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The First Lady
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Excerpt
CHAPTER 1
TWENTY-ONE MINUTES before the ambush, Harrison Tuckerâformer state senator, former Ohio governor, President of the United States, leader of the free world, and a month away from being reelected in a landslide to a second termâis lying on his stomach on a king-size bed in an Atlanta hotel room, feet toward the headboard, chin resting on a pillow, watching a retrospective documentary on the TV series House of Cards with the love of his life.
A breakfast cart with the remains of two meals has been pushed to one side of the small but adequate room, and he sighs with pleasure as his companion, Tammy Doyle, straddling his back, gives him a thorough and deep post-coital back rub.
âLook,â he says, watching the fictional president slither his way across the screen, âwriters have to fictionalize politics and deal-making, like on The West Wing or Madam Secretary, but thereâs no way Frank Underwood could be elected president in real life. You know why?â
Tammy lowers her head, purrs in his ear. Prior to this they were both clothed, while he was giving a fund-raising speech and she was watching from a distant table that had cost her lobbying firm ten thousand dollars, but now they were both nude, the room filled with the scent of perspiration, coffee, and sex.
âIs it because he wears a toupee?â she whispers. âOr because whatâs-his-name was fired in disgrace?â
âHell, no,â Harrison replies. âItâs because he strangled that dog in the first episode. Remember? Most voters own cats or dogs. They have a sixth sense when it comes to someone who doesnât like animals. They would have felt that from Frank. No one would vote for him. Trust me.â
She kisses his right ear. âHave I ever not trusted you?â
âIf you didnât youâve kept it quietâŠwhich is a nice change of pace.â
Tammy laughsâa sound that still thrills himâand she really digs her warm fingers into his back and says, âYour state campaign director here in Georgia, Congressman Vickers.â
He closes his eyes. Only his Tammy talks politics after lovemaking. âIâd rather not think about him right now,â Harrison says.
âYou should,â Tammy says in her soft, low voice. âThe setup for the rally was a disaster. A jumble of people couldnât get in the door because they didnât have the right tickets. That means the wheels are coming off the field operation here.â
âI thought the speech went well.â
Tammy leans forward again, rubs her nose against his thick hair, like a loving cat, rubbing up for attention. âHarry, the speech went well because the people love you. After years of conflict and shouting, youâve calmed things down, youâve gotten the country moving again, and because your opponent, the honorable governor from California, is a fruitcake. But there should have been more people there, and the ticket fiasco pissed off some of your supporters for no good reason. It all goes back to Congressman Vickers. Sack him.â
Harrison shifts a bit from her weight. âTammyâŠthe electionâs four weeks away. Wouldnât that be seen as a sign of weakness? Besides, the latest polls in Georgia have us up by six percent.â
âFive point six,â she replies. âAnd no, it wonât be seen as a sign of weakness. Itâll show that once again, you have the balls to make the tough decisions when you need to do the right thing. Vickers is a drag on the campaign. Kick his butt to the curbâitâll energize your supporters and volunteers.â
âGood point,â he admits. âIâll think about it.â
Tammy laughs again and reaches down to his shoulders, rolls him over onto his back, and her full curvy body is now on top of him. He wraps his strong arms around her and gives her a hug he wishes would last forever. Smiling and with her thick brown hair cascading down the side of her beautiful face, Tammy says, âYou know what?â
âWhat?â
âI do love you, even if youâre a power-mad, patriarchy-supporting President of these evil United States.â
He gives her a firm squeeze around her waist. âAnd I do love you, even if youâre a corrupt, money-hungry lobbyist that degrades the political process.â
Another kiss, fully sweet and pleasurable, only disturbed by Harrisonâs thought of what his wife, Grace Fuller Tucker, First Lady of the United States, might be doing at this very moment in the District of Columbia, hundreds of miles away.
 Â
Showered and dressed once more in the gray Brooks Brothers suit that Tammy Doyle had stripped off of him a few hours earlier, Harrison Tucker leaves his hotel room exactly one minute ahead of schedule, with Tammy behind him. Outside the room, standing calmly on the Oriental-style carpeted floor, Jackson Thiel, the lead agent on his PPDâpersonal protective detailânods. âGood morning, Mr. President.â
âGood morning, Jackson,â he says.
His Secret Service agentâa tall, bulky African-American with short hair and the traditional curly Motorola radio wire running out of his earâalso says, âMorning, maâam,â and the acknowledgment of Tammy pleases Harrison. He knows he has put the Secret Service in an awkward position with his relationshipâhe loves this woman and refuses to call it an affair. But he has spent his last four years building trust with his agents, listening to their security recommendations, remembering their birthdays, and ensuring they are treated well. In return, they have treated him with respect, affection, andâŠunderstanding.
Harrison falls in line behind the business-suited Jackson as he heads to the near bank of elevators. Jackson brings up his coat sleeve and murmurs into the microphone, âCANAL is on the move,â CANAL being the Presidentâs Secret Service code name.
As they get to the elevator, the door slides open, revealing another Secret Service agent and a quiet military man dressed in civilian clothes, holding two very thick and bulky briefcases. The only time in his presidency Harrison ever felt unready was the day he was briefed on the horrible power and responsibility belonging to him in that briefcase, carrying the codes and communications devices to launch nuclear weapons.
Harrison goes in, followed by Jackson, and then Tammy. She smiles at all of them and lingers for a moment next to Harrison, and he knows it sounds like heâs reverted back to high school, but that bright smile just lifts him off his feet. Even the man holding the keys to nuclear Armageddon doesnât seem as frightening.
Itâs crowded in the small elevator, and Tammy is standing right next to him. He lowers his right hand, slips it into her left hand, gives it a squeeze. He knows deep inside heâs doing wrong, that he shouldnât be having this relationship with Tammy, but she makes him happy. Thatâs all. Gives him love and affection and makes him happy, and for all the late nights, the compromises, the hard decisions, and the bone-weary responsibilities of being what the Secret Service calls âthe ManââŠwell, doesnât he deserve some happiness?
The elevator comes to a halt, and in seconds thereâs a procession moving quickly through an underground tunnel. Atlanta is honeycombed with tunnels and steam pipelines and old passageways, and this one leads to the sub-basement of the hotel where he was supposedly spending the night alone.
Another elevator, another agent already pre-positioned. Into the elevator, and Tammy leans in and whispers, âAll right. When we get out Iâll swing around out front, catch a cab. When will I see you again?â
He turns, kisses her ear through her thick hair, whispers back, âHow about New Hampshire? In three days Iâm speaking at Hartâs Location, one of the places where they cast the first votes in the nation.â
Tammy says, âOnly for you. I hate that state. They think theyâre Godâs chosen in picking the next president.â
He moves his lips away from her. âThey picked me, didnât they?â
Tammy laughs. âEven a broken clock is right twice a day.â
The elevator door opens up, other Secret Service agents are waiting for him, and he follows their lead as they go through a storage area with plastic shrink-wrapped goods on wooden pallets, past rolled-up metal doors, a loading dock next to a wide alleyway. Itâs barely dawn, and Atlantaâs morning air feels refreshing and his arm is around Tammyâs shoulders.
When he turns to say good-bye to Tammy is when it happens.
The first thing he notices are the bright flashes of light, and he half-expects to hear gunshots follow, and there are people now, coming out of a doorway, coming at him, more flashes of light and itâsâ
Camera flashes.
Spotlights on television cameras.
About a dozen of them, moving toward him, some charging, baying beast demanding to be fed, demanding to be answered, shouting at him, pushing aheadâ
âMr. President!â
âMr. President!â
âMr. President!â
CHAPTER 2
GRACE FULLER TUCKER, First Lady of the United States, takes her time walking through the offices of the East Wing, saying good morning and hello to her young staff members. Her Secret Service detail of two women and one man spread out behind her as she walks forward past her young charges, who are referred to by the news media as âthe First Ladyâs children.â She always smiles at the joke but never lets on that the little phrase digs at her, a constant reminder she and Harrison will always be childless.
She may be First Lady, a guest on Ellen, a popular subject on the covers of People and Good Housekeeping, and patron of a number of childrenâs charities, but fate and her husbandâs political career have conspired to ensure that she will never, ever be a mother.
Some days, like this one, she almost believes itâs been worth it.
âMorning, maâam.â
âGood morning, Mrs. Tucker.â
âLookinâ fine, Mrs. T.â
She laughs, touches folks on their arms or shoulders as she passes through, thinking, Yes, itâs been a good day so far. This morning she attended a breakfast meeting at a homeless shelter for kids in Anacostia. There had been plenty of press there, plenty of attention to the overcrowding and lack of funding, and alsoâunfortunatelyâplenty of wide-eyed children sitting on mats on the floor, looking up at all of the adult activity, children who have never had a bed or a place to call their own.
Yes, a good meeting and photo op, although she was tempted to tell the assembled news media it was still a national disgrace that a country as wealthy and as smart as the United States hasnât solved the homeless problem for children, but in the end she kept that opinion to herself. Once, she could have said that to Harry, but heâd stopped listening to her a long time ago.
The offices on the second floor of the East Wing used to be tiny and cramped, off one long, narrow hallway, but the previous First Lady had replaced them with a collection of open-plan cubicles. The only private offices belong to her and her chief of staff.
One of her staff members, Nikki Blue, comes forward, carrying a coffee cup emblazoned with a caricature of the First Lady with a halo and angelâs wingsâoriginally from a blog site that hated her and her husband.
âThanks, Nikki,â she says, accepting the cup gratefully and taking a small sip. âIf Patty could bring me my schedule andââ
Something is wrong.
Something is very wrong.
The talk and chattering is finished. There are whispers and sighs, and this little warren of cubicles is now deadly quiet.
She turns, sees where everyone is looking.
To a trio of television screens, hanging from the ceiling behind her, all tuned to one of the cable news channels.
Someone whispers, âOh, that son of a bitch.â
Up on the screens is a video of her husband stepping out in an alley somewhere in Atlanta, looking shocked, like a deer at night surprised by headlights, his arm around another womanâŠ
Another woman.
Grace stands stock-still, forcing her legs not to tremble.
The video runs again and again, like some damn marital Zapruder film, Harry being tossed into the back of an SUV by the Secret Service, the womanâfairly attractive, a cold and logical part of Grace admitsâbeing chased into a hotel, through a kitchen, out to the lobby, and then to the front, where she manages to get into a taxi, the camera work jerky and bouncing as they keep pace with her.
The cab, though, is stuck trying to get into traffic, and the womanânow named as Tammy Doyle, a lobbyist with a K Street firm here in DCâis shown turning her head away from the cameras, microphones, and shouting.
Now the video is back to showing the President being ambushed, being pushed into the SUV, being driven away, and now the talking heads are spouting off their views, theories, and deep thoughtsâeven though this news has just broken minutes agoâand she gasps as hot coffee is spilled on her shaking hand.
Grace brings up the coffee cup.
Oh, she is so tempted to toss it at the nearest television screen.
She turns, forces out a smile to her children.
âIâll be in my office,â she says. âAnd can someone answer that darn phone? Letâs get back to work, people.â
Grace goes into her office, softly closing the door behind her and locking it. Her hand is still shaking as she puts the coffee cup down on her desk.
She turns off all the lights, hugs herself, and leans back against the closed and locked door.
She will not cry.
She will not cry.
She wonât give her husband the satisfaction, even if heâs hundreds of miles away from her.
Grace jumps as a phone rings on her desk, and from its tone, she knows itâs her private line and she knows whoâs on the other end.
Never in her life has a ringing phone frightened her so.
CHAPTER 3
WHEN HE HAD been running for the state senate back in Ohio, years ago, Harrison Tucker recalled reading a story about Air Force One on 9/11, and how its pilotsâdesperate to get the President off the ground from Sarasota, Floridaâhad taken off at high speed, forcing passengers back into their seats, nearly crawling vertically in the air to gain altitude and safety.
Now, as President, Harrison sits in his well-equipped and comfortable office on Air Force Oneâs main deck, next to his forward suite, wishing this massive and expensive aircraft could fly him somewhere to safety and isolation.
But thatâs not possible.
There is no safe haven from what has happened in Atlanta, and the news will get worse with every passing minute. His allies up on Capitol Hill will hesitate to expend political capital on his behalf. The influential columnists and bloggers will reevaluate their support as Election Day draws near. The governor of California will see a chance to turn the race around in his favor. And all of Harrisonâs plans and dreams to help those millions down there in the wide expanse of this countryâŠare now in jeopardy.
Sitting on the other side of his wide and polished desk is Parker Hoyt, his chief of staff, the man who has been behind the scenes for yearsâmaking the deals, pulling the strings, putting out the fires that took him from the Ohio Statehouse to 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. His dark blue eyes are solemn, his gray-white hair crew cut, and he has a hawklike nose mocked by political cartoonists from coast to coast.
Parker gives him a sympathetic glance. âI told you that youâd eventually get caught.â
âI know.â
âI told you that the most-photographed, most-watched man in the world couldnât get away with having an affair forever.â
âI know.â
âI told youââ
Harrison holds up his right hand. âDamn it, Parker, no more I-told-you-soâs, all right? Give me a plan, a blueprint, something to get me out in front of this story, to get meâŠout of this mess.â
Parker says, âWell, speaking of this story, we have about a dozen members of the press in the rear of this aircraft waiting for a statement.â
âLet them wait.â Harrison shifts in his seat, looks out the row of five windows, the drape hanging to the left, seeing the empty, wooded landscape of southeast America pass underneath. So much open space in this countryâŠand he has a brief moment of envy, of men his age living down there in small towns, with small homes and even smaller problems.
He swivels his chair back and says, âParkerâŠâ
His chief of staff crisply nods. âAll right. Weâre going to need to come clean about your relationship with Tammy Doyle.â
A hard, cold feeling settles into his chest. âCanât we just say sheâsâŠwell, a friend? A travel companion? Someone to keep me company on these long trips?â
A brutal shake of the head. âMr. President, with all due respect, grow up. Youâve tossed a huge piece of raw meat to the press four weeks before the election. Theyâre going to chase down her background, her travel records, her relationship with you. Theyâll match up your campaign stops with trips sheâs made to check on her lobbyist clients. Thatâs step one. Step two, theyâll start talking to people, and people love to talk. All itâll take is one chambermaid, one room service clerk, one loose-lipped person looking for his or her fifteen minutes of fame, to verify that the two of you spent the night together somewhere, in New Orleans, or LA, or Chicago.â
Harrison sighs. âNever Chicago.â
âLucky you,â Parker says. âSo we need to get ahead of the story, and that means following a script. And fair warning, youâre going to hate it.â
The cold feeling in his chest is still there, but he knows from experience to trust Parker Hoyt. His chief of staff not only knows where the bodies are buried, but also had a hand in putting them there in the first place. Harrison likes to think of himself as a realistâsomething he told the voters four years ago during his first run for the White Houseâand knows he wouldnât be sitting here without Parkerâs advice and counsel.
âAll right,â Harrison says. âWhatâs the script?â
Parker nods with satisfaction. âIt starts with a phone call to your wife, then a day or two at a retreat, an apology, and then a photo of you walking hand in hand across the South Lawn as you take Marine One to Camp David. Maybe get a prominent religious figure to come spend some time to counsel you. Then some carefully placed leaks to the news media that the First Lady is furious with you, is making you sleep on a couch or in the White House bomb shelter, but that she is open to forgiveness and eventual reconciliation.â
Harrison rubs at his face. âWhat about Tammy?â
Parker utters an obscenity. âYou forget about her, right now, right this minute.â
âBut sheââ
âI donât care if sheâs Mother Teresa on the outside, the worldâs greatest lover on the inside, a political genius, and gourmet cook as wellâsheâs out of the picture. Youâve got to worry about your reelection, worry about the First Lady. Besides being angry and hurt, sheâs now in the mood to cut off your manhood and toss it into the Potomac. And thereâll be a large section of the populationâŠvoters, Mr. PresidentâŠwho would cheer her on. We canât have that.â
Harrison stays quiet. The interior of Air Force One is so insulated and well built that the sound of the powerful jet engines is just a distant whisper.
He says, âIs there any other way?â
âNo.â
âAre you sure?â
âMr. PresidentâŠto save your presidency, to continue to serve this nation for the next four yearsâŠyou need to make the call. OtherwiseâŠwell, youâre clearing the way for a West Coast governor to kick you out of the White House in four weeks. The same governor, Iâll remind you, that three hundred leading economists said last month would destroy our nationâs economy if he were elected.â
Parkerâs words resonate with him. Thereâs been progress here and around the world, but thereâs still so much more to be done.
And he knows heâs the man to do it.
Parker is right.
He hesitates, picks up the phone, talks to the on-duty communications officer, who has the talents and technical ability to reach anyone with a phone, anywhere in the world:
âPlease get me the First Lady.â
CHAPTER 4
BUCK UP, THE First Lady thinks, and with the lights in her office still off, she strides over and picks up the receiver.
âYes?â
From the crackle and snap of static, she instantly recognizes the call is coming from Air Force One, and the communications officer flying up there somewhere says, âPlease hold for the President.â
Grace leans against the edge of her desk.
Waits.
Sheâs amazed at how calm she is.
âGrace?â comes the voice that used to excite her, intrigue her, and now, for the last years, often disappoints her.
âYes,â she says, not wanting to say anything more.
More cracks and pops of static. Let him go first, let him set the tone.
âGrace, I donât know what to say, I mean, Iâm so sorry aboutââ
âShut up, Harry,â she says. âSave it for your girl, whoever she is.âŠAnd who is she?â
âSheâs uh, well, we can talk about it when I get backââ
She interrupts him. âTalk? What shall we talk about? Is she the first? Is she? Or is she one in a long line of eager young ladies looking to service the President of the United States?â
âYes,â he snaps back. âSheâs the first. And the only one. And sheâs not justââ
âOh, spare me, Harry, how sheâs much more than just a mistress or a woman youâve cheated with,â she says. âDonât tell me that this secret, sordid business of yours was so special, so romantic. Are you proud of yourself? Are you? Youâve managed to humiliate me, make a mockery of our marriage, and youâve also given voters something else to think about when they vote in four weeks. When they get into that voting booth, what are they going to see? The honorable Harrison Tucker, President of the United States, or a cheating husband?â
âGrace, please, I hope we canââ
She talks right over him. âHope?â she asks, voice rising. âHereâs what you should hope, fool. You better hope that the American voters are stupider than you think, that theyâll ignore the blatantâŠidiocy of sinking your chances a month away from Election Day. That they wonât sign on with that yogurt-and-granola-loving governor and kick your sorry butt out of the Oval Office. And to drag me down with thisâŠdrama of yours. Harry, I wonât have it. Iâve put up with enough from you over the years, from Columbus to DC, and you know the sacrifices Iâve madeâŠwhat Iâve given up.â
Her voice chokes, finally, and she bites her lower lip to prevent a sob from coming out. And she doesnât dare tell him what else is on her mind, that all the good work sheâs done as First Lady in the past four yearsâto rescue the most helpless and vulnerable in this nation, fighting for them even when he and his bastard chief of staff wouldnâtâwill now be ignored for the gossip-filled stories to come.
The tears are now rolling right along. Harrison has hurt her, but she doubts he knows just how deeply.
Through the static on the phoneâcoming from Air Force Oneâs extensive telephone encryption systemâher husbandâs voice comes through, soothing and apologetic.
âGrace, pleaseâŠI made a mistake. A serious mistake. No excuse, itâs all on meâŠbut pleaseâŠcan we discuss this, work through thisââ
Genre:
- On Sale
- Mar 12, 2019
- Page Count
- 544 pages
- Publisher
- Grand Central Publishing
- ISBN-13
- 9781538715512
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