GRACE FULLER TUCKER emerges from her office and stops, stunned, as her entire staff stands before her and starts applauding. Her face flushes with joy and embarrassment—joy at the support and love her children are showing her, and embarrassment because they had no doubt listened to her loud voice going through these old and thin walls as she yelled at the President.
She holds up a hand, blinking back tears, and just murmurs, “Thank you, thank you.”
They eventually stop applauding, and some of them brush tears away from their eyes. Grace takes a long, deep breath, wonders what she could say that would make any difference at all to her staff. Despite herself, she glances up at the three television screens, still all reporting what’s being called the Ambush in Atlanta.
To hell with that.
Grace turns back to her staff, folds her hands. “I…it’s going to be a rough time for all of us in the hours and days ahead. All the good work you’ve done with me—in helping children in need, children hurt and abandoned by their families or society—unfortunately, all of that good work is now going to be overshadowed. For those of us in the East Wing, there is going to be only one story for the foreseeable future. For that…I am so very sorry.”
Grace needs to go on, and she quickly looks at the carpeted floor to regain her composure. “But…as hard as it might be…ignore that story. Focus on the good that you’ve done with me…focus on the children whose lives have been improved or saved by you…and at some point…someday…this…nonsense, this scandal, will be forgotten.”
Another burst of applause, and she smiles and joins their applause, then catches the attention of her chief of staff, Donna Allen, and gestures her back into Donna’s office. Grace doesn’t bother closing the door behind her because she only needs her chief of staff for a minute.
Grace asks, “My schedule for the rest of the day. Remind me, please.”
Donna is a slim, pretty woman with glasses and short black hair who seems able to operate efficiently on only four hours of sleep. She goes to her desk, picks up a sheet of paper. “Ma’am…let’s see. You have a luncheon with the Senate wives from the Party, a group interview with prominent political bloggers at two p.m., an early evening reception at five p.m. with the ambassador’s wife from Japan. Then…er, dinner with…um, the President and an eight p.m. attendance at the Kennedy Center, for that—”
Grace nods. “Cancel it all.”
Donna looks up, shocked. “Ma’am?”
“You heard me, Donna,” she says, turning around and going out into the East Wing office area. “Cancel it all. I’m leaving.”
Donna follows her out. “But…but…where are you going?”
She sees her lead Secret Service agent, Pamela Smithson, a tiny blonde who looks like she weighs ninety pounds soaking wet but who supposedly is an expert in hand-to-hand combat and close-quarters shooting. Pamela is speaking into her blouse cuff, and Grace knows what she’s saying: “CANARY is on the move.”
Boy, am I ever, Grace thinks.
At first she had hated the Secret Service code name, but now she embraces it. Canaries have a long and noble history, especially when it comes to warning miners of trouble coming, and she likes to think that’s been one of her roles—warning American society that they can’t keep ignoring the children trapped in the deep, dark holes of poverty.
She wants to say something once more to her staff, all of whom are looking at her now with love and concern.
What to say?
Grace Fuller Tucker, First Lady of the United States, turns and leaves her East Wing office area for the last time.