The Governor's Lady (4 page)

“Have you talked to Dad about it?”

“A couple of times, but he’s so busy he hasn’t been able to focus on it. He never even checks his Facebook page.”

“Neither do I. So …”

“I’m doing my thing. When Dad wins New Hampshire, they’ll think it was all their doing. I’ll be a silent hero.”

She smiled. “Maybe not so silent. Maybe you’ve got enough of me in you that you don’t know how to keep your mouth shut.”

He stood, went to the window, looked out at the front lawn, the scattered litter beyond the fence. “Must have been a big media crowd.”

“They went a little crazy every time the gate opened. They even rushed the prison van. Mrs. Dinkins called them wretched.”

He turned back, eyes dancing. “I’ll bet. I wish I’d been here.”

Carter had loved the Executive Mansion from the moment he first set foot in it, back when Pickett was lieutenant governor. He had dashed away, scouting the place, oblivious to the notion that other people, the then-governor’s family, lived there. They had moved in when Carter was twelve. The next year, they had caught him selling autographed photos
of Pickett to a busload of Baptists as they finished their tour. And now he was organizing Young Voters for Lanier.

“Guess I better get dressed,” he said.

She looked him up and down—faded jeans, plaid flannel shirt, quilted vest, threadbare jogging shoes. “Yes, you’d better get dressed.”

“It plays well in New Hampshire.”

“It’s a casual world these days.”

He was almost out the door when he turned back to her. “When I’m governor, maybe you can write my inaugural speech. We’ll let it be a surprise.”

“I’ll tell you a surprise you can start on when you get back to New Hampshire tomorrow.”

“What’s that?”

“Call me every once in a while.”

He blanched. “I’m sorry, Mom. I get so busy.”

She made a face.

“Okay, I’ll do better.” He smiled. “You’ll have your own posse. Be sure you tell ’em to let me through.” He started to go, hesitated. “I didn’t see Allison’s car out there.”

“She’s not here yet. Any minute now.”

Carter’s face clouded. “Did she give you a hard time about today?”

“I think there are a million places she’d rather be.”

“I’ll talk to her.”

“It’s okay. I know how she feels. I’ve been there. But she’s coming, that’s the thing. We’ll work on the rest.”

He shrugged. “Okay.” Then he was gone.

Cooper heard his voice and Pickett’s in the hallway, and then Pickett was in the doorway. When he was out wooing people in Iowa and New Hampshire and Texas these days, he usually appeared in jeans, open-collar shirt, sleeves rolled up when he was indoors, parka added for outdoors. But now he was all business. In Pickett’s first run for office years ago, a seat on the county commission, he had powdered
his temples, trying to pass himself off as more mature than his twenty-eight years. People nevertheless referred to him as “that nice young fellow.” He won anyway. He still had a sizable capacity for artifice when he thought it might do him some good.

“Good morning, Governor,” he said. “How are you?”

She rose from the desk, and he crossed the room and took her in his arms and kissed her. No artifice here.

“Good,” she said. “If fact, I’m just damn fine.”

He stood back and looked her over—maroon suit, navy scarf, cameo brooch that had come down from a great-grandmother.

“You could have changed the uniform,” Pickett said. “It’s your show.”

“I could have.”

“But I’m glad you didn’t.”

“It doesn’t matter. When I change, it’ll be something that matters.”

He glanced at the desk. “Your speech?”

“Yes.”

He reached for it, but she was quicker. “Uh-uh.”

His eyebrows went up. “We need to get advance copies to the media people.” He glanced at his watch. “We don’t have much time.”

She held the papers behind her back. “Uh-uh.”

“Aren’t you gonna let me read it?”

“Nope.”

He shrugged, eyebrows knitted. He started to say something, but she cut him off.

“Pickett, I’m not going to make you squirm today.”

“You have, often enough.”

“Tomorrow, maybe, but not today.” She picked up a manila folder from the desk and tucked the pages into it.

“Okay, just …” He hung fire for a moment, then turned on the smile. “Like I said, it’s your show.”

“So if it’s my show, why did I have to learn from your news conference
just now that Roger Tankersley is going to be my chief of staff?”

He sat beside the desk, wearing a look of surprise. “Didn’t Plato call you?”

In fact, Plato had called a couple days ago, but she didn’t take the call and didn’t return it.

“Hearing it from Plato would have been a lot worse than hearing it from you at a news conference.”

He rubbed his face with his hands, then peered at her through parted fingers. “I’m sorry. I thought he had run it by you. I should have made sure.”

“Yes, you should have. There’s a lot you should have done, like taking time to talk to me about this new job I’ve got.”

He glanced at his watch. “Can we get into this later? I need to make some phone calls. Money stuff. I spend ninety percent of my time raising money.”

“All right, but we’re going to talk. I mean it.”

“Of course.” He rose and reached for her hand. “Now, come downstairs and take a minute to speak to the folks.”

She held back. “Carter told me about the job you gave him. Is he all right? All that running around on his own?”

Pickett’s face softened. “He’s just fine. You should see him. And you should see the way the rest of the bunch looks at him. They’re a pretty tough crew, but I’ve seen some genuine admiration there. He’s made himself—”

“One of the guys. He’s twenty years old, Pickett.”

Pickett turned back to her with a smile. “Oh, he’s much older than that. He’ll go back to school, like he promised. Meantime, he’s having the time of his life.”

“The bonny prince.”

“Yes,” he said, “the bonny prince.”

They were clustered around the dining-room table, the old gang, the core of the Posse going back so far with Pickett that it was hard to remember who had come on board when. Plato, the first, his college roommate, still the man who held the rest in harness and on task; Conner Wilkinson, the longtime press secretary; several others plucked from state government and set to work on Pickett’s latest quest. They stopped whatever they were doing, put down their smartphones, and crowded around her, congratulating, encouraging.

She felt they really meant it, even Plato, who managed a rare smile. “It’s a great day, Cooper,” he said. “I’m pleased for you—pleased for all of us, but especially you.”

Tension had always stood between them. Plato’s agenda (which was Pickett’s) and hers often clashed. When Cooper said or did something that got Pickett’s bowels in an uproar, he often sent Plato to try to talk some sense into her. Plato had won his share, but the effort had made him impatient and frustrated. She tried to overlook most of it, understanding it was never easy walking a tightrope between your boss and his wife. And this morning, he sounded genuine. Whatever devices Plato used, artifice was rarely one of them. He would look you straight in the eye and say exactly what he thought. In that, he was head and shoulders above Pickett Lanier.

She cocked her head to one side and gave him a wry look. “Do you think I’m up to this, Plato?”

“Of course,” he said. “Don’t you?”

“You bet your ass,” she said without smiling.

“Good for you.”

She spotted Roger Tankersley hanging back at the edge of the crowd, brow furrowed. She went straight to him with her hand outstretched. “I hear we’re going to be working together, Roger.”

He blushed. “Well …”

She released his hand. “We’ll see how it goes, okay? I’ll be a work in progress for a while.”

“Anything I can do …”

“There’ll be plenty. Let me get my legs under me, and then everybody can run to keep up.” She said it lightly, and Roger’s face relaxed. She patted him on the shoulder and moved on.

Next was Rick Jankowski—intensely mid-twenties, deputy in the Press Office for the past couple of years, now her press secretary. She had been consulted on Jankowski, and approved of him. She liked his youth, his energy. In many ways, he reminded her of Carter.

“Busy man today,” she said.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Can I ask you to do something for me?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Don’t call me ma’am. Call me Cooper, at least when we’re not in public. You’re my press secretary, Rick. I’m going to depend on you for advice as well as communication. Let’s do it together.”

“Yes, m—.” He blushed. “I mean, Cooper. That’ll take some getting used to. But thanks.”

“I’m throwing you a curve ball right out of the gate. Don’t release copies of my speech until after I’ve delivered it.”

“The media people are on me about it. It’s, ah, precedent.”

“Then I’m breaking precedent. Tell ’em it’s my decision. Don’t take any guff off anybody. You’re the man, and you work with me.”

He smiled. “You bet.”

Finally, Jake Harbin. He leaned nonchalantly in the broad doorway of the dining room, cool gaze sweeping the premises, watching her, watching the others. He straightened as she approached and gave her a hug. He was wearing a tweed jacket and casual slacks, no tie.

“I see you’re not in the uniform of the day.”

He laughed easily. Jake did everything with the appearance of ease. He was the wealthiest man in the state—real estate, manufacturing, investments, his fingers in a great number of pies. And now he was finance chairman for Pickett’s campaign. Pickett flew about the country in Jake’s plane, depended on Jake’s contacts—and they were everywhere.

“I’ll watch it on TV,” Jake said, “while you and the rest of the suits freeze your buns off.”

“Are you taking care of Pickett?”

“Aw, I’m not much use,” he drawled. His hand swept the crowd. “These are the experts. I’m just hanging around, toting the suitcases, listening when the candidate needs to vent, trying not to get in the way.” He paused. “We’re all doing what we can to help Pickett.” He crossed his arms and gave her an arch look.

He means me
, she thought.
Everybody serving Pickett
.

“Well,” she said, “you keep doing whatever you can to help Pickett, and I’ll do what I can to help the state.”

He tried a smile, but it didn’t quite register. “Of course, Cooper. Have fun today.”

“Believe me, Jake, I will.”

THREE

Eleven o’clock. Pickett and his bunch were still at it downstairs, no doubt would be until late afternoon when they flew off on Jake’s plane. Cooper glanced over her speech, put it away, got it out again, put it away.
It’ll be all right
, she told herself.
Not brilliant, but all right. Just enough, not too much
.

She remembered her father’s first swearing-in, all the men in swallow-tailed coats, women wearing hats. Nobody wore hats anymore, and Pickett had banished the swallow-tailed coats. Everybody in dark blue, just like ordinary folks, only cuter. Pickett Lanier, man of the people. He had asked her to wear dark blue today. They argued, compromised. The maroon suit, yes, but a dark blue topcoat.

She wondered what had been going through Cleve Spainhour’s mind as he stood there years ago with one hand on the massive old state Bible and recited the oath. Triumph, satisfaction, sure. But was there, back where it didn’t show, a hint of doubt, trepidation? Probably.
The state was in bad shape then—potholes in the roads, schools ranked near the bottom, money changing hands among politicians and people who needed something from them. Not that she had been aware of it at the time. She was thirteen, and she remembered her trepidation in moving from the familiar, the upstate, the only home she had known, a measure of anonymity, to this. Could she fit in, make new friends, protect herself? She had, but it wasn’t easy. Not easy for Cleve either. She knew how he struggled to make things better, lost many fights, won a few. But what she remembered most about her father, all these years later, was his sense of himself. He liked being Cleve Spainhour, and the rest didn’t much bother him. She had seen and felt that, and decided she would be as much like him as possible. He was a gentleman, but he didn’t back down. She determined to be a lady cut from the same fabric, with the same backbone. Sure, she felt some trepidation of her own today, but she had sought this and won this, and whatever else happened, she liked being Cooper Lanier. All the rest, she would deal with. After all, she had the bloodline.

When she looked at her watch, it read eleven-fifteen. Where in the hell was …?

Carter stuck his head in the door. “Allison’s here.” He made a face. “She’s in her room. I told her I didn’t think blue jeans would do. Just kidding, but she got pissed. She’s changing.”

Allison’s door was closed. Cooper rapped, opened it, peered in.

Allison sat, shoulders slumped, on the side of the bed, looking at the unopened duffel bag at her feet. She turned to Cooper. “I hate this place.”

Cooper sat beside her on the bed, gently tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, then reached for Allison’s hand. She flinched but let Cooper take it.