Long May She Reign (42 page)

And, so it did. Meg nodded. “Well, I must have taken a hammer and smashed the bones into oblivion, to help sell the story. Or, maybe someone in the Administration—possibly the President herself—wielded it.”

Hannah shuddered.

Yeah, that was a truly disturbing image. “God forbid she get credit for the sheer
heroism
of remembering that the responsibility of being the President goes way beyond anything else—even your obligations to your firstborn child,” Meg said.

Hannah nodded. “That doesn't make it much fun to be the child, though, does it.”

No, not much fun at all. “Well, it gets sort of complicated by the fact that I love her,” Meg said quietly.

There was a pause, and then Hannah nodded again. “That's good,” she said, just as quiet. “That has to help.”

Yeah. And it helped even more that, deep down, she knew that the sentiment was very much returned. But, enough of the Confession Hour. “So,” Meg said, trying to smile, “is it making you sick that you can't use any of this?”

Hannah shook her head vehemently.

Go figure. “Well, then, you might be in the wrong profession,” Meg said.

Hannah looked sheepish. “I maybe have a
touch
of nausea.”

Meg felt pretty sick herself, although it was for other reasons. Exhaustion. Tension. Things like that. She saw Ed trying to catch her eye, and nodded at him. The White House delegation must have arrived. Time to go. Then she focused on Hannah, who had also picked up on Ed's non-verbal signal, and was already gathering up her coat and finishing the last of her coffee. “Out of respect to Preston, I'm going to have to talk to him about all of this, and he's probably going to want to sit in, if we follow up, okay?”

“
If
we follow up?” Hannah asked.

Right. “
When
we follow up,” Meg said.

*   *   *

ON HER WAY
back to the dorm, she saw Ginette standing on the crowded little traffic median, giving what sounded like a combination of a statement—and strict instructions and guidelines. There was an immediate flurry of interest when they all saw her, but Ginette snapped out one of her patented “Miss Powers will
not
be taking any questions” lines, and then, they were both ushered across the street by her agents and campus security.

Meg had yet to say anything more controversial than “Hello,” but Ginette already seemed to be quite testy with her, which—with luck—was not a reflection of Preston's mood today.

“Um, how was your flight?” Meg asked.

“Fine,” Ginette said, in a noticeably clipped voice.

How nifty. “I'm sorry you all had to come up here,” Meg said. “I told my parents that it really wasn't—”

Ginette glared at her. “I don't think there's any question but that it was
very
necessary.”

Well, for Susan's sake, maybe, but it wasn't as though she'd demanded that they show up. For that matter, Susan hadn't, either.

“The first thing we heard when we got here was that you'd taken off willy-nilly to meet with that shark Hannah Goldman,” Ginette said, sounding very angry.

Okay, now the other shoe had landed neatly. Meg shrugged. “She's very nice. For a shark.”

Ginette ignored that. “We were also told that you refused to seek the medical attention you obviously need, despite being strongly urged to do so.”

Now, it was Meg's turn to scowl. “I'm never
not
in pain, Ginette. This actually isn't all that much worse than usual. And was I really supposed to take off to the hospital last night, when my good friend was reeling, because her best friend's murder was suddenly being thrown in her face, on camera, just because she has the bad luck to know
me
?”

Ginette looked guilty. “No. I guess not.” She glanced over. “I guess I also didn't realize that you two had become friends.”

Christ, she had just used the phrase “good friend” without thinking. “Well, we're not anymore,” Meg said. “But, up until last night, we were headed in that direction.” Maybe.

Her knee was throbbing crazily, and she paused to rest, and try to breathe the intensity of the pain down, so that when they finally got to the dorm, her eyes wouldn't be full of tears.

Ginette waited next to her, looking as though she was tempted to ask her agents to carry her the rest of the way to the dorm.

“I'm
fine
,” Meg said. “I just have to pace myself.”

Ginette nodded too hard, and too many times.

She wasn't ready to start walking again—but she did, anyway, since it was preferable to watching a press aide try not to fall to pieces.

“Preston wants me to escort Susan around, and be available for—well, as long as necessary,” Ginette said. “I hope I'll be able to be of some assistance.”

Meg just nodded, conserving her energy.

As they approached the entrance, Andy came out on his way to class—and then stopped. Judging from his expression, he was about as fond of her right now as Juliana was.

Another burgeoning friendship, dead in the water.

He was the first one to break the silence. “Did you
really
not know?”

Christ, did they all think she was an unrepentant liar, on top of everything else? “Of course I didn't,” Meg said. “Come on.”

He looked at her as though he was trying to decide whether to believe her, then nodded. “Okay. I'll spread the word. Because—people are pissed.”

Yeah. She'd noticed.

When they went inside, Kyle was still at the front desk.

“Hi,” Meg said. “Is he here, or—?”

Kyle pointed upstairs. “Follow the sound of female voices.”

Ah, as usual, within moments, the typical fan club had formed around him. Sometimes she wondered whether Preston knew about the profound power he possessed—and milked it, or whether he was oblivious to its true dimensions.

When they got off the elevator, Preston was lounging in the chair by the upstairs security desk, surrounded by what appeared to be half of the girls who lived in the dorm, all of whom were laughing and nodding at whatever he had just said. Even Nellie, who must have come on duty to relieve Martin, had a fairly rapt, foolish smile on her face.

Preston saw her, and stood up with an easy motion. Hell, it was
feline-esque.
Even though he was, disappointingly, wearing a conservative grey suit, a plain white shirt, and a dark red tie.

“Ladies,” he said formally, “it has, indeed, been a pleasure.” Then he gave Meg a nod, and motioned towards her room with one jerk of his head.

No actual hello?
Very
bad sign.

It was crowded, but people were starting to drift away, now that the focus of their attention was no longer in view.

“He is so sexy,” someone was saying, as she went down the stairs, and there seemed to be general agreement with that sentiment.

Susan was nowhere in sight, and Juliana had quickly ducked into her room, but Meg nodded at Tammy, who was lingering in the hall, seemingly hoping for one more glimpse of the First Gentleman's Chief of Staff.

“Hi,” Meg said.

Tammy mouthed “he's
really
cute” at her, and Meg nodded, since—what the hell—he
was
, and went into her room to find him leaning against her desk. He indicated the door, and she closed it, then went over to her bed. Taking her weight off her knee was such a relief that it was a struggle not to burst into tears. But instead, she just closed her eyes for a second and then reached for a pillow to prop her leg up, while Preston watched her silently.

The man could communicate more without uttering a single syllable than anyone she had ever known.

“Start
shooting
the bastards?” he said finally.

The remark he had tactfully avoided mentioning during their phone conversations the night before. Meg sighed. “I lost my temper.”

“Really,” he said. “Gee whiz, I didn't pick up on that at all, Meg. You disguised it beautifully.”

Christ, was she supposed to be perfect? It wasn't like she did any of this for a damn living. She was in
college
, for God's sakes.

“I liked the ‘carnage' remark, too,” he said, his gaze so intense that she was pretty sure he could see right through her to the wall. “Kudos, for the grace under pressure.”

In all of these years, had Preston even given her anything more than a mild admonition, or a raised eyebrow? And he'd picked today to start being mean? Jesus, maybe there really
wasn't
anyone in her life who she could trust.

“And, if I may ask,” he said, “have you been off favoring our friend Ms. Goldman with similarly irresistible sound bites?”

Meg didn't feel like answering him, so she just shrugged.

“Well.” He straightened the crease in his pants, then brushed at what seemed to be a nonexistent piece of lint.

“God-damn peacock,” Meg said stiffly.

He narrowed his eyes at her. In fact, they were actual
slits
. “Let's not push each other today, okay, Meg?”

“Right,” Meg said. After all, it wasn't as though he'd started pushing
her
around, first. “It's funny. Here I am—on a bed—by myself in a small room, with an angry guy giving me abuse and trying to upset me.” She frowned. “Hmmm. Why does this feel so familiar?”

Preston looked at her, then abruptly got up and walked out, shutting the door behind him.

Okay, she'd gone too far. About a thousand miles too far. In fact—

There was a knock on the door.

She swallowed, afraid to get up, but then there was another knock and she hesitantly limped over and opened it.

“Hi, Meg,” Preston said, and gave her a quick hug. “God, it's good to see you. I heard you're having a tough time right now—anything I can do to help?”

She smiled, although—much as she would have preferred not to have this thought—the kidnapper had had a similar sense of humor.

“I'm sorry,” he said.

That
was one phrase which had never come out of the kidnapper's mouth. She nodded. “Me, too. I can be pretty rotten, when I want to be.”

“Well—you have your moments,” he said. “But then, I'm capable of being a complete prick, so there you go.”

She was going to disagree, but right now, she was having no trouble imagining that whatsoever.

He indicated her desk chair. “Are you comfortable with my sitting there?”

Oh, for God's sakes. “Don't be an idiot, Preston,” she said. “You know damn well I
adore
you. Just sit down.”

He nodded, and took a seat.

The room was very quiet, but it was more of a tired silence, than an angry one.

“It's a poor excuse,” he said, “but the only sleep I've gotten was for about an hour on the plane, and I guess I've also been building up a head of steam ever since your mother landed on me last night.”

Which had, quite possibly, been a first for him. Much like the little scene they had just gone through themselves. Meg frowned. “The President lost her temper, too?”

“The President was on the
warpath
,” he said. “I hadn't seen her like that—for a long time.”

Since she was kidnapped, presumably. Meg still didn't know very many details, and possibly never would, about what it had
really
been like around the White House during those thirteen days—but it couldn't have been pretty.

He shook his head. “To tell you the truth, I actually thought she was going to throw something at me.”

“She probably would have,” Meg said, “if she had a better arm.”

Preston grinned. “Well, you might be right about that.”

One of the most closely-guarded secrets in the Administration was the degree to which the President dreaded April, and Opening Day for the major league baseball season, because she was required—often, at more than one stadium—to throw out the first ball, and was afraid of making a fool of herself. She and Steven would have several practice sessions during the month before, usually up at Camp David, where they would be mostly unobserved, but no matter how many times she was given advice and tips and even hands-on demonstrations, she still—well—threw like a girl.

Since Meg, personally, did not throw like a girl, she had always gotten a pretty big yuck out of the situation.

But even if her mother had a Hall of Fame pitching arm, Meg still couldn't picture her ever throwing something in anger. Considering her generally preternatural composure, even throwing a
fit
seemed like a stretch. “I don't get why she was mad at you. This wasn't your fault.”

“The President feels that you and Susan, and by extension, your families, were very poorly served in this situation—by me, in particular,” Preston said, with a rigid expression. “And, as it happens, I agree with her, so I offered my resignation.”

Meg stared at him.

“Obviously, since I'm here right now, she didn't accept it,” he said.

Even so. Jesus, he
had
had a bad night. And if her mother had allowed him to quit, she might well have never spoken to her again for the rest of their lives. “Do you even know Susan at all?” she asked. “I mean, other than meeting her when you guys dropped me off here.”

He shook his head. “No, but I was certainly involved with coordinating the paperwork, and—I should have paid more attention to the possible ramifications of her personal history.”

No question, but there was still something that wasn't quite tracking here. And while he might avoid giving her direct answers sometimes, she was almost sure that he would never outright lie to her. “So, you made the final call, entirely on your own,” Meg said.