Page 1 of Revisions (By Design #17)

Jameson

I’ve never quite understood people’s fascination with me—other than to wonder how I captured someone like Candace. Most people I meet imagine my life as the spouse of the President of the United States to be filled with perks and luxury. I’ll admit it does come with its advantages. I don’t have to do Cooper’s laundry, and I can call the kitchen for a meal whenever I want. The White House is filled with amenities, but none of them compare to the freedom of taking a walk alone or being able to order pizza delivery without any advance notice. Please don’t get me wrong; I don’t regret the life I’ve chosen. It’s hardly the one I pictured when I arrived at Senator Candace Fletcher’s doorstep ten years ago.

I arrived intending to win the senator over with my professional skills, hoping to land a fun project to remodel her historic home. The last thing I expected was a remodel of my life. Falling in love wasn’t on my to-do list. If I’ve learned anything these past ten years, it’s to expect the unexpected. I’ll let you in on a secret I don’t share with many people. I knew my life was about to change when Candace opened her door. I can’t say I imagined being married to the President of the United States, raising a nine-year-old, and being a grandmother that first day. I knew I wanted to be with Candace, and I’ve never looked back.

I’m likely the most unlikely First Lady in history. I’m sure Martha Washington never envisioned a pair of lesbians roaming these halls. And I seriously doubt that Jackie Kennedy thought one of her successors would wander the corridors in jeans and a tool belt on the way to tinker with the sink in the president’s bathroom. Or maybe they did. Who knows? The longer I’m here, the more I understand what it takes to make this place tick. I don’t mean the White House. I mean the country.

Candace left yesterday to spend a few days on the campaign trail with congressional hopefuls. I’m headed to give an interview to a “viral” podcaster. I asked Shell if I should wear a mask. She didn’t find my question funny. I suppose podcast appearances are cheaper than renting a billboard to blast our family secrets. I don’t dislike talking to people. I still worry I’ll say something that will cause Candace issues. For example, the name of this podcast is The Late Great America. What on earth does that even mean? The Late Great America ? I expect he’ll ask me about that: America in days gone by. Shell assured me she made clear what questions were off-limits. That sounds great. Shell can’t control what happens in an interview. That much, I know.

“Hey.”

Dana. I should feel guilty that Candace lost her biggest asset. Dana worked for Candace for over twenty years. But in this case, the president’s loss is the first lady’s gain, and I’m happy for the win. Dana is a pro. No. Dana is the pro for handling the press and shaping public perception. She resisted Shell’s idea of me doing this interview.

“Hey, Dana.”

“Nervous?” she asks.

“No. You know what Candace would say,” I offer.

“Ah. You’re aware.”

“Aware that I need to be on alert,” I tell her. “You didn’t want Shell to set this up. You still haven’t told me the reason.”

“Jay Ivey is unpredictable, JD. He likes to stir the pot.”

“Great.” She means the shit pot.

“You can handle him.”

“Uh-huh. Candace could handle him.”

Dana laughs. “If I didn’t think you could field whatever he throws at you, you wouldn’t be doing this,” she says.

I wish I had Dana’s confidence. Usually, we prepare for interviews and appearances. The last few weeks have moved at a maddening pace. Candace’s schedule is always demanding. Campaign season only adds to that. I’ve been on kid duty. Not that I’m complaining. I make time every morning to be in my office, but honestly, I function more as support for my staff. They’re incredibly capable and energetic. Candace and I agreed when she sought the presidency that my priority would be the family. I haven’t had time to review podcasts. Maybe it would be more accurate to admit I didn’t have any inclination to make time to watch The Late Great America. I probably should have.

“JD, come on. You’re a pro.”

I laugh.

“You are,” Dana assures me. “Just be yourself.”

“Mm. Tell me something.”

“If I can.”

“What do you think this Jason Ivey hopes to get out of our conversation?” I’m genuinely curious.

“Exposure.”

“Great.”

“JD, at the end of the day, that’s what they all want,” Dana says.

I’ve learned a lot from Candace over the years. It might sound cynical to say everyone has an agenda, but it’s not—it’s just the truth. That doesn’t mean every agenda is sinister. At its core, an agenda is simply a purpose.

When Cooper and Spencer shuffle into my office, looking sheepish, they have an agenda. Maybe they’re hoping I’ll take them somewhere or grant permission for something Candace would likely refuse. Candace has an agenda whenever she calls a meeting—usually, it’s to get honest information.

I’ve also learned that, in Candace’s circle, the word agenda is always met with a degree of skepticism. Because around here, someone’s purpose isn’t just a goal—it’s a motive worth questioning. I shake my head as we approach my office.

Dana grabs my arm. “JD, I’ve been at this a long time. Consider this as prep for something more invasive.”

Dana makes this interview sound like a colonoscopy. I’m tempted to ask if I can get a sedative first.

“I’m afraid to ask what you’re thinking,” Dana says.

“I’m reminded why you are the best.”

“What?”

“That was the nicest way I’ve ever been told to expect something to land squarely up my ass,” I say.

Dana stares at me for a second and then laughs.

“You realize you can just tell me the truth?” I ask.

“I told you it’s prep.”

“For a colonoscopy?”

“Only you would make that comparison,” Dana replied.

“Prep for something more invasive ?”

Dana chuckles.

“Your words, not mine,” I remind her as we stop just before the door. I turn to Dana and grin. “You owe me dinner after this, and Shell owes me babysitting.”

“Why?”

“Candace says the worst part is always the prep,” I tell her. With a deep breath, I take the final steps into my office. If nothing else, this should be interesting.

“Ms. Reid. Thank you for agreeing to this conversation,” Ivey begins.

“No need to thank me. And it’s JD.”

“Informality isn’t exactly customary here,” Ivey says.

“Do you mean in the White House?” I ask.

“Yes.”

If only he knew. I hold back a chuckle.

“We’re not in the West Wing,” I reply. “And I’m not an elected official.”

“How would you define your role?” he asks.

I want to laugh. Candace would tell him I’m the First Lunatic. “It depends on what you’re asking,” I tell him.

“You don’t have thoughts on your role?”

I have many thoughts about my role. “Sure,” I reply. “There are duties assigned to the First Lady’s office, mostly ceremonial. There are also expectations as the spouse of any politician.”

“And those differ?” Ivey asks.

“I think we all play various roles at home and work. Don’t you?”

“This is my role,” Ivey says. “Pretty straightforward.”

“You mean showing up and asking questions?” I ask him.

Ivey smiles.

I’m not sure where he’s going with this line of questioning. “All you do is show up and ask questions?” I ask. “You must do research first.”

“I do.”

“And you have to market your show.”

“I have a team,” he says.

“So do I. I’m part of that team. This is part of what I do as First Lady—talk to people.”

“You’re not a typical First Lady.”

I laugh. “What gave it away?” I ask. Candace and I had a colorful conversation about tool belts before she left. I think I’ll leave that out.

“Aside from the nature of your relationship?” Ivey asks.

Oh, boy. Here it comes. The nature of your relationship. Does he think this is the first time I’ve been asked this question? Not very original, Jay. “I’m only one in a long line of women to become First Lady,” I reply.

“But the only one married to a woman.”

“True.”

“You must admit, it is a stark departure from your predecessors,” Ivey comments.

It would probably be ill-advised for me to roll my eyes. Does he know about Eleanor Roosevelt? Something tells me more than one First Lady kissed a girl. “Being married?” I quip.

“Being a lesbian.”

I smile. What does he want me to say? I’m sorry? This interview is beginning to bore me.

“You’ve said publicly that you take that role seriously,” Ivey says.

I’m tempted to ask if he means being a lesbian or being married to one. Dana catches my eye—also, not a good idea.

“What did you mean by that?” Ivey asks. “The president has said her sexuality should have no bearing on her viability as a candidate or a leader. Yet you say you take your role as a lesbian and First Lady seriously. That seems like a departure from her agenda.”

Her agenda? There was a time when people like this podcaster made me want to reply with a string of expletives and insults. Now, I find it tiresome and pathetic. I was fortunate. To say that my coming out lacked fanfare is an understatement. Then again, I never really had a coming out. The truth is my parents had figured it out before I ever thought to tell them I was a lesbian. They didn’t react at all when I brought a girl home. No joyful hugs. No tearful disappointment. And no angry accusations. My mom said hello, offered my girlfriend something to drink, and asked about her studies. And my dad? He just told her to make sure I didn’t exist perpetually on lousy pizza. That was it. That doesn’t mean I’m a stranger to judgment.

I would have expected more blowback from my dad’s family. He’s the Republican in the House, after all. No one—and I mean no one—on my dad’s side said a word. And if you want my opinion, that’s how I think it should be. They were always excited to meet the girl I was dating. They bombarded my girlfriends with questions and told embarrassing stories about me. They never made an issue of the fact that the person I brought home was a woman—not once. Nothing changed from the handful of jocks I dated in high school to the sorority women I dated in college.

My mother’s family was a different story. When I told my cousin Craig that I was gay, he laughed and said he had known since I was in first grade. Then he started calling me the rainbow sheep of the family. If I’m the rainbow sheep, my mom is the proverbial black sheep. Like me, she has two brothers. It’s funny how history repeats itself. She’s always been more progressive in her views on politics and life than the rest of her family, but she learned to pick her battles carefully—until my uncle began his verbal abuse towards me. Everything changed after that. Both of my uncles liked to make comments—indirectly—about me. It started when I went to college. I always understood, on some level, that they resented my ability to attend Cornell.

My mom saved as much as possible so my brothers and I could get a college education. Toby and Doug both opted for community college. After two years, Doug transferred to NYU. Toby opened a drywall business and worked on projects with my dad until he found his footing. For a long time, I thought the not-so-affectionate teasing about my academic career was about Cornell. It took me years to understand that was only part of it.

I’m the only granddaughter on my mom’s side of the family. It didn’t seem like an issue when I was small—playing tag and even touch football with my brothers and cousins. After all, I wore a dress to my Confirmation and went to the prom with a football player. But things started to change when my mom proudly announced that I’d been accepted to Cornell. It was like my uncles were saying, “How dare she get that chance?” I worked for the opportunity. I studied and competed in sports. My parents helped with my undergraduate studies. I wouldn’t have been able to choose Cornell if I hadn’t gotten a few scholarships.

For a long time, I thought all the negativity directed at me stemmed from grief over my cousin Craig’s death as well as objections to my coming out as a lesbian. I accepted the nastiness for years because of my guilt. My cousins, Craig, Scott, and I were inseparable for most of our lives until high school. Unlike many of my friends and cousins, I didn’t party. I was too busy being a closeted overachiever. Craig and Scott started spending more time together at parties. They got carried away with drinking and drugs and took it to the extreme one night when they broke into a neighbor’s house. Both their fathers are cops. You can imagine how that went over in my family.

I pulled away from them more after that until they both got sober. They were doing great the summer before I left for college. We spent most of that summer working on projects with my dad for extra cash. I thought we were all on track. But after I left for college, they fell back into the party scene—Craig, most of all. He overdosed one night. I spent a lot of years angry at Scott. The truth is, I wondered if they would have gone down that road again if I’d stayed home. It’s silly. But my guilt made it easy for me to accept Uncle Jerry’s attitude towards me.

My Uncle Jerry was always a hard ass. He made Craig’s life hell more than once. But as kids, you don’t think too much about it. Craig spent as much time as he could with my parents.

Looking back, it’s clear my uncles resented my mom. They both went straight from high school into police work. My mom worked her way through college, and my dad helped her pay for her master’s degree.

Jay Ivey’s questions trigger feelings about my youth. Being the only girl in my family wasn't easy for me. There were expectations. I defied them. Jerry resented my success academically and professionally, just like he did my mom’s. He also had issues with my sexuality. I went to great lengths to suppress who I was—not only to keep it a secret. It didn’t matter that I never shared my interest in girls with anyone. Being the jock who never expressed crushes on boys led to loads of rumors about me in high school. My solution was to date Jed Tyler. He was older, popular, and interested in me. And dating Jed was more than a way to conceal my feelings about girls. I think part of me hoped he could change me. He changed things for me.

I tried to push Jed away one night during a make-out session in his car. His response was to assert that the rumors must be true—I was a lesbian. I am. That isn’t why I pushed him away. I wasn’t ready to be sexually active with anyone. He didn’t care about that or understand the meaning of the word no. After that night, part of me shut down. I withdrew into my studies more. Eventually, I discovered the excitement of dating women. But I never felt safe when one of my girlfriends would touch me. I never trusted anyone’s touch until I met Candace.

So, yes. Being the first lesbian First Lady means something to me. When kids tell me that seeing me and Candace helped them be comfortable with themselves, it means something to me. It also means something to me when a parent tells me we’ve helped them accept their child’s sexuality. It matters. People like Ivey piss me off. He reminds me of Jerry and Jed.

I take a deep breath and answer him. “I think you’re taking Candace’s words out of context,” I say.

“They are her words.”

“Sure. The fact that she’s a lesbian shouldn’t be a reason to vote for or against her. It also shouldn’t be qualifying or disqualifying as a leader.”

“Then why does it matter to you?” he asks.

“You answered your question when you posed it to me,” I tell him.

“You haven’t answered it.”

“I did. The fact that you would think of asking me that question is the answer. Lesbians and gay men are listening to this conversation. No matter their age, they’ve never seen someone from their community sitting in the White House.”

“So, it matters as a signal to your community. There are many people uncomfortable with the fact that lesbians live here,” he says.

I catch Dana’s cringe in the distance. That comment sounds exactly like something my Uncle Jerry would say. There was a time when this line of questioning infuriated me; now, I find it pathetic and tired. I’m tempted to suggest it would make a great reality show: Lesbians Live Here. I’d watch it. I’ll leave that out, too.

I nod. “That’s also why I take my role seriously, Jay. I hope when people get to know me—when they get to know Candace and our family—it helps them realize we’re no different. Life here is different from theirs. It’s a bubble. We’re never alone—not really. But our marriage and our family are like everyone else’s. We just live in an extraordinary reality for the next few years.”

“How do you feel about possibly being here for two terms? You had a successful career before you met the president. Any regrets?”

“No regrets,” I answer.

“There have been rumors that you and the president don’t agree on many issues,” Ivey says.

“Is that a question?”

“Do you challenge the president?”

“Daily.”

“Really?”

I laugh. “Not on policy,” I explain.

“Even if you disagree?”

“I trust Candace to make the best decisions in any situation. Occasionally, I do scold her about ice cream flavors.”

“But not political issues? You never express a difference of opinion?”

I’m sure it’s hard for most people to believe this, but Candace and I don’t talk about her policies often. We have different backgrounds and experiences. Of course, we sometimes disagree. I will never grasp why that surprises people. “If I feel strongly about something, I tell her,” I reply.

“So you’re not a political person? The president doesn’t share her thoughts with you?”

“Jay, the president is my wife.”

“Exactly.”

I chuckle. “You’re missing my point. You see Candace Reid as the president. Everything you think about her starts with her career as a political leader. I see her as Candace. Serving as president is part of her. She’s also my best friend, someone’s sister, daughter, and mother. We have four kids and eight grandchildren, and another is on the way. Trust me, we have plenty to discuss.”

I can see the wheels spinning in Ivey’s brain. He’s determined to get under my skin.

“One might say the president’s focus is split.”

“They might,” I agree.

“So you agree.”

“That Candace’s focus is split?”

Jay Ivey nods.

“I’m not part of her administration, Jay. I know that countless issues land on her desk daily.”

“And some of those are family -related, are they not?”

“Sure.”

“Splitting her focus.”

My patience is wearing thin.

“Candace is hardly the first president to have a large family,” I remind him. “I think being a mother and grandmother is her biggest asset as a leader.”

Ivey smirks. Smug. He’s trying to bait me. It won’t work. I wait patiently for a question.

“We’ve all heard about the president’s compassion .”

“That’s an asset, too. Candace didn’t become compassionate because she had kids. She wanted a family because of her compassion.”

“Leading a nation isn’t the same as child rearing,” he says.

What a misogynistic ass. The most pathetic thing about men like Ivey is they think they’re clever. He hasn’t asked me one original question. It’s pathetic .

“Ms. Reid,” he urges me.

“I’m sorry. Did you ask me a question?”

“Do you believe running the most powerful country in the world is the same as managing a family?” he asks.

I know how Candace would reply.

“Do you have a big family, Jay?” I ask.

“I don’t see how that matters.”

“Humor me.”

“I have two brothers and a sister,” he says.

“And do they always agree?”

“Of course not.”

“You should ask your mother how she manages to keep the peace on holidays,” I advise.

“We know what’s expected from us,” he says.

“Mm. She set boundaries.”

He nods.

“Well, Candace would tell you that managing world leaders and politicians requires setting clear expectations and boundaries.”

“Hardly the same.”

“You don’t think so?” I ask.

“No. I don’t.”

“Interesting,” I say.

“I don’t think motherhood and commanding the world’s largest economy and military are similar,” Ivey says. “I love my mother. I don’t think her dinnertime expectations qualify her to lead a nation.”

I shrug.

“You disagree,” he chimes.

“I think knowing how to manage different personalities and help them negotiate through conflicts determines any leader’s success.”

“And you believe solving an argument over a toy or a dinner table squabble compares to dealing with dictators and legislators? You need more than compassion.”

“You do. It requires determination and confidence. Squabbles are squabbles, Mr. Ivey. Everyone thinks their motivations are justified. It makes negotiation tricky. It also makes accountability difficult. I wouldn’t underestimate how managing the personalities and disagreements in a family strengthens the skill to navigate politics,” I tell him.

He’s ready to pounce. I continue before he has the chance.

“Candace was a lawyer, congresswoman, senator, and governor before she sought the presidency. She has more collective experience than nearly anyone who’s held the job. Parenthood is part of her experience. I’m not sure what you hope I’ll say. No. I don’t agree with every decision Candace makes—not as a parent or the president. One thing people should value about their president is the ability to allow for respectful disagreement. I also know Candace doesn’t arrive at decisions without careful consideration. She cares about outcomes, Mr. Ivey.”

“Love conquers all? Even the White House?” he asks sarcastically.

“I’d like to believe it can. Ego tends to get in the way,” I say. “No. Love doesn’t conquer every problem. That would be ideal. You asked me about my career.”

“I did. I think most people would struggle to place their ambitions aside indefinitely.”

“Maybe some people would. Do you know what I did before Candace became the president?”

“Of course. You ran a successful architectural firm.”

“I built it,” I correct him. “From the ground up—just like the plans I design for buildings. I learned a bit about dealing with conflict and managing expectations along the way. Do you know why I love architecture?”

“Tell me.”

“People marvel at the artistry of buildings. They enjoy the intricacies and ornate features of buildings. Ancient wonders and modern marvels,” I explain.

He appears bewildered, wondering where I am directing our conversation.

“I enjoy the artistry of structures, too. It’s one reason I was attracted to architecture.”

“One reason?” he probes.

“It’s no secret I spent a lot of time with my dad on construction projects. I loved to watch a project come together from the ground up. Finesse crumbles without support, Mr. Ivey . Any structure that hopes to bear the weight of time starts with a solid foundation.”

“I’m sure you have a point,” Ivey interjects.

“I do. Most people look at Candace’s finesse. Do you know what I mean by that? They judge her on her speeches and appearance. That’s the finesse. What she possesses is a solid foundation. She knows who she is and what she believes. Just like the buildings I design, she weathers strain and pressure because she has that foundation, and she also has support.

“I’ve walked through many homes with my dad. The owner had a great idea about knocking out walls for more space or better aesthetics. And many of those ideas were great. But after you build a foundation, you need to reinforce it with support. If you destroy part of something, you have to ensure it’s not critical to the overall structure.”

He’s glassy-eyed. Candace has taught me many things beyond an appreciation for scripture. She’s the master. I’m still a student. But I’ve always been a quick study. I smile.

“Family is foundational for Candace and me,” I tell him. “Is it hard for me to set aside my work? Sure. My family is my home. And my marriage is the foundation. I admire what Candace has accomplished. Sometimes, it frustrates me. Not the time that it demands of her. The toll it takes, and the way people question her motives. I don’t know what you hope to discover today. I don’t have any secrets for you to uncover. I’m just someone who is lucky enough to have found the love of my life. It took me longer than some. I can’t change what you think about lesbians in the White House or how you view Candace as your president. She sacrifices more than anyone realizes to serve in that role. She gives it everything she has—that much, I can assure you. You don’t have to like her or me. You don’t have to accept or understand our life.

“I told you I challenge her daily. Sometimes, that’s with debate and humor; sometimes, I make her crazy by climbing ladders. That isn’t a metaphor.”

I catch Dana giggling in the corner.