Long May She Reign (14 page)

“Is that a fairy?” Beth asked, and Meg laughed harder, since Kirby was quite possibly the most indelicate dog in the world.

Then, suddenly, her father was standing in the hallway, tying the belt on his bathrobe and frowning at them.

“Is
that
a fairy?” Beth asked, and they both broke up completely.

Meg was the first one to get under control. “Hi, Dad,” she said, making an effort to stand up very straight and look utterly sober. “You're up early.”

He didn't smile, but he didn't really look mad, either. “Everything okay, Meg?”

“Absolu'ly, Dad,” Meg said, then looked at Beth. “Damn, you hear me drop that ‘t'?”

Beth nodded. “Wait a minute.” She bent down. “There it is, I see it.”

This time, her father smiled. Slightly. “You two help yourselves to some champagne?”

Beth stood up and pretended to hand Meg a tiny object. “Your ‘t'.”

“Thank you,” Meg said, and looked at her father. “Absolu
t
ely, Dad.”

Which she and Beth found pretty hilarious.

“Try not to wake up the whole house,” her father said, “okay?”

So, would he mind if they woke up
half
of the house? Meg knew she should be worried about this—that he was going to yell at her or something, but it all seemed too funny.

“Well. We can talk about it another time,” he said.

Meg nodded, and laughed. “Yeah.” Whatever. “Good night.”

“Right.” He started to go back into the Presidential bedroom suite, then paused. “Just tell me one thing, Meg. Tell me you weren't in golf carts.”

“We weren't in golf carts,” Meg said, although now that he mentioned it, it would be really fun to—

“Don't get any bright ideas,” her father said quickly.

“No ideas,” Meg agreed, and limped towards her room.

*   *   *

THEY SLEPT LATE
.
Real
late. In fact, Meg only woke up because she heard Beth groaning and saying, “Oh my God.” She forced her eyes open, the inside of her mouth feeling as though she'd eaten about a bale and a half of cotton. Hulls and all.

“Jesus Christ,” she said, once she'd noticed what a tremendous headache she had.

“Happy fucking New Year,” Beth said, looking as though her headache was even worse.

Lifting her eyebrow would hurt, so Meg didn't bother. “
That's
a nice way to start off the year.”

Beth mumbled something quite a bit more profane, then draped her arm over her eyes. “What time is it?”

Meg frowned at her clock. For a while. “Almost one.”

“Oh.” Beth lowered her arm, winced, and covered her eyes again. “I hate this year. I can already tell.”

At the moment, Meg wasn't too fond of it, either. Vanessa stretched and walked up to her pillow, and Meg patted her, even though the sound of purring was too much for her ears.

“You think we're in trouble?” Beth asked.

Upon which, Meg remembered their late-night encounter with her father. “I hope not.” She could be pretty sure that he was already occupied by the Bowl games, but that didn't mean that he wouldn't be able to find time to yell at them. At her, anyway.

“We probably are,” Beth said grimly.

“Yeah.” It took even more effort than usual to sit up, and once she managed it, she was tempted to lie right back down again. “God, I feel terrible.”

“I bet I feel worse,” Beth said.

“I bet you don't,” Meg said. Her eyes hurt, her head hurt,
everything
hurt. But it had been a long time since the pain in her knee and hand weren't the first things she noticed on any given day—which was either progress, or a setback.

In the other twin bed, Beth lifted herself up onto her elbows. “I guess we'd better go out there looking god-damn bandbox fresh.”

“Yeah.” Best defense was a good offense. Meg rubbed her eyes. “You want to go first?”

“Gee.” Beth stood up lethargically. “Thanks.”

After Beth had showered and gotten dressed, Meg went in to take a bath. Even her good hand and leg felt uncoordinated, and when she finally made her way back out, it was past two.

Beth, her—blond—hair still wet and spiky, was lying on her bed, staring at the wooden beams running across the ceiling.

“Time to make our move,” Meg said.

Beth sat up, slowly.

“There's aspirin and stuff in the medicine cabinet, if you want some,” Meg said.

Beth nodded. “I found it before.”

Out in the living room, one of the Bowl Games was on, loudly, and her father, brothers, and Vinnie were watching, along with Preston, and a bunch of White House staffers, Marines, and Navy stewards, mostly male. Trudy, who very much stuck out in the group, was sitting at the end of the couch with her crocheting. A fire had been lit in the fireplace, and the room was very warm. Hot, even.

Preston, who must have driven up bright and early, grinned when he saw them. “Good morning.”

“About
time
,” Steven said, through a mouthful of potato chips.

Beth shrugged. “Beauty sleep.”

“Didn't help 'em much,” Steven said to Vinnie, and they both laughed raucously.

Trudy moved her yarn to one side. “Let's see about some lunch for you two.”

Meg's father was already on his feet. “Don't worry, Trudy, I'll take care of it.”

Oh, great. Meg sat down in an empty chair, deciding that
far
too much light was pouring in through the wide windows. Something important must have happened in the game, because half of the room cheered, and everyone else groaned.

There was a lot of food spread out on a buffet table—chili and rice and salad and so forth—and Meg looked at Beth, who shook her head. Firmly.

“You two sleep all right?” her father asked.

Beth nodded. “Yes, sir. Thank you.”

It might be a good time to change the subject. Meg looked around. “Where's Mom?”

“Laurel,” her father said.

The cabin where most official meetings were held. She'd probably been giving a New Year's Day radio address or something, too. Consulting with her staff. Making decisions. Issuing proclamations.

Plus, of course, avoiding all of them.

“There's plenty of food over here,” her father said, “if you—”

Meg shook her head. “We're going to start off with Cokes.”

“
Small
Cokes,” Beth said in a low voice. “Or ginger ale, if you have it.”

“Come in the kitchen, then, Meg,” her father said. “We'll see what we can find.”

Time to get yelled at. Happy New Year. Meg lifted herself up onto her cane and followed him.

“I think we may be starting to run short on some of the food, guys,” her father said to the steward and Navy cook who were on duty in there.

After the two men left the room to check—and replenish—the table, her father gave her a very penetrating look. “Feeling all right today?”

Meg nodded, hoping her eyes weren't as bloodshot as they felt.

“How about Beth?” he asked.

Meg nodded, keeping her eyes down, so that he might not notice.

He dropped ice cubes into two glasses, and then sighed. “Don't make a habit of it, okay?”

She nodded.

“Okay,” he said, and patted her on the back, before filling the glasses with soda.

Meg glanced up. “That's it? I'm not in trouble?”

“Well, I think it was pretty harmless,” he said. “In the scheme of things.”

She agreed. One hundred and twenty percent. “Thanks,” she said.

Once they went back out to the living room, she and Beth slumped in their chairs with their Cokes.

“I don't believe I care who's playing,” Meg said, as more cheers and groans erupted.

“I know I don't,” Beth said.

A touchdown scored—apparently controversial, as the quarterback might have been beyond the line of scrimmage when he passed the ball—and the reaction in the room went well past mere noise, crossing the line into vociferousness.

“Is it too soon to go back to bed?” Beth asked.

They had been out here for—maybe—twenty minutes.

“Yes,” Meg said.

“Oh,” Beth said, and they sipped their Cokes.

*   *   *

THE NEXT DAY
, they both felt better, and by the time they went back to Washington, Beth was full of exhausting “shopping for college” and “going out to get some ice cream” plans. She even talked Meg into inviting Josh, and a couple of her other friends who were home on winter break, to come to the movies with them one night, which ended up being a somewhat stilted social encounter, but ultimately kind of fun. By doing small things like parting her hair on the side, or tying it up in a high ponytail, or wearing one of her pairs of clear glasses—subtle disguise tricks Preston had taught her—she even managed not to be recognized, some of the time.

Of course, the infamous combination of her hand splint and knee brace—and the fact that she maybe looked a hell of a lot like an eighteen-year-old version of someone world-famous—was generally a dead giveaway. To say nothing of her army of agents.

On Friday, Beth was flying to California to visit her father and his latest very young girlfriend, Jasmine, and Meg went downstairs with her to the South Portico to say good-bye. The Residence was going to seem painfully quiet now, especially since Trudy had already left, the day before, to go back to her condo in Florida.

“So,” Beth said. “You're out of here in about three weeks.”

Meg nodded. Just in time for the second semester, although that meant she would miss the entire January Winter Study program. With luck, were she to make it to her senior year, they would still let her graduate.

“Well, I'll come up and see you before Spring Break, maybe,” Beth said, adjusting her—pink, this time—beret. “If you want.”

Meg nodded, although that was too far in the very uncertain future to seem plausible.

Beth looked at her. “You're moving really well now, Meg. I can see the difference.”

She didn't agree, so she shrugged and gripped her cane. “Maybe. I don't know.”

“You're going to be skiing next winter,” Beth said.

Now, she
heartily
disagreed.

“Well.” Beth glanced at the car waiting to take her to the airport, and then grinned wickedly. “Off to see Jasmine.”

Meg grinned back. God help Jasmine.

*   *   *

SHE WAS LYING
on her bed that night, with post-exercise ice packs covering her knee and hand, watching C-Span, when her mother tapped on the already-ajar door.

Supposedly, her parents had been out for the evening. “You're back early,” Meg said.

Her mother shrugged, looking tired in her long black and white gown, which—in Meg's opinion—had kind of a Cecil Beaton feel to it. A smashing, ribbon-bedecked hat would have improved it, though. “They like it if you show up, but they don't expect you to stay. In fact, I think they're relieved when I leave.”

Meg nodded. Her parents often breezed through several social gatherings in a couple of hours. Smiles, posing for photos, handshakes, waves—and then, it was on to the next event.

With Beth around, it hadn't seemed as obvious that she had barely seen her mother at all lately—a fast good-night here and there, ten minutes at breakfast, that sort of thing. If she were, oh, say,
keeping track
, it would probably bother her that they hadn't spent any significant time together since Christmas night, on the patio outside Aspen.

Her mother came over to check the glass pitcher of ice water on her bedside table—which, go figure, was now being brought to her room at regular intervals, unasked—and refilled her glass. Meg picked it up without thinking and drained half of it, then felt stupid and put it down.

“Did you get enough supper?” her mother asked.

As usual, she had left considerably more on her plate than she finished, but Meg nodded.

“Okay,” her mother said. “Good. That's good.” She looked at the desk chair, and the rocking chair, but remained standing. “Do you have a few minutes?”

Hmm. Apparently, it had taken all this time for the other shoe to drop. Meg clicked off the television. “Is this about what happened at Camp David?”

Her mother looked puzzled momentarily, then shook her head. “No. I mean, yes, obviously, I hope that, in the future, you'll do your best to make, um, judicious choices, whenever possible, but, no. I was just hoping to discuss something with you.”

Even by their current low standards, this had been an unusually unsuccessful conversation so far. Her mother seemed to have some sort of specific agenda here, but it was hard to assess what the—except then, she realized what was probably coming, and found herself gulping down a burst of dread. Her mother was going to say, “Your father and I have decided that it would be better if he took the three of you back to Chestnut Hill,” and then—

“We need to talk about the State of the Union,” her mother said.

Oh. Meg let out her breath, so close to tears that she had to blink a few times.

“What?” her mother asked, looking concerned.

No good could come from confessing that she'd expected a divorce announcement. As opposed to the State of the
actual
Union. “Nothing,” Meg said. She rarely exaggerated about the degree to which the pain was bothering her at any given moment, but she would make an exception in this case. “It's just—” She gestured towards the ice packs— “you know. No big deal.”

“I can call downstairs,” her mother said, heading for the telephone. Meaning, in this case, the Medical Unit. “I have no idea who's on duty, but they can send him or her up here, and—”

A reaction she should have seen coming. “I'm
fine
, Mom,” Meg said. “Really. Anyway, what about the State of the Union?”