First Daughter

by Mitali Perkins

  When the last of the reporters’ cars finally drove away, she went downstairs again and found her grandfather sitting alone in the kitchen with his head in his hands. “Poppa, what would happen to the cows if you kept them in a narrow stall all day?” she asked, not bothering with any preamble.

  He looked up, startled. “You know we don’t do that here, Sparrow. We let them graze.”

  “And why do you do that?”

  “You know that, too—they seem much happier. And we’re convinced they produce better-tasting milk as a result.”

  “What about their health?”

  “Oh, there’s no question that cows who roam freely are more healthy.”

  Sameera sat down opposite him. “Then wouldn’t that hold true for a sixty-something woman, too?” she asked in a gentle voice.

  He was quiet. “I ... I don’t want to lose her, Sparrow,” he said, his voice breaking.

  “I know, Poppa. I know.” She stood up and kissed him on the top of his head, just like he always did to her. “Now let’s go lock that gate. I’ll drive. We need to talk about the stereo system Dad wants to put in Ran’s Jeep.”

  chapter 23

  Sameera’s family spent every waking hour the next day trying to convince her to stay through August. “We can handle the paparazzi,” Gran insisted, popping another relaxant into her mouth. “Your Poppa’s keeping them off the property now.”

  But Sameera didn’t budge. She packed and got ready, Jingle watching her every move with a concerned look on his face.

  “Sparrow!” Aunt Bev called. “They’re here!”

  Sameera walked carefully downstairs in her high heels as Jingle barked out a ferocious warning. “It’s okay,” she told him. “It’s not a reporter this time. They’re all outside the gate.”

  Tara Colby looked crisp, polished, and completely out of place in the Campbell living room with its wood-paneled, book-lined walls, big fireplace, rag rugs, chintz couches, and matching curtains. An enormous woman with metal gray hair stood behind Tara, clutching a large briefcase.

  “Hi, Tara. Thanks for coming.”

  “Sammy!” Tara said, coming over with both hands outstretched. “You look terrific. Wow. And that’s without any help from Constance.” She sounded genuinely impressed.

  Yes, what do you think I am, a dunderhead? Anybody can learn how to put makeup on once someone else shows you what looks good on you. And anybody can learn how to wear the right clothes— especially when you’ve got a suitcase full of expensive stuff that an expert stylist chose just for you. She was wearing a long denim skirt and a flowery white silk shirt with an Empire waist, along with the strappy white sandals she’d worn the night of the dance. She’d blown her hair dry for the first time all summer, and her foundation-covered skin was back to feeling like plastic.

  Gran, Miranda, Aunt Bev, and Jingle came over to flank Sameera like three warrior women and one wolf who intended to keep her where she belonged—with them.

  My tribe, Sameera thought fondly. “This is my cousin Miranda,” she said. “My grandmother, Sarah Campbell, and my aunt, Beverly Campbell. This is Tara Colby, everyone.”

  “Lovely to meet you all,” answered Tara. “And this is Westfield, the finest tutor in D.C. She knows exactly how to juggle a good education with the pressures of a campaign. She was my tutor twenty years ago, believe it or not, and we’re still good friends. I brought her along so that all of you can get acquainted.”

  The large woman thrust out a hand, and Sameera’s knuckles were crushed inside it. Yow! Sameera thought. What kind of a name is “Westfield”? No first name? Sounds like some kind of butler. And why did she REALLY get dragged along on this trip?

  “Who’s Sammy?” Miranda asked, purposely sounding naive, even though the whole family knew the history behind Sameera’s fake identity.

  “Sammy Righton—America’s next first daughter,” Tara answered, gesturing dramatically at Sameera.

  Nobody said anything.

  “Would you like some tea?” Gran asked finally, breaking the awkward silence. “Miranda just put some oatmeal scotchies in the oven.”

  The big woman made a guttural sound of appreciation but still didn’t speak. The strong, silent type, Sameera thought.

  “I don’t eat sugar,” Tara said. “Or white flour.”

  “Figures,” Sameera heard Gran mutter as she herded Jingle and Miranda out of the room. Aunt Bev followed them.

  “Now, Sammy, mind telling me what made you change your mind?” Tara asked.

  “Oh, I started to miss the excitement of the campaign. It was kind of fun being there, at least when I wasn’t exhausted.” That was true. She didn’t need to go into complicated details about keeping Gran and Miranda safe.

  “You think getting nasty coverage in the press is fun?” Tara asked, with that tinkly, discordant noise that was supposed to be a laugh. “Maybe you are designed to be a ‘political progeny,’ Sammy.”

  Maybe I am, Sameera thought. It takes a person with both feet on the ground to enjoy this ride. And ten fingers firmly on her keyboard. “I’m ready for anything,” she said out loud.

  “Since you’re coming back early, we thought Westfield could get started early on the tutoring.”

  “Now? But it’s only the beginning of August.”

  “I know. But three or four hours a day starting right now would make up for time you’re bound to lose in October when the campaign really heats up.”

  Miranda came in, carrying a loaded tray, and Westfield immediately reached for a still-steaming oatmeal scotchie. She took a big bite. “Wow,” she said with her mouth full, speaking for the first time. “These taste just like my grandmother’s. I need this recipe. Could you make me a copy?”

  Miranda smiled. “We don’t use recipes. Campbell bakers just ... go with the flow. But we’re about to mix up another batch of dough right now. Want to come watch?”

  “Oh, yes,” the woman said eagerly. “Then I can write down every step. Do you mind, Tara?”

  “Not at all. I’ll come with you, too, while Sammy packs,” Tara said. “I actually have been wanting to talk to you particularly, Miranda. And your parents.”

  Aha! The first clue to the ulterior motive. “I’m packed already,” Sameera said. She didn’t want to miss anything the Bench was planning to accomplish during this unexpected trip. Especially when it came to her precious Maryfield relatives.

  “Gran wants to know if the two of you would like to join us for supper,” Miranda said. “You can meet my father and grandfather, and there’s plenty of food.”

  Westfield glanced hopefully at Tara.

  “Our flight leaves at nine,” Tara answered. “And the ride to the airport only takes two hours. We should be able to stay.”

  “It takes three, usually,” Sameera corrected.

  “Not in my car.”

  Inside the kitchen, Westfield immediately donned an apron and started mixing dough with Aunt Bev. Under Gran’s watchful eye, of course.

  “Sammy’s going to miss this home cooking,” Tara said, shaking her head. “She’s going to miss all of you. I know how important her relatives are to her.”

  Miranda, Aunt Bev, and Gran looked so sad when they heard this that Sameera chose the first thing that popped into her head to change the subject. “I need something to say to the reporters at the airport,” she toldTara. “Does Wilder have anything for me?”

  Tara took the bait, flipped open her cell phone, and dialed a number. “Marcus? Hi. Sammy needs a phrase to explain the Maryfield exit.” She listened, nodded, and scribbled a few words on a piece of paper.

  “Try that,” she ordered, handing the paper to Sameera after she hung up.

  “I’m sort of a daddy’s girl. He likes to keep an eye on me.” Sameera tried to make the words seem natural, but they sounded stilted and awkward.

  “That’s good, Sparrow,” Miranda said. “But add a little attitude. ‘I’m sort of a daddy’s girl, I guess.”’ She giggled and flipped a wris
t. “He likes to keep an eye on me. You know how it is.”

  “That’s perfect!” Tara crowed. “You’re perfect. In fact, that’s one of the reasons why I came; I wanted to meet you.”

  “You did?” Miranda asked.

  “Definitely. I think you could be a huge asset to your uncle, with your zest and sparkle. Besides, your friendship with Sammy is so sweet that it makes her seem even more like the girl next door.”

  So that was it. She wanted to use Miranda’s all-American appeal.

  Aunt Bev, Gran, and Miranda were staring wide-eyed at Tara, who kept going. “Westfield could tutor both of you; that’s why I brought her along. I figured that after meeting her—and me—your family might agree to send you to us this fall.”

  Miranda gasped. “Really? You mean I could be part of Uncle James’s campaign? AND GET ONE OF THOSE AWESOME MAKEOVERS MYSELF?”

  “Of course, although with your natural beauty and grace, Constance and Vanessa won’t need to do much. We’d work out the timing, pay for your tickets, and give you firsthand exposure to good campaigning that would equip you in the future for all kinds of things.”

  Aunt Bev didn’t look convinced. “You’ve got chores to do around here, young lady,” she said, giving her daughter a significant look that meant “remember your grandmother’s condition.”

  Miranda’s face fell.

  “Her uncle and aunt have offered to cover the costs of a housekeeper,” Tara said quickly. “Liz even suggested flying Mrs. Mathews from the Residence out here to the farm to help out. What do you think, Sammy?”

  It might be good for Mrs. Mathews, Sameera thought, but Gran needs to get back to work. And Miranda needs to get back to the Holsteins, who don’t get the word exploitation. “I’d love Miranda’s company, of course,” she said out loud. “But Mom and I will figure things out, okay?”

  That laugh again. “Of course. But your mother’s the one who convinced me that your cousin could be great company for you.”

  Mom was right; it would be wonderful to have Miranda around! But as Sameera took stock of Miranda’s glowing, eager expression, she knew she had to think of her cousin first. I won’t let you use my cousin. Ever.

  When it was time to eat, they gathered around the dining table. Candlelight sparkled on the silverware and crystal. The antique grandfather clock that had accompanied one of their ancestors from Scotland was ticking out the minutes as precisely as usual. Jingle was sleeping across Sameera’s feet like he always did, and she reached down every minute or two to pat him. She was going to miss him; she was going to miss them all.

  Poppa bowed his head to say grace, and they all followed suit, even Tara and Westfield. “Bless our small sparrow, Lord—” he started, but he couldn’t finish before his voice got choky.

  “She’s coming back soon, for goodness’ sake,” Gran said briskly, but Sameera noticed she’d wiped her nose on her napkin before speaking. Gran usually hated it when people used her good cloth napkins to blow their noses. Get a tissue, she’d admonish, and now she herself had become a culprit.

  “The way things are going, James might lose this election big-time and have to figure out what to do with his life,” Uncle Jake said. “Maybe he’ll consider joining us on the farm.”

  “You tell your dad to get on his knees when things get tough,” Poppa told Sameera, his voice still gruff. “Most of our presidents had a deep faith, even if they weren’t churchgoers when they moved into the White House. Abe Lincoln didn’t start out as a praying president, but that’s how he ended up. The same with Ronald Reagan.”

  “I’ll have to talk to James again about going to church,” Gran added. “Liz told me to stop going on and on about it, but I think he needs some kind of encouragement now that his own mother’s gone.”

  “You don’t have to worry about that; we’re on top of it,” Tara said. “The American people want a churchgoing president. James and Liz have been attending a service every Sunday in D.C.”

  “Well, I’m not sure about those motives,” Gran answered. “But I know that his parents were devout, and that they liked to see their son attending church.”

  “It’s always sounded to me like they put a lot of pressure on him about it,” Poppa said slowly.

  Westfield reached for another huge helping of the taco salad. “The onions just make this salad, don’t they?” She’d cubed the onions carefully, following Gran’s instructions.

  “Come along, Sparr—I mean Sammy,” Tara said. “Let’s go, Westfield. We have to hit the road.”

  Sameera knew that her cousin had caught Tara’s slip of the tongue. Apart from making eye contact with each other, though, neither cousin let her expression get anywhere near triumphant.

  Tara’s rental car was a brand-new sapphire blue BMW “Figures,” Sameera muttered, and then was struck by how much she sounded like her grandmother.

  She kept the good-byes short and crisp.

  “I’ll be back soon,” she promised her aunt and uncle. Take care of Miranda. And Gran. And number 137.

  “I’ll blog,” she told her cousin. Stay focused on what’s real, Ran.

  “I’ll be fine,” she assured her grandparents. Set Gran free, Poppa. Keep writing in that journal, Gran.

  When she went to get in the car, she realized that Westfield was in the backseat and that Tara had climbed in the passenger seat.

  “Can you get us to the airport in two hours, Sammy?” Tara asked, tossing her the keys.

  “I’ll try,” Sameera said, climbing in the driver’s seat. There were times when Tara Colby’s shrewd people skills were easy to appreciate, and this was definitely one of them.

  Jingle followed the car, barking his confusion and distress over her leavetaking, and Sameera glanced at the rearview mirror until he became a small golden fleck in the distance. It took the five miles on the property to get used to the BMW, which handled like a dream compared to the secondhand Jeep. She counted off the familiar landmarks of the farm one by one until they reached the gate, where a dozen cars were waiting with engines running. The posse of reporters followed them to Toledo and into the airport.

  “I’m sort of a daddy’s girl,” Sameera said at least a dozen times, smiling widely. She felt obligated to use the phrase, since she’d asked for it, even though it was so ridiculous. “He likes to keep an eye on me.”

  “Of course, I love it there,” she answered, when they asked if she was going to miss her life in Maryfield. At least I’m telling the truth, she thought, accidentally flipping her wrist so hard she heard a joint crack.

  chapter 24

  “Constance and Vanessa are in town, and I’ve lined them up for another session before the convention,” Tara said as the limo took them from Dulles Airport toward the District of Columbia.

  “I have a lot of clothes I haven’t worn yet,” Sameera protested. “And I’m starting to get the basics of how to put makeup on for the cameras.”

  “You did a nice job on your own, Sammy, but you’re still open to learning, aren’t you?” Tara asked. “Besides, you have to look absolutely perfect for the convention.”

  Westfield frowned at Tara. “What’s the matter with the way she looked before your people did that makeover? I watched the coverage of her arrival at LAX in June. She looked modest and sweet, like a girl her age ought to look. And I loved that poncho.”

  Tara ignored the comment. Considering the source, I think I will, too, Sameera thought. Westfield was wearing a boxy, outdated suit that didn’t fit her too well.

  “What am I doing until the convention?” Sameera asked Tara. “It’s three weeks away, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, but we didn’t know you were coming back early, now did we? Your parents thought it would be good for Westfield to get started with some math tutoring while you have a little time on your hands.”

  Oh. So I came back early to do geometry. How fun.

  “I’ve already e-mailed your teachers in Brussels to find out where you are,” Westfield added. “We’ll
get you up to speed, Sparrow. Don’t you worry. First session tomorrow at ten?”

  “But tomorrow’s Friday,” Sameera said.

  “No use putting off till Monday what you can start on Friday,” Westfield said heartily. “Are we set, then?”

  Sameera nodded reluctantly, thinking of all the terrible grades she’d gotten in math through the years. Westfield was used to tutoring the brilliant offspring of other political candidates; she was in for a rude surprise when it came to the combo of James Righton’s daughter and math.

  The limo stopped in front of one of those familiar-but-impersonal State Department apartment buildings that overlooked the green lawns of the Mall. “Do you want us to walk you up?” Tara asked as she and Westfield walked Sameera into the lobby. “It’s apartment eight-oh-nine.”

  “No, thanks. Mom and Dad are there waiting for me.” She’d called from the airport, so she knew it was true.

  “Oh, and Sammy, try and avoid being interviewed or photographed until the convention, will you?” Tara added, almost as an afterthought.

  “Why?” Sameera asked. “I thought that the more press coverage we get before the election, the better.”

  “Yes, but it has to be the right kind of press coverage. We don’t want any more shots of you covered in cow manure from head to toe.”

  “You mean muck.”

  “Muck, manure, same thing.”

  “Did Wilder manage to get me out of the muck? I haven’t read his posts lately.”

  That averted glance again. “He ... posted something about how you get cleaned up after milking the cows, I think.”

  Oh. With lots of product endorsements, I’ll bet. I wonder what the campaign’s getting in return.

  “Marcus is heading out to some top secret destination for a couple of weeks,” Westfield added helpfully, ignoring Tara’s glare.

  “He is? Right before the convention? Now that’s interesting,” Sameera said.

  “The campaign’s heating up,” Tara said. “We’re all under stress. For your father’s sake, stay out of the news for now. I’ll be in touch.”