THE TEAM
Matt
The thing about presidential campaigns is that you don’t just need the right candidate. You need the right team. I eye the dozens of folders strewn across my desk. I’m on my sixth cup of coffee, and I take the last sip as I consider the latest addition to my team.
“Women of the World, Charlotte Wells. She’s almost an intern—no experience. You certain about this?” Carlisle asked.
I decided all this over a box of donuts, veggie wraps, soda cans, and bottles of Voss water.
You can’t say Charlotte is beautiful, she’s too stunning for that. You just don’t forget a face like hers.
Red hair like a flame falling down her shoulders. And that spark in her eyes. She’s energetic, unapologetic, exquisite. Despite being raised as a senator’s daughter, she’s so far been untouched by political scandal—untouched by the sometimes seedy dealings politics are paired with.
She’s more right for the job than Carlisle believes. I’m aware of his reluctance, but more than certain Charlotte will prove herself in spades.
Rather than bring in the experienced political allies from my father’s era, all too willing to back me up, I’m bringing in people who want to make a difference. Who’ve made it a habit of thinking of others before themselves and their pockets.
I’m determined to have her on my team.
Even before setting eyes on her at the kickoff party, I’d planned to have Carlisle pay a call to that girl I’d met, the one who cried an ocean and a half at my father’s funeral. The one whose letter I skimmed, for some reason, the day my father died.
After the kick-off party … let’s just say, she’s been on my mind, and not only because she’s gorgeous and in another life, I’d have liked to slip my hands under her dress and feel her skin, lean my head and kiss her mouth for a hell of a long time. No, not because of that, but because she loves the presidency—and she always has.
And now she’s been confirmed on my team, thanks to Carlisle. Carlisle is my campaign chairman and manager. We’ve already recruited our media advisors, chief strategist and pollster, communications director, CFO, media consultant, press secretary, spokeswoman, digital director, and official photographer.
Having them all together under the roof of the campaign bunker gives me a sense of satisfaction. We’ve assembled a team that will take us smoothly toward this year’s election.
I’m ready to call it a day, so I pat Carlisle on the back of the head, saying, “Trust me,” grab my car keys, and head out.
* * *
Home is a two-bedroom bachelor pad near the Hill. A far cry from the 132 rooms and endless acreage of the White House, it’s modern and the perfect size for me to own it—not for the thing to own me. I’m also three blocks from my mother. Though she has a busy social schedule and a new boyfriend that has for five years tried to get her to marry him without success, I like to keep my eye on her.
My German Shepherd Lab mix is barking when I insert the key into the lock. He’s sleek black, and the media calls him Black Jack. He’s more famous than the Taco Bell dog. He’s got eyes nearly as black as his fur and is thankfully past the phase where he would gnaw all my shoes to dust. He is at the door, barking three times. I open and he leaps.
I catch him in one arm, shut the door with the other, and set him down. He pads next to me to the kitchen. I adopted him once I did a showing to raise awareness of adopting. Jack was a puppy then, the mother found on the streets, curled up on him and his two dead sisters.
The White House is going to be a far cry from where he started.
I press the play button on the answering machine.
“Matthew, Congressman Mitchell. Congrats—you can count on me.”
“Matthew, Robert Wells, thank you so much for the opportunity you’re offering my daughter. Of course you can count on the family’s support … Let’s do lunch sometime.”
“Matt.” A random female voice comes up next. “I hope you get this message. I’m … I’m pregnant. My name is Leilani. I’m pregnant with your babies … they’re twins. Please, they need their father.”
I pull out a glass-bottled Blue Moon beer from the fridge and a plate from the warming drawer.
I delete the messages, turn on the TV, prop my feet up, and start eating as I wait for Wilson.
He wanted to meet and I told him 10 p.m. was the earliest I could do.
He lets himself in and grabs a beer, then drops down on the couch to my right. He’s pushing fifty. Still single, he tags his nephew on his off days from the Secret Service.
Surprising that he hadn’t reached out to me after I dropped the presidential bomb across the country.
He eyes me for a moment, steepling his hands as he looks me square in the eye. “So here we are.”
“Here we are.” I grin and take a swig.
Wilson looks as if he never expected to say that, a fact I find slightly amusing.
“Saw the announcement. Never thought I’d hear you say it, dammit.” He drags a hand over his bald head and drops it, eyeing me as if waiting for an explanation.
I just lift my beer in toast.
“Why?” he asks.
“Nine years, a lot of time to think about it. It was always there …” I turn a finger, symbolizing the wheels in my head.
“Some say you should have waited another term, until you’re a little older.”
“Yeah, I don’t think so. America can’t wait anymore. Day off?”
“I quit.”
Lifting the beer to my lips, I pause midway.
“You’re going to need me,” Wilson says. “And I want in.”
I’m shocked to silence. Then I push myself to my feet as Wilson rises (habit, I suppose), and I shake his hand. “I’ll get you back in the White House.”
“No, I’ll get you there. In one piece. I know many ladies who will be grateful for that. And your mother, too.”
“She hired you?” I ask, torn between laughing and groaning as we settle back in our seats.
“No. I’d made my choice. But she did call. She’s worried.”
“I stayed in the shadows to appease that fear of hers, Wil. I can’t stay there anymore.” I shake my head, then study him in curiosity. “When do you start?”
“Tomorrow,” he says.
We’re so used to each other, we’re not for greetings or goodbyes, that he stands and leaves.
I grab the remote to change channels when the anchors begin discussing my team selections.
“That’s right, Violet, it seems Matt Hamilton is more interested in bringing fresh blood to the campaign than experience. We’ll have to see if the method proves effective as we head into election year . . . We have a dozen or more names confirmed as part of the campaign team. One of the youngest signed on as political aide, ex-Senator Wells’s daughter . . .”
Nothing I don’t already know. A picture of Charlotte flashes on the screen. She’s wearing my father’s pin on her lapel. I lean forward in my seat and simply look at her, the smile on her face, the look in her eyes, and I can’t fucking believe how gorgeous she is.
“A puzzle as to her inclusion in the permanent staff and speculation on why Matt Hamilton chose her …”
“Gut instinct,” I tell them, sitting back once the image disappears, raising my beer and taking a swig.
“She seems to have a solid Catholic background and a penchant for helping those in need. That angelic face will definitely not gain any haters …”
“Plus she’s pure and untouched by you,” I say, setting my beer aside and watching the pictures of her flash across the screen.
It’s been nine years since my father’s funeral, but I still remember the way she cried, as if my father had been hers.
“We have a snippet of her in Matt Hamilton’s arms at the funeral of President Hamilton. Think there’s any romantic entanglement?”
“Not yet,” I mumble. Whoa! Did I just say that?
Not happening, Hamilton. Not now.
Fuck.
I finish my meal and carry the plate to the kitchen, dropping it into the sink. I frown and lean on it when her face filters back into my mind. Charlotte, in that shimmering yellow dress. Carlisle’s confirmation that she’d agreed to join the campaign. I’m confused by how much that affected me. How much I want her around.
I head back to the living room to hear the rest.
“Not really. Hamilton has been very careful with that, a very discreet man.”
“It’s true that since his abrupt departure from the White House he’s been amassing the public’s sympathy and support—the amount of fans he’s gained so far is unprecedented for an Independent and donations are reportedly pouring in before the fundraisers begin. It’ll be interesting to see what this team of rather young but impressive people do. Original and inventive strategies to reach the public and a massive online campaign are expected.”
I rub the back of my neck and turn off the TV.
I’m used to the attention. My mother never approved of my father’s willingness to use me for publicity. She tried to fiercely guard my privacy, and I guess, before this, so did I.
But my father taught me the press didn’t have to be foes, they could be friends, or tools to aid his administration. Those White House years, we were always swarmed by an armada of press and resourceful photographers. The only respite was found at Camp David where they were out of bounds. Yet, we rarely went there, no matter how much my mother loved the vacation spot. Dad felt as if he belonged to the people, and insisted on being as open and available as possible.
“I spend so much time away, I want you to know me,” he’d tell me.
“I do.”
I’d walk him out to the South Lawn as he boarded Marine One. As always, I was a teen with a fascination with all things military.
“What do you think?” he’d ask of anyone, with the paternal pride of any American parent. “He’ll be president one day,” he’d say.
“Ahh, no,” I’d laugh.
He would have loved to see me try.
Instead, he’s been gone for nine years.
My mother got the call from a U.S. senator when it happened.
My granddad saw on TV that his son was dead.
All I remember of the funeral is my mom kissing the top of his head, his fingers, his knuckles and his palms, putting her wedding ring in his hand, and taking his in her own.
The vice president sent my mother a letter, and one for me.
Matt, I know the phenomenal man and leader your father was. He won’t be forgotten.
The letter was a kind reminder that my mother and I were homeless for the first time in our lives.
After the state funeral, we packed up as the new family established itself in the White House. I looked at the oval office one last time, the walls, the desk, the empty seat, and walked out, never imagining how determined I’d be to walk back in two terms later.