Chapter 40

Henry

The air in the room is electric, charged with both negative and positive vibes.

Anger and frustration at not having known about Beatrice’s baby—my child—are still roiling through me.

I’m highly disappointed that I had to find out like this, by Lawrence handing me a picture, almost in passing, instead from the mother of my child, Beatrice.

But I’m also energized as my reeling mind opens up possibilities, leading in every direction away from this tour of the U.S. to which I’m currently shackled.

It makes me jump up from the armchair, and immediately, I start pacing up and down.

I have to fly directly to her, but what if she doesn’t want me?

I stop and turn to Hope who stands at attention, still holding the photograph of pregnant Bea.

I take it from her hand and hold it up.

“You’ve kept this from me,” I say sharply, and it comes out snappier than I intended.

“It’s what Beatrice wanted.”

My eyes are glancing back at the picture of Beatrice. Hope folds her hands.

“Mr President,” she says, using the formal address for emphasis. “Henry, I believe you know what to do, but I’m going to say it anyway. Follow your heart.”

Her eyes follow mine, and with a nod, she also indicates the picture.

I look over at Lawrence just as he places my glass of Scotch to his lips, and he shrugs.

“Thanks, Hope. For everything. For taking care of Bea,” I say appreciatively as I look back to her.

“So what’s the plan, Henry?” Lawrence inquires as he sets the Scotch down on the hotel desk.

“Time to change plans.”

A satisfied smile spreads across Hope’s face. Before she turns, she quickly reaches out and gives my shoulder a brief squeeze.

“I’ll make this right,” I say with conviction and expressing my earlier thought.

“You never did her wrong, Henry.”

Lawrence gets up and heads for the door. With a big gesture of his hand, he motions for everyone to come back into the room.

“We’re ending the tour, everyone,” I bellow.

“Sir? Are you sure about this? You’re making a big mistake.”

My eyes fall to my re-election campaign manager, Boyd Daniels. The balding, middle-aged man looks at me completely surprised and dumbfounded.

“Mr President, we’re in the middle of a huge press tour right now. We fly out to Texas first thing in the morning,” he exclaims before turning to look at Lawrence. “Talk some sense into this man!”

“That man has never listened to me a day in his life. He’s not about to start now,” Lawrence replies with a cheeky smirk.

“Boyd, I’m sorry, but there’s been a change of plans. Something far more important has come up.”

“What’s so important?” Boyd nearly yells.

“We’re flying to Brussels.”

“Brussels!? Are you out of your mind. We can’t just get up and fly to Brussels!”

I take a couple steps towards Boyd and stare him down. As expected, the man begins to shrink away.

“Am I not the president? Doesn’t Air Force One go where I tell it to?”

I look around the room, challenging anyone to speak up defiantly against me. No one does, but they do exchange looks.

“Now, do what you have to do. But I want to be in the air within the hour, people.”

Suddenly, everyone starts talking at once, and the noise level in the room swells to an incomprehensible level.

“Now!”

The noise level drops, and everyone begins to move—all except for Lawrence.

As the door shuts behind the last man, I motion for Lawrence to sit down in the armchair. He picks up the photo still lying in the chair, sits down, and holds up the picture for me to see.

“This could very well end your political career. I know this important to you, Henry, as it should be, but is it worth the presidency, your political allies, and your career?”

I take the print out of his hand and put it away.

I walk over to a cabinet and get out two thick and heavy tumblers, filling them with Scotch.

I walk back to the chair and wordlessly hand one glass to Lawrence. He nods in appreciation, and we click our glasses together, then take a sip.

I lean against the side of the chair, standing over him. Lawrence has always been more than just my greatest adviser—an adviser who’s always steered me through the perils of politics—he’s like a second father, big brother, and confidante—all in one. And I know that his only concern right now is what’s best for me.

“Lawrence, no president is an island. And no president has ever not sacrificed something to get into White House. But I cannot and will not sacrifice Beatrice or my child.”

“I just wanted to make sure you were sure. And, truthfully, I think you’re making the right decision here.”

I can tell that he’s genuine when he says it. And that means a lot coming from him.

“Question now is, what about the fallout of all this? Not everyone will look kindly on this. This could easily doom the re-election. People will doubt that it’s your baby. You know how the media will twist this. They’ll fling their worst dirt on your image and drag you two through the mud.”

I shake my head.

“I know, but think of how much worse it would be if I didn’t do anything. And if this means the end of my career, then so be it.”

“You know, I’ve watched you grow a lot over the years. I’ve seen you go from that young idealist to a man I’m proud to call my friend and my president—”

“Wait, you weren’t proud before?”

“No, not really.”

The two of us share a soft chuckle, and it washes a lot of stress off my shoulders. I really couldn’t ask for anyone better than Lawrence to have in my corner.

“But, as I was saying. I’ve seen you change and evolve through your career. And I’ve never seen you, the real you, until you had Beatrice. With her, that’s the man you’re always destined to be. So, if you’re going to tank our careers, then at least we’re doing it for all the right reasons.”

“Did you rehearse that speech?” I ask, deadpan.

“I did, actually. I didn’t rush it, did I?”

“Oh no, it was perfect.”

Lawrence raises his glass with a smirk, and we clink them together in a toast.

“To Beatrice,” I say.

“To both of you,” he corrects.