Free Eighteen Acres: A Novel by Nicolle Wallace Page B

weeks,” Melanie said.
    “How is Charlotte?” he asked.
    “She’s good.”
    “Really?”
    “Yeah, why?”
    “I don’t know—she seems distracted when I see her on TV,” he said.
    “I mean, between the anemic recovery and two wars, she’s been dealt a pretty crummy hand, and every time she opens her mouth to discuss any of those topics, her approval ratings go down, but you know Charlotte, she’s good. I mean, she never complains, and she takes her lumps. Congress shits all over her, and she still treats them like they’re her best friends in the world. I don’t know who treats her worse—the Democrats or the Republicans—but she rolls with it. She works her ass off. I’ve done this for three of them now, and I’ve never seen anyone like her—she is a machine,” Melanie said.
    “Maybe that’s her problem,” Michael said. “With her poll numbers, she needs something big to change the dynamic, or she might get a third-party challenge from the right, and I’m not sure she’d survive that.”
    “Let me see if I understand this. Her problem is that she works too hard and doesn’t pay enough attention to her poll numbers?” Melanie asked, sarcastically.
    “No. But one of the problems voters have with her—and you know this as well as I do, Melanie—is that she seems superhuman, you know? She never stops—she doesn’t show any emotion. People want to know that she gets pissed, that she gets sad, happy, angry, something.”
    Melanie looked at him and didn’t say anything for nearly a minute. “I’m pretty sure you didn’t summon me to New York to give me political advice, Michael,” she finally said.
    “No, I didn’t.”
    “So, what is it? Peter Kramer is the leader of a polygamist family in Utah? The kids are growing pot at boarding school? What? What crazy conspiracy tale do you have for me?”
    “I can see you’ve lost your sense of humor, Mel, so I’ll cut to the chase. I’ve got a source who claims to have photos, taped conversations, and all sorts of other sordid evidence that Charlotte’s marriage is a sham.” He stopped to gauge Melanie’s reaction.
    Melanie laughed. “And in Washington, that makes her what? Part of the silent majority? You didn’t drag me here to tell me that you havesome loony source who heard rumors that Charlotte is gay or Peter is a swinger, did you? Because I can walk down to the briefing room and get that from any twenty-four-year-old blogger. Jesus, I can see clearly now why journalism is on its last legs. I’m embarrassed for you, Michael.”
    “Listen, save the pissed-off act for your underlings; I’m sure they love you for it. I came to you because we’re friends and because I know it’s been an undercurrent for a couple of years, but this feels like it’s about to break, and I wanted to give you a chance to work with us and frame it yourself. People will have sympathy for her—I mean, assuming Peter is the one having the affair. If it’s her …” He stopped.
    “If it’s her, what?” Melanie asked.
    “Well, if it’s her, that changes things. You know that.”
    She fumed silently. She and Charlotte talked about everything. But Charlotte and Peter’s marriage was one topic Melanie never asked about. And Charlotte never volunteered any information outside of what was obvious.
    Charlotte and Peter Kramer lived separate lives.
    But so did every politician on Capitol Hill. Most senators and House members lived one life in Washington and another in their home states and districts. And Peter was the first man ever to fill the role of a first husband. There wasn’t exactly a play book for him.
    Had she let Charlotte down by not insisting that she appear more often with Peter and the family? Should she have dug deeper about why Peter stayed so far away from the White House most days of the week and every weekend?
    “I know how close you and Charlotte are, and I thought you might know what was going on with her, but it’s clear you