The President's Daughter Read Free

to it than that,” her mother said.
    Yeah, but, President ? Meg frowned. “Will you be in the primaries and everything?”
    Her mother nodded. “At least the early ones. And—well, I would be planning for considerably more than that.”
    This whole conversation felt like a really bad dream. Or, anyway, a really weird dream. “Will you be able to be home at all?” Meg asked.
    â€œNot much,” her mother admitted.
    Great. “What’s Dad think?” she asked.
    â€œI want your opinion,” her mother said. “Not his.”
    Meg studied her, healthy and alert, the thin neck and face quite tanned against the white sweater. “You look like a President.”
    Her mother’s eyebrows went up. “ Now?”
    â€œYeah,” Meg said. “You dress right. And you’re tall enough.”
    â€œWell, thank you.” Her mother laughed. “Think we can work ‘five eight’ into a slogan somewhere?”
    Meg twirled her straw, thinking about all of this. “You’re not—I mean—what happens if you win?”
    â€œI guess that would mean I’d be President,” her mother said.
    Perish the thought. “My God.” Meg shuddered, dropping the straw. “You think you’ll win?”

    â€œI’ll be happy if I make a good showing in New Hampshire,” her mother said, “forget anything else.”
    â€œMy God.” Meg shuddered again.
    Her mother looked at her uneasily. “Well, what do you think?”
    â€œCan I have a martini?” Meg asked.
    Â 
    GETTING HOME HALF an hour later, they found Meg’s little brothers Steven and Neal on one side of the kitchen table, making a salad—while Meg’s father sat on the other side, drinking a Sam Adams and frowning at the newspaper.
    Steven was eleven, thin and pugnacious, with their mother’s dark hair and blue eyes—which, all things being equal, was pretty much the way Meg looked herself. Neal, who was six and still hanging on to somewhat blondish hair, took more after their father.
    â€œHey!” Neal scrambled up. “It’s Mom!”
    â€œHi.” She caught him in a hug, dropping her tennis bag.
    Steven shoved the carrots away and moved in for his turn. Their mother hugged him, and then Meg’s father, which was a different kind of hug. Longer. They looked at each other, and Meg’s father brought his hand up to her mother’s cheek.
    â€œYou look tired,” he said.
    â€œWell”—she kissed him lightly—“I’ve been playing tennis.”
    â€œMom, Mom, look!” Neal rushed out of the room, then back in with a handful of school papers. “I got a hundred in spelling and everything!”
    â€œWell, let’s see.” She sat down, and Neal climbed up on her lap, grass-stained and disheveled from soccer practice. “Wow, a ninety-five in math. Oh, that’s great.”
    â€œHi,” Meg said to her father.
    â€œHow was school?” he asked.
    â€œOkay,” she said. “How was work? Get lots of new clients today?”
    â€œHundreds.” He smiled at her. “How was tennis ?”

    Yes, that was the more important question. “I got her to a tiebreaker,” Meg said.
    â€œGood for you,” he said, and then winked at her mother. “Need some Advil?”
    Her mother, who had actually been limping a little herself when they got out of the car, shook her head—but grinned sheepishly and took a couple when he went over to one of the cupboards and handed the bottle to her.
    â€œBet Mom’ll make you get a haircut tomorrow,” Meg said to Steven, just to get him going.
    He threw some carrot peelings at her as the phone rang, and they both jumped for it, Steven getting there first.
    â€œHello? Oh, just a minute, please.” He covered the receiver. “Mom, it’s what’s-his-name from Texas. Mr. Palmer.”
    Otherwise known