The World: According to Graham (5 page)

I read his words again and try to decipher what exactly he’s trying to relay to me. Finally, giving up, I send something back that is equally cryptic so I don’t lose our little game.

Rachael:
Reason #1120 that boxing is better than MMA: The strikes are precise and a boxer hones his punches over years of practice.

Lame. But it was the best that I could come up with. In fact, there’s a good chance that I’ve used it before. Unfortunately, my creativity is shot after my very emotional day. I’m looking forward to seeing Graham, whom I hope is in a good, non-brooding mood. I also hope he assures me Veronica is like ninety with skin that looks like a saddlebag and boobs that hang past her waist. Then, he’ll tell me that he loves me, will quit talking about locker-room topics on his radio show, and we’ll find a way to beat the odds and make this work. After I agree, we’ll make love until the sun rises, because pregnancy has made me horny as hell.

“Ready, Rachael,” the President says as he takes a seat across from me on the blue couch chosen by Shelby.

Once the President is no longer in office, the Smithsonian will choose some pieces from the White House to be displayed. Also, the curator of his Presidential Library will select some meaningful items from his terms in office. I make a mental note to remind whomever is chosen for that job to take the peacock-blue velvet sofa. That sofa is where the most important decisions of his administration have been made.

My phone drops into my open bag that is resting on an ornate oriental rug. I tug my feet under me and prepare for the last evening debriefing as the White House Chief of Staff.

“How are you feeling?” he asks as he takes a sip of his scotch. Carefully, I watch the ice in the high-ball glass for any signs of a tremble. His hand is steady. I hate his Parkinson’s diagnosis, and that I will not be here to protect his secret.

My mouth waters for just a tiny, intsy, weentsy sip of his scotch. I swallow. “Fine. Except for the nausea every now and again, I can’t tell that I’m pregnant.”

“Good. Good.” He nods and smiles. “Are you ready to share with me who the lucky dad is?”

When I told President Jones and Shelby my happy news, I opted to not share Graham’s identity. For one thing, they were still reeling from the fact that one of the Sons of Liberty was their son’s lacrosse coach and had been in their private residence. Also, until I’m absolutely positive of Graham’s role in my baby’s life, I don’t want to share his identity. Graham didn’t ask to be a dad. I want him to have every opportunity to walk away if that’s what he wants.

“Sperm donor,” I quip with a chuckle.

The President doesn’t miss a beat, “Aren’t we all?” A huge smile cracks his hardened face. “I’m going to miss the hell out of you.”

“Feeling is mutual.”

“So what’s next?” he asks, as he takes another swig of his scotch.

“I’m going to hide out in Texas until after I have the baby, then who knows? I’ve been offered a book contract to write about breaking the political glass ceiling, or I might take you up on your offer to help me land a professor position.” I adjust myself in the chair and stare at the fire. I don’t think my accomplishments have been all that remarkable. I’ve worked hard and gotten lucky. I’m not sure what anyone can learn from that.

He chuckles. “I’ll be more than happy to help you, but you don’t need me to make a phone call. You’re a pioneer, Rachael. Don’t forget that. You have a lot to share with the world.”

But do I? Do I really have a voice? I attribute most of my success to luck and hard work, but luck has played such a big part. I happened to graduate from grad school at the right time. I happened to be hired by Senator Jones’s office. Now, I did work hard, proving to him that I was much more than the copy girl, but was that really enough for a book or to educate students?

“You’re too talented to hide for long, Rachael,” President Jones continues in a tight voice. “I get why you feel like you need to disappear until the baby is born. I might not agree, but I understand. However, I’m going to be very disappointed in you if you don’t stay in the mix of Washington politics. The country needs you working behind the scenes. We’re better off for it.”

Damn, stupid pregnancy hormones for like the hundredth time today. My eyes fill with tears as I continue watching the red-orange flames dance around the crackling logs. I swallow hard and fight to regain my composure. Clearing my throat, I say, “Thank you, Mr. President. That means the world to me.”

“So let’s discuss your favorite person Roan Perez. What do you think of him as a possible Vice Presidential candidate?” Roan is a sore subject. I despise him personally, but admire and am even a bit jealous of his charisma. We attended many events together and photographed enough that the press thought we were dating. Ewww. . . I went home alone at the end of the night while he helped himself to the plethora of women flinging their panties his way.

“He is a despicable human, but the media loves him. He’s probably a good candidate. I’ll talk to the campaign manager and make sure that he’s properly vetted.” I reach in my bag and extract my notebook and pen and open to the section where I keep my to-do list. I make a note so I don’t forget.

By the time we wrap up our meeting, it’s after nine o’clock. I hug Shelby goodbye and promise to keep in touch. The President pulls me into a tight embrace and tells me to be careful. I feel like a kid being dropped off at college. Lou is waiting to take me on our last drive leaving the White House.

As we pull away through the enormous iron gates, I place my hand over my pubic bone and shed a few tears as I rest my head against the cool leather seat. Exhaling, I whisper, “Here’s to new beginnings.”

Graham’s house looks exactly as it did in November, except his landscaping is beginning to show signs that spring is in the air. It’s a ranch-style home that sits on a quiet neighborhood street. Now I know that it was the launching ground for the Sons of Liberty. The last time I walked to the front door, up this cement path, I was dressed in a trench-coat dress with ruby red lipstick painted on my lips. I wanted to hurt Graham for making me feel used—for tricking me into falling in love with him.

Oh, the difference time makes. My heart races knowing that in a few short steps, I’ll see him again.
He told me he still loved me when we hung up this morning.
His words ping-pong around in my head. I’ve spent the time since I found out I was pregnant preparing for my last days in office and building a plan that revolved around me being a single mom. It’s my preservation. Prepare for the worst and hope for the best.

“Do I need to escort you to the door?” Lou asks, in his very professional voice.

“No. I think you’re finally rid of me.” Laughing, I slide forward and grasp his arm. “I couldn’t have asked for a better shadow.”

Lou turns and I catch his eyes in the rearview mirror. “It’s been an honor.” He swallows hard and stoically looks forward. “I hope my daughter turns out just like you.”

My eyes burn. Is there a greater compliment than a dad wishing his daughter is as successful as you’ve been? But I know that my success is only with my career. My personal life is a train wreck. I swallow the huge lump in my throat and whisper through a choked voice, “With a Dad like you, how could she not?”

I scamper out of the back of the car as if my hair is on fire. I can’t take another damn goodbye today. It’s just too painful.

I all but run to Graham’s door and knock with so much force that I’m sure he thinks there’s an emergency. Well, there is. There is a pregnant woman who needs to decompress—a two-hour horror flick and making fun of the girls who hide in the garage next to the chainsaws is just what I need.

My body shifts from side to side as I bounce on my toes, waiting for the door to open. I imagine him greeting me in nothing but a pair of soft, worn jeans resting on his hips. His chest is bare and lickably lush. Heavy blue eyes will drink in the sight of me waiting for him to pull me inside and devour me against the wall. I can feel his tongue caressing my ear and tracing my collarbone, and I lick my lips in anticipation. It was only a short text invite to come over tonight, but at the moment, I’m sure glad he sent it.

I become so lost in my fantasy that I almost scream when to my complete shock, a tall, raven-haired stunner with light green eyes opens the father to my child’s front door instead of him. She’s dressed in black jeans, a tight black sweater and dark boots. Her breasts are like perfect mounds, stretching the fabric to its limits. “Oh good, you’re here.” She sighs and grabs my arm, pulling me inside the house. “She’ll be here shortly. We have a lot to do before Mr. Jackson arrives.”

My mouth must be hanging open in shock because she turns her head and makes a strange face, saying very slowly, as if English isn’t my first language, “You tackle organizing her closet while I unpack her personal things.”

I don’t move from my spot. This is not how this evening was supposed to go. “You are?” I manage to spit out, but I know exactly who this is in Graham’s home. It would be Veronica, who texted me from Graham’s phone during the early hours of the morning.

“Oh sorry,” she says dismissively. “I’m Veronica, Mr. Jackson’s personal assistant. I thought that the agency didn’t have any help available, but I’m so glad you were,” she relays, as she shuts the door behind me. We’re standing in Graham’s small foyer. It’s just inside the door with a wall that blocks the rest of the house from view.

She’s maybe twenty-three if I’m being generous, and she is gorgeous. She’s an exotic beauty that looks like she is the perfect complement to Graham. In fact, they look eerily similar. Unfortunately, any hope that I might have that his assistant is hideous flies out of the window.

“Drop your bag,” she instructs, as she points to a spot on the floor. I obey because I am curious to see where this is leading. “Mr. Jackson needs everything perfect before she arrives.” She rolls her eyes and gives me a conspiratorial wink, as if I’m her partner-in-crime. “She’s like ten years older than him. Total cougar.”

In my catty thoughts, I conclude that Veronica was not hired for her politically-minded ways and more for her personal skills. I hope to God that she isn’t the reason for his need for time and space.

“I’m restocking Graham’s kitchen and finding some place for her things marked important. I just need help organizing her clothes. Mr. Jackson prefers that a professional handle this. He wants her to be like, you know, organized and stuff.”

Nodding, I ignore her use of the words “and stuff.” Veronica has no clue who I am. Probably if I was still dressed in a power suit she would have been tipped off. It’s fine. Unless you watch the evening news or read political websites, I’m not particularly recognizable. I haven’t been on the late-night talk shows, or the cover of a gossip magazine. However, I would have thought with her job as an assistant to one of the Sons of Liberty that she would have at the very least Googled me or, at the most, turned on a cable news channel so she was politically informed. Whatever. This further proves my point that she was hired for her boobs.

I walk past Veronica and into Graham’s living room. It looks exactly like it did when I last saw it. Everything is in order and photography ready for the next issue of the Pottery Barn catalog except there is a wine glass with bright red lipstick prints on the rim resting on the coffee table. I bristle. There’s something about seeing her lip imprints on his glass that makes my chest constrict. I have been struggling with the effects of early pregnancy while being the President’s right-hand woman, and Graham has been drinking wine with his too-young-for-alcohol assistant. I’m sure that he just needed time and space to think. Yeah, right! With the help of the black-haired, green-eyed beauty in the kitchen. Inwardly, I roll my eyes, as I remind myself of her early morning text.

Then I spot George, Graham’s gigantic black Labrador, in the backyard. He looks so sad with his droopy eyes, and his face is pressed against the glass. It’s as if he’s pleading with me to let him in. I walk over to the sliding glass door and flip the lock.

“What are you doing?” Veronica shrieks. She had walked into the kitchen and was unpacking a brown sack of groceries. A loaf of French bread slips out of her hand and tumbles to the kitchen counter. I make note of the bread for tomorrow morning when I’m reminded once again that there’s a human growing inside of me.

“I’m letting George in,” I state calmly as I slide the door back. The big beast greets me with such affection that I drop to my knees and cuddle his head. I’m not a dog fan, but George is beyond cool.

“Get him out!” Veronica screams as she rushes past me to grab his collar and attempts to drag him out.

I hug George tighter to my chest and reply firmly, “Leave him alone.” I’m sure that the scene is quite comical. The poor dog is caught in the middle of a game of tug-of-war between two adult females.

Veronica places her hands on her hips and says very snidely, “I’m going to call the agency and have you fired. The dog stays outside.”

George looks up at me with the saddest chocolate orbs in the history of puppy-dog eyes. I rise to my full height of a barely there five feet and reply, “George stays in.”

“He’s a filthy dog that sheds everywhere. Mr. Jackson wants his house perfect for the cougar. If you don’t care about your job, fine. But I want to keep mine.” She pulls her phone out of the back pocket of her jeans and begins to scroll through contacts. I stand there watching her, - daring her to make the call. Then the lightbulb inside her pretty little head turns on. She throws her hand over her mouth and backs away from me as if I’m a poisonous viper.

Yes. There have been a few congressmen that have had the same reaction.

I stand there stroking George’s back, quite pleased that she’s realized her mistake.

“You’re the cougar. I mean Rachael,” she corrects herself. The look on her face is priceless. Her mouth is gaping open displaying her lovely artificially white teeth, and her eyes are round as if she’s seen a ghost.

Nodding, I lean down and give George a kiss on the top of his nose. Graham’s sweet boy sighs in appreciation and licks my hand. “I think that it’s time for you to leave.”