The President's Secret Baby

by Gage Grayson

  I never thought you needed to, I think to myself, pulling out a large, glossy photograph.

  Fuck.

  Of course, this is why I went into my office, and into my files.

  Who did I think I was fooling?

  “What’s the news, Leola?” I ask, my voice cracking slightly.

  This photo.

  Why did it have to be this one?

  Why did I make myself dive heedlessly into the office to look at it?

  “It’s about President Thatcher,” Leola yells.

  Of course it is, just like the photo I’m now gripping tightly, unable to look away.

  That dress.

  That trip—Italy.

  “What’s the news exactly, Leola?”

  That night, the state dinner.

  Christ, it’s not even in the back of my mind anymore—it’s refusing to stay there.

  “The President’s going on a...well, it’s a tour...of some sort. It really seems like campaigning, Beatrice, and it really seems like something we can’t leave out of the next issue.”

  The next issue, of course. There’s often a next election in politics, and in journalism, there’s always a next issue.

  That next issue is not what I’m thinking about anymore, though.

  And at this point, I don’t know if, and when, I can bring my mind back to it.

  Chapter 39

  Henry

  They say that a US tour is crucial to a politician’s chance at election—especially at re-election. After so many years in office, the public often suspects that the president is hidden away in DC and forgets the struggles of the smaller states and what it means to be ‘American’.

  I can remember the first time I did this—hopping from state to state, meeting some genuinely interesting people, and being able to use my platform to promote policies I believed in.

  But this time, it feels as though every smile is forced. The speeches in front of me aren’t ones I’ve written myself. Each handshake feels slimy, and I don’t like the way these men—my old colleagues—are looking at me now that I’m the president.

  Not that it seems anyone on my team can tell that there’s something wrong. I think, sometimes, that Hope can see it on my face once the camera’s turn off, but if she’s noticed something, she’s kept it to herself.

  I understand that—and am grateful for it, too. What help would it do the campaign if I admitted out loud that I was tired?

  I admit I never thought this would happen to me. I became a politician—I became the president—because I loved this job and I loved what it entailed.

  But now everything grates on me.

  I always thought that if this would happen to me, then I’d turn around and quit and find a new career that I had a passion for. But I’m the president, and I can’t just turn around and walk away. I need to power through.

  I can remember the high that I felt after dealing with the pirates in the South China Sea, how I felt on top of the world. How I turned around to look at Bea, and when she put her hand on my shoulder, how it felt like I could conquer any challenge thrown my way.

  When I turned to look at Bea.

  Beatrice.

  Thinking of her knocks the wind from my sails as I sit in my hotel room after a full day of speeches. The setting sun is the only light in the room as it falls over and illuminates the Missouri landscape.

  I sit in the armchair and stare out through the window, cradling a glass of Scotch in my hand.

  I can’t help but think of Bea and her beautiful smile, her shining light and passion, her kind words and how much I simply fucking love her.

  I lift the glass to my lips and drink, letting out a heavy sigh, and then placing the glass onto the table.

  When Beatrice was here, with me, I felt alive.

  But she’s taken all my passion, and she’s sitting with it in her desk drawer at the D.C. Digest.

  At first, Hope did try to give me little updates about Beatrice’s life and how she was doing—without me. When I told her that I didn’t want to know, she tried only mentioning Duke. But thinking about him only made things hurt just as much.

  When Bea gave me back the ring, I tried to throw myself into my work and focus only on that. But it’s not enough for me anymore.

  I want my cake, and I want to eat it, too.

  I’m the president of the United States, I should be allowed to have that.

  There’s a succinct rapping at my door as someone knocks on the wood.

  I groan and take another sip of my Scotch. It’s childish, but hopefully if I ignore it, whoever is knocking will go away. I’m not in the mood for visitors, and I’m certainly not in the mood for work.

  Whoever it is knocks again, louder this time.

  “Henry, open the damn door. I know you’re in there.” Lawrence’s voice comes from behind the door, and I sigh.

  “Fine, come in.”

  There’s a click as the door is opened by one of the security detail that had been standing outside.

  I keep my back turned as Lawrence and couple of other staffers walk into the room. Without missing a beat, Lawrence turns on the light switch and plunges the sitting room into bright yellow light, and I wince at the sudden stinging in my eyes.

  But Lawrence doesn’t address that, either. As I sit up straight, he pulls up an armchair of his own. He takes the Scotch out of my hand and swaps it for a docket filled with—I assume—tomorrow’s security brief.

  “I thought we should go through this ahead of tomorrow’s leg of the tour,” he says.

  I place it down in my lap, and I flick through the pages.

  Tomorrow, we’re supposed to be flying to Texas. Even though it’s an interstate flight, the team is understandably paranoid about every possible thing going wrong. The docket in my lap goes through plan A to emergency plan C.

  I’m always impressed at the lengths people will go to keep me safe.

  “What do you think?” my chief of staff inquires.

  I look up at Lawrence briefly. I want to tell him that it doesn’t matter what I think, because I know he’s only included me in these security briefs because he has to. But I don’t, and instead, I force a small smile and nod my head.

  “Looks good, Lawrence. Is that everything?”

  “Actually, Henry, there was something else that I thought needed to be brought to your attention.”

  Lawrence reaches into his briefcase. I don’t like the almost pleased tone to his voice, and I feel my brows furrow as he hands me a large photograph.

  It’s Bea. Seemingly recent—it’s just a photo of her going about her daily life since she left me.

  Except she’s pregnant.

  My head begins to spin as I turn to look up at Lawrence.

  “Well, sir, it seems you got out just in time.” A staffer comments snidely, and I feel my blood begin to boil.

  I’m about to stand up and show that staffer to the door—personally—but then a heavy door to my room opens again.

  It’s Hope.

  She surveys the scene—catching sight of the staffer’s smug face and the photograph in my hands—and for a moment, her face looks as angry as I feel, and she sucks in a breath. But then she regains her composure and walks coolly into the center of the room. Everyone’s turned to watch her and wonder what she’ll do, but she’s waiting on me.

  “Everyone out.” There’s a pause where no one moves. But I don’t look away from Hope. “That’s an order.”

  Suddenly, everyone begins to snap into action. Lawrence, however, takes my Scotch and has a drink while he sits on the edge of my desk. A few of the weaker-stomached staffers are already out the door.

  Once we’re alone, I stand up and begin to pace around the room.

  “What do you know, Hope? What has my director of communications not been communicating to me?”

  “I knew Beatrice was pregnant,” she confesses and follows me around the room with her eyes. “She told me when she first discovered it, and I knew s
he was trying to find the right time to tell you, but ultimately, she couldn’t.”

  That feels like a slap in the face.

  I look over at Lawrence, and he looks sympathetic—whether for me or for Bea, I don’t know.

  “I think that’s why she left. Beatrice knew that if she was revealed to be pregnant before the two of you were married, then the scandal could cost you your chance at re-election.”

  It feels like I’ve been sucker-punched in the gut. I can’t figure out what my emotions are—I’m livid, angry beyond all belief that something like this could be hidden from me.

  But the old heartbreak hurts, and sadness also swells in my mind. And then, behind it all, there’s the revelation that Beatrice is carrying a child.

  My child.

  I collapse into the armchair again and sigh heavily. Hope comes and perches on the arm of the chair, taking the photo and studying it carefully.

  “I’m going to be a father,” I whisper it into the room, making the words real.

  I had lost all my passion for the U.S. tour before tonight, but the photo in front of me and Hope’s revelation has obliterated my will to carry on.

  I knew that Beatrice was trying to tell me something before the South China Sea crisis, but I never did get around to asking her.

  Fuck the U.S. tour, fuck the politics for a little while.

  I have to make this right.

  Chapter 40

  Henry

  The air in the room is electric, charged with both negative and positive vibes.

  Anger and frustration at not having known about Beatrice’s baby—my child—are still roiling through me.

  I’m highly disappointed that I had to find out like this, by Lawrence handing me a picture, almost in passing, instead from the mother of my child, Beatrice.

  But I’m also energized as my reeling mind opens up possibilities, leading in every direction away from this tour of the U.S. to which I’m currently shackled.

  It makes me jump up from the armchair, and immediately, I start pacing up and down.

  I have to fly directly to her, but what if she doesn’t want me?

  I stop and turn to Hope who stands at attention, still holding the photograph of pregnant Bea.

  I take it from her hand and hold it up.

  “You’ve kept this from me,” I say sharply, and it comes out snappier than I intended.

  “It’s what Beatrice wanted.”

  My eyes are glancing back at the picture of Beatrice. Hope folds her hands.

  “Mr President,” she says, using the formal address for emphasis. “Henry, I believe you know what to do, but I’m going to say it anyway. Follow your heart.”

  Her eyes follow mine, and with a nod, she also indicates the picture.

  I look over at Lawrence just as he places my glass of Scotch to his lips, and he shrugs.

  “Thanks, Hope. For everything. For taking care of Bea,” I say appreciatively as I look back to her.

  “So what’s the plan, Henry?” Lawrence inquires as he sets the Scotch down on the hotel desk.

  “Time to change plans.”

  A satisfied smile spreads across Hope’s face. Before she turns, she quickly reaches out and gives my shoulder a brief squeeze.

  “I’ll make this right,” I say with conviction and expressing my earlier thought.

  “You never did her wrong, Henry.”

  Lawrence gets up and heads for the door. With a big gesture of his hand, he motions for everyone to come back into the room.

  “We’re ending the tour, everyone,” I bellow.

  “Sir? Are you sure about this? You’re making a big mistake.”

  My eyes fall to my re-election campaign manager, Boyd Daniels. The balding, middle-aged man looks at me completely surprised and dumbfounded.

  “Mr President, we’re in the middle of a huge press tour right now. We fly out to Texas first thing in the morning,” he exclaims before turning to look at Lawrence. “Talk some sense into this man!”

  “That man has never listened to me a day in his life. He’s not about to start now,” Lawrence replies with a cheeky smirk.

  “Boyd, I’m sorry, but there’s been a change of plans. Something far more important has come up.”

  “What’s so important?” Boyd nearly yells.

  “We’re flying to Brussels.”

  “Brussels!? Are you out of your mind. We can’t just get up and fly to Brussels!”

  I take a couple steps towards Boyd and stare him down. As expected, the man begins to shrink away.

  “Am I not the president? Doesn’t Air Force One go where I tell it to?”

  I look around the room, challenging anyone to speak up defiantly against me. No one does, but they do exchange looks.

  “Now, do what you have to do. But I want to be in the air within the hour, people.”

  Suddenly, everyone starts talking at once, and the noise level in the room swells to an incomprehensible level.

  “Now!”

  The noise level drops, and everyone begins to move—all except for Lawrence.

  As the door shuts behind the last man, I motion for Lawrence to sit down in the armchair. He picks up the photo still lying in the chair, sits down, and holds up the picture for me to see.

  “This could very well end your political career. I know this important to you, Henry, as it should be, but is it worth the presidency, your political allies, and your career?”

  I take the print out of his hand and put it away.

  I walk over to a cabinet and get out two thick and heavy tumblers, filling them with Scotch.

  I walk back to the chair and wordlessly hand one glass to Lawrence. He nods in appreciation, and we click our glasses together, then take a sip.

  I lean against the side of the chair, standing over him. Lawrence has always been more than just my greatest adviser—an adviser who’s always steered me through the perils of politics—he’s like a second father, big brother, and confidante—all in one. And I know that his only concern right now is what’s best for me.

  “Lawrence, no president is an island. And no president has ever not sacrificed something to get into White House. But I cannot and will not sacrifice Beatrice or my child.”

  “I just wanted to make sure you were sure. And, truthfully, I think you’re making the right decision here.”

  I can tell that he’s genuine when he says it. And that means a lot coming from him.

  “Question now is, what about the fallout of all this? Not everyone will look kindly on this. This could easily doom the re-election. People will doubt that it’s your baby. You know how the media will twist this. They’ll fling their worst dirt on your image and drag you two through the mud.”

  I shake my head.

  “I know, but think of how much worse it would be if I didn’t do anything. And if this means the end of my career, then so be it.”

  “You know, I’ve watched you grow a lot over the years. I’ve seen you go from that young idealist to a man I’m proud to call my friend and my president—”

  “Wait, you weren’t proud before?”

  “No, not really.”

  The two of us share a soft chuckle, and it washes a lot of stress off my shoulders. I really couldn’t ask for anyone better than Lawrence to have in my corner.

  “But, as I was saying. I’ve seen you change and evolve through your career. And I’ve never seen you, the real you, until you had Beatrice. With her, that’s the man you’re always destined to be. So, if you’re going to tank our careers, then at least we’re doing it for all the right reasons.”

  “Did you rehearse that speech?” I ask, deadpan.

  “I did, actually. I didn’t rush it, did I?”

  “Oh no, it was perfect.”

  Lawrence raises his glass with a smirk, and we clink them together in a toast.

  “To Beatrice,” I say.

  “To both of you,” he corrects.

  Chapter 41

  Beatrice
r />   My aching feet carry me through the streets as I head home from the grocery store. Despite only having one bag, my pregnancy is starting to make me feel so weak and almost helpless.

  I wonder how much longer before it starts to hurt too much to walk to the store and back, until I get my shopping delivered to my door.

  Of course, the only downside to that would be being unable to make impromptu stops for gelato on the way home.

  I catch a stray drip of mint chocolate chip with my tongue as it trickles down the waffle cone and onto my hand. The sweet treat is cool and refreshing, and it stops me from feeling too overworked as I go home for the night.

  I always knew that this job would keep me busy—that was half of the appeal—but for the last few months, I’ve let it become all-consuming of my time and thoughts. I think my friends are getting a little bit worried about me; I know my mom definitely is.

  But all the time that I’m working or I’m preparing for the baby, I’m not thinking about the life I left behind. It means that I’m not thinking about Henry and everything that we could have had together.

  I’ve been keeping my eye on him, after all. While it’s no longer my job as the president’s biographer to document his life, I’ve been following the US tour on the news. The press doesn’t seem to pick up on it, but there’s something different about him.

  Maybe I know Henry too well, but it seems like the light behind his eyes has gone.

  It’s almost as though he’s lost that spark—that passion I saw a few months ago.

  It’s almost as though he’s become like every other politician.

  It breaks my heart to see him like that. But I can’t do anything about it now—I made my bed when I decided to leave him and keep the baby a secret. Now I have to lie in it.

  It’s not as though he and I will be seeing each other any time soon.

  As I walk home from the grocery store, I can’t help but notice an unusually high number of blacked out town cars and a limousine riding through the streets. It’s not entirely out of the ordinary since my apartment is perfectly situated on the route to the embassies—but I don’t remember seeing anything in my email inbox that would have forewarned me about this.