by Katy Evans
He looks into the center camera.
“I also happen to have a living mother, who not only served as First Lady before, but continues to this day to be one of the most beloved.”
There’s applause.
“So you’d have a nontraditional First Lady? In such a modern age?” Jacobs asks.
He shoots Jacobs a look. “First you criticize me for not having one, now you criticize because I think there are advantages to having one? The First Lady is meant to be more than a pretty hostess on the president’s arm. I’d rather surround myself with capable people who deserve the part.”
People fall silent as they absorb that, but the tension is high.
Carlisle is frowning at me as if he hadn’t expected this part of the debate at all.
He quickly recovers when he sees the reaction in the room.
Soon, the candidates deliver their closing statements, with Matt’s statement last.
“Debates are about divisions, about differing points of views, but there are some universal truths that cannot be denied. The universal truth of cycles—spring, summer, winter, fall; the universal truth of gravity; and a universal truth that we’ve discovered from the first moment our ancestors appeared on earth six million years ago—man adapts.
“Man has used his brain to outwit predators who are stronger, faster, more numerous. Man has learned to tame some of those predators: wolves became our friends, animals were bred for food. Man learned to farm, feeding millions where before they would feed less than a fourth of that; man invented shelter, clothing, weapons, writing, trade, architecture that defied their physical capabilities, and now, a network and infrastructure that connects us all. Planes, translation, the internet. We’re more interlaced than we’ve ever been.
“So why are we still divided?
“We live in a world where there is still racism and poverty. We live in a country where there is still unequal opportunity for us all . . . a world where millions of our children continue to go uneducated. I’m for the possibility of every American finding fulfilment in his or her life—making a difference for others and for themselves.”
I can’t get my oxygen back. The statements from Gordon and President Jacobs seem lame now. Focused simply on little pieces of what Matt just reminded us is actually a whole living, breathing world.
We’re in Matt’s hotel suite in Dayton, Ohio. The good news is that not only is the first debate over with, but Carlisle is thrilled. The media coverage influencing voters really seems pro-Matt.
“I’m too old for all this excitement,” Carlisle says, sighing exhaustedly but happily.
I bring him a hot coffee. “At your age, most men run for president.” I smile and chance a glance at Matt, noticing he felt the quip coming his way and is smiling to himself.
The press has speculated endlessly on whether he’s too young to be president. And yet tonight he was the only man on that stage.
Carlisle chuckles at my jab at Matt’s age. “I already put one in the seat and I’d be happily at my consulting firm if it weren’t for this one.” He jabs a thumb at Matt as he heads to the window.
“He lured you out,” I say.
“He lured you out,” Carlisle counters.
I smile.
“He’s the one,” he says with firm conviction. “If I can’t get him to the White House . . .”
“He’ll run again.”
“Girl, I’ve got a heart condition. One more is all I can take.” He pats his stomach as if his weight is to blame for his heart problem, which could be right, and waves me off with his hand.
I head toward Matt and stand next to him, and we stare out the window for a moment. I don’t know that we’ll ever get close enough again that his breath mingles with mine. So I just stand as close to him as I can without getting burned.
32
MRS. HAMILTON
Charlotte
We’re making a pit stop in D.C. once more. Carlisle and Hessler are meeting with a couple of delegates tonight, and they asked me to accompany Matt to a dinner with his mother and grandfather.
“That old prick will at least hold his tongue with someone he considers a stranger around¸” Carlisle tells me.
“You hate Mr. Hamilton?” I ask him as we head to the poll-review meeting this morning.
“I admire the crap out of him. I just want him off Matt’s back; we’ve got enough on our hands. Do you realize in getting the lead in the polls at this stage we’re accomplishing something that’s never been done?”
“Does Matt know that you want me there?”
“Of course he does. He’s the one who suggested it.”
“Oh.”
My heart sort of tumbles, because I’m suddenly pretty sure Matt orchestrated this whole thing to his advantage in the first place.
Carlisle nods in dismissal and I hurry to finish making sure we have the polling result copies for every manager and director of the campaign who’s to attend this morning’s meeting.
I get a kick of excitement at the thought of meeting a woman who’s been adored by the media for years.
“I might be less apprehensive to meet a queen than your mother,” I tell Matt that night as he leads me into his house.
It’s the first time I’ve seen Matt’s mom in person, and I’m awed by her beauty and class. The one and only Eleanor Hamilton. She’s as polished and elegant as Matt is; his dark eyes and hair come from her. My own mother has always admired her—everybody does. She and Matt are the embodiment of strength under adversity.
“Charlotte, it’s nice to meet you at last.” Her voice is soft and warm as she takes my hand. “I can see why everyone is so taken with you.”
I laugh but feel spots of warmth on my cheeks when she looks at Matt.
The décor in his home is modern and elegant too. Wood floors. Pristine taupe rugs with a hint of matte gold thread in delicate scroll patterns. Soft taupe wallpaper and fine art. I hadn’t really noted it the first time I’d stopped by—intending to end whatever it was we’d started.
Well, look how that went.
A cold sliver runs down my back when I hear Matt’s grandfather.
“Matt.” He slaps his grandson’s back and ignores me.
Matt takes me by the arm and brings me one step forward, his voice stern and low. “Charlotte, Grandfather. You’ve met quite a few times on the campaign trail.”
“Ahh, yes, Charlotte,” he says dryly.
“Sir.” I return his nod with one of my own.
“I’m giving her a tour,” Matt tells his mother.
“First time here? I don’t believe it,” his grandfather says.
Matt ignores him and leads me down a wood-paneled hall facing a window with a view of D.C.
To its right, there is a great room with a view of the White House.
“Wow.” I have trouble finding my voice, my eyes wide as I take in the majesty of the presidential home, illuminated in the night. “Must be hard to believe you lived there once.”
I feel him shrug beside me, his voice low. “Actually, it’s harder to believe this is my view now. And sometimes still hard to think I’ll never see him again.”
I cannot help from asking, “Did you ever want to know why that happened?”
“I ask myself that every day. Come.”
He leads me to the bedroom; the view from the terrace is sweeping and endless.
“All this represents freedom and hope,” I say, signaling to D.C. “How can you still believe in justice after that?”
“You just do.” He opens the glass door. “You can smell it in the air.”
“Ever tried to find out?”
“I’ve tried to. Why—why and if on orders. I think about it constantly. I dream the scene, over and over, but I don’t want to live in that place.” He points at his feet. “I want to live in the now.” He points out the window. “And that is where we’re going. That’s where my head’s at for now.” I can tell by his expression that he’s being pulled into h
is memories. “Those first few months, I was consumed with it. Investigators mysteriously disappeared or were replaced by a new team. My mother couldn’t sleep without medical aid. Her worst fear is to lose me too. Her hope was that I’d be a lawyer.”
“And yours?”
“My hope?” he asks, seemingly surprised I even have to ask. “Our hopes change, don’t they? As our paths unfold. Now it’s to do what he wanted me to do—something for the country.”
I hear voices out in the living room. “Why doesn’t your grandfather like me?”
“He doesn’t like anyone who gets in his way.”
“I’m not in his way; I try to steer clear of him as much as I can.” I laugh.
Matt’s lips twitch sardonically. “You’re more of a threat to my candidacy than any of the actual candidates.”
“How can that be possible?” I signal at myself. “I’m no one, have no political aspirations.”
He taps his fingertip to the bridge of my nose, which I seem to be scrunching. “You’re distracting.”
“A tenth of what you are, at the most!” I cry.
He laughs.
We head back out to the living room and have a drink with Matt’s grandfather and mother. I notice the conversation is strained; I think the fact that Patrick and Eleanor’s agendas are so opposite right now is one of the reasons why the tension feels so thick in the air. I can hardly draw in a good breath.
Even Jack—who’s been lounging by the fireplace in the living room—seems to be a little more alert, his head tilting as if he’s trying to follow the conversation.
Matt seems to be used to it, though, and once Patrick leaves for the night, I relax a little. Excusing myself to the restroom, I leave Matt alone for a moment with his mother.
I hear them talking as I return. “I see the way you look at that girl and wonder why run, why not settle down?” his mother is asking him.
Matt sighs and stands to gaze out the window. “If I don’t run, Dad’s death will have been for nothing.”
“No, it could never be for nothing,” his mother says passionately, heading over to him.
“It could be for nothing if we don’t change and everything stays the same,” Matt tells her with a sigh.
He hugs her to his side and kisses her forehead, and she rests her head on his shoulder.
There’s a very tender, powerful mother-and-son bond. She looks older and frailer when next to him; his strength is striking compared to her fragility.
In one interview, Matt’s mother confessed that the day of the shooting, she thought she’d lost them both. How devastating for her! How afraid she must be now, the shooter never having been caught.
President Hamilton’s assassination went on to be an unsolved mystery, like so many political murders before that.
After such grief, though, Matt’s mother is still so refined. There’s a strength beneath the silk.
Her clothes rustle as she returns to take a seat on the living room couch. Then there’s confusion in her voice as she stares at Matt’s back. “You had a tough life there, giving your father away for the betterment of the people. Hardly any privacy, no normalcy even when I tried so hard to give it to you. Why do you want to go back?”
“Don’t you want to go back?” he asks her, looking confused as he turns and walks to take a seat next to her. “Tend to your tulip beds? Galas were your life. You were the finest First Lady this country ever saw. Don’t you want to fill that front fountain with ducks again? Come home on Marine One to the South Lawn of the White House all lit up for the night?”
Her eyes water and she lightly pats the corners to keep them dry.
“I want to see the ships Dad had on the walls of the Oval Office hung up there again. I want to be on the other side of Dad’s desk, make the calls that he could never make.”
“Matt!” she says.
“It was your home for seven years.” He waits a moment. “The White House is not just the White House, Mother; I see that now. The White House is the world. Help me change it.”
“I know what you’re thinking. Every widowed or bachelor president has had a relative acting as First Lady. I heard you at the debate. But Matt, I cannot act as First Lady anymore.” She stands up, then puts her hand on the top of his head, like she probably did when he was a boy. “Please rethink this. The White House is only the White House. Out here, you can have a life.”
She looks at me as I step inside the room quietly, unsure whether I should stay quiet or let them know I’m here. “I know you want one,” she tells him, still looking at me. Kissing his forehead and grabbing her glittering designer clutch bag, she smiles radiantly at me, like a queen getting her bearings. “So nice to meet you, Charlotte.”
Matt scrapes his hands down his face as she leaves, and for a long moment, I sit in Matt’s living room, letting him collect his thoughts.
“Charlotte, could you reorganize things and get me a few days off? I need to be by myself. I need to think.”
I start at his request, not expecting it. “Of course. Of course, Matt.”
He glances at his watch. “We should probably take you home. The media will be counting exactly how many minutes you remained at my place after my mother left.”
I stand quickly.
“Wait. Not so fast.” He takes my hand and tugs me down again so that I take a seat next to him.
My heart starts pounding wildly in my chest.
“Ever since I saw you walk through the door of the campaign kickoff, no one else is worth thinking about. From the moment we started talking, I knew I wanted you around.” He tugs me closer. “I want a kiss right now.”
With effort, I lift Jack by the paws and he licks Matt’s lips, and Matt laughs and wipes his jaw and mouth, petting the top of Jack’s head as he shoots me a look. “Correction, I want your kiss right now.”
I know better, but I can’t resist teasing him, so I lean over and kiss his jaw, feeling the warmth of Jack’s head between our abdomens as he settles on Matt’s lap.
“Don’t kiss me like you’d kiss your father. Kiss me like you’d kiss your secret lover. Like this.” He holds my face in one hand and presses his mouth to mine. He parts my lips with his.
Slow kissing.
The kind that curls your toes and makes every sense acute.
I respond, taking his jaw in my hands, feeling its muscles flex under my palms as he moves his mouth over mine, feeling the shadow of beard on his skin. He says, “Hmm,” and deepens the kiss as I kiss him softly back.
My mouth feels wet and swollen and tingly when we ease apart. “Come here,” he gruffs out. “Jack, scat,” Matt orders.
Jack heads to his spot by the fireplace and I somehow end up on Matt’s lap, and we kiss again, deeper, heavier, our breaths starting to labor.
Did he stop, or did I, I wonder dazedly a few seconds later.
His hands are on my hips and he’s looking at me with dark eyes.
“I find it drastically inconvenient that I think about you at the most inopportune moments. How am I to govern a country when I can’t control my own thoughts of you?”
“Every moment you think of me can’t be inopportune. There have to be some good ones.”
“True.” He frowns as he thinks about it. “In the shower, and most definitely in my bed.”
I squeeze my eyes shut. “Don’t put that idea into my head.”
He chuckles. “Like it’s not already there.”
I’m blushing.
I love when his full lips soften with humor and a smile spreads upward to light his eyes. But then his square jaw tenses visibly. He leans forward and moves his mouth over mine, devouring. His mouth slows, becomes softer and yet firmer.
He withdraws, leaving my mouth burning with fire.
I feel raw, vulnerable, and I don’t want him to see. So I close my eyes and kiss him softly. His lips leave mine to nibble my earlobe, and then as I try to catch my breath, his tongue comes to graze mine, playing, tasting, stroking.
He tips my chin up and forces me to meet his gaze. “I would not mind waking up to your face every morning.” I can see by the crinkle of his eyes that he’s smiling. Smiling as he looks at me, but then his smile fades, and I know what he’s thinking.
He doesn’t want a wife. Not someone long term. Not at the White House. I want to tell him I’m willing to try, that I’d be willing to stand behind him, support him, not ask for more than he could give. Instead I’m afraid I’d be lying, that I really would have no idea what I’d be getting into, that I might resent him and ache for his time and his attention, his love and comfort, things a normal man would readily give the woman he loves.
And so I tell him, “You’ve got so much on your hands, there’s no room for me in your bed.”
We’re a perfect couple, in the most imperfect situation.
He won’t be a man who’ll be there to always kiss me goodnight. Not as the president.
If I could wish one thing, I’d wish to hear him tell me he loves me.
And he never will. He can’t.
Hearing the passionate way he talked to his mother about returning to the White House, I see it clearly: he has a mission, a calling, and nothing will stop him.
Have you every loved someone so much it hurt like hell?
I hadn’t until now.
I slide from his lap and we sit there quietly.
We met eleven years ago, almost twelve now. In the years in between, it feels like he never left me or my mind. And I wonder if I was ever in his. For a moment at least. Until he saw me again at the campaign kickoff.
There is no need to speak. My knowledge of him is deeper now than when we started campaigning. And he knows me. He knows I’m afraid of heights and yet I can’t seem to keep from following him to high places. He knows I have a weakness for children and animals and am as protective about my privacy as he was when his father was president and he was thrust into the limelight.
He knows maybe I bear this situation just because I want to be near him and because he’s right: I love my country and I want to do whatever I can to make it a better place, if not for me, for the children and animals I love so much.