Eighteen Acres: A Novel (10 page)

“The Martins wiped you out, Char. They took everything. There isn’t even any tonic water in here,” Brooke had shouted from the small kitchen.

“He was a former alcoholic. They didn’t keep anything here, I’m sure,” Charlotte had shouted back, laughing to herself as she wondered what kind of impression she was making on the White House ushers during her first hours as its new resident.

Even Peter had seemed excited that night. It was one of the nights Charlotte let herself believe that her marriage could recover. Charlotte almost laughed out loud when she remembered that Brooke had settled for gin in her margarita mix that night, and they’d all sat up drinking Brooke’s disgusting concoction in the Yellow Oval.

Brooke stamped her cigarette out on the deck with her two-thousand-dollar Hermès riding boots and lit another one, bringing Charlotte back to the present.

“It’s a tie for best perk—Camp David and Air Force One. I love it here,” she said. “I get to wear all my country clothes.” She fingered her cashmere blazer.

“I’m so happy that the whole presidential retreat thing works for you,” Charlotte said, laughing at her friend. Brooke wore her hair in a short blond bob. She had pale blue eyes and a splash of freckles across her nose, but her prim looks were misleading. She drank most men, including her husband, under the table and swore like a sailor. And she was born without the gene that prevented one from saying things that were impolite or inappropriate.

“How are you and Peter?” she asked.

“Same,” Charlotte said, inhaling deeply on her cigarette. She made a mental note to quit smoking as soon as she got back from Afghanistan.

“I’m sorry, Charlotte,” Brooke said.

“It’s OK. I was just thinking back to the night after the inauguration. Can you believe that was three years ago? Peter seemed happy then, didn’t he?” Charlotte asked.

“He did, but you know, maybe he was just hammered. I think we started drinking at four in the afternoon,” Brooke said.

Charlotte laughed. “Maybe. I can’t remember the happy stuff anymore. I know it happened, but I can’t remember any of it.”

“You guys were happy,” Brooke said.

“How does Peter seem to you?” Charlotte asked.

“He seems good. You know, he’s Peter—always acts positive and seems to love having the weekends with the kids. It has to be lonely, though, Char. He loved being half of Charlotte and Peter. He loved it more than you did,” Brooke said.

“That’s not true. I loved it, too. We just outgrew each other.”

“You outgrew him, Charlotte. You were always one step ahead of him. I think it almost killed him to try to keep up with you. You were always overachieving and standing out in the crowd, and he was so proud of you, he couldn’t stand it,” she said.

“Mmm,” Charlotte murmured.

“I remember when you won the governor’s race, his head spun for about thirty days. He went to bed with a successful Internet executive and woke up with a governor. And then you were off, Char—no one could stop you. And now you’re the goddamned president of the United States of America. Do you have that song? ‘Hail to the Chief’? Can we play it at dinner?” Brooke giggled and poured herself more wine.

Charlotte sighed. “So it’s my fault? I ran too fast, and I should have waited for him to catch up? I’m a selfish, ambitious bitch who put my career ahead of my marriage and ahead of my family?”

“No, Char. You’ve got incredible kids. You’re my best friend, and you’re the president. And for right now, that’s gotta be enough for you. You’ll have time after all this with Peter. He’s not going anywhere,” Brooke said.

Charlotte poured more wine into her glass and took a sip.

“Oh, Char, I shouldn’t have said all that. What’s wrong with me? Why do you put up with me?” Brooke asked.

Just then, Mark approached with a tray of martinis. “Cocktail hour, ladies—come, come,” he said.

Charlotte laughed. “I thought that’s what this was,” she said, pointing to the empty bottle of wine between them.

“No, that was a gift from Napa Valley to remind you of your California roots. This is cocktail hour,” he said, handing her a martini.

They sipped martinis, and Brooke and Mark filled Charlotte in on the gossip from their old college circle of friends. At around seven
P.M.
, they moved into the dining room for dinner.

“You heading back to Afghanistan anytime, Char?” Mark asked.

“It’s still top secret, so don’t blab to anyone, but yeah, I am working on a trip. I want to be there for their elections,” she said.

“I admire the hell out of you for going as often as you do,” Mark
said, “but I don’t know what you think is going to change between trips. It took them hundreds of years to get into this mess—it’s going to take longer than you have to fix it.”

“Well, that doesn’t mean that we can’t make progress,” Charlotte said.

“And I imagine it’s a real morale boost for the troops, right, Char?” Brooke added.

“Exactly. It also provides comfort to the military families back here to see that the president hasn’t forgotten about the wars their sons and daughters and husbands and wives are fighting.”

“Come on, admit it, you feel like a total bad-ass riding in those humvees and checking out all that heavy artillery,” Mark teased.

“You’re a buffoon,” Charlotte said, balling up her napkin and throwing it at him.

“I might be a buffoon, but I am a buffoon who has stocked your wine cellar downstairs with a tremendous supply of California wines for the summer. I can’t wait till it warms up and we can barbecue out here,” Mark said.

“Do you think we can just lurk around here all summer, honey? Charlotte is running for reelection this year. She’s going to be on the campaign trail, not up here manning the barbecue with you, you fool,” Brooke said, swatting her husband playfully.

“Ouch. You two are on your brooms tonight. I’m going to go smoke my cigar alone after dinner.” Mark laughed.

They ate lamb chops and grilled asparagus and drank more of the wine that Brooke and Mark had brought from Napa Valley. After dinner, they returned to the deck, which Charlotte kept heated year-round. The dogs snuggled on top of their feet, and the three of them talked until after midnight about the stock market and the price of real estate in the San Francisco Bay Area, where Charlotte planned to return if she lost the election.

“What would you do, Char?” Brooke asked.

“She could do anything she wanted, honey,” Mark said.

Brooke shushed him.

“I don’t know what I’d do, to be honest. Let me know if you come up with any ideas.”

“Charlotte, it isn’t going to happen. You’re going to win. I know it,” Mark said, stifling a yawn.

“You guys don’t need to stay up—go get some rest,” Charlotte urged.

Mark stood up and held his hand out for Brooke. “Are you ready for bed, my little drunk?”

“I resent that comment,” Brooke said, standing up and swaying side-to-side.

“You coming inside, Char?” Mark asked.

“I’ll be in soon. I’m going to sit here a little longer,” she said, standing up to kiss them good night.

As she settled back down, she relished feeling normal. Other than Brooke and Mark, her parents, and her children, there wasn’t any relationship that hadn’t been dramatically altered by her ascension to the presidency.

After a few minutes, she went inside to make a pot of decaf. She sat watching it drip into the pot.

“Char, you sure you’re okay?” Mark said.

She hadn’t heard him enter the room, and she jumped when he spoke.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you,” Mark said. “You seemed a little lost in thought tonight. I wanted to make sure you’re not down. Brooke told me that her Tourette’s syndrome kicked in tonight before dinner.”

“You’re sweet to check on me. I’m fine. Want some coffee? It’s decaf.”

“Sure, I’ll take a cup. Brooke passed out already.”

Charlotte smiled.

“So, what’s going on? Is it classified, or can you tell me?” Mark asked.

“No, it’s nothing like that. Things aren’t going very well, as you know. My approval numbers are in the high twenties and low thirties. There’s no chance I’ll be reelected, but I can’t exactly acknowledge that, so we just go through the motions of a campaign, and I lose anyway. It’s like fighting a battle that you know you can’t win. It’s tough to get fired up for it, you know?”

Mark nodded. “I do.”

They watched the dogs readjust themselves on the sofas where they were sleeping.

“I’ve got something for you—it’s not much, but it’s something,” he offered.

“What?” she asked.

“Will came home and told Brooke he wanted to enlist in the Marine Corps, but only if you are elected president again in November.”

“You’re joking,” Charlotte said.

“I wish I were. Our only son wants to fight for his country. Brooke is beside herself, and I’m not thrilled about it, either, to be honest. But what’s remarkable is that he is only going to go through with it if you win. He only wants to serve his country if you are its commander in chief.”

Charlotte swallowed a lump in her throat. “Jesus, Mark, I don’t know what to say. Why didn’t Brooke say anything?”

“She refuses to believe that he’ll go through with it, and she said it would be the only silver lining for any of us if you lose.”

Charlotte put her hand on Mark’s. They finished their coffee in silence. He took his cup to the sink and then walked over to where Charlotte was still sitting.

“Get some rest,” he ordered, giving her a kiss on the cheek.

“Good night.” She smiled.

Melanie

Melanie spent Saturday night at the Ritz on Central Park South. She ordered room service for dinner and watched pay-per-view movies in her room. She kept her cell phone on but shut off the BlackBerrys. She slept in on Sunday morning and got a massage before heading to the airport for a flight home to D.C.

She went straight to her office. She and Ralph were meeting to talk about the reelection campaign. Charlotte had stopped trying to get an answer from Melanie about running the campaign, but she wanted to see their plan before she left for Afghanistan.

Ralph was in her office when she walked in.

“Hi, Ralph. You’re two hours early,” Melanie said.

“Didn’t you get my e-mails?” he asked.

“No. I had some personal business that I was dealing with this weekend.”

“Oh, well, listen, all my polling models show that the president’s numbers are in a free fall. She has to either dump the VP or pull out—she can’t win on the current path. Her approval on domestic policy is twenty-eight percent; foreign policy is better but not reflected in her overall approval number. Forty-three percent approve of her job in foreign affairs, but only twenty-four percent think she’s a strong
leader, and only nineteen percent think she relates to people’s problems,” Ralph reported.

Melanie’s head started to pound. She shoved three Excedrin Migraine pills into her mouth and washed them down with a swig of Diet Coke. She stared at Ralph’s ruddy complexion and receding hairline. He was so unattractive Melanie almost felt sorry for him.

“What’s the bottom line, Ralph?” she asked.

“The bottom line is that she needs a miracle.”

“You mean, we need a miracle, don’t you, Ralph? We’re responsible for her numbers—we write her speeches and bring her the policies that people say they hate in that poll.
We
need a miracle, Ralph.”

“Yeah, whatever, we need a miracle,” he said.

“What’s going on with the third-party movement?” Melanie asked.

“There are some rumblings that the social conservatives are going to run a candidate against her, but it won’t be anyone real. The base is happy enough with her leadership in Iraq and Afghanistan and her tough stand on taxes, so they won’t get behind a third-party challenger.”

“I suppose that passes for good news,” Melanie said.

“Uh, do you want me to talk to her?” Ralph asked.

“No, I don’t want to bring it up until after her trip,” Melanie told him. “Let’s just tell her we are working on a strategy, and we’ll go over it when she gets back.”

Ralph shuffled out of her office to return to his windowless cave down the hall. Melanie had offered him a vast suite of offices on the second floor of the West Wing, but he’d insisted on being on the first floor where Melanie and the vice president and national security advisor had offices. Melanie rubbed her head and prayed for a little miracle of her own. If she could avoid talking to Charlotte about the campaign until after she returned from Afghanistan, she could figure out what to do. She could think about what Michael had told her for a few more days and come up with a better strategy for telling the president what she probably already knew: that she couldn’t win reelection unless something drastic happened.

Annie appeared at her door with a worried look. “She wants you to meet her on the South Lawn,” she said.

“Seriously? Right now?” Melanie asked, squeezing her eyes shut and opening them to try to get rid of the spots she was seeing in front of Annie’s face.

“Yeah. Sam said she’s playing fetch with the dogs and would love some company,” Annie said.

“Wonderful. Can I borrow your coat?” Melanie asked.

She walked out to the South Lawn, where Charlotte was flinging a bright orange ball with a device called the Super Chuck-It. The two younger dogs ran like wild horses after the ball. Cammie sat next to Charlotte as if she was supervising.

“Go run, Cammie, go play with Emma and Mika. You need some exercise, peanut, go run,” Charlotte urged. The dog just stared at her.

“How was the weekend?” Melanie asked.

“It was really nice. You were missed, but Brooke and Mark were in rare form.”

“Did their kids come?” Melanie asked.

“No, it was just Brooke and Mark. I think they’re going to miss Camp David more than I am if I lose.” Charlotte laughed.

Melanie didn’t have the energy to offer Charlotte the usual assurances about how she would not lose. She looked down at her BlackBerry.

“How’s Claire?” Charlotte asked.

“Huh?”

“Your sister? Didn’t you spend the weekend with Claire?” Charlotte asked.