Free Eighteen Acres: A Novel by Nicolle Wallace Page A

A.M. and called Michael’s number.
    “Kingston, how the hell are you?” he’d asked on the first ring.
    “I need to see you.”
    “Usual spot?” he’d asked.
    “No, let’s meet in Dupont Circle.”
    They’d met twenty minutes later at the Krispy Kreme on Dupont Circle.
    “I think Barry Donaldson is trying to sabotage the president’s nominee for secretary of homeland security,” Melanie had blurted out as soon as they’d ordered their donuts and coffee.
    “Slow down, Kingston. What did you hear?” he’d asked.
    “Listen, you burned me once, so I need to do this off the record—like one hundred percent off the record. You can’t tie me to this information in any way, shape, or form, or I’ll get caught.”
    “Get caught doing what? Sticking up for the president’s nominee? That doesn’t sound so bad,” he’d said.
    “I’m serious.”
    “OK, OK, Kingston. You got it. Double secret off the record. Now tell me, again, what you heard.”
    Melanie had told him the whole story, and he was able to confirm it independently with sources on the Hill. The front page of the paper had carried a banner headline the day the story broke: “Top Aide Runs Coordinated Effort to Sink Dottie Flor.”
    Donaldson had been fired, and Flor had been confirmed. Melanie hadn’t slept for a week. She’d kept waiting for the White House chief of staff to hunt her down in her office in the Old Executive Office Building or call her in the middle of the night to accuse her of leaking information. But no one had come after her, and after a while, no one spoke of Donaldson anymore.
    Melanie and Michael had remained friends. During the eight years she’d served as press secretary, he often gave her a heads-up when a crisis was about to break. When she took the job as Charlotte’s chief of staff, he’d sent her a dozen roses with a note: “I’m always happy when my friends keep their security clearances. Kramer is lucky to have you, Melanie. Fondly, Michael.” In her three years as chief of staff, Melanie had hardly spoken to him. He’d been pursuing corrupt members of Congress in recent years, and with his daughter workingin the White House, he’d laid off the executive branch, much to Melanie’s relief.
    Now, when Melanie opened her eyes, the train was forty minutes from New York’s Penn Station. She walked back to the dining car for another cup of coffee, then tried to get through the newspapers but found her eyes skimming the words without taking in any of the stories. She kept starting over and ended up reading them out loud to herself to get through them.
    She arrived in New York at around ten. She walked out of the train station and pulled her black wool coat tightly around her. She was always surprised by how much colder it was in New York than in D.C.
    She got into a cab and gave the driver the address where she was to meet Michael. The cab stopped in front of the diner. Through the window, the crowd looked as if it was made up mostly of tourists. Melanie paid the cab driver and walked inside. She spotted Michael in a booth near the back—a cup of coffee and a copy of the
New York Times
were in front of him.
    He smiled at her as she approached. “You look tired as shit,” he said.
    “Thanks. I feel like shit,” Melanie said.
    “I didn’t say you looked like shit. I said you look tired as shit. There’s a difference,” he said, smiling again.
    “I’m fine. Living the dream,” she said.
    He laughed and stayed quiet, waiting for her to say more.
    “We’ve been pushing hard—totally off the record, like so off the record that even after it happens, you and I never had this conversation. Charlotte’s going to Afghanistan again to be there for their elections, and it’s been a bitch to get the trip together. There’s still no functioning government, and the military is pissed at Roger over the budget, so they have refused to participate in any of the planning. It’s just been a brutal couple