His First Lady (Capitol Hill Series Book 1)

by Beth Fred

  He strides out of the room.

  I take a few deep breaths to calm my nerves then close my laptop. This guy is no terrorist, and he isn’t owned by one either. He’s a smooth-talking Southern boy who sometimes slides into a delicate Spanish accent. Dangerous combination for a chubby basket-weaver trying to keep her heart.

  Chapter 13

  Eric

  I leave Mandy to her work and go upstairs to the guest room. I smell like fish, and it’s probably better that I remedy that before the pastor gets here. The stationary I left in Mandy’s door this morning lays on my bed. Wonder what that means. I pick it up. She’s drawn a line through my original note and left her own message.

  Yes, you may call me Mandy. Although it’s probably better if you call me Princess and take an oath of loyalty and undying love. I thought you were exaggerating about my dad removing the door, but when I came down the hall this morning, I found out you weren’t. Sorry, that must suck. If you need a door, you can use my room. We’ll be married soon enough.

  As for offending my tree-hugging values to prove you’ll take care of me, I don’t know of many Dallas townhouses that have trees. You should sell it when I graduate and buy a farm. More trees to hug.

  XOXO

  Princess

  I laugh and turn the paper over.

  What do you think a marriage vow is if not an oath of loyalty and undying affection? No exaggerations. He took the door off the hinges before knocking. He says to make sure you weren’t in here at five in the morning. Graduate first. Then I’ll worry about finding you trees to hug.

  I will not call you Princess. And let’s get a few other things straight. I won’t carry your purse. Ever.

  The Senator

  The guest room has a private bathroom that locks. Thank God for that since I have no door anymore. I shower and dress in a black suit with a pink shirt. Something Monica picked up for me. She says I look good on camera in pink. Way too flamboyant for me, but Mandy likes pink.

  I slide a blue velvet box in my pocket, grab Mandy’s note, and go knock on the door of her bedroom.

  She opens the door. Her silver asymmetrical dress hugs her in all the right places and swoops down just enough at the neckline. I swallow, trying to catch my breath.

  “Can I come in? I want to talk before the minister gets here.”

  “Sure,” she says.

  I cross the threshold into her room. “Can I shut the door?”

  She nods.

  “You’re beautiful.”

  She laughs. “That came out of nowhere.”

  “Nah. The dress.”

  She smiles and bites her lip. “Glad I wore it then.”

  “Me too.” Wow. Eric, you sound like a cross between a band geek and a jerk. I laugh and shake it off. “Okay, now that I’ve made a fool of myself, I asked to talk to you because I really want to do this right.”

  “Okay?”

  I take her hand, bring it to my lips, kiss it, and drop to one knee, still holding her hand. “Ms. Buchanan, I don’t know you very well, but there are already things I absolutely admire about you, and I want to get to know you over a lifetime. Will you do me the honor of being my wife?”

  “Stand up.”

  “Could you answer, please?”

  “Eric, get up.”

  I slide my grandmother’s ring on her finger. “Not until you answer my question.”

  “You know I will marry you. This wasn’t supposed to be a forever kind of thing. We’re talking nine years max.”

  I stand. “Mandy, nine years is a long time. If you’re counting down days, it’s going to be miserable. That’s why I thought I’d take the time to do this right.”

  She smiles. “I promise not to count down days.”

  Chapter 14

  Mandy

  Eric grimaces. “I just thought we could do this right.”

  It’s hard to look at him. I don’t want to hurt him, but he’s too perfect. I need to protect myself. Protect my heart. “I’m sorry. But, Eric, this is an arrangement. I’m not sure it’s a good idea to let it get too casual or friendly. Probably best to keep it courteous and professional.”

  “As you wish.” He drops my hand and heads for the door.

  “I’ll see you downstairs in a few minutes.” I raise my hand to wave, and the oval diamond surrounded by a circle of smaller diamonds he put on my finger catches the light so well it throws a splash of sparkles against the wall. I can’t help but stare at it. “Wow,” I breathe.

  Eric’s chuckle draws my attention back to him. “So you like it?”

  I grin. “Of course, I like it. But it had to cost a fortune, and for a girl, you’re keeping less than a decade. You shouldn’t have.”

  “You would be amazed at how little it cost, and you never know. I might not trade the girl in. Lots of people think I’m not that annoying. I may grow on you.”

  I laugh. “Eric, I’m sure if I were into sexist, classist Republicans—or politicians for that matter—you would be my first choice. But I’m not.”

  He leans against the doorframe and folds his arms. “In a decade, I’ll be out of politics. No point in keeping at something once you’ve capped. I’ll have to find a new challenge.”

  “You’ll still be a Republican.”

  He smiles and opens the door.

  “Hey, bossman?”

  He looks at me over his shoulder. “Yes?”

  “Does the job come with parking?”

  “Yep. And probably a new vehicle. People will talk trash if I let you drive that little Bug around. The wheels are about to fall off.”

  I glare at him. “I’ll buy it out of my salary.”

  “I’m not sure I pay you enough to buy a car my first lady should be seen in.”

  “You’re not president yet.”

  “Sweetheart, we’ll be calling Pennsylvania Avenue home soon enough.”

  Chapter 15

  Eric

  Camille leads an old man into the living room. He’s not your typical preacher. He wears cowboy boots, jeans, and a pearl snap shirt. He’s about ninety, and he carries a gun.

  Mandy leaps from the armchair. “Uncle Jack!” She throws her arms around him.

  He pinches her cheek between his thumb and forefinger. “Look at you, Mandy, all grown up. You sure are perty. Now what’s this mess about you bein’ old enough to get married?”

  “Well, I am twenty-eight,” she says.

  “How did that happen?”

  She laughs. “I don’t know, Uncle Jack.”

  “Well, sit down. Niece or not, we have to do some premarriage work before I agree to this,” Jack the Elder says.

  “Premarriage work? Like counseling?” Mandy asks.

  “If that’s what the kids are callin’ it today.”

  How much premarital counseling does he want? We don’t have time for this.

  “Camille, sweetheart, bring your uncle a chair.”

  She smiles. “I’ll be right back.”

  “I’ve got it,” Jack—the younger one—cuts in.

  “Isn’t it confusing with you both having the same name?” I ask.

  Jack the Younger glares at me. Jack the Elder laughs. “He was named after me. He was Baby Jack till he threatened to burn down the farm if anyone called him that again. He’s still Baby Jack to me, but I can see how that would be hard in the Senate.”

  I grin at Baby Jack. “Can’t wait until the next Senate call.”

  “Marrying my daughter won’t save you from my rifle.” He walks out of the room.

  Point taken. And couldn’t someone have mentioned the preacher performing our sham marriage was Mandy’s elderly uncle? Involving a preacher is bad enough, but I hate that it’s an elderly relative.

  But it isn’t Baby Jack I should be worried about. Jack the Elder looks to Mandy. “Go sit down, sweetheart.”

  She returns to her armchair.

  Jack Senior takes a few steps closer to me, brings his hunting rifle up, and points it at my fac
e.

  “Uh—sir, do you always bring a gun to do counseling—umm, premarriage work?”

  “No. Only when the girl is my niece and no one really trusts the man. If I find out this is some kind of game, I will blow your head off. You got me?”

  I told her father the truth earlier. He told me he wouldn’t say anything but that his daughter had better come out with a damn favorable prenup. It seems like he really hasn’t said anything. Who knew Buchanan could keep a promise? “Yes.”

  “Boy, don’t they teach you manners in Texas? Yes what?”

  “Yes, sir,” I say.

  He nods. “If you cheat on her, if you hurt her, if you waste her money, if you hit her, I will blow your head off. Got it?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Okay, now that we’ve got that done, when Jack gets back in here, we’ll start with a prayer. You’re going to lead the prayer.”

  I haven’t led a prayer in such a long time. “Umm…shouldn’t you do that? You’re the preacher.”

  “You’re the spiritual leader of your household. How are you going to take care of my niece if you can’t even lead a prayer?”

  Awesome. I’m leading a prayer for my future in-laws, whom I know nothing about except that my father-in-law refers to my fiancée’s work as basket-weaving. And her uncle wants to blow my head off.

  Jack returns with the preacher’s chair, which he sets between Mandy’s armchair and the couch. We all hold hands, and I pray.

  “Dear Lord,

  Thank you for our many blessings and for Mandy agreeing to marry me. Lead us down the right path and help us make good decisions for those who follow us. And please don’t let Preacher Jack shoot me.”

  Mandy giggles.

  “Amen,” I say.

  “Amen,” Mandy says.

  Hands drop.

  “Son, was that your idea of a joke? I’ll take you outside and shoot you right now,” Preacher Jack says.

  “But I just prayed you wouldn’t.”

  “You need to take your relationship with the Lord more seriously. Don’t make jokes when you pray.”

  “Yes, sir,” I say, really hoping he doesn’t shoot me.

  Then the last thing I expect happens. “I disagree, Uncle Jack. I’m impressed. He talked to God like a friend. I’m more okay with this now,” Senator Jack says.

  I look at Jack Buchanan. “Impressed? Really? I’ll remember to pray in the Senate more often.”

  “Don’t push it,” Jack says.

  Preacher Jack sits in his hard-back chair brought from the dining room for him. “So let’s get down to business. When are we doing the shindig?”

  “Tonight,” Jack says. “Senator Martinez and I have people flying in from all over the country.”

  Preacher Jack shakes his head. “I usually recommend three months of premarital work.”

  “Won’t you make an exception for Mandy?” Jack asks.

  “Son, I expect you know marriage is hard. And if you won’t own to that, I’m sure Camille will. I’m not doing Mandy any favors by letting her get hitched without being prepared for it.”

  “Is anybody ever really prepared for marriage?” I ask.

  “That’s a fair question. Probably not. But I have a responsibility to God and the church to help people be as prepared as possible.”

  My campaign manager and a handful of other people are leaving their posts on the campaign trail to head out for a wedding that may not happen now. Great.

  Mandy stands. “Uncle Jack, we were planning on going to the courthouse to begin with. Dad wanted us to have a real wedding. I only agreed to this for my dad. If you won’t marry us tonight while we’re home for Dad to see, then I’ll just have a JP come and we can still do a backyard wedding.”

  “By God, girl, no you will not. You will have a proper wedding. You will be married before the eyes of God. I owe that much to my brother, who can’t be here to see you married for himself.”

  “I expect you do since he died of a staph infection from giving you half his liver. If you don’t marry us, a JP will, and you will have that on your conscience. Wonder what Jesus thinks about that.”

  “Amanda Emaline Buchanan!” her dad scolds.

  “Mandy, that really was too much,” I say.

  She locks eyes with me. “Sorry, sweetheart.” Though the sweetheart rolls off her tongue mockingly.

  “I have to pray ’bout it. I have to meet my maker with a clear conscious, and I’m not sure I make it better by letting Will’s granddaughter get married with no preparation. The divorce rate is too high these days not to prepare our young people.” He folds his hands and bows his head. He’s silent for a few minutes then lifts his head. “Soup kitchen at the church is low on supplies. Jesus told me some men find it easier to give money while others have more time to spare. If I get enough money to run my kitchen for six months, it’s a sign from God. If not, that is also a sign.”

  So there will be a wedding tonight. It’s just going to cost me more money. “Would twelve thousand dollars fund your soup kitchen for six months? I’d planned on making a donation to the church Mandy grew up in as a kind of wedding present.”

  Preacher Jack says, “Son, before I agree to do this wedding tonight, this little rascal,” he pats Mandy on the knee, “has been out of church for a while. How do you plan on getting her back to God?”

  I bite the inside of my lip so I don’t laugh. Mandy is a sweetheart. Whether she goes to church or not, I have a hard time thinking I would be the one to bring her to God. “My wife will attend service with me, sir.”

  “Oh, will she?” Mandy asks.

  “Of course.” It’s not a question. I never specifically mentioned it, but why wouldn’t she? That is a wife thing to do.

  Mandy purses her lips. “Hmm…I’ll have to check my prenup. I don’t remember that clause.”

  “Why wouldn’t you?”

  “It’s interesting that you answer with a question. Does that mean I won’t find that clause?”

  “Amanda—” her father starts.

  She smiles and cuts him off. “Emaline Buchanan, blah, blah, blah, blah.”

  “Mandy, that you think everything should be in a prenup makes me think you’re not ready to be married. I can’t believe your father let you sign one. Back in my day, we didn’t even use those things. You don’t need a prenup if you plan on staying married,” Preacher Jack says.

  But Amanda has made it clear she has no intention of staying married.

  “Well, he can’t just tell me what to do,” Mandy says.

  “When you take his name, he can,” Preacher Jack says.

  “Mandy, do I really seem like some tyrant who is going to order you around?” I ask.

  “I don’t know. You’ve said some pretty strange things about women. I figure it’s best to know what I’m getting myself into now,” she answers.

  “Like what?”

  “Huh?”

  “What strange things have I said about women?”

  She’s silent.

  “Come on. You want to accuse me in front of your parents and the preacher knowing your dad is my biggest political critic. Do me the honor of telling me what exactly I’ve said to make my future wife think me a tyrant. Might help my polls some, and you’ve got a vested interest in that too now.”

  “Like maternity leave shouldn’t be paid.” She smiles.

  I shake my head. “I never said maternity leave shouldn’t be paid. I said the government shouldn’t require companies to provide paid maternity leave. I keep a small staff, and I’ve arranged for any employee who needs maternity leave to have paid time off to take care of her baby.”

  “But the government shouldn’t require companies to allow the women who work for them to support themselves?”

  “When the government starts requiring anything, it has a negative impact on job growth, and why should the government require a company to pay you not to work?” I ask.

  “Because if it were something that had mor
e of an impact on men, they would.”

  “Amanda, you know women really should stay home and take care of their babies anyway. Once you have a kid, the time for an eight-to-five is over. Do you think anyone could have done a better job with you than your momma?” Preacher Jack says.

  Camille smiles at the praise.

  I laugh. I don’t think he meant to, but Preacher Jack just saved me. The rants will no longer be directed at me.

  Mandy glares at him. “Uncle Jack, I have a degree. Why would I stay home with kids when they can easily go to daycare?”

  “Because you’re smart enough to know that kids aren’t an accessory to be worn in some swanky wrap across your back and left at daycare for eight hours a day. I’m not sure you’re mature enough for this yet.”

  “I thought you got a sign from God in the form of a check and he told you to marry me.”

  “Amanda, don’t be disrespectful,” Camille says.

  Preacher Jack meets my eyes. “Where do you go to church?”

  “St. Mary’s,” I answer.

  “Where is that at?”

  “Dallas.”

  “I’ve never heard of St. Mary’s Baptist Church,” Preacher Jack says.

  “I’m Catholic.”

  Preacher Jack trails his eyes from me to Mandy. “So how are ya’ll going to raise the kids?”

  “Catholic,” I say while Mandy says, “Baptist, of course.”

  Mandy looks to me. “My kids won’t be Catholic.”

  “That’s okay. It’s not like an heir was part of the prenup.”

  “Now, Mandy, the Bible says when you get married, you become one and the man is the head of the household. You’ll be part of his family and that means his church. But I can’t say I support you becoming Catholic. It’s too ritualistic. It doesn’t support a one-on-one relationship with God, and for the sake of your grandpa, I won’t have you praying to Mary.”

  I roll my eyes. “We don’t pray to Mary.”

  “Yet you name your church after her. Don’t you find that ironic, young man?”