Long May She Reign by Ellen Emerson White Page B

we’ll eat around seven-thirty.”
    Meg looked at her clock. Quarter past. “Okay, I’ll get cleaned up.”
    Steven nodded, closing the door behind him.
    She used her good hand to guide her leg over the side of the bed, then leaned down for her cane. Seven-fifteen. That was early. She plugged her phone back in, and dialed Preston’s office extension. He was on another line, the staff told her, but they put her right through, anyway.
    â€œHey, what’s up?” Preston asked, sounding as though he had all the time in the world.
    â€œWere you talking to someone important?” she asked, feeling incredibly intrusive.
    â€œNo one I can’t call back,” he said. “What’s on your mind?”
    â€œNothing.” Oh, yeah, like she called him up every other minute. “I mean, I don’t want to bother you when you’re working.”
    â€œI’m not doing a thing,” he said.
    Sure. “Well, it’s just—” She let out her breath. “Are you busy tomorrow afternoon?”
    â€œNo,” he said, without hesitating.
    Yeah, right. No one who worked in the White House ever had a free afternoon. She had to smile. “You liar. Aren’t you supposed to go to Mississippi with Dad?”
    â€œLouisiana, actually,” he said. “And Maureen—” who had been hired to be her father’s press secretary, after Preston officially took the chief of staff position— “is going, so no problem.”
    She was a complete jerk even to have picked up the phone; she knew better than to get in the way of White House events.
    â€œFor that matter, your father’s a pretty big kid,” Preston said. “He could probably handle a day care center and a community housing construction site on his own.”
    There was a good chance of that, yeah.
    â€œWhat’d you have in mind?” Preston asked. “Maybe some Christmas shopping?”
    On the one hand, she hated it that they all dropped everything whenever she said a word; on the other hand, thank God they did. “Steven has a game,” she said. “And I thought—well—”
    â€œYou want some company, maybe,” he said.
    Yeah. Only now, she felt—weak. Incompetent. Halfway to fulfilling the wimp acronym. “Do you mind?” she asked.
    â€œNo, sounds fun,” he said. “The little guy coming, too?”
    Neal was the Little Guy; Steven was the Big Guy. “Yeah. But, can you, um—” Christ, this was humiliating. She sighed. “Leave with me? Instead of meeting us there?”
    â€œSure,” he said instantly. “No problem.”
    Which was such a relief that she was all the more embarrassed. “I—I’m sorry to ask,” she said. “I know how busy—”
    â€œWouldn’t miss it for the world,” he said.
    *   *   *
    THE GAME WAS at three-thirty. Leaving her just enough time to go to her classes, come home, do her exercises, then rest for an hour. She was supposed to meet Preston downstairs at two forty-five, and at two-fifteen, she actually found herself standing in her bedroom, leaning on her cane, worrying about what to wear. To a junior varsity basketball game, for Christ’s sakes.
    So, she put on a clean pair of sweatpants, a blue Lacoste shirt, an old V-neck tennis sweater, and Saucony running shoes with one of the pairs of special elastic laces Carlotta had given her. That way, each shoe would expand enough for her to put her foot in, and then snap back into place for a fairly tight fit. The laces looked goofy, but it was preferable to going around in orthopedic Velcro shoes or slip-ons. She had to use a long plastic hook to pull her left sneaker on, since her knee couldn’t even take the pressure of pushing her foot into a shoe, but at least she could get into it without having to ask for help from anyone.
    Preston was waiting for her near the Diplomatic