by Katy Evans
I’m determined to have her on my team.
Even before setting eyes on her at the kickoff party, I’d planned to have Carlisle pay a call to that girl I’d met, the one who cried an ocean and a half at my father’s funeral. The one whose letter I skimmed, for some reason, the day my father died.
After the kick-off party … let’s just say, she’s been on my mind, and not only because she’s gorgeous and in another life, I’d have liked to slip my hands under her dress and feel her skin, lean my head and kiss her mouth for a hell of a long time. No, not because of that, but because she loves the presidency—and she always has.
And now she’s been confirmed on my team, thanks to Carlisle. Carlisle is my campaign chairman and manager. We’ve already recruited our media advisors, chief strategist and pollster, communications director, CFO, media consultant, press secretary, spokeswoman, digital director, and official photographer.
Having them all together under the roof of the campaign bunker gives me a sense of satisfaction. We’ve assembled a team that will take us smoothly toward this year’s election.
I’m ready to call it a day, so I pat Carlisle on the back of the head, saying, “Trust me,” grab my car keys, and head out.
Home is a two-bedroom bachelor pad near the Hill. A far cry from the 132 rooms and endless acreage of the White House, it’s modern and the perfect size for me to own it—not for the thing to own me. I’m also three blocks from my mother. Though she has a busy social schedule and a new boyfriend that has for five years tried to get her to marry him without success, I like to keep my eye on her.
My German Shepherd Lab mix is barking when I insert the key into the lock. He’s sleek black, and the media calls him Black Jack. He’s more famous than the Taco Bell dog. He’s got eyes nearly as black as his fur and is thankfully past the phase where he would gnaw all my shoes to dust. He is at the door, barking three times. I open and he leaps.
I catch him in one arm, shut the door with the other, and set him down. He pads next to me to the kitchen. I adopted him once I did a showing to raise awareness of adopting. Jack was a puppy then, the mother found on the streets, curled up on him and his two dead sisters.
The White House is going to be a far cry from where he started.
I press the play button on the answering machine.
“Matthew, Congressman Mitchell. Congrats—you can count on me.”
“Matthew, Robert Wells, thank you so much for the opportunity you’re offering my daughter. Of course you can count on the family’s support … Let’s do lunch sometime.”
“Matt.” A random female voice comes up next. “I hope you get this message. I’m … I’m pregnant. My name is Leilani. I’m pregnant with your babies … they’re twins. Please, they need their father.”
I pull out a glass-bottled Blue Moon beer from the fridge and a plate from the warming drawer.
I delete the messages, turn on the TV, prop my feet up, and start eating as I wait for Wilson.
He wanted to meet and I told him 10 p.m. was the earliest I could do.
He lets himself in and grabs a beer, then drops down on the couch to my right. He’s pushing fifty. Still single, he tags his nephew on his off days from the Secret Service.
Surprising that he hadn’t reached out to me after I dropped the presidential bomb across the country.
He eyes me for a moment, steepling his hands as he looks me square in the eye. “So here we are.”
“Here we are.” I grin and take a swig.
Wilson looks as if he never expected to say that, a fact I find slightly amusing.
“Saw the announcement. Never thought I’d hear you say it, dammit.” He drags a hand over his bald head and drops it, eyeing me as if waiting for an explanation.
I just lift my beer in toast.
“Why?” he asks.
“Nine years, a lot of time to think about it. It was always there …” I turn a finger, symbolizing the wheels in my head.
“Some say you should have waited another term, until you’re a little older.”
“Yeah, I don’t think so. America can’t wait anymore. Day off?”
“I quit.”
Lifting the beer to my lips, I pause midway.
“You’re going to need me,” Wilson says. “And I want in.”
I’m shocked to silence. Then I push myself to my feet as Wilson rises (habit, I suppose), and I shake his hand. “I’ll get you back in the White House.”
“No, I’ll get you there. In one piece. I know many ladies who will be grateful for that. And your mother, too.”
“She hired you?” I ask, torn between laughing and groaning as we settle back in our seats.
“No. I’d made my choice. But she did call. She’s worried.”
“I stayed in the shadows to appease that fear of hers, Wil. I can’t stay there anymore.” I shake my head, then study him in curiosity. “When do you start?”
“Tomorrow,” he says.
We’re so used to each other, we’re not for greetings or goodbyes, that he stands and leaves.
I grab the remote to change channels when the anchors begin discussing my team selections.
“That’s right, Violet, it seems Matt Hamilton is more interested in bringing fresh blood to the campaign than experience. We’ll have to see if the method proves effective as we head into election year . . . We have a dozen or more names confirmed as part of the campaign team. One of the youngest signed on as political aide, ex-Senator Wells’s daughter . . .”
Nothing I don’t already know. A picture of Charlotte flashes on the screen. She’s wearing my father’s pin on her lapel. I lean forward in my seat and simply look at her, the smile on her face, the look in her eyes, and I can’t fucking believe how gorgeous she is.
“A puzzle as to her inclusion in the permanent staff and speculation on why Matt Hamilton chose her …”
“Gut instinct,” I tell them, sitting back once the image disappears, raising my beer and taking a swig.
“She seems to have a solid Catholic background and a penchant for helping those in need. That angelic face will definitely not gain any haters …”
“Plus she’s pure and untouched by you,” I say, setting my beer aside and watching the pictures of her flash across the screen.
It’s been nine years since my father’s funeral, but I still remember the way she cried, as if my father had been hers.
“We have a snippet of her in Matt Hamilton’s arms at the funeral of President Hamilton. Think there’s any romantic entanglement?”
“Not yet,” I mumble. Whoa! Did I just say that?
Not happening, Hamilton. Not now.
Fuck.
I finish my meal and carry the plate to the kitchen, dropping it into the sink. I frown and lean on it when her face filters back into my mind. Charlotte, in that shimmering yellow dress. Carlisle’s confirmation that she’d agreed to join the campaign. I’m confused by how much that affected me. How much I want her around.
I head back to the living room to hear the rest.
“Not really. Hamilton has been very careful with that, a very discreet man.”
“It’s true that since his abrupt departure from the White House he’s been amassing the public’s sympathy and support—the amount of fans he’s gained so far is unprecedented for an Independent and donations are reportedly pouring in before the fundraisers begin. It’ll be interesting to see what this team of rather young but impressive people do. Original and inventive strategies to reach the public and a massive online campaign are expected.”
I rub the back of my neck and turn off the TV.
I’m used to the attention. My mother never approved of my father’s willingness to use me for publicity. She tried to fiercely guard my privacy, and I guess, before this, so did I.
But my father taught me the press didn’t have to be foes, they could be friends, or tools to aid his administration. Those White House years, we were always swarmed by an armada of press and reso
urceful photographers. The only respite was found at Camp David where they were out of bounds. Yet, we rarely went there, no matter how much my mother loved the vacation spot. Dad felt as if he belonged to the people, and insisted on being as open and available as possible.
“I spend so much time away, I want you to know me,” he’d tell me.
“I do.”
I’d walk him out to the South Lawn as he boarded Marine One. As always, I was a teen with a fascination with all things military.
“What do you think?” he’d ask of anyone, with the paternal pride of any American parent. “He’ll be president one day,” he’d say.
“Ahh, no,” I’d laugh.
He would have loved to see me try.
Instead, he’s been gone for almost a decade.
My mother got the call from a U.S. senator when it happened.
My granddad saw on TV that his son was dead.
All I remember of the funeral is my mom kissing the top of his head, his fingers, his knuckles and his palms, putting her wedding ring in his hand, and taking his in her own.
The vice president sent my mother a letter, and one for me.
Matt, I know the phenomenal man and leader your father was. He won’t be forgotten.
The letter was a kind reminder that my mother and I were homeless for the first time in our lives.
After the state funeral, we packed up as the new family established itself in the White House. I looked at the oval office one last time, the walls, the desk, the empty seat, and walked out, never imagining how determined I’d be to walk back in two terms later.
9
FIRST WEEK
Charlotte
I have restless dreams about the campaign, wondering who’ll win the primaries for the main political parties, and flashbacks of the day Matt’s father was killed.
It’s still dark when I wake. I take a hot bath, but I’m not that tired even though I didn’t sleep well. I’m still running on adrenaline from the excitement—stumbling half-naked around my kitchen, dressing while having breakfast.
I wear a khaki skirt, a plain white button-down shirt, and a pair of tan open-toed shoes with sensible three-inch heels. My hair is pulled back into a practical ponytail, not too tight, but tight enough that no wayward strands can escape.
The excitement in the room is palpable when I arrive at the building. Keyboards are clicking, phones are buzzing, people are maneuvering past the small halls, getting quickly from one place to the next. There’s respect in the air, gratitude for being here.
We want our candidate to win.
Matt asks us what we all desire for our next president, what we desire for our country. As the group mulls his questions over, that ridiculously sexy stare locks on me. “If you had a genie that granted you three wishes, what would they be?”
Every word he says is like an indecent proposal.
The women around me look a bit like perspiring.
I wonder if they’re all thinking of sleeping with him as their first wish and marrying him their last, like I am.
A woman raises her hand. “Jobs, health, and education. What every person wants. To feel validated, busy, like they’ve got something to offer. Love is impossible to grant, but if you make us busy, feel useful and validated, you give us self-love.”
“I’ll be your genie. You’re right; love is not something in my power to grant. But for those first three wishes, I’ll be your genie for everyone who knocks on my lamp.” He knocks on the table, and then he leaves us with all the things to do. Twittering with inspiration.
We all want to impress him. We all want to feel like we did something for this campaign. If Matt Hamilton is elected president, we’ll be making history.
I watch people putting together the slogans.
Hamilton is change
A new vision
Predestined to lead
The change we need. The voice we deserve
For the future
Slogans to capture what he represents.
Leadership for the people
The right man for the job
My favorite: Born for this
I settle in during the morning, and I’m happy to report that I’m settling in just fine.
The phone starts to ring more viciously from noon onward, and it doesn’t stop ringing from then on.
I answer so frantically I almost drop it. “Matt Hamilton Campaign headquarters.”
“Matt, please,” a male voice demands.
“May I ask who’s calling?”
“His father, Law.”
I was warned of this by the other aides, of course. It’s still hard to remain unfazed after a statement like that. “I’m sorry, state your name please.”
“This is George Afterlife, and I’m a psychic medium and his father is using me to communicate a message. It is imperative I talk to him now.”
It’s hard to ignore the sound of impending doom on the other side of the line.
“Mr. Afterlife, if you’d like to leave a message I will be sure he gets it.”
“Matt, it’s your father!” the man starts yelling, changing his voice.
“Matt is unavailable, but if you’d leave a message . . .”
“I must talk to Matt—I know the conspiracy behind my murder.”
For the next ten minutes I try to get the man to leave a message, and all he leaves is a number. I jot it down.
The phone rings again, and I have a mini heart attack.
“Yes? Matt Hamilton Campaign headquarters?”
A breathy voice says, “Matt. I need to speak to Matt.”
“Who’s calling?” I take my notepad out to jot down her info.
“His girlfriend.”
I hesitate. Girlfriend? My heart sinks a bit, but I ignore it.
“Your name, please.”
“Look. He knows my name—I’m his girlfriend.” At this point, I’m feeling suspicious. He doesn’t have a girlfriend. Does he?
“And this is in relation to . . .?”
“God, fuck you!” She hangs up.
Wow. I hang up too.
I stay until midnight, alternating between taking phone calls and working down the pile of letters.
It’s been less than a week, and I’ve already started getting silent phone calls and weird notes on my email from his “sister” and “wife” and his father from the “dead.” How does Matt sleep at all?
Am I really cut out for this?
Two days later, Carlisle calls a meeting.
It’s dog-eat-dog in this political race, and the competition is already taking a nip out of Matt.
It turns out President Jacobs is already taking stabs at him.
“He’s threatened?” Matt smiles and covers his expression with his hand when Carlisle summons us all to the TV room and rewinds a recording of the same day.
We watch a popular news channel interview the president about Matt’s candidacy.
I watch his body language, and it’s hard to tell anything with him looking so lifeless and stoic. “How can he effectively run the country without a First Lady?” He signals to his elegant First Lady, who’s smiling demurely.
The next day Matt Hamilton appears, on the same channel, looking even more presidential than the president did.
“I find it laughable that President Jacobs believes a single, independent man cannot effectively run the country.” He looks at the camera soberly, with a light smile on his lips and those strong but playful dark brown eyes lasering in on the camera lens. “The term and official role as First Lady wasn’t even properly coined when Lady Washington served in Mount Vernon during George Washington’s office. I have a wife”—his lips curl higher—“and her name is the United States of America.”
The flood of calls is unprecedented. Carlisle the campaign manager is hectically getting new slogans to be produced.
Committed to you
Made in America
All American
Hewitt, Matt’s campaign pres
s manager, is quoted during the week: “Matt Hamilton’s sole obligation is to you, the United States of America. We need it to be clear. His First Lady is his country.”
“I’ve got to say, the way Matthew Hamilton is representing America, it feels good to be American again,” a TV news anchor jokes with her male co-anchor the same evening.
The effect this is having on women voters is almost naughty.
Primaries aren’t over until a few months from now, but I can already tell that his most formidable adversary will be the current president. On the other hand, the leading Republican candidate is so radical and people are so sick of things, he’s gaining traction too.
From one fundraising political event to the next, Matt is fielding two hundred to five hundred speaking invitations a week.
Today, we’re all sitting at Matt’s round table, and the tension in palpable. Matt’s creative design and marketing people have been pitching ideas, hoping to answer the big question on the docket for the day: “How should we market Matt’s campaign?”
The basics have been nailed down by Carlisle, who said simply that the efforts of the campaign should center around Matt’s strengths: his father’s successful presidency and his incredible popularity as president, Matt’s popularity among the people (especially those ready for real change), and Matt’s singleness.
However, the campaign has yet to come up with a real campaign strategy to bring Matt’s ideas for change to the public.
Matt looks exasperated, running his fingers through his dark hair and rubbing his knuckles across the slight stubble on his chin.
I want to speak up, give a suggestion, but the silence is intimidating . . . he is intimidating. His unreadable expression seems to make everyone in the room shift nervously.
He raises his gaze and sweeps it across everyone, meeting each and every gaze. “We can do better.”
His gaze only passes me, but it definitely connects, and for that second, suddenly I’m eleven again, awed and confused by the effect he has.
I bite my lip, and I think about the letter from a young boy. I’ve been able to answer every letter, even some pretty crazy ones proposing marriage, but I can’t figure out what to tell this one fan. Every time I think of him I ache, but I don’t have the courage yet to go directly to Matt and ask him about it.