Mr. President(34)

I kiss her forehead in greeting. “I’m sorry this is making you worry. Don’t,” I command.

She smiles lightly at me and pats my jaw. “Matt.”

Only one word, but combined with the look in her eyes, I’m quietly reminded that my father was one of five sitting presidents to be killed—all by gunshots. Lincoln, Garfield, McKinley, JFK, and Hamilton.

I take a seat in the living room and she signals for Maria, her live-in cook, to bring us coffee.

“I had lunch with the Democrats,” Grandfather says as he sips his coffee. “They want you joining the primaries; they’re sure you’ll win the ticket.”

“I’ve already told them, I’m running independently.”

“Matt, your father—”

“I’m not my father. Though I do plan to continue his legacy.” I glance at my mother, who seems to be battling a mixture of pride and worry.

“Why won’t you at least consider the Democrats?” Grandfather insists.

“Because”—I lean forward, looking him dead in the eye—“they failed to protect him. As far as I’m concerned, I’m better off alone.” I stare him out. He’s not an easy man—but I can be as difficult as he is. “My father told me never trust your own shadow. I’ve kept people at bay, but now I’m choosing who I let in. And out. Out is my competition. I’m letting in my country. They deserve better than what they’ve gotten lately. I’m going to pave the path for that better.”

“Fuck, Matt, really!” Grandfather rants.

His temper is formidable, and my mother quickly steps in with her usual soothing charm.

“Patrick, I appreciate you voicing your opinions to Matt, but I’m not happy with him even running. Matt”—she turns and looks at me beseechingly—“we gave this country all we had; we gave them your father. We don’t owe anyone anything anymore.”

“Not all we had. There’s still Matt,” Grandfather says. “This is what Lawrence wanted.”

I keep my attention on my mother. I know this is her worst nightmare. She doesn’t want me to run. “I’m finishing what Father started—this is our legacy. All right?” I nod firmly, quietly asking for her understanding.

She’s not over what happened to my father.

She shakes her head with her signature stubbornness. “You’re still so young, Matt—you’re only thirty-five.”

“Yeah, well, my thirty-five years count as double.” I smile wryly and lean back in my seat, glancing at my grandfather. “I was closer to my dad than the vice president for a term and a half. I’m doing this, and when I get to the top, my cabinet will be appointed on merit, not political favors we owe.”

“Goddamnit, boy, you have a will of your own, but you need to look at the big picture here. The parties’ resources cannot be denied.”

“I’m not denying them. I simply trust that I have resources of my own to combat them.”

Grandfather sighs. He stands and buttons his jacket, then kisses my mother on the cheek. “Thanks, Eleanor.” He looks at me as I come to full height too. “You’re making powerful enemies, Matt.”

“I’ll be an even more powerful one.”

He laughs and shakes his head in disbelief, then pats my back and says, “I’ll support you then.” Grudging and grumpy, he leaves, and my mother sighs.

I stare after him. His words hit a bull’s-eye, though not the target my grandfather had aimed for.

All of this effort, the dream I’m pursuing . . . I’ve been determined to do it alone. I saw what my father’s neglect did to my mother. I experienced firsthand what it did to me. I wouldn’t want to wish it on someone I cared for.

But a redheaded, blue-eyed scheduler with a gentle heart and true love for her country keeps hammering in my head. For the first time, I wonder what it would be like to reach the heights I aspire to with someone by my side.

“Matt.” My mother presses her lips together as she wages an inner battle, the mother’s battle between supporting her son and protecting him. “You want to use the White House to change the world, and I’ll support you.” She walks over to me and pulls me into her arms to speak in my ear. “But it changes you before you can change a centimeter of it,” she says sadly, kissing my cheek.

I drag my hand over my face in frustration as I watch her head upstairs. She’s a strong woman, but even strength breaks. When Father won, she went from private citizen to public and handled it with grace and style.

The country never saw her quiet suffering as she slowly lost my father to his job—and then to two bullets, one to his stomach and the other to his heart.