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Authors: Ellen Emerson White

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BOOK: Long Live the Queen
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“Well, just help yourself,” she said.
They followed her out to the bedroom, where Meg's father had just turned on the Red Sox game.
And, damn it, Detroit was winning 6 to 3 in the top of the seventh. “So,
that's
why you're home early,” Meg said.
Her mother nodded. “It was, perhaps, a factor.”
“I don't suppose I'll ask what you all were doing in the closet,” her father said, concentrating on the television.
“The key question is, what were we all doing coming
out
,” Meg said, quite amused—as was generally the case—by herself. A serious character flaw, no doubt.
“Actually,” Josh said, “we were just about to go upstairs and watch a movie.”
Meg nodded. “That's right, we sure were. Do you guys want to, too?”
“No, thanks,” her father said, hanging his dinner jacket over the back of a chair and sitting down to watch the game.
Her mother shook her head, too, indicating her desk, and the piles of papers and reports and briefing books. “No, thank you. If your brothers are up there, though, please tell them we're home.”
Predictably, her brothers
were
in the solarium, and Steven was in a foul mood, because during the time it had taken them to walk upstairs, Detroit had scored two more runs. Meg kind of wanted to watch the rest of the game, but when—in short order—Boston fell behind 11-3, she and Josh went down to the Washington Sitting Room, instead. It was part of a third-floor bedroom suite, but not an
actual
bedroom, so she was still technically adhering to the letter of her parents' law.
Which didn't change the fact that they were having trouble making eye contact. The fact that they had fooled around pretty intensely, more than once, in the adjoining bedroom made everything seem just that much more awkward.
Meg broke the silence. “Want me to sing, ‘I'm Coming Out'?”
Josh laughed. “Not really.”
“I do it really nicely,” she said. “Dulcet tones, people say.”
He laughed again.
“No one takes me seriously,” she said.
“Gee, wonder why,” he said, and sat down on the red-and-white upholstered couch.
After a minute, she sat next to—but, not
right
next to—him, and they didn't speak for a while.
“This is pretty hard, Meg,” he said.
She nodded. “Would you, um,” she didn't look at him, “feel better not seeing me at
all
?”
“No,” he said. Instantly.
Good. “I don't want that, either,” she said.
It was quiet again.
“Why can't we just wait until September?” he asked. “And then, you know, go away to school.”
They had already had this conversation about thirty times, without making much progress. Maybe she should have allowed it to happen that way—just let them drift apart, never initiating any sort of discussion about it, taking advantage of the fact that he was going all the way out to Stanford, and that they wouldn't have to worry about running into each other. But, she'd felt him getting more and more involved, while she—it hadn't seemed fair. She still wondered whether breaking up had been such a great idea, but it wouldn't have been right to pretend that—she sighed.
“I need you as a friend,” she said. “I need you
more
as a friend.”
He nodded. Unhappily.
And now, they had reached the usual impasse.
“I need you as a friend, too,” he said. “I'm just—it's hard.”
Yeah. She wanted to touch his hair, or hold his hand, or something, but wasn't sure if she should.
“Is it okay if I put my arm around you?” he asked.
“I'd like that,” she said. “I'd like that a lot.”
ON TUESDAY AFTERNOON, she played tennis with the Associate Deputy Secretary of the Department of the Interior, Mr. Kirkland. His reputation had preceded him—he had won a couple of government employee tournaments,
and
he was only thirty-four—and apparently, her reputation had, too, because when he won service, he smashed the first ball in for a very intimidating ace. And the second one.
By the third serve, she had adjusted to the speed, and managed to chip it back, but he won the game in four straight points.
“Do you want to switch sides on odd games?” he asked, at the net. She looked at him, seeing a not-very-well masked patronizing smile. If there was anything in life that she hated, it was being patronized.
“Sure,” she said, and switched sides.
The work on her serve for the past several weeks had made a difference, and she won her game, too, although he passed her once at the net. They stayed on serve right up until the ninth game, which she lost, and he took the set, 6-40.
“You're quite a fine player,” he said. Smiling.
What she wasn't—although she was careful never to advertise it in public—was a good loser. “Thank you,” she said, and got ready to serve the first game of the second set, noticing that there were quite a few people—including Preston—watching from the sidelines, mostly over by the two round tables and the little changing house in the corner, or through the fences.
An audience to her probable defeat. Swell.
She bounced the ball three times, pulled in a deep breath, and
then pounded it into the service court. Ace. Only her second one of the match. She spun the next one in to his backhand, and he was caught off-guard, Meg easily putting away the return.
She pulled out the game in five points, and they switched sides again.
“That's a tricky little serve you have there,” he said.
Little. “Thank you,” she said.
She won the set—mainly by slashing cross-courts and making him run, then waited on the baseline for him to start the first game of the third and final set. He was taking his time—toweling off, drinking some water, straightening the strings on his racquet—so, she decided that her main strategy would be to lob over his head if he came to the net, and to drop-shot short if he stayed back.
Remind
him that he was in his mid-thirties, and maybe not as fast as he used to be.
His
strategy, it seemed, was to hit the ball as hard as he could—which meant that if it went in, she lost the point, more often than not; if it went out, she won. They were tied four-all, her serve, when she started double-faulting. Three times, to be exact, and suddenly, he was serving for the match.
She gritted her teeth. Damn it, damn it, damn it. Talk about the worst possible time to choke. She bent down to tie her shoe, finding it a real battle to keep from swearing aloud, so pumped up that she wanted to kick this guy from here to Bethesda. She took a deep breath. Okay, okay, she had to work harder, that's all. Work
a lot
harder.
His first serve came slamming in, and she hit the return right past him as he ran up to the net. Almost right
through
him. Love-fifteen. She went down the line with the next two, and won the final point with a little drop-shot he couldn't quite get.
Okay, okay, five-all. Time to make her move. She put everything she had left into her serve, and two aces—tricky little serve, indeed—and several hard rallies later won her service game. Six-five, her favor.
They switched sides again, Mr. Kirkland not saying anything this time, and she was aware that it had gotten very quiet around the court. She kept her eyes down, concentrating on not paying attention to anything except the next game.
The first serve came in hard, but she blocked it back. They hit forehand to forehand once, twice, three times, and then his shot ticked the net-cord, falling over onto—her side. Fifteen-love. Hell.
She smashed his next serve right back to him and he adjusted late, hitting it out. Fifteen-all. He doubled-faulted, and it was fifteen-thirty. She missed with a cross-court backhand, and it was thirty-all. The next point was another tough rally—forehand to forehand, backhand to backhand, down the line, cross-court, back down the line—and he finally hit one into the net. Thirty-forty. Match point.
She bent to wait for the serve, ignoring all of the people around them, blocking out everything except for the ball. The point. The victory so close that she could—again, they had a long rally,
so
long that she felt her arms starting to shake from nervousness. He followed a hard backhand up to the net; she waited, timed her swing, and then lobbed it over his head, just inside the baseline.
Game, set, and match.
Mr. Kirkland looked disappointed, but smiled as they shook hands. “You're an excellent player,” he said.
She flushed. The fever to win at all costs almost always left as abruptly as it would arrive. “Um, thank you. So are you.”
“Rematch sometime?” he asked.
“Sure,” she said.
Feeling shy, she spent some extra time gathering up her gear, hoping that the people who had been watching would leave. Most of them did—more than one coming over to tell her what a good match she had played—and she thanked them politely before going to sit at one of the tables in the far corner, next to Preston. He was
drinking sweet tea—someone in the kitchen made a very strong, authentic version, to which half of the staff was completely addicted—and she nodded when he raised the pitcher.
“Well, no one'll ever accuse
you
of not having the killer instinct,” he said, pouring her a glassful.
She looked at him uneasily. “It
shows
?”
He laughed. “I'd say so.”
Great. “Is it unattractive?” she asked.
“Your mother seems to be doing okay with it,” he said.
Meg automatically looked towards the West Wing, even though she couldn't see it from where they were sitting. “Yeah, but—she's different.”
He also glanced in that direction. “Old Cal Wilson thinks you're a determined little lady.”
Meg grinned. Cal Wilson was an economic advisor, and
very
Southern. “End quote.”
“Afraid so,” Preston said.
Mr. Wilson was a nice man, albeit extremely old-fashioned. She wasn't crazy about tea, but she was thirsty as hell—and it was there. She picked up her glass, drinking half of it as she checked out Preston's outfit. A linen suit, so grey that it was almost blue, with a lighter blue shirt, and a teal silk tie. To her amusement—and her brothers' great glee—Preston had shown up on more than one Ten Most Eligible Bachelors' list. Mostly notably,
Cosmopolitan
.
“What,” he said, smiling.
She reached for a sugar cookie, from the plate in the middle of the table. “I was thinking about you and
Cosmo
.”
He rolled his eyes.
“You know what Beth says?” she asked.
“I can guess what Beth says,” he said.
Meg just grinned. She and Beth held the theory that despite the fact that Preston lived with a woman who worked for the State
Department, what he was
really
waiting for was for one of them—they could never agree upon
which
one—to be old enough, before venturing into marriage. They had agreed, however, that this notion might best be kept to themselves.
“So.” Preston indicated the court. “What's the story?”
The man was nothing, if not up-front. She helped herself to a second cookie. “How good do you think I am?”
“Out of
my
league,” he said.
She shook her head. “I'm serious. Do you think I'm getting good?”
He shrugged, and refilled both of their glasses. “Jed Kirkland doesn't exactly lose all the time.”
She thought about that, then folded her arms.
“What,” he said.
“Do you think Mom and Dad would let me play a few tournaments this summer?” she asked. “I mean, you know, USTA stuff?”
“Pretty high profile,” he said.
Unfortunately, yeah. But, hell, the publicity and other junk didn't interest her at all; she just wanted to
play
.
He sighed. “I don't know. Can't see them being thrilled about the idea.”
“Well—” She decided to try the only halfway decent argument she had. “Steven gets to play baseball.” Although he hadn't convinced them to let him join a travel team.
Yet.
“Steven
lives
to play baseball,” he said.
“Yeah, but—” She stopped. She would rather die, than whine in front of Preston. “I guess everyone's used to him being really intense, and me just screwing around.”
He nodded.
“Is there any way I could go to tournaments, and not attract attention?” she asked.
“Lose,” he said.
Yeah, that'd do it, all right. “I, um, I might lose a lot, anyway,” she said.
There was only one cookie left on the plate, and he broke it in half, taking one piece for himself and handing her the other. “If you thought
that
, you probably wouldn't be quite as interested in doing it.”
She had to grin. “Well—maybe.” Or even, definitely.
“How about I talk to Gabler”—who was the SAIC of the PPD, and so, was ultimately in charge of their security—“and find out some logistics,” he said. “Then, you can present the idea a little better.”
She nodded gratefully. He knew her parents about as well as she did. But, since they hadn't even let her finish out her high school season, she wasn't very optimistic about them allowing her to play in an even
more
public, and difficult to secure, arena.
Which completely and totally sucked, as far as she was concerned.
“You might be able to talk them into it,” he said. “You never know.”
And, as all New Englanders could personally attest, October 2004 was proof that strange things actually
could
happen. “I don't think I'll hold my breath,” she said.
He nodded. “I'm afraid that's a wise choice,” he said.
 
“SO,” BETH SAID on the phone, when Meg called her after supper that night. “How's it going with Josh?”
Meg shrugged. “I don't know. I guess it's better. I still feel like a snake, though.”
“But, you're going to go on Friday,” Beth said, “right?”
The Prom. “Yeah,” Meg said. “It seems like mostly everyone's going with friends, so maybe it won't feel as weird.”
“What are you going to wear?” Beth asked. “The blue one?”
Her mother had, after a few “don't you think we could come up
with something a little more appropriate?” remarks, finally agreed. “Yeah,” Meg said. “What are you wearing?”
“Black,” Beth said.
Naturally. “Is it like, completely sultry?” Meg asked.
Beth laughed. “Yeah. Is yours?”
Hmmm. “Slightly,” Meg said.
“Not everyone can carry it off,” Beth said in a kindly one-day-when-you're-as-cool-as-I-am voice.
Right. Besides, it was probably better for her
not
to look sultry, since she and Josh were trying so damn hard to be entirely platonic—although she had a sneaking suspicion that they might backslide a bit during the post-Prom parties.
Beth let out her breath. “Stuart wants to get a room at the Sheraton downtown.”
Meg laughed. “What, he won't spring for the Four Seasons?” “I'm serious,” Beth said.
Oh.
Whoa
. “Wow,” Meg said.
“Yeah,” Beth said.
Double wow. “Are you, um—what do you think?” Meg asked.
Beth sighed. “I don't know. I mean, it might be—it seems like a way to—I don't know.”
It was quiet for a minute.
“And don't ask me if I love him,” Beth said, “okay?”
There was no need to do so, since she had just answered the question. And, actually, she'd never had any sense that Beth really
liked
the guy, although she seemed to find him mildly entertaining—and enjoyed the fact that, because Stuart had a mustache, her stepfather openly and vehemently disapproved of him.
“Besides, it might work out,” Beth said, sounding very defensive. “And maybe he'll come down and visit me in New York—” because she had decided to go to Columbia—“and I'll go up and see him in Cambridge, and—well, what the hell, you know?”
BOOK: Long Live the Queen
3.32Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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