Commander in Chief
Page 54“I’m ready for it to be born already.” He grins against me.
I run my fingers over his scalp as he nuzzles my pregnant belly. “I can’t decide what I think it is,” I say thoughtfully.
“It doesn’t matter what you think, it is what it is,” he says, quite practically, as he comes back up, propping himself on a pillow and drawing me to his side.
I laugh. “True.”
“I’ve moved things around so I can be there with you to receive the news,” he says, his voice husky now as he pulls my chin up and kisses me.
“Thank you.”
“I wouldn’t miss it. Not if I can help it.”
Friday, we’re stepping out of the car after my checkup with the gynecologist. Matt is fixing his tie after the full-blown kiss I gave him in the car on our way here. I’m just so happy. Blown away. The baby looks well. I have a picture in my clutch purse—several pictures, in fact—and we could see its perfect body, its eyes, and its face. And its sex.
When the doctor confirmed what it was, he told us with a grin, and Matt and I just looked at each other—all of it so real, now that we can give the baby a name.
The reporters at the White House are restless, having heard of my appointment and been given permission to wait for our return on the steps.
He draws me to his chest as we both face the reporters, and they all calm down. He says just three words.
“It’s a boy.”
“It’s a boy!” they return happily.
“Quick picture, Mr. President!”
I hear the echoes of other reporters who second the thought.
“All right—take a few shots, and then I trust you’ll let us get back to our jobs.”
They start snapping pictures in excitement, and we pose at the entrance of the White House, Matt’s hand on the small of my back, his eyes drifting down to meet mine as we smile at each other. I think we’re both still replaying the news in our minds—me bewildered and enchanted that I’m having a little boy, my little Matthew Junior—when Matt, back to being businesslike, tells them, “All right, have a good day, everyone,” and ushers me inside.
He pats my bum as we head down the halls. “Have a good day, wife.”
“I will. I have a baby room to decorate. You go get it, husband.”
32
INVITES
Charlotte
Weeks and months fly by as I prepare the baby’s room and continue with my Kids for the Future campaign while Matt continues meeting with heads of state, signing treaties, tweaking trade agreements, and more.
One of the schools I’m visiting on my new, less hectic schedule inquired whether the president could make a speech for the high school students, and I was thrilled when he said yes.
Everywhere he speaks, Matt draws crowds. You’d think it was due to the mythical importance of his father’s legacy and his family’s name, but I know that it is not. People like to feel close to him. Hear him speak. All around America, there are proud people—proud to be American.
Today, I admit I get a little giddy watching him speak again.
“It’s easy to believe that we aren’t capable of living up to our potential. I never believed I would—or even cared to try to. After the loss of my father, I continued to be reminded of all that the world lost, and I felt a sense of powerlessness. I wasn’t powerless. I had in my power to give you the one thing he most wanted to give. Me. Never underestimate the power of your own worth.”
Once he closes, the claps and cheers are so deafening, they follow us out.
Our economy is growing by leaps and bounds, our exports have increased by 20 percent, and there are new jobs being offered every day. Aside from that, Matt is a champion of consumer rights, minority rights, gay rights, women’s rights, and controlling nuclear proliferation, and advocates embracing the diversity our country has thrived on and welcomed for generations.
He speaks to reporters like they’re his best friends, stops to greet all men and women, and the message is always clear—in whatever he does. YOU can make a difference. YOU can create new jobs too. YOU can be innovative, different, free. YOU can be yourself.
Governing is not easy. Sometimes it feels as if ages ago, Matt and I were idealists. But sometimes, like for the past year, it feels like we were the realists.
Months go by fast, between governing and the social scene that comes with the White House. I’m close to full term now—my body so very curvy, and somehow very arousing to my husband, and even to me. It feels so sensitive—his touch always electric on my skin. Tonight we were invited to the Washington, D.C., premiere of a movie one of his friends produced, and I’m wondering how I’ll manage to wear heels. Maybe ballerina flats and an empire gown would work.
“Look stunning,” Lola advised.
“You mean sometimes I don’t?” I arched a teasing brow.
“Haha. Truly, Charlotte. People are obsessed with you, and Matthew Hamilton’s devotion to you. Millions of women in the world dream of fitting in your glass slipper.
The hot president, his hands gliding over your body as you dance, his worshipful eyes only on you, the most desirable world leader with his clear adoration of you. Politics are dynamic and young—a symbol of the revitalization in our country. Look daring, edgy.”