White House Autumn (5 page)

Her mother, who had been taking phone calls and going out to the West Sitting Hall every so often to confer with various aides and advisors, looked up. “How did it go?”

Meg shrugged. “Okay. Kind of embarrassing.”

“Boy,” Steven reached across the table to take the salt after Meg finished with it, “you should have seen Meggie when they started taking pictures. Throwing her hair and everything.” He imitated her. “She loved it.”

Meg blushed. “I did not. I hate having my picture taken.”

“So, how come you were throwing your hair?” he asked.

“I wasn’t,” she said.

“Yeah, sure.” Steven stuffed half a roll into his mouth. “When that photographer guy asked you to, you did.”

“Well, he asked me to,” Meg said defensively.

Her mother lowered the report she was reading. “What
else
did the photographer ask you to do?”

“What,” Meg said, “you mean, other than dance topless and sing ‘I’m Just a Girl Who Can’t Say No’?”

Her parents laughed, but nervously.

“D’ja tell them about the centerfold yet?” Steven asked with his mouth full.

“Steven, cut it out.” She tried to kick him under the table.

Neal laughed. “I saw her. She was throwing her hair.”

“Neal, shut up.” She tried to kick him, instead, but he moved his legs out of the way.

“It wouldn’t hurt to have a sense of humor, Meg,” her father said mildly.

Meg scowled at her brothers. “It wouldn’t hurt to have them shut up, either.”

“Steven, have you decided whether you’re going to try out for basketball?” their mother asked.

Ever the diplomat.

Steven shrugged. “Dunno. Coach says I’m too short.”

“Yeah, really,” Meg said. “Talk about munchkins.”

“Shut up!” Steven tried to kick
her
. “It’s not my fault!”

“Meg, act your age,” their father said.

“Oh, yeah,” she said, picking up her fork. “He harasses me for ten hours, and I get in trouble for saying one thing. Yeah, that’s fair.”

Their mother sighed. “Come on, let’s not fight at the table.”

Logic which had never made any damn sense to her, no matter how many times she heard it. Meg put her fork down. “Can I ask you something? Why’s it matter if we fight at the table? I mean, what’s the difference if we fight
away
from the table, or at it?”

“The difference,” their father said, very patient, “is that your mother and I like to relax at dinner, not listen to a lot of wrangling.”

“But, we like to wrangle,” Neal said.

Their mother closed her eyes for a second, passing her hand across her forehead.

“Want some of my Valium?” Meg asked.

“No,” her mother said. “I do not want some of your Valium.”

What a shame. “I’ve got Librium, too,” Meg said. “You want some Librium? Or OxyContin?”

“What’s Librium?” Neal asked.

“Remember those blue pills I was giving you the other day?” Meg asked. “Those were—”

“Wait,” Steven interrupted. “You were giving him red pills. I don’t remember any blue pills.”

“Really? Hmmm.” Meg frowned. “Maybe they were amphetamines, then. Are you sure, Steven? I really thought I was giving him Librium.”

Steven shook his head. “No, you were giving
me
Librium.”

“Kate, why don’t we go have some coffee before you have to head back downstairs,” their father said, looking across the table at their mother, who responded with a tired nod.

“You’ll be missing out,” Steven said. “We’re going to take this act on the road.”

Their father stood up. “The sooner, the better.”

“Yeah, see if
you
get tickets,” Steven grumbled.

When their parents were gone, he stopped slouching, sitting up with his elbows on the table. “What’s with them?” he asked. “They’re pretty cranky tonight.”

“We were pretty bratty,” Meg said.

Steven shook his head. “No way. I thought we were being funny. Funnier than usual, even.”

Neal looked worried. “Are Mom and Dad mad?”

“No.” Meg finished her squash. “Mom just had a bad day”—and, judging from the stream of phone calls and conferences, quite possibly a tough night ahead—“and Dad thinks we gave her a headache. You know how he is.”

“But, is he
mad?”
Neal asked anxiously.

“I said no, already.” Meg held out her plate. “You want my beets, Steven?”

Steven made a gagging sound.

Meg held the plate under the table. “Want my beets, Kirby?”

Kirby sniffed the cold purple vegetable, then went back to sleep.

“Would any of you like dessert?” Felix asked, coming in to clear the table.

“I’m all set, thanks,” Meg said, carrying her plate to the kitchen, Steven and Neal following suit.

“Do we have any cookies or anything?” Steven asked.

Felix smiled a nice grandfatherly smile. “I’m sure we can find something.”

After hanging out in the kitchen for a while to eat cookies, Meg left to see what her parents were doing. She found her father by the fireplace in the Yellow Oval Room, drinking coffee.

She sat down in a yellow and white antique chair. Louis XIV. Or maybe it was Louis XVI. She wasn’t into furniture. “Where’s Mom?”

“In the Treaty Room,” he said. Which was her upstairs office. “She’s trying to get some work done, so don’t bother her.”

Steven was right; they
were
unusually cranky tonight. “I wasn’t going to,” Meg said, feeling very defensive. “Why are you in such a bad mood?”

Her father looked annoyed. “I’m not.”

Yeah, right. “Well.” She stood up. “Sorry I came in here.”

“I didn’t say for you to leave,” he said.

Maybe not directly. Meg shrugged, stiffly. “You don’t look too thrilled about me staying, either.”

Her father sighed, then smiled, patting the soft cushion next to him. Meg gave brief consideration to storming out of the room anyway—but then, sat down.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “Your mother and I are just tired.”

Which made her feel very guilty. “I’m sorry we were being jerks at dinner.”

“You weren’t being any jerkier than usual.” He let out his breath. “Your mother has a very high-pressure job.”

“So do you,” Meg said.

“I wouldn’t say there’s a comparison.” He leaned back into the cushions, staring up at the ceiling.

Out of all of them, he complained the least—but had probably
been affected the
most
by her mother winning the election. “Do you hate it here?” she asked.

He turned his head just enough to look at her. “‘Hate’ is a rather strong word.”

Okay. “Do you intensely dislike it here?” she asked.

He laughed, reaching over to ruffle her hair. “I’m fine. How about you? Preston said they gave you a pretty rough time.”

She nodded.

“He also thought that you handled it like a pro,” he said.

Albeit,
an Amish
pro. Meg shrugged, looking at the small fire in the fireplace.

It was silent for a long minute, her father seemingly deep in his own thoughts.

“I worry about you,” he said. “You’re—very hard to shelter.”

As far as she was concerned, that was one of the best things about being a senior, and with college looming in the very near future, she was starting to have moments here and there when she felt a genuine—if fleeting—sense of autonomy. Which she liked.
A lot
. She looked up at him. “Dad, I’m seventeen. I don’t need sheltering.”

“I just don’t want to see you change,” he said quietly.

She tilted her head, confused. “What, you mean, grow up?”

“I don’t want to see you turn into a politician,” he said.

All she did was
read
about politics—and, admittedly, watch C-Span and CNN and all. Still, that didn’t make it a
vocation
. “You married one,” she said uneasily.

He nodded, looking in the direction of the Treaty Room.

Oh, no. “Are you guys having a fight?” Meg asked. She hated it when her parents argued. They almost never did it in front of anyone, but there would be taut antagonism in the air, buried anger which made her feel as if she were in an invisible maze where she couldn’t bump into any of the walls or open any of the doors.

“No, I just—I don’t know.” He picked up his coffee cup, drinking
some. “They don’t have any bright ideas about putting you on the cover, do they?”

Jesus, she
hoped
not. “I don’t know,” she said.

He nodded. “Good. Your mother and I wouldn’t permit that.”

Meg grinned. “Because I’m too ugly?”

“Well, that, too,” he said, putting an affectionate arm around her shoulders.

That meant that he thought it would be dangerous to have her on the cover. She folded her arms across her stomach, concentrating on not remembering the week she had been confined to the White House.

The Treaty Room was just next door to the Yellow Oval Room, and she knew her mother would be in there sitting behind the walnut table, right hand clenched around a silver pen, telephone balanced on her shoulder, papers everywhere. Maybe switching from her contact lenses to her glasses, while she waited for the ibuprofen to work on her headache. The headache Meg and Steven and Neal had given her.

“Thinking great thoughts?” her father asked.

Not by a long shot. In fact, she was starting to get a little headache herself. She looked at the connecting door leading to the Treaty Room—which was tightly closed, and actually rarely used; her mother almost always went in there through the Stair Landing entrance. “Does she like being the President?”

Her father nodded. “Most of the time. In fact, I think she’s a little surprised by how
much
she likes it.”

On good days, in fact, she practically seemed to
glow
. “What about you, though?” Meg asked. “Do you wish she wasn’t?”

“That would be like wishing she were a different person,” he said.

“Which she decided to take as a no.

Now,
he
looked at the closed door, which was painted pale yellow, to blend in with the wall. “Hard to share her with the rest of the country,” he said.

Extremely hard.

“But, I think it’s worth it,” he said. “Don’t you?”

Personally, her jury was still out on that one. “I guess,” Meg said, without much enthusiasm. The country seemed to be getting a pretty good deal, but it would certainly be a lot less stressful for her family, if her mother were a teacher or a lawyer or something, and they lived quietly in Massachusetts, like regular people.

“Think of your friends, Meg,” her father said. “Every family has situations to which they have to adjust.”

Meg considered that. Josh’s parents were divorced, and so were Beth’s. Nathan’s little brother was autistic, Alison’s mother had recently been diagnosed with multiple sclerosis—yeah, every family definitely had challenges. Her family just had—an unusual one.

“Is Josh coming over tonight?” her father asked.

She nodded. “Yeah. We’re going to study.” Maybe.

He looked at her curiously. “He’s certainly over here a lot these days. How are things going with him?”

“Good. I mean—” She searched for a better way to phrase it. “He’s my best friend here.” Which maybe wasn’t very romantic, but was the truth.

Her father nodded. “That’s the way it should be.”

“Is it with you and Mom?” she asked.

“Absolutely,” he said.

JOSH SHOWED UP
a little before nine, and they went to the West Sitting Hall, because her parents were pretty strict about them
not
being alone in her bedroom together. A rule they had been known to break, but not egregiously so.

The West Sitting Hall had a huge, double-arched window that looked out over the West Wing, the Oval Office, and the Old Executive Office Building. Kind of a nice view. It was also one of the only rooms in the Residence with furniture from their house in Massachusetts—the coffee table from their sitting room, the couch and love seat from the living room, various lamps, and even a couple of the plants. It was Meg’s favorite place in the White House, except for the solarium—and, of course, the tennis court outside.

“The interview was okay?” Josh asked.

“Lots of fun,” she said, starting to move her hair back off her shoulders. Then she thought about Steven making fun of her for throwing it around, and lowered her hand.

“When’s it going to run?” he asked.

Good question. “I don’t know. A few weeks, maybe.” Unconsciously, she lifted her right hand to move her hair, saw what she was doing, and frowned at it.

Josh looked at her curiously. “What’s wrong?”

She put her hand down, blushing. “Nothing.”

“What are you so embarrassed about?” He moved the hair back for her. “I think it’s cute when you play with your hair.”

“I don’t play with my hair,” she said.

He grinned.

How could she have a habit that stupid—and not even know about it? “Well, it gets in my eyes,” she said, self-consciously.

“I think it’s cute.” His hand moved from her shoulder to her face. “It’s also sexy,” he said, moving much closer.

“It is, hunh? Hmmm.” She brought her hair forward, then whipped it back with a sweeping gesture. “How sexy?”