She holds up a hand, blinking back tears, and just murmurs, “Thank you, thank you.”
They eventually stop applauding, and some of them brush tears away from their eyes. Grace takes a long, deep breath, wonders what she could say that would make any difference at all to her staff. Despite herself, she glances up at the three television screens, still all reporting what’s being called the Ambush in Atlanta.
To hell with that.
Grace turns back to her staff, folds her hands. “I … it’s going to be a rough time for all of us in the hours and days ahead. All the good work you’ve done with me—in helping children in need, children hurt and abandoned by their families or society—unfortunately, all of that good work is now going to be overshadowed. For those of us in the East Wing, there is going to be only one story for the foreseeable future. For that … I am so very sorry.”
Grace needs to go on, and she quickly looks at the carpeted floor to regain her composure. “But … as hard as it might be … ignore that story. Focus on the good that you’ve done with me … focus on the children whose lives have been improved or saved by you … and at some point … someday … this … nonsense, this scandal, will be forgotten.”
Another burst of applause, and she smiles and joins their applause, then catches the attention of her chief of staff, Donna Allen, and gestures her back into Donna’s office. Grace doesn’t bother closing the door behind her because she only needs her chief of staff for a minute.
Grace asks, “My schedule for the rest of the day. Remind me, please.”
Donna is a slim, pretty woman with glasses and short black hair who seems able to operate efficiently on only four hours of sleep. She goes to her desk, picks up a sheet of paper. “Ma’am … let’s see. You have a luncheon with the Senate wives from the Party, a group interview with prominent political bloggers at two p.m., an early evening reception at five p.m. with the ambassador’s wife from Japan. Then … er, dinner with … um, the President and an eight p.m. attendance at the Kennedy Center, for that—”
Grace nods. “Cancel it all.”
Donna looks up, shocked. “Ma’am?”
“You heard me, Donna,” she says, turning around and going out into the East Wing office area. “Cancel it all. I’m leaving.”
Donna follows her out. “But … but … where are you going?”
She sees her lead Secret Service agent, Pamela Smithson, a tiny blonde who looks like she weighs ninety pounds soaking wet but who supposedly is an expert in hand-to-hand combat and close-quarters shooting. Pamela is speaking into her blouse cuff, and Grace knows what she’s saying: “CANARY is on the move.”
Boy, am I ever, Grace thinks.
At first she had hated the Secret Service code name, but now she embraces it. Canaries have a long and noble history, especially when it comes to warning miners of trouble coming, and she likes to think that’s been one of her roles—warning American society that they can’t keep ignoring the children trapped in the deep, dark holes of poverty.
She wants to say something once more to her staff, all of whom are looking at her now with love and concern.
What to say?
Grace Fuller Tucker, First Lady of the United States, turns and leaves her East Wing office area for the last time.
CHAPTER 7
PRESIDENT HARRISON TUCKER didn’t think it was possible, but in fact his mood is improving as Air Force One slowly taxis to its special spot at Andrews Air Force Base. He knows the pilots of Air Force One pride themselves on always arriving on time, but he also knows their secret: on time means coming to a halt at the wheel chocks, and they will either reduce or increase their taxiing speed to ensure they make the goal.
Secrets.
God, if only his one secret had been kept, at least for another month.
Parker Hoyt has been at his side for the last few hours, insisting that they play hand after hand of cribbage, and even though Harrison lost every hand to his wily chief of staff, he has enjoyed those few hours of distraction. It has done him well.
But now the cards and cribbage board have been put away. He glances out the window. Thank God this is a military base, and the public and press can be contained.
“What now?” he asks.
“You should try the First Lady one more time,” Parker says. “It’s a long shot, but maybe we could get her to stand with you for a moment, some sort of photo op on the South Lawn when Marine One comes in for a landing …”
Harrison says, “Oh, come on, Parker, there’s no way she’s going to do that.”
“Don’t be so sure,” his chief of staff says. “Without you, who is she? Another housewife with big dreams and ambitions. If she wants to continue her do-gooding ways, she needs to be with you. Sooner or later, she’ll come to that conclusion, she’ll smile for the cameras, and she’ll bear it.”
Harrison ponders what Parker has just said. He sounds … correct. Harsh, but correct. “What else?”
Parker says, “We need to meet with your senior campaign staff, and reps from both the House and the Senate. Not the congressmen or senators … Jesus, we don’t need those blowhards making a statement out on the South Lawn after they leave. We’ll want staff members from the Hill that we can quietly slide in and brief.”
“And say what?”
“That we’re facing a bumpy week or two, but we’ll be fine. They bring that message back to the Hill, and that will reassure most of the crew up here. They may be angry at you for what you’ve done, but they’re also scared to death to see the governor of California get sworn in next January.”
“Who’ll be making the briefing?”
Parker says, “It has to be you. Anybody else, the staffers will smell blood in the water and they’ll race back up Pennsylvania Avenue on their young and chubby legs and tell their senator or representative to start backing away. First and foremost, they’re politicians, wanting only to save their skin, and if they see any sign of disarray or weakness from this White House, they’ll abandon you, sir. You need to show them remorse, but most of all, you need to show them strength.”
Harrison still hates hearing what’s coming from his chief of staff, but he knows he’s right. “Sounds reasonable.”
“Good,” Parker replies. “But first things first, sir. Make the call.”
He picks up his phone. “Get me the First Lady, please.”
When he puts the phone down, he says, “What about the press back there?”
Parker offers a thin smile. “Let Jeremy”—the President’s press secretary—“earn his pay for once. He’ll keep them in place until you’re safely on Marine One.”
“But what will he say to them about what … what happened in Atlanta?”
“Don’t worry, I’ll take care of Jeremy, and he’ll take care of the press. You just take care of the First Lady, try to calm her down. That’s your goal for the day … oh, and one more thing.”
“What’s that?”
Parker says, “You get off the steps here at the base, you do the usual meet-and-greet with the military at the bottom. The only camera will be a pool camera, to see if you fall on your ass as you leave the aircraft. Don’t trot down the stairs like you’re in a hurry, and don’t blow by the Air Force folks at the tarmac. Take your time. You’re a guy who’s messed up but who’s confident he can come back.”