STATE DINNER
Charlotte
Galas are now my life. The gowns, the accessories. I’m swathed in fine fabrics and in Matt’s arms.
“She went from private citizen to public figure and she’s handled it with grace and style. I’m proud of her,” Matthew was quoted staying.
And about my pregnancy rumors, addressing them eight weeks after we found out: “That’s right. I’m going to be a father in six months’ time. I’m kindly requesting to the most shameless of you”—he addressed the press with a warning look and a smirk—“to take it easy on my wife.”
“President Hamilton, is it a boy or a girl?”
“We don’t know yet.”
“Will you want to?”
“That would be a yes.” He grinned.
I restore the tulip beds, and add ducks to accompany the swans in the south fountain.
I’m mistress of the White House.
I plan events where artists dazzle audiences, arranged in our guests’ honor. Arrange for a famous singer to perform the national anthem when someone important comes to visit.
I give talks in middle and elementary schools and invite schools to organize field trips to the White House, where I plan state dinners for the children (which are really lunches), complete with healthy foods.
My weekends I dedicate to the planning of these events, including those held for foreign heads of state.
I try to juggle it all, paying utmost attention to every detail of the state dinners we will be hosting, the next to be President Kebchov’s dinner this weekend. From the linens, to the plates, to the flowers, to the food, to the table arrangement and the entertainment. I want everyone who steps through our doors to be swept away by the elegance and glamor of the White House.
There is a history in every wall, every artifact, a story in every room. Reading about them, knowing Abe Lincoln walked through these halls, JFK and Jackie made love in the same rooms Matthew Hamilton and I do, it’s humbling. So humbling, it’s been hard to believe that I—just a girl, one who had no interest in politics to begin with but was too enraptured by a man to stay away—could deserve it.
But I’m here nonetheless, and I am here to serve, and I want to make a difference.
I want to own up to my childhood dream and take this opportunity to make it a reality. I want to touch lives in the way that Matthew and his father touched mine, the day they came to dinner at my home and treated me as if I had something good to offer. We all do; sometimes we just need someone to tell us.
So I try to keep my schedule heavy on the days Matt is traveling, and lighter when he is home. And sometimes when we both get home after an exhausting trip, we just make love and stay awake all night, talking about our days apart—and I tell Matt how the things we’re doing not only touch others, they touch me too.
* * *
The hustle and bustle of the White House is up a notch on the day we host President Kebchov’s state dinner.
The U.S. – Russia relationship has been strained for years.
Kebchov is the one you want to intimidate. You want him well aware of the power of the United States and its leader.
We don’t live in this world all alone. We have neighbors and allies. Enemies, too.
I’ve planned the perfect dinner—all American courses, including Maine lobster and Idaho potatoes.
Matt and I receive President Kebchov and his wife at the door, the sentinel guards standing by as he and his wife exit the car.
“President Kebchov.” Matt shakes his hand.
“Kev is good,” he says with a thick accent.
His wife is clad in gold, with glittering jewels on her wrist and neck.
I chose simplicity for this event. My gown is the color of emeralds. I’m wearing a small pair of emerald studs Matt gave me to match it and no necklace, because my gown is strapless and I like the way my bare shoulders look. I know Matt likes it too.
“My first lady, Charlotte.” Matt introduces me to them, and I shake the president’s hand as he, too, introduces his wife, and she goes on to press a kiss to Matt’s cheek.
“If you’ll allow us the honor . . .” Matt motions us into the White House, where the four of us walk inside to a thousand camera flashes.
The artists entertaining tonight in the East Room are acrobats from Cirque du Soleil, who prepared a special performance just for the occasion.
President Kev is amused, and keeps saying AHHH! whenever the acrobats in their colorful leotards perform gravity-defying feats.
Matt squeezes my thigh, shooting an approving glance my way that tells me he’s happy with the evening so far.
After dinner, the men are in deep discussions that Matt suggests taking to his office, and I remain with the first lady.
“Your husband. He’s very young and virile. Da?” Katarina says.
“Yes.” I smile, and she shoots a covetous glance his way and drinks from her glass of wine.
“He’s also incredibly loving to me,” I say, and her eyes widen as if she didn’t expect this from me.
“I like you!” she declares. “Not as much as I like your husband, but . . .” She grins, and we end up laughing and discussing her duties as a first lady in her country, and the troubles she believes her people face.
“My husband has been very angry at the United States for a long time.” She eyes me. “We haven’t had the same . . . agenda, shall we say.”
“No two countries ever do. That’s what compromises are for.”
She scowls delicately. “Yes, but my husband is not good at compromising.”
“My husband is great at what he does. I’m sure they’ll come to an understanding. May I show you around?” I offer.
We watch as the men head to the West Wing, and I lead her around the White House, telling her stories about our ancestors, funny or interesting tidbits about things that happened in each room.
“How lovely, your passion,” she says.
I only smile.
“You are to have a baby, yes?”
“I’m due December.”
“We never had children. Kev said it was too much, to have brats and be in charge of Russia.”
She sounds forlorn. “I’m sorry to hear that. I’m sure Matthew has his concerns, but I do believe it’s possible to both have a family and be commander in chief.”
“Ah, youth.”
“Maybe it is youth, or maybe simply determination.”
“Is your husband not concerned he’ll leave his child fatherless? Like his father?”
I raise my brow. “No. We trust the Secret Service to keep him safe.”
“But they couldn’t keep your beloved President Law safe.” She eyes me. “It would be a shame to lose such a perfect example of masculinity to a mistake.”
I manage to keep my expression neutral, my gaze direct. “Thank you for your concern, but my husband and his administration are stronger than ever and will continue to be,” I say, my tone no-nonsense.
Katarina leaves early, and her husband remains with mine—I’m not sure where, but somewhere in the White House, probably the Oval, where all the big stuff is discussed.
I’m exhausted, so I hit the bed in the Queens’ Bedroom, unsure of when Matt will be done.
I keep replaying my conversation with Katarina as I drift off to sleep.
I have a nightmare. It’s dark and I’m aware that I’m dreaming, but everything feels too real to be a dream. The fear pulses through me, the regret, and the confusion.
Carlisle is bloodied, and I look and follow the trail of blood to Matt. He’s lying down, not breathing, his hand holding a small one, and it’s me, lying in that same pool of blood, his father’s pin bloodied on my lapel.
I sit up in bed with a gasp, then glance around as the world spins. My throat constricted, my heart beating, I’m dizzy. I scramble out of bed in search of the bathroom and realize I’m not in my apartment. I’m in the Queens’ Bedroom. In the White House. I inhale, then grab a robe and step outside. My agent Stacey stands up at attention.
“Everything all right?”
“Yes, just getting some water, thank you.”
I head to the kitchen and notice Wilson down the hall—and my eyes instantly jerk to the side to see Matt seated in the yellow sitting area.
“You’re back,” I gasp.
“Got in a while ago.”
“How did it go?”
“Not as well as I wanted, but better than I expected.” He scrapes his hand over his jaw and looks at me, then at Wilson, and Wilson scats.
The fear of my nightmare wanes with his presence.
I’m aching, his piercing coffee eyes, his infectious smile, his husky voice, and the way I want to be with him greater than my fear.
His low, sexy voice is like a blanket around me. “How are you? Are you uncomfortable?”
“I don’t have time to be uncomfortable.” I smile.
I head over to him and he draws me to sit on his thigh. “You outdid yourself tonight.” He cups my abdomen. Kisses it. “You look tired.” He peers at my face, his gaze too penetrating. Too knowing.
“A little. I think it went well. The Kebchovs were definitely impressed. The first lady was impressed by you, but I’m getting used to that.”
He frowns and strokes a hand over my hair, and I angle my head into the touch, stroking my hand up his chest. There’s a nearly imperceptible darkening in his eyes, a hunger lurking all of a sudden in his irises.
“Let’s get you to bed.”
“Are you coming with me?”
He doesn’t answer, simply leads me there.
Once in bed, he strips me, and then strips himself. I cuddle into his chest, in his arms, Matt sitting with his back propped against the headrest. “Rest, Matt,” I groan, kissing his pec, caressing the dusting of hair on his chest.
“I will. I’m just thinking.” He kisses my forehead.
I reach up to press his face against mine, stroking his hair, until I feel him turn his head into my hair and close his eyes, able to catch a few hours of sleep before the hum of the early-morning White House begins, and it’s a full day for the both of us again.
* * *
During the week, I have another group of important visitors at the White House. Kids from a local art school arrive, and I’ve set up small tables in the East Room so we can all do a White House-themed project.
One of the six-year-old girls calls me to her table and asks, “Like this?”
I reach over and adjust the paper so I can see it. Just then, she lifts the brush and smears paint on my cheek, and I laugh when I see Matt stop at the door—the room falling silent for a second, followed by a round of gasps from the little kids.
“Children—” I straighten up, still laughing as I grab a napkin and start to wipe my cheek—“we have a special visitor. It’s the president!”
And how I love the expressions on their faces as Matt leans forward into the mic at the podium at the end of the room. “Whoever painted the first lady,” he says, winking, “good job.”
I laugh and he walks over, leans over to the little girl, and assures her, “She looks even more beautiful than she did this morning.” He takes the napkin from me and wipes off the paint, smiling.
We look at each other over the children. Both of us thinking there will be one of ours here before we know it.