most of them still felt a
wkward around her. Brian was the one exception, and the two of them met for dinner when they were in the same city. Dale and Peter had barely spoken since she’d left San Francisco the week before. He sent flowers to her hotel room a couple of times and left her supportive voice-mails and texts, but they’d mostly avoided each other. She hated herself for hurting him, but she was also angry at him for making her feel there was something wrong with her for wanting to work so badly.

  As usual, she found her professional responsibilities easier to master than her personal ones. The station was thrilled with her and had already asked to speak to her about being a full-time correspondent after the election.

  Dale was so absorbed in updating her script for the next newscast that she hadn’t noticed that the vice-presidential nominee and her entire entourage had arrived. She looked up from her laptop and watched the aides place Tara’s remarks on the podium and check the sound system. The usual lineup of local elected officials stood in formation at the side of the stage for the “pre-program.”

  “This seat taken?” she heard. Ralph had plopped down in the folding chair next to her.

  “Hi, Ralph. How’s it going? Are you slumming, or is the national press being mean to you?” she teased.

  She’d always had a decent rapport with Ralph. He was always helpful when she went through phases of being shut out by Melanie, and even when he couldn’t speak freely, he was good about waving her away from bad information.

  “Dale, Dale, Dale. Do you know what day it is?” he asked, leaning back and revealing a large, round belly that was straining the button on his pants.

  Dale looked away from his midsection. “No, but I’m guessing you’re about to tell me,” she said, her eyes following the action on the stage.

  “The White House wants to soften Tara’s image a little bit. They think she’s too feisty up there on the stump. The criticism is bullshit. I’m sure it comes from Melanie, who would hate anything Tara did up there because she can’t stand her. I mean, can you believe that it took a Democrat to fire up our base?”

  “You want me to help you soften Tara Meyers?” she asked.

  “No. I want you to interview her. I can’t pick from the sharks over there—they’ll go crazy if I pick one network over the other. I know you were supposed to get the first interview the night before she was announced, and I respect you for letting your new White House guy do it, but I think you and Tara would hit it off,” he said. “She likes you,” he added. “She admires the hell out of you for getting back out here.”