The First Counsel

* * *

Once the Secret Service waves me in, I head straight to her bedroom on the third floor. I stop at her door, my hand poised to knock. Inside, I hear her talking to someone, so I lean in close. But just as I do, the door flies open and there's Nora, radiant in a tight black T-shirt and jeans, cradling a cell phone to her ear, and grinning at me for all of a split second.

"I don't care if he raises two million," she shouts into the phone. "I'm not going to dinner with his son!" As I step in, she puts up her pointer finger and gives me the "one more minute" sign.

Based on the schedule, this must be about yesterday's donor receptions. When we first met, she told me it's always like this after the fund-raisers. Every letch with a checkbook starts calling in favors. For the President, they're usually business requests. For Nora, they're personal.

"What the hell is wrong with these people?" she says into the phone, continuing to pace. She gestures me to the daybed, to sit down. "Why can't they buy a Humvee and some Ralph Lauren furniture like everyone else?" With a swing of her arm, she adds, "Tell them the truth. Tell them I think Daddy's little stock baron is a roach and that . . ." She pauses, listening to the person on the other line. "I don't care if he went to Harvard--what the hell does that--" She cuts herself off. "Y'know what? That actually does matter. It matters a lot. Do you have a pencil, because I just figured out what you should say. Are you writing this down? When you get his parents back on the line, tell them that while I am keenly excited by the prospect of having their son cop a feel while sticking his tongue in my ear, I regret that I will not be able to make it. Indeed, while a student at Princeton, I took a vaginal oath that forbids me to date two types of people: First, men from Harvard. And second"--here she starts shouting--"sons of self-important, pretentious, trumpeteering parents who think that just because they know how to get preview-night seats at the trendiest restaurant-of-the-moment, the entire free world must have a price tag on it! Sadly, their darling Jake qualifies for both! Sincerely yours, Nora. P.S.--You're not hot shit, the Hamptons are overrated, and no matter what the maitre d' says, he hates you too!" Glaring furiously at the receiver, she shuts off the phone.

"Sorry about that," she says to me, still breathing heavily.

I'm breathing heavily myself and can hardly hear over the thump of my own heartbeat. "Nora, I have something impor--"

Once again, the phone rings.

"Damn!" she shouts, grabbing it. "Yes . . . ?"

As Nora grudgingly agrees to another round of fund-raiser appearances, my eyes roll over to the two framed letters on her nightstand. The first one's in bright red crayon and reads, "Dear Nora: You're hot. Love, Matt, age 8." The other reads, "Dear Nora: Fuck 'em all. Your friends, Joel & Chris." Both are dated during the first months of her father's administration. When everything was fun.

"You've got to be kidding," she says into the phone. "When? Yesterday?"

Listening, she walks across the room toward an antique desk and rifles through a pile of newspapers on top. As she pulls out one of them, I see that it's the Herald. "What page?" she asks. "No, I got it right here. Thanks--I'll call you later."

Putting down the phone, she thumbs through the paper and finds what she's looking for. A wide smile breaks over her face. "Have you seen this?" she asks, shoving the paper in my face. "They asked a hundred fifth-graders if they wanted to be me. Guess how many said yes?"

I shake my head. "We'll talk about it later."

"Just guess."

"I don't want to guess."

"Why? Afraid to be wrong? Afraid to compete? Afraid to--"

"Nineteen," I blurt. "Nineteen said yes. Eighty-one would rather keep their souls."

She throws the paper aside. "Listen, I'm sorry about yesterday . . ."

"This isn't about yesterday!"

"Then why're you acting like I stole your Big Wheel?"

"Nora, this isn't the time for jokes!" I seize her by the wrist. "Come with--"

Once again, the phone rings. She freezes. I refuse to let go. We look at each other.

"Are you sleeping with Edgar Simon?" I blurt.

"What?" Behind her, the phone continues to ring.

"I'm serious, Nora. Say it to my face."

Nora crosses her arms and stares blankly at me. The phone finally quits. Then, out of nowhere, Nora laughs. She laughs her heartfelt, deep, little-girl laugh--as honest and free as they come.

"I'm not playing around, Nora."

She's still laughing, panting, slowing down. Now she looks into my eyes. "C'mon, Michael, you can't be--"

"I want an answer. Are you sleeping with Simon?"

Her mouth clamps shut. "You're serious, aren't you?"

"What's your answer?"

"Michael, I swear to you, I'd never . . . I'd never do that to you. I'd rather die than be with someone like that."

"So that means no?"

"Of course it means no. Why would I--" She cuts herself off. "You think I'm working against you? You really think I'd do that?"

I don't bother to reply.

"I'd never hurt you, Michael. Not after all this."

"What about before all this?"

"What're you saying? That I had my own reason to kill Caroline? That I set this whole thing up?"

"You said it, not me."

"Michael!" She grabs me by both hands. "How could you think that . . . I'd never . . . !" This time, she's the one who won't let go. "I swear to you, I've never touched him--I'd never want to touch him"--her voice cracks--"in my life." She drops my hands and turns away.

"God," she says. "How'd you even get that in your head?"

"It just seemed to make sense," I say.

She stops where she is. Her whole body locks up. Facing just her back, I can tell that one hurt. I didn't mean to--

"Is that what you think of me?" she whispers.

"Nora--"

"Is that what you think?" she repeats, her voice quivering. Before I can answer, she turns back to me, searching for the answer. Her eyes are all red. Her shoulders sag. I know that stance--it's the same one my mom had when she left. The posture of defeat. When I don't answer, the tears trickle down her cheeks. "You really think I'm that much of a whore?"

I shake my head and go to reach out. When I'd thought about how she'd react, I always assumed it'd be raging anger. I never expected a breakdown. "Nora, you have to understand . . ."

She's not even listening.

Stepping into my arms, she curls into a ball and presses her face against my chest. Her body's shaking. Unlike with Pam, I can't argue. Nora's different.

"I'm sorry," she sobs, her voice once again cracking. "I'm sorry you even had to think it."

As her fingers brush against the back of my neck, I hear the hurt in her voice and see the loneliness in her eyes. But as she nuzzles in close, for once, I hold back. Unlike before, I'm not as easily convinced. Not yet. Not until I talk to Vaughn.