She pulled out the game in five points, and they switched sides again.
“That’s a tricky little serve you have there,” he said.
Little. “Thank you,” she said.
She won the set—mainly by slashing cross-courts and making him run, then waited on the baseline for him to start the first game of the third and final set. He was taking his time—toweling off, drinking some water, straightening the strings on his racquet—so, she decided that her main strategy would be to lob over his head if he came to the net, and to drop-shot short if he stayed back. Remind him that he was in his mid-thirties, and maybe not as fast as he used to be.
His strategy, it seemed, was to hit the ball as hard as he could—which meant that if it went in, she lost the point, more often than not; if it went out, she won. They were tied four-all, her serve, when she started double-faulting. Three times, to be exact, and suddenly, he was serving for the match.
She gritted her teeth. Damn it, damn it, damn it. Talk about the worst possible time to choke. She bent down to tie her shoe, finding it a real battle to keep from swearing aloud, so pumped up that she wanted to kick this guy from here to Bethesda. She took a deep breath. Okay, okay, she had to work harder, that’s all. Work a lot harder.
His first serve came slamming in, and she hit the return right past him as he ran up to the net. Almost right through him. Love-fifteen. She went down the line with the next two, and won the final point with a little drop-shot he couldn’t quite get.
Okay, okay, five-all. Time to make her move. She put everything she had left into her serve, and two aces—tricky little serve, indeed—and several hard rallies later won her service game. Six-five, her favor.
They switched sides again, Mr. Kirkland not saying anything this time, and she was aware that it had gotten very quiet around the court. She kept her eyes down, concentrating on not paying attention to anything except the next game.
The first serve came in hard, but she blocked it back. They hit forehand to forehand once, twice, three times, and then his shot ticked the net-cord, falling over onto—her side. Fifteen-love. Hell.
She smashed his next serve right back to him and he adjusted late, hitting it out. Fifteen-all. He doubled-faulted, and it was fifteen-thirty. She missed with a cross-court backhand, and it was thirty-all. The next point was another tough rally—forehand to forehand, backhand to backhand, down the line, cross-court, back down the line—and he finally hit one into the net. Thirty-forty. Match point.
She bent to wait for the serve, ignoring all of the people around them, blocking out everything except for the ball. The point. The victory so close that she could—again, they had a long rally, so long that she felt her arms starting to shake from nervousness. He followed a hard backhand up to the net; she waited, timed her swing, and then lobbed it over his head, just inside the baseline.
Game, set, and match.
Mr. Kirkland looked disappointed, but smiled as they shook hands. “You’re an excellent player,” he said.
She flushed. The fever to win at all costs almost always left as abruptly as it would arrive. “Um, thank you. So are you.”
“Rematch sometime?” he asked.
“Sure,” she said.
Feeling shy, she spent some extra time gathering up her gear, hoping that the people who had been watching would leave. Most of them did—more than one coming over to tell her what a good match she had played—and she thanked them politely before going to sit at one of the tables in the far corner, next to Preston. He was drinking sweet tea—someone in the kitchen made a very strong, authentic version, to which half of the staff was completely addicted—and she nodded when he raised the pitcher.
“Well, no one’ll ever accuse you of not having the killer instinct,” he said, pouring her a glassful.
She looked at him uneasily. “It shows?”
He laughed. “I’d say so.”
Great. “Is it unattractive?” she asked.
“Your mother seems to be doing okay with it,” he said.
Meg automatically looked towards the West Wing, even though she couldn’t see it from where they were sitting. “Yeah, but—she’s different.”
He also glanced in that direction. “Old Cal Wilson thinks you’re a determined little lady.”
Meg grinned. Cal Wilson was an economic advisor, and very Southern. “End quote.”
“Afraid so,” Preston said.
Mr. Wilson was a nice man, albeit extremely old-fashioned. She wasn’t crazy about tea, but she was thirsty as hell—and it was there. She picked up her glass, drinking half of it as she checked out Preston’s outfit. A linen suit, so grey that it was almost blue, with a lighter blue shirt, and a teal silk tie. To her amusement—and her brothers’ great glee—Preston had shown up on more than one Ten Most Eligible Bachelors’ list. Mostly notably, Cosmopolitan.
“What,” he said, smiling.
She reached for a sugar cookie, from the plate in the middle of the table. “I was thinking about you and Cosmo.”
He rolled his eyes.
“You know what Beth says?” she asked.
“I can guess what Beth says,” he said.
Meg just grinned. She and Beth held the theory that despite the fact that Preston lived with a woman who worked for the State Department, what he was really waiting for was for one of them—they could never agree upon which one—to be old enough, before venturing into marriage. They had agreed, however, that this notion might best be kept to themselves.
“So.” Preston indicated the court. “What’s the story?”
The man was nothing, if not up-front. She helped herself to a second cookie. “How good do you think I am?”
“Out of my league,” he said.
She shook her head. “I’m serious. Do you think I’m getting good?”
He shrugged, and refilled both of their glasses. “Jed Kirkland doesn’t exactly lose all the time.”
She thought about that, then folded her arms.
“What,” he said.
“Do you think Mom and Dad would let me play a few tournaments this summer?” she asked. “I mean, you know, USTA stuff?”
“Pretty high profile,” he said.
Unfortunately, yeah. But, hell, the publicity and other junk didn’t interest her at all; she just wanted to play.
He sighed. “I don’t know. Can’t see them being thrilled about the idea.”
“Well—” She decided to try the only halfway decent argument she had. “Steven gets to play baseball.” Although he hadn’t convinced them to let him join a travel team.
Yet.
“Steven lives to play baseball,” he said.
“Yeah, but—” She stopped. She would rather die, than whine in front of Preston. “I guess everyone’s used to him being really intense, and me just screwing around.”
He nodded.
“Is there any way I could go to tournaments, and not attract attention?” she asked.
“Lose,” he said.
Yeah, that’d do it, all right. “I, um, I might lose a lot, anyway,” she said.
There was only one cookie left on the plate, and he broke it in half, taking one piece for himself and handing her the other. “If you thought that, you probably wouldn’t be quite as interested in doing it.”
She had to grin. “Well—maybe.” Or even, definitely.
“How about I talk to Gabler”—who was the SAIC of the PPD, and so, was ultimately in charge of their security—“and find out some logistics,” he said. “Then, you can present the idea a little better.”
She nodded gratefully. He knew her parents about as well as she did. But, since they hadn’t even let her finish out her high school season, she wasn’t very optimistic about them allowing her to play in an even more public, and difficult to secure, arena.
Which completely and totally sucked, as far as she was concerned.
“You might be able to talk them into it,” he said. “You never know.”
And
, as all New Englanders could personally attest, October 2004 was proof that strange things actually could happen. “I don’t think I’ll hold my breath,” she said.
He nodded. “I’m afraid that’s a wise choice,” he said.
“SO,” BETH SAID on the phone, when Meg called her after supper that night. “How’s it going with Josh?”
Meg shrugged. “I don’t know. I guess it’s better. I still feel like a snake, though.”
“But, you’re going to go on Friday,” Beth said, “right?”
The Prom. “Yeah,” Meg said. “It seems like mostly everyone’s going with friends, so maybe it won’t feel as weird.”
“What are you going to wear?” Beth asked. “The blue one?”
Her mother had, after a few “don’t you think we could come up with something a little more appropriate?” remarks, finally agreed. “Yeah,” Meg said. “What are you wearing?”
“Black,” Beth said.
Naturally. “Is it like, completely sultry?” Meg asked.
Beth laughed. “Yeah. Is yours?”
Hmmm. “Slightly,” Meg said.
“Not everyone can carry it off,” Beth said in a kindly one-day-when-you’re-as-cool-as-I-am voice.
Right. Besides, it was probably better for her not to look sultry, since she and Josh were trying so damn hard to be entirely platonic—although she had a sneaking suspicion that they might backslide a bit during the post-Prom parties.
Beth let out her breath. “Stuart wants to get a room at the Sheraton downtown.”
Meg laughed. “What, he won’t spring for the Four Seasons?” “I’m serious,” Beth said.
Oh. Whoa. “Wow,” Meg said.
“Yeah,” Beth said.
Double wow. “Are you, um—what do you think?” Meg asked.
Beth sighed. “I don’t know. I mean, it might be—it seems like a way to—I don’t know.”
It was quiet for a minute.
“And don’t ask me if I love him,” Beth said, “okay?”
There was no need to do so, since she had just answered the question. And, actually, she’d never had any sense that Beth really liked the guy, although she seemed to find him mildly entertaining—and enjoyed the fact that, because Stuart had a mustache, her stepfather openly and vehemently disapproved of him.
“Besides, it might work out,” Beth said, sounding very defensive. “And maybe he’ll come down and visit me in New York—” because she had decided to go to Columbia—“and I’ll go up and see him in Cambridge, and—well, what the hell, you know?”
It was quiet again, and Meg knew that if she didn’t say something, Beth would take silence as condemnation.
She paused for a couple of extra seconds to think of the right words. “If you care about him, and you’re sure he’s going to be nice to you, then, yeah, maybe it’s a good idea.”
Which must not have been the right words, because they just kind of—hung there.
“But,” Beth said.
It was impossible to dissemble around Beth. “But, it kind of sounds like you just want to get it over with more than anything else,” Meg said.
“What’s wrong with that?” Beth asked. Defensively.
An excellent question. “Nothing’s wrong with it,” Meg said. “In fact, sometimes I wish I’d gone that way with Josh.” And it was—very, very faintly—within the realm of possibility that she still might, if the post-Prom parties were as rowdy and devil-may-care as she suspected they were going to be.
“I don’t get why you didn’t,” Beth said. “He’s a really sweet guy, he’s crazy about you, and he would have made sure that it was romantic and all.”
Yes. All three of those things were true. Meg sighed. “And I was still going to break up with him, no matter what, so it wouldn’t have been fair.”
It was silent for what seemed like a very long time.
“So, you think you’d have been using him, and I’d be using Stuart,” Beth said.
Maybe. Meg frowned. “Well, it’s not exactly cruel and unusual punishment.” She hoped. “But—yeah. Potentially.”
There was yet another pause.
“You know,” Beth said, finally. “I kind of wish our mothers knew that we’re actually taking this stuff seriously.”
Oh, yeah, that sounded like a great idea. “What, are you kidding?” Meg asked. “My mother and I talk openly, and comfortably, about sex all the time.”
Beth laughed. “Thanks, Meg. Now I’m going to have major nightmares tonight.”
Yes, she probably was, too.
After they hung up, she was lying on her bed, reading As I Lay Dying, when her mother knocked lightly on the open door, and then came in.
If there was a God, the President had no plans to discuss any form of sex in any way whatsoever.
“What are you reading?” her mother asked.
Meg held up the book.
“Are you enjoying it?” her mother asked.
Meg shook her head.
Her mother smiled, sitting down on the end of the bed. “You know, you can occasionally take a break, Meg.”
This, from the woman who averaged less than four hours of sleep a night?
“How’s Beth?” her mother asked. “Have you talked to her lately?”
Was that a friendly question—or a pointed, probing one? Not that she thought White House flunkies were quite capable of listening in on people’s private conversations, and then running straight to the President and telling her everything, in a—futile—attempt to curry favor. “Fine,” she said, cautiously. “Waiting for graduation, mostly.”
Her mother nodded. “Well, I hope you’ll get to spend some time with her this summer.”
Okay, so it had been a random query, without any apparent ulterior motives. “Are we going to go up there at all,” Meg asked, “or just to Camp David?”
“I don’t know,” her mother said. “I thought we might try for a week or two in August. And, among other things, we’ll have that trip to Geneva in July.”
Meg grinned. “You make it sound like a vacation.”
“The glass is half full,” her mother said.
“Wait,” Meg pretended to reach for a pen, “let me write that down.”
Her mother smiled.
Speaking of which. “What are you going to say in your speech?” Meg asked. Her mother had been invited to give the main address at her graduation—about which, Meg was both embarrassed and pleased.
“You mean, at the school,” her mother said.
Meg nodded.
“Oh, I don’t know,” her mother said. “About how you all have only just begun, and can choose many paths on the highway of life, I suppose.”
Meg looked at her uncertainly. “That’s a joke, right?”
Her mother shrugged. “Shouldering adult responsibilities, seeing graduation as both an ending and a new beginning—”
“Now I know you’re kidding,” Meg said, almost positive.
“Well, what would you expect me to say?” her mother asked.
“I don’t know.” Meg frowned. “I was kind of hoping you’d tell some jokes.”
“Jokes.” Her mother frowned, too. “I see.”
“We could get Jon Talbot’s father to come,” Meg said. Who was an extremely conservative Senator from Alabama, and not one of her mother’s favorites.
“I’ll think of some jokes,” her mother said.
Good. Not that her mother didn’t always tell jokes—too many, her advisors worried—in her speeches. “You won’t say stuff about me, right?” Meg asked.
“I expect I’ll have to mention you,” her mother said.
Talk about embarrassing. If there had been a cool cloth handy, she would have put it on her forehead. “You won’t say you’re proud of me or anything, will you?”
Her mother laughed. “If you think about it, there would be a lot more commotion if I went, and didn’t speak.”
Meg nodded. Either way, though, it was going to be something of a cir
cus.
“I think it will be more low-key than you expect,” her mother said, apparently reading her mind.
One could only hope. “Do you really think so?” Meg asked.
Her mother hesitated. “Well—”
“Neither do I,” Meg said.
4
IT WAS THURSDAY, and Meg woke up in a very good mood. A hell of a mood. The switchboard, which she used as an alarm clock, only had to call once, even. And, it was sunny.
“Yes,” she said to Vanessa, who stretched and purred. “We do need to put on ‘I Love Rock and Roll.’” She clicked on to one of her favorite playlists, and “I Love Rock and Roll” came on. Loudly.
She decided to wear her Williams sweatshirt—half because she liked it; half because it would annoy her parents a little. And this wasn’t a day to wear an unripped pair of jeans.
The playlist was a rowdy one, full of songs like “Respect” and “Brick House” and “We’ve Gotta Get Out of This Place”—including the hilarious Partridge Family version, and as she got ready for school, she sang them to Vanessa.
Who didn’t seem to be overly impressed.
At the Presidential Dining Room, she stopped in the doorway, seeing that the rest of her family was already at the table.
“Good morning, my little subjects,” she said.
“Oh, Christ,” Steven said. “Not that again.”
Neal shook his head. “Not that.”
“Good morning,” her parents said, her father frowning at Steven for swearing.
Meg stayed in the doorway. “The proper greeting is, ‘Good morning, dear Queen.’”
Her family continued eating breakfast.
“Well,” she said, and swept to her seat.
“What are the odds of Her Majesty returning to her chambers and putting on something more presentable?” her father asked.
Meg pushed up one sweatshirt sleeve, amused. “The Queen is content, as is.” She picked up her orange juice, then stopped, looking around the table. “No kippers? I say, you Americans are a savage lot.”
Both of her parents laughed.
“What are the odds of your going and changing, Meg?” her mother asked.
“I like to think I change and grow every day,” Meg said, and very solemnly sipped some juice.
Long Live the Queen Page 3