Free Long May She Reign by Ellen Emerson White Page A

be. And, what the hell, maybe it would be a good test. Coping and all. “It’s okay,” Meg said. “He’ll be right back. Thanks, though.”
    Kyle nodded, but posted himself only a few feet away.
    In her straight skirt and high heels, the reporter wasn’t really dressed for a JV basketball game. But since she was only about twenty-six, she was probably trying to look older.
    And not succeeding very well.
    â€œA little excitement,” the woman—Hannah?—said, motioning towards the court as she sat down.
    Her mother had always told her to count to three before she answered questions from the press. Just long enough to plan an answer; not long enough to look daft. End quote. “They play hard,” Meg said. “Nothing wrong with that.”
    The reporter had a small notebook and pen in her right hand, but didn’t appear likely to use them. Unless, of course, Meg said something really stupid. “Your brother gets very angry, though, doesn’t he.”
    Oh, please. It wasn’t like he was going to grow up and be a Hollywood bad boy. “He plays with intensity, that’s all,” Meg said.
    The reporter nodded, then abruptly switched topics. “How is the investigation going?”
    Bringing her captors to justice and so forth. Tracking them to the ends of the earth. As if they were ever going to find them. Especially the one guy. The smart one. Not bloody likely. “I’m sure it’s coming along very well,” Meg said, “but I really don’t give it much thought.”
    The reporter nodded. Hannah Goldman. That was her name. Newsweek , maybe? The Times ? No, it was The Post . Meg was almost sure it was The Post . Not that it mattered, really. “Are you disappointed by their progress so far?” she asked.
    No, she was overjoyed that the guy, and his fellow thugs, were still running around loose six months later. Maybe even, if she was really unlucky, stalking her. Getting ready for Round Two. “I have complete confidence that the investigation will be brought to a successful conclusion,” Meg said.
    The longer she lived in the White House, the more she sounded like an official spokesperson. An unnamed top-ranking official in the Administration.
    The game had started again—Steven’s coach put him on the bench to cool off—and Meg could see Preston deep in conversation with one of the photographers. A wire service guy.
    â€œIs the President—” Ms. Goldman began.
    â€œI’m sorry,” Meg said, cutting her off. Automatically. “You’d have to ask the President.”
    Ms. Goldman nodded, and glanced down at her notebook. “The way your public and private lives have intersected must be very difficult for you.”
    Christ almighty. Talk about tenacity. Which was probably a good quality in a reporter, but still. “I’m not sure I understand what you mean,” Meg said. Lied.
    Ms. Goldman wasn’t fooled, but kept up her end of the charade. “I just imagine that all of this has put a strain on your relationship with your mother.”
    â€œNo, that hasn’t been my experience,” Meg said. There was a grain of truth to that—most of the strains in her relationship with her mother were of many years’ duration, had—more or less—been dealt with, and now just lingered below the surface, rarely mentioned or acknowledged.
    Of course, the thing about reporters was that, especially when it came to personal matters, it was easy enough to flat-out lie to them, and unless they had incontrovertible evidence to the contrary, there wasn’t a damned thing they could do about it.
    â€œWell,” Ms. Goldman said, and glanced over at Neal, Meg glaring at her . “Well,” she said again, apparently thinking better of including him in any of this. “Who do you think will win the game here?”
    Good. A softball. Meg shrugged. “Winning is