The Summer House (2 page)

All of them
included Liz and Michael and the three children: seventeen-year-old Greg, the politician-in-waiting; twenty-year-old Margaret—Mags—the spirited free-thinker; and of course Danny.

All of them
also included Will Adams, Liz’s father, who stood on the other side of the podium. At seventy-eight, he was nodding at the crowd, his faded blue eyes twinkling, the tired lines at the corners of his pale mouth turned up with the pride of accomplishment and the anticipation of a journey nearly won. He was entitled to be proud. Through every stage of the planning and the scheming and the orchestrating, Will Adams had propelled them here to New Jersey where the party’s convention would convene tomorrow, where Michael Barton was expected to win the nomination for the highest office in the land.

And where Liz would take her own final lap toward becoming the nation’s next First Lady.

The applause continued; the smile muscles ached in Liz’s cheeks. She reached down and took Danny’s hand. As she gently squeezed his strong fingers, she wondered what her brother Daniel would have had to say if he only could have seen them now.

“You were brilliant, Mom,” Danny said as Liz slid into the backseat of the handicapped-equipped van next to her son. Further back was Clay, Danny’s ever-present
don’t-worry-be-happy Jamaican nurse; up front were Keith and Joe, the Secret Service bodyguards assigned to Liz and Danny, their faithful companions, like it or not.

Liz sighed. “I wasn’t brilliant,” she said to her son, “but thanks for the kudos.” During one of Michael’s three terms as governor of Massachusetts, she had learned that politics was more about
presence
than it was about perfection. She pushed a shock of highlighted-blond hair from her forehead. In spite of the fact that the media proclaimed her “stunningly youthful,” right now, Liz felt every day, month, and year of her forty-four years,
presence
or not. It had been a long campaign, and the real pressure wouldn’t begin until the convention opened tomorrow.

“You’re much better at this than you think,” Danny continued. “You’d be perfectly capable of running for president yourself, you know.”

She laughed. “And do what? Run against your father?” She did not mention that she could never run, not because the country wasn’t “ready” for a female president, but because she had not been groomed to be anything but the physical, emotional, and spiritual support—the
wife
—of Michael Barton. He was the
man
with the schooling, the experience, and the backing of her father and his essential connections. Surprisingly, Will Adams had not foreseen that a female president would be possible, not in his lifetime or in Liz’s either. It had been one of his few mistakes.

“Besides,” she added, “why would anyone want to be president? With all those speeches and the long hours and lousy pay? And the way they scrutinize your personal life!” She let out a strained laugh and Danny joined in. Neither of them had the strength to rehash last winter’s “scrutiny,” an absurd tabloid scandal that had suggested Michael was gay because there was no evidence that he had ever had an affair or even considered
it. The journalistic sensation had finally died down, deemed “unfounded” by the mainstream media and “simply stupid” by Roger, Liz’s brother and Michael’s campaign manager.

And Roger might have been the one to know. He had “come out” to the family two years ago when Michael was still governor and had asked Roger to be his presidential campaign manager. Roger had said he didn’t want anything to hurt Michael’s chances at the White House. His wife—who claimed she’d “suspected all along”—agreed to stand by Roger for the sake of the election.

And so, Roger’s secret was harbored within the walls of the Adams/Barton family, where it was protected, and where it belonged. Their royal blue Yankee blood may have been curdling inside, but, by God, the world would not know it.

When the tabloid story on Michael broke, Will Adams himself went forth with a press release blasting the media for using the gay issue as the “last frontier” to discredit a candidate. The accusation was untrue, but even if it wasn’t, he said, the issue of sexual preference should not be fodder for the media. His announcement was powerful, but still, the family had held their breaths for Roger’s sake. And for all their sakes, because heaven only knew what the media might dream up next.

Thankfully, the attack had been dropped. Liz suspected untraceable money had changed hands or that Father had called in favors, but, as usual, she had not asked.

She shook her head now and patted Danny’s arm. “How about you, honey? How are you feeling?” As with her father, the stress was beginning to become apparent on her son.

He ran his hand over what would have been thick, dark hair if he had not had it shaved to a trendy quarter inch. Liz liked the look. It enhanced her son’s great bone
structure and gorgeous brown eyes. “I’ll be glad when we get to the hotel,” he said. “I need a nap.”

“Me, too.” Liz gazed out the window at the Atlantic City boardwalk, at the beaches that crawled past in summer-heat slowness. For a moment, she envied the carefree, sun-hat-clad, ice-chest-toting people who strolled toward the gray sand. She wondered how many of them worried about elections or secrets or handicapped sons. “I wish your grandfather had come back with us. He looked as if he should rest, too.” She had tried to talk Will out of going across town to meet Michael at a union rally, then from there to the convention center to schmooze for last-minute delegate votes. Not surprisingly, she had failed.

“Gramps loves the action, Mom. Hey—this is his dream, isn’t it?”

Her smile was wry. “Sort of,” she said. She had been careful not to emphasize to her kids that this had been Will’s dream for Daniel, not for Liz, or rather, not for Liz and her husband. She’d been careful not to canonize Daniel, because he had been human, despite what Will Adams had thought, or still thought to this day. Besides, Liz had not wanted to give Danny anything unrealistic to have to live up to as Daniel’s namesake. She had named her firstborn after the brother she had adored—long before anyone could have predicted the devastating football injury that had given her son a burden more powerful than living up to the legacy of someone’s name. Even though that someone had been Daniel.

She looked at her son, who was gazing out his window. “Are you sure you’re okay with this?” she asked.

“It’s a little late for that, Mom. And no, I’m not always ‘okay’ with this. I’m not okay about a lot of things. But I’ll survive.”

Liz folded her hands in her lap and lowered her eyes, hating her own helplessness. She could not change what
had happened, no one could. All she could do was give speeches on the topics of the day, smile and pretend to stay upbeat no matter how she really felt.

It was Danny’s turn to pat Liz on the arm. “Sorry, Mom. Guess I’m really ragged out.”

She rested her hand on top of his. His fingers were sturdy and masculine, callused by pull-ups and dips on the parallel bars in a daily upper-body strength regimen guided by Clay. She remembered that she must be grateful that Danny was only paralyzed from the waist down, that though his spinal cord injury had been precariously close, it had not been higher up on his vertebrae where more devastating, total-body damage could have been done. Still, when she looked at her so-handsome son, when she thought of his future or listened to his words that so often balanced on the rim of depression, gratitude was not always what she felt.

The van came to a stop. “All ashore that’s going ashore,” Keith called to the backseat.

Liz peeked out the window. They were not at the hotel, but at some kind of medical center. “We’re supposed to be at the hotel.” She couldn’t help the whine in her voice.

“Your brother Roger called earlier. He arranged a last-minute appearance for you and Danny. Something in pediatrics.”

Liz knew this had little to do with the sick children and more to do with feel-good photos for the evening news. She closed her eyes briefly, then looked at Danny. “I’m sorry, honey. Maybe you’ll get that nap later.”

Danny forced a smile and a shrug.

Long hours later, Liz was finally able to crawl under the covers and pull a scratchy hotel sheet up to her chin, trying to be quiet so as not to awaken Michael. The pediatrics
appearance had left no time for a nap before a fund-raiser at the Guggenheim in Manhattan, then a guest shot on Letterman and back to Atlantic City.

She stared up at the dark ceiling. How had presidents been elected before helicopters were invented? When had it become the job of the First-Lady-to-be to keep the momentum going while her candidate-husband was stumping across the country or buried in strategy sessions? And yet she had to admit that there was something exhilarating about the attention … about having people smile at you, care about your every move,
listen
to what you had to say.

Breathing in the scent of commercially laundered linen, she closed her eyes. Tomorrow, the convention would open. Tomorrow, they would be cloistered in their hotel rooms, invisible to the world for four days until the candidate was officially chosen. Shutting themselves out from the world was part of Father’s strategy toward building the drama and thus the momentum. It seemed like overkill, but Liz had to admit it would be four lovely, peaceful, media-free days. Maybe she’d even wear jeans. And sneakers. Yes, she thought, she would wear sneakers.

“Danny thinks you should be running, not me.” Michael’s words startled her. Even after all these years, she still could not tell when he was sleeping or when he was not. She rolled onto her side and reached across the king-size mattress until her fingers found the muscled-hard flesh at the top of his leg where it met up with his butt. There were few nights in these last many months that they had shared the same zip code, let alone the same bed.

She grinned in the darkness and lightly stroked him. “You have a great ass, Governor,” she said. “I wonder if Roger should mention that in the press kit.”

She sensed his smile.

“I expect no one would much care about my ass,” he joked. “But they might be concerned that a word like that was coming from the lips of the next First Lady.”

She moved across the bed, pressing her body against his nakedness. When they were first married, it had made Liz uncomfortable that Michael slept without clothes; now, she could not imagine him in bed beside her any other way. It was no longer as much about sex as it had once been; now it was about the warmth of his skin, the feel of his touch, the feel of her touch on him.

“What Danny said is true.” Michael turned to her and encircled an arm around her tired shoulders. “I think your approval rating is higher than mine.”

“I’m not sure Father would agree.”

Michael kissed the top of her head, then fluttered a hand across her breast. “I disagree,” he replied. “Something tells me your father would do just about anything to keep Josh Miller out of the White House.”

Her hand froze on his leg. She wished Michael did not have to mention politics here, in bed. She wished that, just for a minute, he’d stop thinking about … work. She also wished he’d found a better time to mention Josh Miller than when her hand was making its way toward his penis and he was gently caressing her breast.

But now that he’d brought it up, she had to ask. “Do you really think Josh is going to be a problem? You’re ahead in the polls.”

“Not by much. And first I have to be officially nominated.”

Michael’s nomination was merely a party formality. He had swept the primaries, he had won over the delegates. It had not been as easy for Josh: he’d had a tough fight, but three weeks ago had captured his party’s—the
other
party’s—nomination.

“But how can Josh win? He’s Jewish,” she said, echoing her father’s words, her father’s thoughts.

“Kennedy was Catholic,” Michael reminded her. “We never thought he’d make it out of Boston. But religion no longer matters. Nor should it. What matters is who is the best candidate.”

Liz wondered if her husband really believed what he was saying, or if he’d simply been a politician too long. She moved her hand up to his back. “Let’s not worry about the other side,” she said. “Let’s just take care of what we need to take care of.” She hoped her voice sounded convincing.

“What I need to take care of right now is this erection you seem to have given me,” he said softly.

Liz hesitated a moment and pretended not to know why. “Are you sure?” she asked. “You must be tired.”

Without answering, he lifted her nightgown and slowly began kissing her face, then her throat, then the soft little places that lead to her breasts.

This is Michael
, she told herself.
This is your husband, the man that you love
. But, even as her body moved in sweet rhythm with his, Liz felt an ache of dissatisfaction, followed by the sting of tears. Suddenly she wished that BeBe were back. Back in the world still ruled by their father, the world that seemed to be spinning out of control. Her sister, BeBe, was the only one who would understand how she was feeling. But BeBe was in Florida, safe from the “scrutiny” of the media, safe from the spotlight. Father had wanted it that way, and, as usual, Liz had not argued.

She cradled her face against Michael’s shoulder. What would they think—Michael, her children—if they ever discovered that their mother was not as wonderful as they had thought?

Chapter 2

“It’s three o’clock in the damn morning,” BeBe barked into the phone, her voice a husky blend of last night’s margaritas and too many cigarettes, both of which she’d sworn off four times in the last month alone.