Epilogue
Cindy
5 years later
It’s not Colorado, but the rolling hills and nothing in sight but the rocks and green trees of northern Maryland are still enough to insulate me from the pressure of constant notifications and meetings.
I stand on 1,400 feet of rocks and close my eyes, smelling the air that carries nothing more than nature. Pausing at the summit, I take 15 minutes or so to eat my packed lunch, letting the sweat dry on my back where it gathered under my day pack. I have to be back in an hour, or alarms will be raised. But this morning can be leisurely, without the multitasking required of my usual schedule.
Other than the Secret Service agents, there might not be another person around for miles in Catoctin Mountain Park. I left my protection on the ground when I climbed up here, assuring them I have my panic button should things go epically wrong. It’s unlikely, up here at the top of Chimney Rock where I have panoramic views of the national park.
This park gets remarkably few visitors, considering it’s barely more than an hour from Washington and 10 degrees cooler while the city is a swampy hellhole right now in mid-August.
Eventually, I gather up my banana peel and sandwich wrapper and stuff them back into my pack, throwing it back on over my shoulders. I stand for another long minute, enjoying the view.
If only Alex could be here, but his hiking is limited to the 200 acres that encompass Camp David and then it’s a big production to make it happen. The Secret Service searches the area first as thoroughly as if a child is missing.
I’m reluctant to head back, but not out of dread. I love my life, despite its many pressures. I just don't know when I’ll have a chance to do this again. So I take a last, long look out over the valley before I turn back to the Jeep.
When I arrive at the Camp David compound, Louise is up from her nap. The day nanny, Alice, has her sitting at the table eating her afternoon snack of blueberries and cheese.
“Hi, Lou-who,” I say, kissing my daughter on the top of her soft, dark-fluffed head. “How was your nap?”
“Good,” she replies, one chubby hand squishing a blueberry. “Mama working?”
I smile. Alex and I have worked hard for consistency when it comes to explaining work demands to Louise. As often as possible, we block off both of our calendars for “Louise time,” a chunk of time when we are parents first and any interruption had better involve nuclear missiles. Louise understands the difference between that and “working” time.
“Mama’s on a break right now, so I can’t stay,” I say. “We’ll have Louise time later, after your daddy’s done working. OK?”
“OK,” Louise agrees, distracted by her food project .
Alice nods and waves from nearby as I stand to go to my study.
“The president stopped by earlier,” Alice says. “He said he’d try to check in again around 4.”
I nod. “Thanks, Alice.” Alex is meeting with the joint chiefs, which I expect will run long. Later, we have plans to watch the latest movie where Zack Ryder plays a newly-sworn-in president. It’s a decent time for me to accomplish some work of my own. I have Martin’s notes to read on legislation up for a vote on Monday, and Max sent me a draft of the op-ed we’re submitting to the Journal about my proposal to include more street lighting and closed-circuit security cameras in the infrastructure bill.
And yet every time I hand over Louise’s care to someone else, I still have to remind myself I’m not failing. I’m there for meals and naps and baths and bedtimes—just not all of them. Juggling priorities is an endless challenge, for both Alex and me.
One of the reasons we went ahead and pulled the trigger on IVF almost immediately after getting married was because—as I’d told Alex—he shouldn't have the presidency as a reason to avoid getting up with the baby.
“I’m not going to feel guilty for making you go sleepless in case of a national crisis,” I’d said. As a member of Congress and vice president at the time, our jobs were on more equal footing. We suffered equally for a year after Louise’s birth, trading shifts and sharing joys. Then Lou finally slept through the night during Alex’s intense campaign, when he was on the road most days. Louise and Thor and I joined him whenever Congress recessed.
I seriously considered retirement, or at least a break, but Alex urged me to keep my job and I coasted to re-election almost without trying, clinging to Alex’s coattails as an incumbent candidate with one of the highest approval ratings in recent history. His popularity was thanks to his role in passing stunningly popular legislation, as the cannabis bill turned out to be once jobs were filled by people with expunged records and dispensaries were able to freely take credit card payments.
Tim campaigned for him, and so did Anita. Thor appeared in a campaign ad that went viral. Louise took her first steps during an interview with Oprah. He won by a landslide.
Now it’s tricky. Even I can’t argue “my job is just as important as yours” to the leader of the free world. Thank God for good nannies. And for the second gentleman, the husband of Alex’s vice president, who regularly picks up my slack on hosting duties for White House events. We share staff and I trust him with all the major decisions on decor and State Dinners and—thankfully—the annual Easter Egg roll.
I still calculate, often, whether taking a break from my job in Congress would be smart. I could still run for Senate in a few years, while Alex is in his second term and after Lou starts school.
My editor is begging for another book, after the success of my first one, and I don’t have time to work on it while juggling two jobs and trying to preserve time for my family. But a book by a sitting first lady that elevates the voices of women and minorities, the voices once silenced by cannabis prohibition and still silenced by fear of harassment, could do a lot of good. It’d be a return to my activist roots, in some ways. I’ve started an outline for it that I work on for a while that afternoon, after emailing back Martin and Max.
Alex interrupts my daydreaming after 4 p.m., coming up behind me at my desk and kissing me on the temple.
“How’s Afghanistan?” I ask, turning to him.
“Still there,” he replies. “You smell like nature.”
“I didn’t shower yet,” I admit. “But it was so nice. I took a picture for you.”
Alex darts a glance around us. We’re alone. He kisses me on the lips and pulls me out of my chair. “Are you done with work?” he asks, belatedly, recognizing he interrupted.
“For now,” I agree. “You?”
He makes a face. Alex is never “done” with work. “I have long enough for a shower, at least.”
I laugh and let him drag me upstairs. Visiting Camp David always makes Alex a little reckless. He persists in his delusions about midnight sexcapades although usually we’re both so tired we fall asleep without a goodnight kiss.
He ends up taking a call, of course, so I shower alone, but by the time I’m toweling off, he’s back. He licks my neck, where it’s still wet below my ear. I shiver from it, meeting his eyes in the mirror above the sink. For once, we’re both wide awake.
“Come out here,” he urges. “I locked the door and told Ted we’re not to be disturbed for at least half an hour. We’ll still make it to dinner with Lou.”
Laying back on the bed, pulling me with him, I drop my towel and follow his guidance until I’m sitting on the face of the most powerful man in the world.
He opens me up using his fingers, and licks inside me. My nipples harden and I hold onto the bed frame. He brings me to the edge, taking his time—and it does take more time, now that we’re both older, but the gift of half an hour feels luxurious—and then I slide down his body and take him inside me.
Rolling us over, he raises my hands above my head and places my palms against the bed frame. “Don’t move,” he says, and fucks me the way I want him to while I hold on.
My orgasm is gentle, rippling through me like the tide coming in rather than slamming into me like a wave. We lay side by side, holding each other, for long minutes after, Alex still inside of me. We revel in the miracle of stolen time, right in the middle of the afternoon.
There are sounds of people outside the room, staff preparing dinner and agents communicating about the perimeter. Louise is laughing somewhere outside, probably playing with Thor, who barks twice in response. The dog’s obsession with her began when she was a newborn.
But right now, it’s the two of us, looking into each other’s eyes. Regular check-ins, either silent and spontaneous or planned and out loud, have become our way of making sure we’re still aligned. It’s become increasingly important as our time to talk in private has become more compact.
“I think I might retire this term,” I murmur. “But not for you.”
“Hm?” he says. “You really want to?”
“So I can work on my book.”
Considering this, he nods. “What can I do to make it easier?”
Smiling, I lean in to kiss him, a brush across his lips to let him know I appreciate him. My decision affects both of us, but he would never make it less than mine. It’s a difficult choice, but there are upsides. “Maybe we can start working out together again. If I’m around more during the day.”
He wraps his arms around me and shifts a little, pulling me closer. “I like that idea.” He pauses, running his fingers up and down my naked spine. “You’ll talk to Maggie about the messaging? You know people will think you’re giving up your career.”
I nod, tucking my head under his chin, my nose in the hollow of his neck where I can smell his skin. He smells smokey, from the fire they built in Laurel Lodge during his last meeting. “I know. I’ll remind them you’ve only got another six years or so of work in you and I plan on a much longer career so I’m pacing myself.”
He laughs once, a bark muffled in my hair. “Don’t make me sound old. I’m not ready for the shuffle ball court just yet.”
“I noticed,” I tease, rolling my hips against him. He grins, sliding one hand over the curve of my bare bottom. We might not have time for this kind of intimacy often, but when we do, we still know how to make it count.
“Of course, we’ll need to put a shuffle court in at the White House once you become president,” he continues, his usual tease about my future. I have no desire to run for president—yet. “I can’t spend all my time picking out china patterns.”
I smack him on the ass in return. “Shut up, you.”
“Excuse me,” he says, mock-serious. “The Secret Service could shoot you for hitting the president.”
I snuggle further into him. His arms are comfortable now, familiar, but never less than amazing to be in. Sometimes, as in this moment, all the work we put in daily falls away and I cannot believe how lucky I am to have a partner I love so deeply and have built such a rich life with.
“Shut up, Mr. President,” I say, and I can feel his smile against the top of my head.
The End