“I’m going with Alison—she’s the new White House photographer and she’s got to be at this event to capture the moment.”
“Oh, all right. Charlotte?”
“Yes?”
“Are you sure you’re ready?”
I knew what she was asking. She knows that there was something between Matthew and me, though I never gave her details. She knows I fell in love—and having a daughter in love with the hot, young president is enough to make any concerned mother worry.
Emotion makes it difficult to speak, but I nod, then I realize my mother cannot see me. “Yes.”
I know it won’t be easy. But I need to see him today.
I want to congratulate him. I want him to know that I’m okay, that I’m proud of him, that I’m going to move forward, and that I want him to do the same.
2
INAUGURAL BALL
Matt
“President Hamilton. Mr. President.”
I pull my gaze to the man drawing my attention. I’m at the luncheon, and my damn mind keeps wandering to tonight.
“I apologize; it’s been a long day already.” I grin and run my hand restlessly along the back of my hair, leaning to speak to the Senate majority leader.
It’s incredible how we never rest. Even at social events, we’re discussing policy.
I try to pick the brains of most men there; it’s in my and the country’s best interest that my ideas for change are aligned with those of Congress and the Senate. Whether they’ll be easy to align remains to be seen.
“I asked if the first bill on your agenda will be the clean energy bill?”
“It’s one of my priorities, but not necessarily at the top,” is all I give him for now.
All in due time, old man. All in due time.
I’m relieved when we get ready for the parade down Pennsylvania Avenue. We walk surrounded by black presidential state cars. I’m flanked by my grandfather and my mother as we head to the most famous address in the country. Hundreds of thousands of people line the streets to watch the parade. U.S. flags flap in the wind.
It’s an honor to be the one heading to 1600 Penn.
Grandfather is marching like a proud king, grinning from ear to ear. “I’m proud of you, son. Now you need to get in line with the parties or you won’t do shit.”
My grandfather isn’t necessarily my hero, but I know when to listen. And when to brush him aside. “The parties will get in line with me.” I wave at the crowd.
To my right, my mother is silent.
“You have a room in the White House,” I tell her, reaching out and squeezing her hand.
“Oh no.” She laughs, looking like a young girl for that fleeting moment of happiness. “Seven years was enough.”
I release her hand so we can greet the crowd again. I know she’s remembering a day like this a decade ago. Not only the day she rode the motorcade parade for the first time with my dad. But the day he died . . . and the motorcade that carried his coffin.
“Besides, I have a feeling it’ll soon be occupied,” she adds.
It takes me a moment to realize she’s referring to her room in the White House.
“Why do you say that?”
“Because I know you. You won’t let that girl go. You haven’t. I’ve never seen you . . . look sadder, Matt. Even after you won.”
I’m so blown away by how well she knows me, I can’t think of a reply. That she knows it’s taken every ounce of my restraint not to call Charlotte. That for months I’ve told myself it’s for the best, that I can’t do it all, that I will fail if I try. But I don’t buy it. I want my girl, and I will have her.
“She’s the light. Walks on water,” I tell my mother.
We reach 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue.
The gates open, the red carpet is rolled out. From within the house, my dog Jack, who was transported from Blair House earlier today, bounds down the steps to greet us.
My mother is dressed to impress. You’d think she was thrilled that I’m back in the White House. Maybe a part of her is. I know that another part is full of fear that I’ll meet the same end my father did.
We walk up the red-carpeted steps of the North Portico entrance.
“Mr. President,” the chief usher greets me. I shake his hand. “Welcome to your new home,” he says.
“Thank you, Tom. I’d like to meet the staff tomorrow. Help me arrange that.”
“Yes, sir, Mr. President.”
“Tom,” I hear my mother say, pulling him into a hug.
Jack is leading the way as we step through the wide-open front doors.
“Mr. President, sir,” one of the ushers announces. “There’s a buffet set up for you and your guests in the Old Family Dining Room while you prepare for the balls tonight.”
“Thank you. Nice to meet you . . .?”
“Charles.”
“A pleasure, Charles.” I shake the man’s hand, then head to the West Wing. I find Portia, my assistant, already organizing her desk outside the Oval Office.
“How’s it going, Portia?”
“Uff,” she huffs. “It’s going. This house is immense. Your chief of staff, Dale Coin, told me I could call the ushers’ office if anything seemed out of reach.”
“Good. Do that.”
I walk into the Oval, Jack trailing behind me.
I had my father’s desk returned—it had been in storage. I walk to it now, glancing down at the presidential seal on the rug beneath my feet. I run my fingers over the wood. The U.S. flag behind me. The presidential seal flag beside it. Then I rap the desk and take my chair and go through the documents readied for me. Jack is sniffing every nook and cranny of the room as I flip the pages.