Mr. President (White House #1)(69)

It’s the first time I’ve seen Matt’s mom in person, and I’m awed by her beauty and class. The one and only Eleanor Hamilton. She’s as polished and elegant as Matt is; his dark eyes and hair come from her. My own mother has always admired her—everybody does. She and Matt are the embodiment of strength under adversity.

“Charlotte, it’s nice to meet you at last.” Her voice is soft and warm as she takes my hand. “I can see why everyone is so taken with you.”

I laugh but feel spots of warmth on my cheeks when she looks at Matt.

The décor in his home is modern and elegant too. Wood floors. Pristine taupe rugs with a hint of matte gold thread in delicate scroll patterns. Soft taupe wallpaper and fine art. I hadn’t really noted it the first time I’d stopped by—intending to end whatever it was we’d started.

Well, look how that went.

A cold sliver runs down my back when I hear Matt’s grandfather.

“Matt.” He slaps his grandson’s back and ignores me.

Matt takes me by the arm and brings me one step forward, his voice stern and low. “Charlotte, Grandfather. You’ve met quite a few times on the campaign trail.”

“Ahh, yes, Charlotte,” he says dryly.

“Sir.” I return his nod with one of my own.

“I’m giving her a tour,” Matt tells his mother.

“First time here? I don’t believe it,” his grandfather says.

Matt ignores him and leads me down a wood-paneled hall facing a window with a view of D.C.

To its right, there is a great room with a view of the White House.

“Wow.” I have trouble finding my voice, my eyes wide as I take in the majesty of the presidential home, illuminated in the night. “Must be hard to believe you lived there once.”

I feel him shrug beside me, his voice low. “Actually, it’s harder to believe this is my view now. And sometimes still hard to think I’ll never see him again.”

I cannot help from asking, “Did you ever want to know why that happened?”

“I ask myself that every day. Come.”

He leads me to the bedroom; the view from the terrace is sweeping and endless.

“All this represents freedom and hope,” I say, signaling to D.C. “How can you still believe in justice after that?”

“You just do.” He opens the glass door. “You can smell it in the air.”

“Ever tried to find out?”

“I’ve tried to. Why—why and if on orders. I think about it constantly. I dream the scene, over and over, but I don’t want to live in that place.” He points at his feet. “I want to live in the now.” He points out the window. “And that is where we’re going. That’s where my head’s at for now.” I can tell by his expression that he’s being pulled into his memories. “Those first few months, I was consumed with it. Investigators mysteriously disappeared or were replaced by a new team. My mother couldn’t sleep without medical aid. Her worst fear is to lose me too. Her hope was that I’d be a lawyer.”

“And yours?”

“My hope?” he asks, seemingly surprised I even have to ask. “Our hopes change, don’t they? As our paths unfold. Now it’s to do what he wanted me to do—something for the country.”

I hear voices out in the living room. “Why doesn’t your grandfather like me?”

“He doesn’t like anyone who gets in his way.”

“I’m not in his way; I try to steer clear of him as much as I can.” I laugh.

Matt’s lips twitch sardonically. “You’re more of a threat to my candidacy than any of the actual candidates.”

“How can that be possible?” I signal at myself. “I’m no one, have no political aspirations.”

He taps his fingertip to the bridge of my nose, which I seem to be scrunching. “You’re distracting.”

“A tenth of what you are, at the most!” I cry.

He laughs.

We head back out to the living room and have a drink with Matt’s grandfather and mother. I notice the conversation is strained; I think the fact that Patrick and Eleanor’s agendas are so opposite right now is one of the reasons why the tension feels so thick in the air. I can hardly draw in a good breath.

Even Jack—who’s been lounging by the fireplace in the living room—seems to be a little more alert, his head tilting as if he’s trying to follow the conversation.

Matt seems to be used to it, though, and once Patrick leaves for the night, I relax a little. Excusing myself to the restroom, I leave Matt alone for a moment with his mother.

I hear them talking as I return. “I see the way you look at that girl and wonder why run, why not settle down?” his mother is asking him.

Matt sighs and stands to gaze out the window. “If I don’t run, Dad’s death will have been for nothing.”

“No, it could never be for nothing,” his mother says passionately, heading over to him.

“It could be for nothing if we don’t change and everything stays the same,” Matt tells her with a sigh.

He hugs her to his side and kisses her forehead, and she rests her head on his shoulder.

There’s a very tender, powerful mother-and-son bond. She looks older and frailer when next to him; his strength is striking compared to her fragility.