Georgie—One Month Later
On the day of the inauguration, Jameson greeted me with a gift—a blush pink box trimmed with wide black satin ribbon. There had been many gifts over the past few weeks. First, a trip to paradise that encompassed not only my birthday but also the holidays. Then Jameson surprised me unexpectedly when he paid to have my father’s desk transported to the White House. There aren’t enough words in the English language to accurately describe how I felt when he told me. It was like I was reclaiming a piece of my family.
“There’s more,” he explained. We were appropriately sitting on the beach, watching fireworks light up the night sky.
“More? How could there be more?”
“I bought back all the antiques you sold.”
My mouth dropped open and tears burst from my eyes unexpectedly. “Why? Why did you do that?”
“Because that’s a part of your life that you should never have had to give up. I had them delivered to your home in New Hampshire. You’ll have to sort through everything.”
In the few weeks leading up the inauguration, after we returned from paradise, that’s what I did. I spent time in my family’s home, sorting through items I never thought I’d see again. Jameson was in Washington, finalizing the sale of his condo. I didn’t mind the brief separation because it gave me time to wrap my head around this new chapter in my life, and it allowed me to say goodbye to my old life.
So when I finally arrived in Washington D.C., ready to take my place next to Jameson as the first lady of the United States of America, I wasn’t expecting any more gifts.
“What’s this?” I asked, taking the box from his hands.
“I want you to wear this tonight,” he purred.
I eyed the box skeptically. It didn’t look big enough to hold a ball gown, which I already had, and it hung from a rack in the large walk-in closet of our suite’s master bedroom. And it was far too big to contain jewelry.
Taking the box from him, I walked over to the bed. I set the box down and carefully untied the ribbon before lifting the lid. Nestled between layers of identical blush pink tissue paper was a delicate black lace bustier with matching garter belt and panties.
“Oh my,” I gasped. I held up the garment to my chest and turned to face Jameson. His blue eyes smoldered with hunger. “Thank you.”
Jameson lifted a finger to briefly touch the edges of the garter belt. He seemed uncomfortable with expressing his intentions. Perhaps his nerves got the best of him.
Clearing his throat, he looked up at me and spoke. “I want you to know that this is the third happiest day of my life.”
Confused, I asked, “Third? What are the other two days?”
“The second happiest day of my life is the day you agreed to our bargain.”
“And the first?”
“That day hasn’t happened yet. The happiest day of my life will be the day you become my wife.”
Jameson took hold of my left hand and bent his head, bringing my hand up to meet his lips. The gesture seemed almost reverent. I swiped at the tears that stung the corners of my eyes, whisking them away before they had the chance to ruin my freshly applied makeup.
Reaching out, I placed my hand on his smooth cheek. “I love you, Jameson.”
A knock on the door of our suite interrupted the tender moment and probably prevented us from combusting. I hastily put the lingerie back in the box and headed back to the master bath to finish getting dressed.
The sun was shining and the sky was clear, but it was bitterly cold, and a layer of snow covered Washington, D.C., in a blanket of white. I chose a wool suit in a deep navy blue with long-sleeve black leather gloves to match. The ruby monogram pin that belonged to Jameson’s mother rested just over my heart; a symbol not only of the man I loved but also of his place in my life.
“Are you ready? Secret Service is waiting to escort us to the White House,” Jameson commented, returning to the bedroom.
At times, I truly forgot how handsome Jameson was until he left me breathless the moment he walked into a room. Today, he wore a meticulously tailored slim-cut navy suit that highlighted his broad chest and narrow waist. Underneath, he wore a white button-down shirt and a scarlet red tie. His inky black hair was parted and slicked back to the side, and my fingers itched the mess it up.
“You’re staring at me. What’s wrong?”
Breathlessly, I replied, “Nothing. You look perfect.”
“So do you.” He looked me up and down, emphasizing his point before flashing me his Cheshire cat grin. “Are you ready to bid farewell to the pompous windbag who’s living in our house?”
I couldn’t help the loud and bawdy laugh that escaped my lips. “Absolutely! Let’s go kick the bastard out.”
From the moment we left the hotel, the media documented everything we did. The deafening sounds of shutters click-click-clicking away captured every smile and wave. The cabin of our limousine was a welcome respite; it was warm and quiet, a place where Jameson and I escaped momentarily until we arrived at the White House.
The outgoing president and first lady, Robert and Carol Arden, greeted us with cold politeness. Journalists photographed our exchange, and we stood on the steps of the White House, posing with fake smiles plastered across our faces. None of us wanted to be there. Scratch that. Jameson and I wanted to be there. The tight smile that seemed permanently affixed to First Lady Arden’s face indicated that she couldn’t wait to leave. And that was fine by me. I was ready to serve.
* * *
The National Mall was transformed into a sea of humanity. People filled every square inch, waiting for the moment Jameson placed his hand on the Bible and took his Oath of Office. We were led onto the platform that was built in front of the Capitol building, many of Jameson’s Senate colleagues already seated and waiting. I grabbed tightly to Jameson’s hand as we made our way to the front. Being in front of that many people made me nervous. The whole world watched and waited.
Jameson’s inauguration made history before it even began. He had dreamed of how this day would play out for years, planning so many of the details. For example, the Bible that his father carried in Vietnam would be the one he placed his hand upon when he spoke thirty-five simple yet powerful words.
“I do solemnly swear that I will faithfully execute the office of President of the United States, and will to the best of my ability, preserve, protect, and defend the Constitution of the United States.”
As he recited those words, my chest filled with pride. I watched him purposefully raise his right hand and place the left on the Bible and look straight into the eyes of the first female Chief Justice of the Supreme Court, Margaret Ormsby. Jameson would be the first president sworn in by a female Supreme Court Justice.
There was another detail that Jameson had dreamed about that did not particularly thrill me.
“You don’t have to do it, Georgie,” Jameson told me for probably the fifth time.
“Jameson, I am officially the first lady now. If I don’t, it’ll be awful.”
Part of Jameson’s vision for his inauguration included walking the parade route, shaking hands with people who came out to share the day with us. It was sunny and clear but still fucking cold. He gave me an out—I could just ride in the limousine while he walked alongside it, but that wasn’t going to happen. I wasn’t a wimp, and I wasn’t afraid of the cold; after all, I was from New England.
“Just give me one minute.” I was going to look silly, but I was going to be warm and comfortable. I slipped off my black leather heels and pulled on a pair of suede boots lined with fuzzy wool and came mid-calf. Pulling back my loose waves, I secured my hair with a hair tie and pulled a black beanie over my head.
“I’m ready,” I declared. Jameson laughed loudly, and I narrowed my eyes. When he wasn’t looking, I planned to attack him with snowballs.
Walking together along the parade route wasn’t bad; in fact, it was an amazing and eye-opening experience. People who stood along the barriers shouted happily toward us, sharing their hopes and wishes and congratulating Jameson. He was giddy as he shook hands with everyone he could touch. There might have even been a few selfies. This was his dream, this was what he wanted, and this was why he was willing to stake his political career on a risky scheme. It made sense. He belonged to these people, and he was destined to be their leader.
“Are you cold?” he asked, coming up to next to me. He wrapped a long arm around me, pulling me tightly into the warmth of his body.
“No.”
“Are you tired?”
“No.” The crowd energized me. He energized me.
“Are you happy?”
“Deliriously happy.” I stopped and turned to face him, sliding my arms around his waist. I rested my cheek against the fine cashmere wool of his overcoat and just held him there for a moment. Then I stood on tiptoe and planted a firm kiss on his lips. “I am so proud to call you my president.”