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Authors: Ellen Emerson White

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BOOK: The President's Daughter
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Her bed had four plump pillows, plus bedrolls, and she selected one at random and stretched out.
Which got boring after about five minutes, so she decided to call Beth, instead.
“They put us in the
Presidential Suite
,” she said, when Beth answered.
Beth laughed. “Playing it safe, hunh?”
That was one way of looking at it. “I've been assigned my own hair and make-up person,” she said. Information that had pretty much stunned her, when she was told this by one of Linda's very chic and sleek assistants, Caryn. “My mother has an entire
team
.” Just about enough to go up to the Bronx and take on the Yankees, in fact. Whether they would win the game was another question, of course—but Meg would certainly root for them.
“God, I love your life,” Beth said. “Hell, I
want
your life.”
She was welcome to it. “A bunch of designers are going to be coming by, too,” Meg said. “To, you know, try and
outfit
us.”
Beth just laughed.
Yes, that was the only rational response. Meg glanced over at the door, to make sure that no one was within listening distance. “The last time I looked, she was sitting at General MacArthur's desk taking notes, for Christ's sakes. She doesn't even think it's
unusual
.”
Now, it was silent on the other end.
“No way,” Meg said. “It's not going to happen. Not a chance.”
“Meg,” Beth said quietly.
Nope, she didn't want to hear this. Meg shook her head. “It's only because she's from New York. It's like—professional courtesy, for locals.”
There was more silence.
Meg sighed. “And even if it does—”
Yes
, her mother had a lot more delegates than anyone else, but she was still far enough from going over the top that a brokered convention was more likely than not. And Senator Hawley was nothing if not a tough guy, so she
assumed he'd be more than willing to let the entire floor—and Democratic Party—turn into a virulent dogfight, in order to come out on top. “She won't get past Griffin in the main election. I mean, no way.”
Again, it was quiet for a long time on the other end of the line.
“Just don't forget how cool all of this actually is,” Beth said finally. “I mean, God, Meg, try to remember to
enjoy
some of this stuff.”
Meg shook her head. “No, it would be cool if I got to watch
your
mother do it. When
my
mother does it, it's just selfish and annoying.”
“Yeah, okay, I think I'd be pretty damn annoyed at my mother.” Beth paused. “Oh. Wait. I'm almost
always
annoyed at my mother.”
Well—yeah. Beth and Mrs. Shulman had been engaged in an epic personality conflict pretty much ever since kindergarten.
They were both quiet for another minute, but this time, it felt more relaxed and companionable.
“It's starting to seem as though it could maybe all turn out to be—well, you know,” Meg said.
Real
.
“Has been for a while,” Beth said.
Yeah. Meg looked around her incredibly fancy room, including the delicate writing table—complete with a gold pen and pencil set, and stationery that actually had her name engraved on it.
“So, what are you going to wear tonight?” Beth asked.
“You mean, what are they
making
me wear,” Meg said grumpily.
Beth laughed. “Even better,” she said. “Tell me everything.”
 
THE FIRST COUPLE of days at the convention passed in a blur of shouting crowds and bright flashes from what seemed like thousands of cameras. Her mother mostly stayed back at the hotel, receiving a long stream of party officials and prominent Democrats, who were supposedly just there to pay courtesy calls, but also seemed to be doing a certain amount of plotting and planning. Unlike most of the
others—who were swiftly ushered in and out—Governor Kruger stayed for almost two full hours, and Meg was pretty sure that if her mother had a short list for possible running mates, he was at the top of it.
Over at the convention itself, the families of all of the politicians—including Mr. Hawley's sons, who seemed to be on their best behavior—had special reserved seats, and quite a few television cameras and reporters congregating nearby. There were noisy, foot-stamping demonstrations for candidates—complete with chanting and sign-waving—that sometimes went on for as long as half an hour. They were so exciting that Meg wished she didn't know that they were all staged, although maybe “artfully encouraged” was a better phrase. Enthusiastic, intricately choreographed demonstrations were sort of a convention tradition.
On the third night, the night of the balloting, her family stayed in a room overlooking the convention floor. Potential nominees traditionally didn't show up until a candidate had officially been chosen, and Glen and the rest of the campaign brain trust wanted her mother to remain holed up at the Waldorf, but her mother was not only going a little stir-crazy, but also pointed out that she hadn't missed a single Democratic Convention since she was twenty-one years old, and that she definitely wasn't going to start with
this
one. Although, in lieu of having her make a public appearance, they made their way into the building and upstairs through a private underground entrance.
The room was actually a luxury box, during the NBA and NHL seasons, but now that the campaign had invaded the space, it was cluttered, and noisy, and full of confusing activity, like the
Hill Street Blues
station house—an old television show she had started watching when her father bought some of the DVDs, and even though it seemed kind of dated, it had rapidly become one of her all-time favorites. Aides were hurrying in and out, barking at each other, and taking and making phone calls.
Her mother stood in one corner, drinking coffee and nodding a lot, as people talked at her. Her father was pacing around, looking very distracted and uneasy, with Neal trailing behind him. Preston, who had been spending hours on the floor, charming uncommitted delegates, came in every hour or two, and gulped soda and water, so he wouldn't lose his voice. It was easy to tell who the campaign floor workers were, because they were all hoarse.
Meg and Steven hung out near a row of televisions, watching everything that was going on, both down on the floor, as well as on the sets.
Steven yanked at the knot in his tie. “It should like, start soon.”
Meg nodded, glancing down at her tally sheet. Listed next to each state and territory were the number of committed delegates her mother had, the number of uncommitted ones who had been persuaded to vote for her, and an empty space to write down the number of votes each state actually cast. She also had a calculator, so she could keep track of the total number of votes as the evening went along. There were at-large delegates, district-level delegates, PLEO—party leader and elected officials—delegates, add-on delegates, unpledged delegates who were known as superdelegates, and—well, as far as Meg was concerned, it all seemed to be more complicated than necessary. Essentially, each state was allocated a certain number of delegates, based upon census figures, and their votes
should
reflect primary and caucus results, but there were also lots of uncommitted delegates, so it was hard to be sure how they would all ultimately cast their ballots.
Her mother had about seventy percent of the number of delegates she would need to win the nomination, and Senator Hawley had more than half of the necessary total locked up. Four other candidates, including Governor Kruger, also had earned some delegates during the primary, but no one was pretending that this contest was between more than two people. At any rate, not on the
first
ballot. Meg closed her eyes, wishing that she could put her mind on autopilot.
“Think we can get some food?” Steven asked.
She opened her eyes. “Are you
hungry
?”
“Well, yeah,” he said. “Kind of.”
There were food trays all over the room, but most of them had been pretty well picked over by now. She shrugged. “I don't know. See if there are any doughnuts left.”
He returned with three. “Sort of stale,” he said, taking a bite. “Want one?”
She shook her head. This whole situation was much too nerve-wracking to think of food. The chairman was, unsuccessfully, trying to call the floor to order, and she wished the stupid thing would just
start
already.
“We have to do it on the first ballot,” Glen said, for about the tenth time. “Hawley could pick up a lot on the second, and the third would be—” He shrugged, indicating a free-for-all.
“How close are we?” her mother asked, sounding very tense.
“So close.” Glen put his thumb and index finger almost together. “So damn close, Kate.
This
close, Kate.” He moved them barely apart.
Her mother nodded, her hands fluttering up to straighten the collar of her light beige shirt, her sunburn—and bronzer—very dark in comparison.
“Two more from California!” a man holding a cell phone shouted. “That's a positive!”
Meg scribbled that on her score sheet, hearing other pens writing around her, and keyboard keys clicking, too.
“I can't stand this,” her mother said, refilling her coffee cup.
“The great state of Alaska,” a voice droned on the television.
Meg glanced up, startled. How had she missed the beginning?
“How many so far?” her mother asked, and Meg could see the hand holding her cup shake slightly.
“Forty-one,” several people said.
Meg frowned at her sheet. Forty-one? It should only be forty so far.
“Picked up an extra in Alabama,” someone said.
Meg nodded and wrote that down, vaguely aware that her hands were trembling, too.
The balloting went on and on, each state's announcement followed by tremendous applause and cheering, including an abortive, transparently rehearsed Hawley demonstration—complete with a brass band—that the chairman managed to quell. Most of the delegates seemed to be standing around talking, and jumping up and waving their signs every so often, but mainly just waiting for their state's turn to present its votes. The television commentators kept switching to reporters on the floor, who tried to make themselves heard over all of the pandemonium, talking about the mounting tension and excitement among the delegates.
“What do you know about tension?” Meg's father snapped at the nearest television at one point. “I'll give you tension!”
“Dad's losing it,” Steven said in a low voice.
Meg had to laugh. “He's not losing it.” She looked at her father, who was pacing back and forth over the same five feet of carpet, tie askew, sleeves rolled up, and—she had to look twice to believe it—smoking a cigarette. She had never seen him smoke before. In fact, when she and Beth were in the seventh grade, he caught them puffing away in the backyard, gave them a long lecture about the stupidity and health dangers of the habit, and grounded Meg for a week. “I think you're right,” she said to Steven.
“Come on, Idaho!” someone yelled.
Meg wrote down the number Idaho gave, noticing that her mother had picked up ninety-eight extra votes so far. Jesus.
“Two definites in Wisconsin,” Preston said, coming in. “And a maybe. The maybe is seventy, eighty percent.” His voice was very raspy, and he took the Coke someone offered, gulping half of it.
Meg entered the two votes on her score sheet, next to Wisconsin. Adding the newly-committed votes to her mother's guaranteed votes showed how close they were—and they were very, very close.
Terrifyingly close. So, even though there was a long way to go, Meg knew her mother only needed sixty-three more uncommitted votes to go over the top. Sixty-three, and they were only on—
“Hey, that's another!” someone yelled, as Indiana finished casting its votes.
Sixty-two. And they were only on Indiana. She closed her eyes. Maybe she should go hide in the ladies' room for a while, or—
“Hey,” a voice said, right next to her.
She stiffened, then saw that it was only Preston.
“I have to talk to you seriously,” he said.
She swallowed nervously. That sounded bad.
“See, kid”—he put his hand on her shoulder—“I don't want you to look in that back corner for a few minutes.”
Automatically, she glanced over.
“Hey!” he said. “Thought I told you not to look.”
Right. She turned her head in the other direction.
“The thing is,” he said, “is that it's very hot out there, and I'm going to go into that corner and change my shirt. I don't want you to lose control or anything.”
BOOK: The President's Daughter
13.85Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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