Long Live the Queen (31 page)

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Authors: Ellen Emerson White

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“I'm not going to,” Beth said, “but everyone would understand. I mean, if something's going to save your
life
, you do it.”
Meg nodded, automatically looking at her hand.
“Yeah,” Beth said, following her gaze. “Like that.”
Yeah. Meg looked away from the splint, and pins—and deformity. “I think that night saved my life. I mean, talking to him and all. I think he kind of—I think he
liked
me.”
Beth nodded.
Meg looked around, even though she knew—hoped—they were alone. “Can I tell you something worse?”
“Sure,” Beth said.
“I liked
him
.” She felt herself blushing. “I don't mean I
liked
him”—yeah, she did—“but, he—he reminded me of Preston.” Horribly enough.
Beth's eyebrows went up. “Of
Preston
?”
“Yeah.” Despite the fact that it was
July
, Meg felt cold, and she folded her good arm around herself. “I mean, not
exactly
, but—” But what? “Like if he had an evil twin.”
Beth laughed. “An
evil twin
?”
Meg didn't laugh. “I'm serious.”
“Yeah, I know,” Beth said. “I just—
Preston
?”
Meg tried to think of a way to describe it. “He was really smart. I mean,
really
smart. And really—calm. And—a little amused all the time, you know?”
Beth nodded.
“He got my jokes,” Meg said.
Beth nodded again. “Ah. No
wonder
you liked him.”
“I didn't like him, I—” That was a lie. “Yeah, I did. I—” She frowned, searching for a better comparison. It was too upsetting to associate him—in any way—with one of her favorite people in the world. “Like, if you had a
really
sadistic big brother, who you followed around
anyway
.”
“Jesus,” Beth said.
“I know I'm not explaining it right.” Meg glanced over, trying to read her reaction. “He could have killed me. He
should
have.”
“Yeah, but—” Beth shook her head. “He didn't exactly put you on a bus to Washington.”
“No,” Meg said slowly, “but—”
“Preston
would
have killed you,” Beth said.
Meg stared at her, instantly afraid. “What?”
“I don't mean Preston would hurt you,” Beth said. “Ever. I just—he wouldn't
leave
someone like that. Leave them to suffer.”
“Yeah, but—” Meg blinked a few times, trying to digest that. “I got away.”
“He didn't
plan
it that way,” Beth said, looking very grim. “I mean—he chained you up. He
nailed
you in. I mean—
Jesus.
”
She hadn't really thought about it like that before—and it was awful. Stomach-turning. And sort of too much to absorb. “You mean, he
wanted
me to die like that?” Meg asked. “
Really
badly?”
“I don't know,” Beth said. “But, I wouldn't be grateful to him for something
you
did yourself.”
Meg thought about lying in the cold, hard dirt, the heavy chain clamped around her wrist, slowly, slowly feeling her life disappear. Hour by hour—minute by minute, even—she'd felt herself—“I guess it wasn't very—humane.”
“I guess
not,
” Beth said.
Thinking about the enormity of being able to sit out on the balcony, quiet and safe, her family a few rooms away, Meg shivered again. Hard. “I'm really not supposed to be here, am I?”
Beth seemed to shiver, too. “No.”
There didn't seem to be much else to say, so Meg leaned back, looking at the very few stars she could see beyond all the lights. Strange to think how many, many more there were up there.
“You're looking pretty tired,” Beth said.
So, what else was new? Meg laughed, a little.
“You want to call it a night?” Beth asked.
Meg nodded, reaching for her crutch.
BETH SAT IN on the physical therapy sessions for the next several days. Often, she gave slightly skewed sports advice; otherwise, she just read whatever book she was holding, while Meg ground her teeth together and lifted and pulled and pushed the various weights. Edith was very pleased. Dr. Brooks and the various orthopedic surgeons were, too.
After exercising, and sitting through the electro-stimulus therapy, Meg would take one of the uncomfortable showers on her bench, then get into bed with a very small lunch tray. Usually, as soon as she was finished, she would take a nap. Then, Beth would “convince” her to get up and have dinner with everyone, and later, they would watch a movie or a baseball game with her brothers. Generally, her father—or, sometimes, Preston—would sit up there with them, too. And, increasingly, Preston didn't remind her of anyone but himself. Thank God.
Things were getting enough back to normal so that Steven and Neal started having their friends over again. Steven's best friends were Vinnie and Jim, who were both punks. Cute punks, but still punks. Neal's closest friend was Ahmed, a nice little boy with thick glasses, who always wore a turtleneck.
Always.
Her parents and Trudy were around, but not obtrusively so. Her mother clearly had a lot of catching up to do, because she was working even harder than usual—which was probably a good thing. But, Meg also sensed that she was spending quite a bit of time sequestered with FBI agents and the like. They hadn't made much progress so far, but they
had
done things like find the mine-shaft. Which turned out to be—not that Meg really wanted any
details—precisely that: an abandoned mine-shaft, way the hell in the middle of the wilderness, up in the mountains above a North Georgia town called Ellijay. And reporters were apparently annoying the hell out of the people who lived in the area, by tramping around constantly, looking for new angles and human interest stories, trying to goose a little more mileage out of the whole thing.
Regardless, although the summit meeting in Geneva had been postponed until October—and they weren't exactly having state dinners and things all over the place—at least, there were strong signals that the White House was back in business. So to speak.
Late at night, after Steven and Neal went to bed, she and Beth would sit in the solarium, or out on the patio on the Promenade, or down on the Truman Balcony, talking or not. Beth didn't push her, or press for details—so, Meg found herself telling her more than she might have otherwise. What had happened, how she felt, how afraid she had been. She never really talked about how afraid she still
was
, but Beth probably figured it out. Especially since she still refused to go down to the First Floor, even—forget outside.
On Sunday morning—Dr. Brooks had decided that it could be a day of rest—Meg was the last one to get up. By a long shot. Late enough, so that it was prudent to eat lunch, instead of breakfast. On, happily enough, a tray. Beth appeared in her room shortly after the tray did.
“What's on for today?” she asked, wearing shorts, a wild blue-and-yellow Hawaiian shirt, and black Converse All-Stars.
Meg shook her head. “You're too cool for me.”
Beth grinned. “Well,
everyone
knows that.” She sat on the bottom of the bed. “So. What are we going to do?”
Her preference would be to rest quietly—but, odds were, Beth wasn't going to let her get away with that. “I don't know.” Meg made herself eat a bite of her Mexican omelet. “What do you want to do?”
“It's really nice out,” Beth said. “Let's sit on the roof. Get some sun.”
There was probably no point in arguing. Meg sighed. “Okay. Out on the Promenade, maybe?”
“Sure,” Beth said. “Why don't we call Josh, too? See if he wants to come over.”
Ah, the ulterior motive. But Meg nodded, and reached for the phone.
Josh, it turned out, had the day off from his job at the golf course, and so, the three of them ended up sitting out on the Promenade patio, on chaise longues, Meg feeling self-consciously pale in her shorts and t-shirt—and splint and brace.
“Thirty SPF,” Beth said, handing her a tube of suntan lotion. “
Minimum.
Maybe even forty-five.”
“Thank you, Doctor,” Meg said, and put some on her face, neck, and exposed leg.
“Can you get your left arm okay?” Josh asked.
Probably not. She shook her head and gave the tube to him, Josh smoothing on the lotion very gently.
“Thank you,” she said, and he nodded.
“We all have our shades?” Beth asked, already wearing a pair of large white cat-eyes.
Meg had decided to drape the pair Preston gave her rakishly from her collar, but put them on, instead.
Josh took the folded baseball cap out of the back pocket of his shorts and stuck it on his head. It was the same cap he'd been wearing the day everything happened, and looking at it made Meg sad. More sad than scared, because she knew he'd had that cap for years, and
loved
it. Once, she had offered to buy him a new, less battered one, but he had—a mistake, in her opinion—declined.
“Am I tan yet?” Beth asked, holding out her arms.
“Bronze,” Meg said.
“Good.” Beth lowered her arms. “So are you.”
Unh-hunh. She glanced at Josh, who was putting on some of the suntan lotion himself. “I, uh, I'm glad you weren't working today.”
He looked very happy. “Me, too.”
That said, Meg lay back on the chaise longue, the sun feeling nice and warm. Hot, even. “You know,” she said, “we're missing the Red Sox, being out here.”
Beth didn't even lift her head. “Neal's going to come out every now and then, keep us up-to-date.”
“Do you think of
everything
?” Meg asked.
“Yes,” Beth said. “I do.”
They had a low-key afternoon, talking a little, but mainly just lying in the sunshine. Neal, as advertised, appeared every half hour or so.
“Steven says to tell you the middle relief sucks!” he bellowed over to them on his third trip outside.
“What's the score?” Meg asked.
“They're up one run, but Detroit has the bases loaded,” he said.
Great. The outcome of that state of affairs was somewhat predictable.
They lay in the sun some more, Meg feeling very comfortable, and a little sleepy.
“We need food,” Beth said. “And something with
ice
.”
Meg opened her eyes. “Just yell in to Steven and Neal. The refrigerator in there probably has—”
“No, I'll go downstairs.” Beth got up. “Be right back.”
She didn't really want to be alone with Josh—which was, almost certainly, why Beth had left. She glanced over, seeing that he looked anxious, too.
“You're feeling better?” he asked. “I mean, lately?”
In some ways, anyway. She nodded.
“You
look
better,” he said.
“Thanks.” She tried to think of something to say. “You do, too. I mean, you have a really good tan.”
“Caddie tan,” he said.
Which meant sock, sleeve,
and
shorts lines. Like the tennis tans she'd always had. Except that she didn't want to think about tennis—
or
tan lines she had once had, and that the guy had enjoyed—viewing.
“You haven't just been working lately, have you?” she asked. “I mean, you're having
some
fun, right?”
He shrugged. “They're giving me a lot of hours, and—I don't mind working extra days.”
“But, you should have fun, too,” Meg said. “I mean—Christ.”
“I
miss
you,” he said.
She nodded, flushing slightly.
“Is it okay if I say that?” he asked.
She had to smile. “Yeah.”
“Is it, um, mutual?” he asked.
She looked at him, at his nice, kind face, then nodded. “Yeah. It is.”
Hesitantly, he touched her arm, his hand feeling very warm. “I just want us to be friends. I mean, if that's all
you
want.”
Here came the conversation she didn't want to have. She let out her breath. “That's all I can handle, Josh.”
He nodded.
“I
do
miss you,” she said. “It's just—everything's still kind of an effort.”
He gave her arm a light squeeze, then let go.
“It doesn't mean I don't want to see you,” she said. “I'm just—taking it slowly.”
He nodded again, and then, the silence was awkward enough for her to wonder what in the hell was taking Beth so long.
“So, it'd be okay if I maybe gave you a call sometimes?” Josh asked. “On my day off, or whatever?”
Not necessarily. She felt her muscles tighten. “I can't go anywhere. I mean, not even
downstairs
. Or—”
“This is nice,” he said, waving to include the entire Promenade. “Being in the sun and all.”
She let some of the tension ebb away. “Yeah. This is fine.”
“And,” he said, “you
know
how much I like watching your family's favorite baseball team.”
This, from the guy who not only wore his Nationals cap everywhere, but even had a vintage
Senators
shirt.
“They're
always
entertaining,” he said. “I remember one time when I was watching them, they had this ten-run lead, and—”
“Josh, you are on
unbelievably
thin ice,” she said, cutting him off.
He grinned, and subsided.
“In fact,” she said, “maybe you should—”
“Yankees suck,” he said.
Those were, indeed, the magic words. She laughed. “Okay. You're forgiven.”
“Hey, check it out,” Beth said, carrying a full plate and some napkins, Felix behind her with a tray of sweet tea. “Fresh petits fours.”
Meg loved petits fours.
“You know,” Beth said, once she was settled back on her chaise longue, with her tea, “there really are worse places to live.”
“Yeah, really,” Josh said, eating petits fours.
They both had a point. Meg sighed. “Yeah,” she said. “There probably are.”
 
THAT NIGHT, ALTHOUGH clouds had rolled in and it was sort of misty and cool, she and Beth sat out on the Truman Balcony again, Meg drinking Coke, Beth drinking more of the notoriously popular White House sweet tea—to which she, increasingly, seemed to be addicted. The Washington Monument and Jefferson Memorial looked all the more impressive, but somewhat eerie, in the light fog.
“You and Josh looked like you were having an okay time today,” Beth said.
Meg shrugged affirmatively.
“Did you talk?” Beth asked. “I mean, when I left?”
“I
knew
you left on purpose,” Meg said.
“Well, hell,” Beth said, and grinned. “So, you talked?”
Meg nodded. “A little, yeah.”
The fog was thickening, raindrops beginning to fall.
“You going to be specific?” Beth asked.
Meg laughed, but didn't elaborate.
“I tell
you
the many details of
my
social life,” Beth said.
Meg nodded. “Like the time you and Preston had your secret tryst in the Cayman Islands?”
“The
Canary
Islands,” Beth said. “I have my bank account in the Cayman Islands.”
Meg laughed, and drank some Coke.
It was raining harder, the sound quiet on the cement driveway and grass below them.
“Anyway,” Beth said.
Meg shrugged. “He wants to be friends. Maybe come over, on his days off.”
“That sounds okay,” Beth said.
Yeah. As long as he didn't push her.
They watched the rain, and the trees bobbing slightly in the wind.
“He'll be going away pretty soon,” Meg said.
Beth nodded.
“I mean,
everyone
will,” Meg said. Everyone
else
.
“You want to talk about that?” Beth asked, her voice noticeably off-hand.
Did she? No. “Not really,” Meg said, and sighed. “I'm not even ready to
think
about it.”

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