Long May She Reign

by Ellen Emerson White

  Susan nodded. “It’s a damn shame,” she said, and they both grinned.

  * * *

  ON HER WAY up to her room, she called Jack, who was very upset and told her he was on his way over, hanging up almost before she had time to say “Hello.” So she called Beth, instead, who was also upset, but somewhat less so, because she had managed to get through to Preston earlier, and had heard most of the accurate details already, including the fact that the President her very own self was flying up in the morning—information which had yet to be released officially.

  “Want to hear the sad part?” Meg asked.

  Beth laughed nervously. “All of it seems pretty sad, so far.”

  True enough. “The bone I cracked is actually one I didn’t break the first time around,” Meg said. One of the very few.

  Beth’s laugh was more normal this time. “That is sad.”

  Yeah. It was. Hurt like a bitch, too.

  Right after they finished talking, the medium-secure line rang. She wasn’t going to pick up, but the caller ID showed Trudy’s number.

  “Are you all right, Meghan?” Trudy asked, when she answered.

  “Mostly, yeah, thank you,” Meg said. Although she’d be better after she took a couple of pain pills, and possibly another Valium. “But, Mom and Dad flipped.”

  “Can you blame them?” Trudy asked.

  Not really. “Mom’s flying up here tomorrow,” Meg said.

  “Yes, your father told me,” Trudy said approvingly. “That’s as it should be.”

  Months overdue, even. “How long do you think Dad’ll be able to hold off until he shows up, too?” Meg asked.

  “Tomorrow afternoon, I expect,” Trudy said.

  Probably, yeah. Meg let out her breath. “She looked like a nice, safe grandmother lady.”

  “I know, that’s one of the reasons I called,” Trudy said, sounding unhappy. “I’m sorry.”

  Well, hell, it wasn’t her fault that one of her peers had gone around the bend. And if the lady turned out to claim to be some twisted version of a Catholic, that wouldn’t be her fault, either.

  “I’m going to come visit you on Saturday,” Trudy said.

  Which was very thoughtful, but not necessary. Meg shook her head. “You don’t have to do that. I mean, it’s really nice of you, but—”

  Trudy cut her off. “I already have my reservations, dear. I’ll be there in the afternoon, and if you want, we can have supper together, unless you and your friends already have plans.”

  Of course she wanted. “I think C-Span’ll be showing the White House Correspondents’ Dinner,” Meg said.

  “Well,” Trudy said, and Meg could almost hear the smile in her voice. “Then, we’ll have to order room service or takeout, won’t we.”

  Yep.

  She was just about to check her voice-mail when Jack rushed through the half-open door, breathing hard.

  “Did you run the whole way?” she asked.

  He nodded, panting. “Except for the part when I was being sly, so that reporters wouldn’t notice me.” He took off the baseball cap which had been pulled down to cover most of his face, and she was offended to see that it was a Yankee’s cap.

  “What’s that?” she asked, even though she knew perfectly well what it was.

  He flicked the hat out into the hallway, where she hoped it landed in the most undignified way possible. “Wore it on purpose, Meg, so they’d figure there was no way I was someone you were dating.”

  Oh. “That was sly,” she said.

  He nodded, looking very pleased with himself.

  Not the method she would have picked, but it had been effective, in its skin-crawling way.

  He sat down on the bed and kissed her so hard that they didn’t talk for a while.

  “You all right?” he asked finally.

  She nodded. “Yeah. Not my ideal day, maybe.”

  “Not mine, either,” he said.

  No, probably not.

  “Saw some guys outside on my way over here, looked like they were sealing up a mailbox,” he said against her mouth.

  Meaning that people from the advance team, and her mother’s security detail, and the White House Communications Agency, and so forth, were starting to arrive, and the complicated logistical dance of preparing for the President’s imminent arrival was under way.

  “We having company tomorrow?” he asked.

  An intuitive leap; how nice. “We are,” she said.

  He nodded. “So, there’s not a chance in hell I’m going to get to spend the night here tonight.”

  Alas, no. Among other things, the WHCA people were going to appear at her door soon, to sweep her room, and install new high-tech super-secure phone lines, and that sort of thing. But, it was still pretty funny that that had been his first thought.

  They had barely started kissing again when the drop-line rang, and they both looked at it.

  “Aw, crap,” he said, sighed, and took his hands off her breasts.

  While she talked to each member of her family in turn—Steven’s sole contribution was a muttered “Sorry you got hurt again and stuff,” Jack picked up her psychology book and started going through the chapter they were supposed to have completed by Friday. He used a blue pen to underline various phrases and sentences as he read, which was an unexpected bonus, since it meant that she might be able to get away with just skimming those specific parts later on.

  “I really need her to do this,” she said quietly, when she was talking to her father, since she was worried that his feelings might be hurt.

  “I know, Meg,” he answered. “It’ll be good for both of you.”

  “But, I’m guessing you’re coming in the afternoon, right?” she asked.

  “Yes,” he said.

  When she hung up the phone, she was amused to see that Jack felt compelled to finish the section he was reading and neatly close the book before he kissed her again.

  Except, maybe they should hold off for another minute. “Hang on, okay?” she said, picked up the drop-line again, and asked to be connected to Steven directly.

  “What?” he said impatiently, when he came on the phone. “I already talked to you and everything.”

  “I’m okay, Steven,” she said. “I really am. And my agents were excellent. Fast as hell.”

  There was a heavy silence on the other end.

  “So, what’s the deal?” he asked. “Now, we’ve gotta be afraid of old ladies?”

  “No, she was just a nut,” Meg said. “It’s not going to be, you know, a trend.”

  “Man, it better not be,” he said grimly.

  Yeah. As of today, Secret Service profiling guidelines had become much more complex. “I just wanted to be sure you and Neal are okay,” she said.

  He made an extremely offensive noise, and she decided to take that as a yes.

  They talked for another few minutes, and she got him relaxed enough to tell her more about the new dog her family had, in fact, adopted over the weekend—a shepherd/collie mix they had named Sam, who had only had two accidents in the house so far, and was mostly sleeping on Steven’s bed at night, and when they finally hung up, she felt a lot better—and hoped that he did, too.

  Jack closed her psychology book for the second time. “More making out now?”

  Hell, yeah. Ideally, a lot more.

  They were in grave danger of getting too carried away for her to be capable of answering the door, when the inevitable knocks from WHCA and everyone started to come, so she pulled away from him, and patted the side of his face lightly. He nodded, took a few deep breaths, zipped himself back up, and then moved so that they were sitting next to each other at the top of the bed, with his arm around her.

  “So, we’re not going to do it tonight?” he asked.

  Could he maybe try to be less phallocentric? She shook her head.

  “That way,” he said, “when I meet her, I could be thinking, ‘Hey, lady, you may run the world, but I nailed your daughter last night.’
”

  Jesus. Could he possibly think that was funny? She didn’t look at him, because she was afraid to see whatever expression might be on his face.

  “We kid, because we love,” he said.

  It was a joke. Okay. A person could make an inappropriate joke, without being a sociopathic—

  He cleared his throat. “And I meant the part about the, uh, love.”

  Christ, if she was going to spend the rest of her life associating any kind of remotely barbed male humor with—she realized what he had just said, and stared at him. In fact, it was entirely possible that her mouth fell open.

  Jack flushed slightly. “Okay, so not only did I say it first, which’ll get me drummed out of the Guy Corps, but I just said it to someone who I’m pretty sure isn’t going to say it back.”

  She was still staring at him—frowning at him, more accurately—when she realized that he was waiting for her to respond.

  Which she didn’t.

  He looked disappointed. Crushed, in fact. “Jesus, you really aren’t going to say it, are you.”

  Either he was someone she could talk to honestly—or he wasn’t. “No, I think I am,” she said. “But, I’m going to need a few minutes to get there, okay?” Get her nerve up, more precisely.

  He nodded, but his jaw was clenched.

  Damn. “Could I—” She stopped. In certain ways, this was almost worse than facing a raving, knife-wielding maniac. Very dangerous territory. “Would it be okay if I told you about today, first, and how completely, freaking terrified I was?”

  His body relaxed, and then, he tightened his arm around her shoulders. “Sounds like a good idea.”

  She looked at him. “I won’t kid, because I love.”

  “Sounds even better,” he said.

  54

  THE PRESIDENT WAS very prompt.

  At any rate, she arrived at the campus on time, and appeared to have only the briefest of press conferences, followed by an exchange of handshakes with college officials, outside. But even though there were agents and aides everywhere, indicating that she was in the building, it seemed to take a very long time for her to show up on the third floor, and Meg limped down the hall to try and figure out where the hell she was.

  Then, the elevator opened, and the President appeared, unabashedly elegant in a jazzy red ensemble, albeit sans chapeau. She and her mother both had to stop short, to keep from bumping into each other, Meg almost losing her balance, and an already potentially stressful encounter seemed that much more so, especially given the fact that there were so many people clustered in the stairwell and hallway, watching every move they made.

  She wasn’t sure where the designated holding room was—the basement Common Room was her best guess—but maybe they should have arranged to meet there alone, first, instead of being forced to exchange greetings in front of such a large group.

  Her mother glanced at her cast so swiftly that Meg was almost positive that no one else in the very crowded corridor had caught the deep anguish in her expression. But then, it was gone, and she was already working the hall, introducing herself to people with a dignified, but approachable, “Hello, I’m Meg’s mother.”

  Tammy was clearly dazzled—to the degree that she actually curtsied, and Juliana and Mary Elizabeth, and most of the other people from the entry, were all so busy trying to be cool, that it was obvious that they were pretty impressed, while Susan was standing off to the side, looking, in her polite way, suspicious, and maybe even downright judgmental.

  For whatever damn reason.

  Jack had come over early, kindly bringing coffee along with him, and while he hadn’t dressed up, his Hawaiian shirt was tucked in neatly, and fastened one button higher than usual. He stumbled a little, both over his feet, and his words, when the President shook his hand, and Meg wasn’t sure whether to feel sorry for him—or laugh.

  It was frustrating that her mother had yet to give her anything resembling full eye contact—or any real physical contact, even—but at least she seemed to be making a good impression on almost everyone else, with only Susan’s reserved frown to mar an otherwise clean sweep of her entrymates.

  “You’re eating a little more?” her mother asked in a low voice.

  Oh. Wait. Was that actual, undivided attention? Meg nodded. “I’m trying.”

  Her mother touched her arm for a second, right above the sling. “Okay, I’m glad.”

  Which was about much more than her recent caloric intake, of course, and Meg caught on to the fact that they were both unbelievably upset about the attack—and entirely unable to show it, in front of so many witnesses, and that was why they couldn’t look at each other, or even say a satisfactory hello. She was about to suggest that they go into her room for a minute, by themselves, but Winifred came sidling over and murmured something to her mother, who listened, and then shook her head. Winifred nodded, and stepped away, already lifting her phone to her ear before she had even made it all the way out to the landing.

  It was a typical interlude in their lives, but for some reason, it seemed to throw her mother off that much more, and even though this was the person who had given birth to her, Meg couldn’t think of anything to say to her, either. Which made her feel a tiny twinge of panic, to go along with the general discomfort, and awkwardness, and—

  “You played tennis,” her mother said.

  Something she had only mentioned in passing, a few days earlier, and, at the time, her mother had seemed either not to be listening—or not to be sufficiently impressed by the information.

  Or it might just have made her nervous, because of the negative repercussions for her knee.

  “How’d you hit?” her mother asked.

  Meg couldn’t not grin, feeling—well, okay—proud as hell of herself, even though she wasn’t likely to be out there again anytime soon. Shouldn’t be, anyway. “The ball pretty much has to come right to me, but I wasn’t bad. Especially the forehand. I mean, I got really tired after about fifteen minutes, but I played.”

  Her mother smiled at her. “When you come home, you’ll have to show me.”

  Yeah.

  And just like that, it seemed so good to have her here—looking incredibly goddamn confident, and powerful, and hell, presidential—that, if there hadn’t been so many people around, Meg was almost sure that she might lean her head on her mother’s shoulder. Or maybe even—perish the thought—hug her.

  Which her mother must have picked up on, because she moved a step closer. “I can’t tell you how happy I am to see you,” she whispered.

  At the end of the hall, some of the hostility went out of Susan’s posture, and she nodded, seemingly to herself.

  “Maybe the two of us should—” her mother started.

  Upon which, Winifred reappeared, and her mother inclined her head to listen to whatever she was being told, and then nodded once.

  “I’m sorry, you all will have to excuse me for a moment,” she said, and went into Meg’s room, Winifred right behind her.

  “Is everything okay, or is it some kind of national emergency?” Jack asked.

  Hard to tell. “Either,” Meg said, and shrugged. “Or both. I don’t know.”

  “Hmmm,” he said. “Kind of makes me nervous.”

  It probably should, given the panoply of dire crises which could be arising, even as they all stood here casually in a college dormitory corridor on a partly cloudy Thursday morning. “Can you do me a favor?” she asked. “I need to spend some time with her, but I’ll call you if she’s going to be here long enough to have coffee or something?”

  “Sure.” He glanced at his watch. “I’ll go catch the rest of Art History.”

  Unquestionably a swell, if astoundingly academic, guy.

  Once it was apparent that the President was going to be engaged for an unknown length of time, everyone else started to wander away, too, but she caught Susan’s eye and motioned towards the restroom. Susan shook her head, but Meg motioned again, and, after frowning, Susan nodded a
nd changed her direction to walk in there, instead. Meg followed her in, gesturing for the Secret Service agent who was posted just inside—a woman she didn’t know—to step out momentarily, while Susan leaned against one of the sinks, folding her arms.

  “You were expecting Medea?” Meg asked, when they were alone.

  Susan looked worried. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

  Oh, for Christ’s sakes.

  “How’d you hit,” Susan said, with undisguised disgust.

  What was wrong with that? Meg shrugged. “Seemed like a fair question to me.” A perfectly legitimate question. The obvious question, even.

  “She’s your mother,” Susan said. “She’s supposed to say, ‘Hooray!,’ ‘Wow!,’ ‘Good for you, you spunky little thing!’”

  If any of that were to take place, she, personally, would hide behind the nearest large object until, with luck, the President came to her senses again.

  “She was supposed to hug you,” Susan said.

  Well, that was a more valid criticism, if still presumptuous. But, in all fairness— “I was probably supposed to hug her,” Meg said.

  Susan nodded. “Yeah.”

  When, and if, she met the McAllisters again, she was going to have to remind herself to be openly, cruelly critical about them, afterwards, regardless of whether the reaction was warranted. Meg shrugged. “She’s just private. It’s totally different, when nobody’s looking.”

  And her best guess was, that a few minutes from now, her mother was going to hug her like crazy—and then make some sort of bitchy remark about her “If Lost or Stolen” shirt.

  “That’s a little scary, then, because in public, you always seem like a polite, perfect family,” Susan said.

  Meg shrugged again. “When we’re alone, we’re a polite, imperfect family.”

  “Well, okay, so are we,” Susan said, sounding somewhat quelled.

  Since families could mostly only choose between being polite and imperfect—or impolite and imperfect.

  “We should really just leave it at that,” Susan said, “right?”

  Yup.

  When they went out to the hallway, her mother was opening her door to see where she was, and Winifred was walking away, back on her cell phone.