AT TEN THE NEXT MORNING Erica walks into the soaring Palmer House lobby—it’s one of the country’s classic old hotels, but she has no time to admire it. As she walks over to the elevators and heads up to the presidential suite for her meeting with Celeste Ortiz, she reminds herself to play her cards close to the vest. She has no doubt that Celeste has an agenda. Well, so does she.
She knocks on the door of the suite, and Celeste answers it herself. “Erica, welcome,” she says in a low-key way, smiling warmly, ushering her in. Like they were a couple of old friends.
Celeste is wearing a white T-shirt, khaki shorts, no makeup, and her hair is up in a wide elastic band. Talk about dressing down . . . She looks like she just stepped off the elliptical at the gym. Erica is surprised to see that there are no staff bustling around. It’s just the two of them.
Celeste shows her over to a cozy seating area in front of a fireplace. “I ordered us some tea.”
“I’m good, thanks.”
Celeste is silent for a moment and then says, “Isn’t it nice to be in a quiet place for a few minutes?”
Erica nods.
“Sometimes I just want to walk away from the whole thing.” Celeste pours herself a cup of tea and takes a sip. “But I think the country needs my husband. Speaking of our families, how’s Jenny?”
“She’s fine. Off at camp.”
“What fun. And your lucky fiancé?”
This is getting awfully personal awfully quickly. Erica doesn’t answer.
“Distance can be tricky in a relationship. Sometimes it’s the best thing. When my husband was a prisoner in Iraq, I felt closer to him than I ever had . . .” Celeste puts down her teacup and clasps her fingers together. “It was difficult . . .”
Erica sees an opening and jumps discreetly, matching Celeste’s low-key manner. “Did you get any reports or updates when he was in captivity? Was he able to communicate with you personally?”
“No, I was in the dark. I would get reports from the CIA, but they weren’t verified. I never could be sure if he was even still alive.”
Erica knows enough about war to know that if enough cash changes hands, information is available. “Did you make any back channel attempts to reach him?”
“I’m not sure what you mean.”
“In the fog of war, money can work miracles.”
Celeste turns and looks out the window, takes a sip of tea, and then says, “Yes, I did try. Of course. What wife wouldn’t? But even my money proved useless against jihadism.” She exhales and sits up straight. “Do you ever take off your reporter’s hat?”
“No. I even swim in it.”
“That might be unwise. It could block your sightlines.”
“I’m a strong swimmer.”
“What if you get caught in a riptide?”
“I always make it back to shore.”
“Watch out for rogue waves.” Celeste gives her a tight smile that slowly morphs into a warm one. “Listen, I wanted us to meet like this for a couple of reasons. First of all, both Mike and I thought your piece on us at home was terrific. You captured our love for each other and our commitment to the nation. And, by the way, you handled poor Jasper’s death pitch-perfectly that day.”
“You lost a family member.”
“If only we could care about people as much as we do our pets.” She tucks her legs under her, which only adds to the informal, welcoming vibe.
But it’s a casual old-money pose—curled up in an armchair—that for a moment ignites Erica’s social insecurities. Do prep schools teach courses in casual confidence?
“My husband feels very at ease with you. As do I.”
“That’s always nice to hear.”
“You showed us kindness; we would like to return it.” Celeste gives Erica a flitting look, but there’s no mistaking the proffered quid pro quo. “Politics is such an awful business, isn’t it? There’s so much backbiting and petty payback. Threats. People are always looking for ways to tear you down.”
“It’s important to question power.”
“Yes. But not to engage in character assassination. To go looking for dirt under every rug. If my husband should have the honor of serving as president, he’s going to change that culture.”
“It won’t be easy.”
Celeste looks Erica in the eye. “He won’t tolerate it. Neither will I.”
Well, you’re not in the White House yet, Celeste, and I’m going to keep looking under every rug.
Erica is burning with curiosity about the “kindness” they want to bestow on her, but she doesn’t want to appear overeager. “How confident are you of winning?”
“The polls are looking good. But you never know until the last vote is counted. Something unexpected could come up, but we’re working to minimize that possibility.”
“Are you? How?”
“Vigilance.” She looks Erica in the eye. “By monitoring my husband’s enemies. Staying one step ahead.”
“If your husband has nothing to hide, his enemies will come up empty-handed.”
“Well, sometimes people make reckless charges. Their imaginations run away with them.” She lets the words hang in the air a moment, then switches gears. “In any event, we do have a little surprise up our sleeve to create some excitement here in Chicago . . .”
“Which is?”
“The chattering class assumes that Mike to going to name Alice Marshall as his running mate.” She takes another sip of her tea. “Well, they assume wrong.”
The kindness is revealed. And it’s a real scoop. In spite of any misgivings Erica may have about the Ortizes, announcing his VP pick would be a real coup for Erica and GNN. Mort Silver would be over the moon. Erica leans forward. Celeste smiles and leans back in response—the fish is on the line.
“Can you tell me who he is going to pick?”
Celeste lowers her voice, très intime. “I can’t. Not just yet. I hope you don’t think I’m being coy.”
“A tease maybe.”
“Why don’t I ask Mike? If he agrees, we’ll give the scoop to our favorite reporter.”
“She would be happy to have it. Providing it comes with no strings attached.”
“Strings are for puppets. You look to me like you’re made of flesh and blood. Speaking of flesh, I better get my face on. I’m delivering welcoming remarks to a women’s luncheon in an hour.”
In the elevator heading back down, Erica replays the scene. They’re trying to co-opt her. Keep your friends close and your enemies closer.
Her phone rings. It’s Knut Ludlow, her building’s superintendent. What on earth could he be calling about?
“Hello, Knut, this is Erica.”
“I’m sorry to disturb you, Ms. Sparks, but there’s been a burst pipe in the master bathroom two stories up from you. We’ve got the leak under control, but there was damage in the apartment above yours. I’d like to give your place a quick check. I need your permission to enter the apartment.”
“I’d appreciate it.”
“I’ll call you back with a report.”
“Where exactly was the leak above me?”
“In the shower stall.”