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 “the First Lady’s children.” 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 children’s charities, but fate and her husband’s political career have conspired to ensure that she will never, ever be a mother.
Some days, like this one, she almost believes it’s been worth it.
“Morning, ma’am.”
“Good morning, Mrs. Tucker.”
“Lookin’ fine, Mrs. T.”
She laughs, touches folks on their arms or shoulders as she passes through, thinking, Yes, it’s 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 also—unfortunately—plenty 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 hasn’t 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 he’d 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 angel’s wings—originally from a blog site that hated her and her husband.
“Thanks, Nikki,” she says, accepting the cup gratefully and taking a small sip. “If Patty could bring me my schedule and—”
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, “Oh, that son of a bitch.”
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 woman…
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 woman—fairly attractive, a cold and logical part of Grace admits—being 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 woman—now named as Tammy Doyle, a lobbyist with a K Street firm here in DC—is 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 thoughts—even though this news has just broken minutes ago—and 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.
“I’ll be in my office,” she says. “And can someone answer that darn phone? Let’s get back to work, people.”
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 won’t give her husband the satisfaction, even if he’s hundreds of miles away from her.
Grace jumps as a phone rings on her desk, and from its tone, she knows it’s her private line and she knows who’s on the other end.
Never in her life has a ringing phone frightened her so.