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Squid stirred beneath her feet. “I’m going to make a formal announcement in ten days. Terry’s setting up the press conference now.”
As soon as she’d confided her plans to Terry, he’d asked to be appointed her press secretary. She’d been touched and delighted.
“Dad, I understand this puts you in an impossible position, and I know you have to stay out of it, so I’m not planning to—”
“Stay out of it?” He assumed his Prince Philip posture and gazed at her from beneath his noble brow. “My daughter, the former First Lady of the United States, is running for the Senate, and you expect me to stay out of it? I hardly think so. I’ll have Jim Millington contact you tomorrow. Ackerman’s good, but he’ll need help.”
She couldn’t believe her father, after all his posturing, had finally backed down. Jim Millington was the best campaign manager in the business.
Lucy needed to make sure she could relax her guard. “So you’re not going to give her any more crap about this, right?”
“Lucille, this is not your concern. I’ve done my best to dissuade her, but since she’s refused to listen, I have no choice but to support the campaign.”
Lucy grinned at him. “Awesome!”
Nealy smiled and rose. “Why don’t you stay for dinner, Dad? It’s pizza night.”
Something that almost looked like disappointment passed over his stern features. “Some other time. Your stepmother and I are meeting the Ambersons for cocktails. Don’t forget that she expects all of you for Sunday brunch.”
“She expects Button, you mean,” Lucy muttered.
Nealy’s stepmother was horrified by Lucy, but she adored Button, who was currently wearing one of the outrageously expensive outfits she’d bought her.
“That’s because Beatrice has never cursed at her dinner table.”
“It was an accident. And this time could you ask her to, like, please buy some Dunkin’ Donuts or something?”
Her father scowled at Lucy as if she were an unbearable nuisance. “If she forgets, I suppose you and I will have to go out and purchase some ourselves.”
“You mean it?”
“Unlike some people, I’m not in the habit of rattling away just to hear myself talk.”
Lucy grinned. “Cool.”
Somehow they all survived the Sunday brunch. That evening, Nealy rocked Button to sleep, then helped Lucy with her history project. At eleven o’clock, when the house was finally quiet, she made her way to her bedroom, undressed, and slipped into a robe.
During the day, she did her best not to think about Mat, but nights were harder, and Sunday nights the hardest of all, maybe because they marked the beginning of a new week without him. At first she’d tried to talk herself out of it, but that just seemed to make her sadness spill over into Monday. Finally, she’d learned to give in to her Sunday night blues.
NIGHTS OF PASSION WITH
AMERICA’S FIRST LADY
by Mat Jorik
The first time I spoke with Cornelia Case, she was hot to trot, and no wonder, since her husband, the former president of the United States, was—are you ready for this?—GAY! Her lust slid over me like cheap lingerie . . .
It was the story Nealy had imagined, but not the one Mat had written. She sat in the window seat, remembering how she’d felt when she’d held the Chicago Standard in her hand and seen his exclusive.
The first time I spoke with Cornelia Case, she was rescuing a baby at a truck stop outside McConnellsburg, Pennsylvania. Rescuing babies is something she’s good at, since she’s been trying to do it most of her life. When she fails, as she often does, she takes it more personally than she should, but more about that later.
I didn’t know she was Cornelia Case then. She was wearing navy shorts, cheap white sneakers, and a yellow maternity top with some ducks marching across it. Her hair was cut short, and she had what looked like an eight-month pregnancy sticking out in front of her.
None of the stories written about her ever mention that the lady has a temper, but, believe me, she does. For all her polish, Nealy Case can go after you when she gets upset. And she was definitely upset with me . . .
The Chicago Standard had published Mat’s story in six parts that had been quoted and analyzed in every media outlet in the world. In the articles, he’d detailed both the girls’ plight and how Nealy had come into their lives. He’d described the incident at the covered bridge, dinner at Grannie Peg’s, and the Celebrity Lookalike Contest. He’d written about meeting Bertis and Charlie, and the night he’d confronted Nealy about her identity. Mabel and Squid had come alive as his story unfolded, along with Nico and the house in Iowa.
In every article, he’d made his own decisions about what should be on or off the record. On the record were the details of her escape, her frustrations with being First Lady, her enthusiasm for picnics, Frisbees, convenience stores, and two motherless little girls. At first she’d been stunned that he’d revealed so much about the girls, but by appeasing the public’s curiosity so quickly, he’d called off the bloodhounds and done more to protect their privacy than an army of security guards.
