Page 2 of Revisions (By Design #17)

“I understand your podcast is called The Late Great America ,” I say.

“It is.”

“Is that because you think America was better in the past?”

“Don’t you?”

“I think it was different,” I reply. “And I think every generation has entertained the idea that things were better in the past. Some things were. But it’s easy to romanticize what’s behind you or in front of you.”

“Is that what the president thinks?” Ivey asks.

“I don’t know. I’ll have to ask her. It’s what I believe.”

I glance over at Dana and back at Jay Ivey. He’s young. I’d guess he’s in his early thirties. It makes me wonder what part of the past he envisions would be better in the future. I admit I often think life was better before everyone married their screens. I went to dinner with my brother Doug and his kids a few months ago. My nephew spent the entire dinner wearing headphones while watching something on a tablet. I must’ve shown my irritation because Doug sighed and said it’s no different from giving a kid a coloring book. I didn’t argue. I also disagree. I think it’s healthy for kids to hear adult conversations and learn to be part of it. You can still participate while you color. Busy hands don’t cause deaf ears. Change doesn’t always equate to progress. But I think people are often so uncomfortable with change that they fail to notice how progress has helped them.

Being raised by a history teacher and married to a world leader demands that I have some knowledge of history. Although I may have spent more time working with my dad when I was younger, I always loved to listen to my mom talk about her lessons or debate with my father about politics. My mother is one of the smartest, funniest, and most thoughtful people you’ll ever meet—kind of like Candace. I know, “You always marry a woman like your mother.” If that were true, there wouldn’t be so many mother-in-law jokes.

My mom and Candace have a lot in common.

Ivey’s gaze narrows. “Does the president care about the past?”

“She’s a student of history,” I reply.

“Is she?”

“She is. Believe me, I should know. My mother was a high school history teacher. Candace has a pile of books on the table beside the bed.”

“About history?” he asks.

“Some. Lots of biographies, too. Occasionally, she enjoys thrillers.”

Candace just finished a book about an international conspiracy to overthrow the president. When I told her she might want to take notes for her memoir, she threw the book at me.

“But she doesn’t see the value in history,” Ivey says.

“You’re asking me to speak for her. She sees value in the lessons of history and its influence.”

Dana clears her throat and raises a hand. That means Mr. Ivey gets a final question.

“Let me ask you one final question,” he says.

“Sure.”

“You can’t speak for the president. But what do you hope she leaves for a future America?”

“I think she hopes people will have more opportunities, be healthier, more secure, and more hopeful .”

I exchange formal pleasantries with Ivey, nod to Dana, and leave my office. I don’t know what Jay Ivey hoped to accomplish with that conversation. And I’m not clear on why Shell pushed for the interview. I expect he’ll carve up my answers and post a handful of unique outtakes on social media. I doubt what he shares will be complimentary. I’ll get the credit from Shell for being respectful. Candace will get hammered by someone for something I said.

“Hey,” Dana calls out.

“I thought you’d be wrapping things up.”

“Dee will handle it,” Dana says. “You look annoyed.”

“No. I don’t know why Shell pushed for this. It doesn’t take a genius to know he’s not batting for Team Candace.”

“No. But it’s good?—”

“Practice?”

Dana shrugs.

“We both know he’ll edit that into something he can use to assault her character.”

“We’ll see.”

I laugh. “You think so, too.”

“I think the next two years will get messy, JD.”

No doubt. “I hate it.”

“Being here?”

“No,” I reply. “Sometimes, Dana, the way people treat Candace pisses me off. I hate that my hands are tied.”

“You’d like to take a few swings.”

“Yeah. I would.”

“I get it,” Dana says.

“How have you done it all these years?” I ask.

“What’s that?”

“Well, Candace is like your mom. You’ve had to field ugly questions and fight back accusations against her longer than me.”

“It’s how I protect her,” Dana explains. “And it’s how I’ll protect you .”

“I don’t need protection from assholes.”

“No, but they might from you.”

I look at Dana, and we laugh.

“Have you talked to Candace today?” Dana wonders.

“Not since this morning.”

“She hasn’t called?”

“She left me a message. I think she’s looking forward to this trip.”

“A chance to press the flesh,” Dana observes.

“And to be away. She’ll steal a few moments of solitude on the plane. And she’ll have Cassidy with her tomorrow.”

“Are you worried about her?”

“No more than I always am.” And I am always concerned for Candace.

“JD, we’ve known each other a long time. I can read you. Something is on your mind, and it’s more than The Late Great America podcast.”

Dana can read me. She can also read Candace better than most people. I think that’s what makes her so great at communication—not only helping Candace find her voice or speaking on behalf of Candace. She’s also able to see through the masks people wear. Cassidy has the same ability. And as much as it might surprise some people, so does Shell. Shell’s bravado sometimes masks her talents.

“JD?”

“Aw, hell, Dana. If you want to know the truth, it pisses me off.”

“I assume you mean the way things went just now.”

“There are times I hate taking the high road. And that isn’t my talent.”

“What are you talking about?” Dana asks.

“Talking.”

“Come again?”

“Talking,” I repeat. “You all think I’m an asset to Candace.”

“You are.”

“Maybe. Not when it comes to talking . Listening. I’m good at listening. You, Shell, Cassidy—God knows, Candace—you can read people. You anticipate what’s coming before it’s thrown at you, and you already have an answer.”

Dana pulls me into the elevator that leads upstairs.

“When is Cooper coming home?” Dana asks.

“He’s staying the night at Cassidy’s. He’ll be back tomorrow morning.”

“Good.”

“Good?” I ask.

“Yes. That means we have time for a round of truth?—”

“Or dare?” I ask.

“Ha-ha. No. I dare you to tell me the truth over some of Candace’s scotch.”

I can’t help but laugh. Dana knows better than most that I’m not much of a drinker. And Dana is still on medication, so scotch will have to stay in the cabinet for now. I won’t tell Dana the last time I drank a little too much, I struggled to get out of my jeans and landed on the bedroom floor. Dana has known me since college. I don’t think she’s ever seen me drunk—tipsy, maybe. It leaves me to wonder what she wants to talk about that might require alcohol.

“What do you want to ask me that you think demands alcohol?” I ask.

Dana sighs. “Maybe it’s me who could use a drink.”

“Or three?”

“Or thirty,” Dana deadpans.

I burst out laughing. The elevator opens to the residence, and I nod to Agent Morrow. He probably wonders if we’re already drunk.

“It can’t be that bad,” I say as I lead Dana toward the kitchen.

“The kitchen?” Dana asks.

I shrug as I open the freezer. “Candace swears by ice cream. It’s her alternative to scotch.”

“I’ve heard.”

A few days ago, Candace complained that her pants felt tight. I couldn’t help but chuckle. Ice cream is her presidential addiction. Don’t misunderstand. Candace has always enjoyed a sundae, and there has never been a time when our freezer wasn’t stocked with a few pints of ice cream. Ice cream is something of a bond between her and Coop. The first time we visited him before the adoption was a thought; we took him with Spencer for ice cream. Since then, it’s become a meeting place for Candace and Coop.

Candace enjoys a few glasses of wine or a glass of scotch. She rarely indulges in opening a bottle of wine or scotch since she became the president. At least she doesn’t indulge in more than a glass or a sip. She can’t risk clouding her focus. My thoughts travel to a conversation I had with Shell recently:

“Maybe I should grab another bottle of wine,” Shell suggested.

“I think one is fine,” I offered.

“I don’t know. You know Mom. After a long day, she likes to relax with a few drinks. Plus, Cass is here.”

“If you intend to have a few glasses, open another bottle. Otherwise, one is enough.”

“Why does Mom have a call later or something?”

“Shell,” I said. “Have you noticed how your mother drinks a glass of wine?”

“What? Mom is always saying she’ll grab another bottle.”

“Yes. But she seldom opens it unless someone else is drinking it,” I said.

“JD, I know Mom isn’t an alcoholic.”

I laughed. I’d bet there are many days she wishes she could drown in a bottle.

“Why is that funny?” Michelle asked.

“It’s not—not really.” I sighed. “Shell, I’ve seen your mom drink more than two glasses of wine once since she got elected. That was at Camp David with Cassidy and Jane.”

“I’ve had wine with Mom plenty of times since she became the president.”

“And did you pay attention to how much she consumed?” I asked.

“Not really. But we drank a bottle not long ago.”

“Mm. You mean the night you spent together in the Solarium.”

“Yeah. She’d already poured herself a glass when I got there. And we finished the bottle.”

“ You finished the bottle.”

“I’m not a drunk, JD.”

“No. You were away from home, had a place to crash, were stressed, and enjoyed the better part of a bottle of wine over a couple of hours. But you drank that bottle, Shell. Your mom had a glass. She can’t indulge. She’s on the clock twenty-four hours a day. You understand that better than most people because you see it firsthand. She needs a clear head.”

“How did I miss that?”

I smiled. “I think that’s kind of the point.”

“What do you mean?” Shell asked.

“Opening a bottle of wine is normal . That’s something your mom has done after a long day: kicked off her heels, opened a bottle of wine, ordered some take-out Chinese, and stretched out on the sofa. She tries to make this place feel normal.”

“For us.”

“Sure. But it’s also for her, Shell. I don’t care what anyone says. I’ve read the biographies of presidents and first families. It isn’t normal here. Your mom does her best to make it seem that way.”

Dana calls for my attention. “JD?”

“Huh?”

“Where did you disappear to?” Dana asks.

“Sorry. Sometimes it hits me—everything Candace sacrifices for this job.”

“Like wine.”

I nod. “I think I have an idea what’s on your mind,” I say.

“JD, I think we’ll keep the Senate. The House?—”

“I know.”

“And that will complicate things for Candace. We both know that. They’ll try to find any grounds to launch an impeachment inquiry,” Dana says.

“She hasn’t done anything.”

Dana sighs. “JD. We both know what Alex and Joshua are doing isn’t all going through proper channels.”

“And that is new?”

“Probably not,” Dana admits.

“For Christ’s sake, Dana. The only difference between Candace and many people who’ve held this office is that she is trying to stop all the back alley dealing.”

“You know that I agree with you. Listen, I’m on your team now. You need to prepare yourself for whatever lies ahead.”

“Afraid I’ll take a swing at someone?” I quip.

Dana stares at me until I laugh.

“I know you won’t take a swing at anyone,” Dana says. “You want to protect Candy. I get it.”

“I know.”

“But the best way to do that is never taking the bait.”

“Did I make a misstep with Mr. Late Great America?” I ask.

“No. You didn’t. And that’s why you need to be in that kind of situation more often.”

I groan.

“JD, you are Candy’s biggest asset these next two years, most of which she will be thinking about reelection while she tries to govern.”

“And having me talk to people who take issue with—what did he say? Lesbians in the White House? That will help?” I ask.

“Yes.”

“I love you, Dana. You’re my best friend.”

“JD—”

“I do. And I also know you’re the best at what you do. So, forgive me if I don’t understand. People like Ivey are never going to get on Candace’s bandwagon.”

Dana takes a deep breath and exhales. “No. I doubt that asshole will ever vote for Candy. But some people who listen to him might .”

“How many? Two?”

Dana chuckles. I know where she’s headed with this conversation, which explains why she suggested liquor. A few people in Candace’s orbit have the insane idea I can move people who are against Candace to the supporter column. It’s ridiculous if you ask me.

“You don’t agree,” Dana says.

“No. I don’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because, Dana, people like Ivey have two primary issues with Candace.”

“Go on.”

“She’s a woman who is married to a woman.”

“Some people,” Dana says.

“Dana, come on.”

“Okay. Most,” Dana concedes. “Not all, JD.” Dana holds up her hand. “You poll well.”

I roll my eyes. I hate this stuff. I hate that anyone polls my popularity or Candace’s. Plus, I don’t believe in polls.

“Okay,” Dana says. “You don’t like that anyone polls popularity. I know that.”

“It’s not just that. I don’t trust polls. Who do they poll? Come on. I’m forty-five. I’ve never been polled about anything . I don’t think I know one person who has ever been polled.”

“It’s a sample.”

“Yeah—you think you can sample two hundred or even two thousand people and have any indication of what the masses think or feel?”

“It’s scientific,” Dana argues.

“It’s nonsense. Look, if you want me to do this because you believe it’s helpful, I will do it. Don’t talk polls to me.”

“I do think it will help. That interview will help us hold the Senate. It might even help with a few seats in the House.”

“I doubt it.”

“You shouldn’t,” Dana says. “People like you.”

“And you know this because polls tell you.”

“I don’t need a poll to tell me.”

I pass Dana a pint of vanilla ice cream and pop the lid off a pint of pistachio ice cream for myself. It's no wonder Candace’s jeans are tight.

“JD?”

“Huh?”

“You disappeared again.”

“I was just thinking I’ll probably get fat by the time Candace launches the next campaign.”

“What?”

I hold up the ice cream. “Candace drowns her sorrows and stress in ice cream. I prefer burgers—and fries.”

Dana laughs. “This is why people like you.”

“Because I like burgers and fries?”

“In a way, yes.”

I know what Dana is trying to say. I’m not a “typical” first lady. I think we’ve covered that. I sigh.

“JD, it’s not a bad thing.”

“No. But it bugs me.”

“It bugs you that people like you?”

“No. It bugs me that people don’t see Candace as a person, Dana.”

“Candy has been in the public’s eye for decades. It goes with the territory.”

“It shouldn’t.”

“It shouldn’t. But it does . You help humanize her, JD. I told you. Candy has laughed more since she met you. She hasn’t changed . She’s more comfortable being herself in every situation.”

“Candace has never been fake.”

“No. But she kept up the polish. She lets people see her —the real her—or at least glimpses of the Candy we know and love more than she did before you were a couple.”

“I doubt it. And even if it’s true, I’m not sure it’s because of me,” I say.

“Trust me about this, JD. Candy trusts you. She trusts in your marriage. She loves the kids. She loved Jessica—not the way she does you.”

“I know.”

“She knows you’ll be there, JD. And I don’t know if Candy has felt that kind of security with anyone except Pearl. It’s my job to read the tea leaves. That means I need to observe people. I spent years listening to Candy—watching her. You’ve helped her find her footing. She always says she wouldn’t be here without you.”

“She would.”

Dana smiles. “No. I don’t think she would.”

I’m stunned. Dana practically worships Candace.

“Surprised to hear me say that?”

“Yes,” I reply.

“It’s true. She’s always been the right person to lead. She needed someone to anchor her. I heard you say something a few weeks ago.”

“Oh? What did I say?” I ask.

“You were talking to Shell one day. You said that Candace is the center of your world. You’re a part of hers. JD, you are the center of her world. Believe me.”

“Dana—”

“You are. I was in the room—or close to it—all the years when you weren’t. I see her differently, but clearly. She might be reeling—ready to hand someone their?—”

“Ass?”

“Yes—or their walking papers. I know when that’s about to happen. She removes her glasses, massages her eyes, and then looks at your picture before addressing the room. You keep her steady even when you’re not with her.”

“You know I’ll do whatever she asks.”

“I do. She won’t ask.”

Dana has an advantage over anyone close to me and Candace. She knows us. And she was close to us both before we fell in love.

“You didn’t ask to work in my office because you were worried about your recovery, did you?” I ask.

“It’s a factor.”

“Or an excuse.”

“Not an excuse. Maybe an opening. Dee’s terrific, JD. And Laura was great. Neither understands the gravity of the presidency,” Dana offers.

She’s right. Dee is young and eager. She’s intelligent, and I’m confident she’ll be successful no matter what she chooses. Laura was the perfect fit for my office when we arrived at the White House. A new presidency differs from one that has had time in office. And the upcoming elections will require more from us all than the last. Dana can ask me for the things Candace needs but won’t request.

“I’ll do whatever she needs, Dana.”

“I won’t ask you to?—"

“You’ll ask me to agree to things I’d rather avoid. But I know you will only ask if it’s what you think is best for Candace. Thanks, Dana.”

“Why are you thanking me?”

Candace has a giant circle of friends. Although, she’d tell you most are “acquaintances.” Many of her relationships go far beyond casual conversation. She has a small circle of trust but an enormous sphere of influence. And that’s because she cultivates real relationships with people that endure. Most of my close friendships are within my family. It’s always been that way for me. When I was a kid, Craig and Scott were my best friends. Sure, I attended a few parties with classmates and occasional sleepovers. I spent weekends and free time with my brothers and cousins or, if I could, with my dad.

I met Dana’s husband, Steve, at Cornell, and we became fast friends. Dana entered my life when they started dating. I spent most of my college time with their friends. This isn’t because I’m shy or closed off. I’ve always been focused on my work and my family. Maybe that’s because I always felt like the rainbow sheep of my family, and their approval meant so much to me. And if I’m honest, I felt I had something to prove.

Building my business took time. The firm didn’t hit its stride until the year I hired Melanie. I tried to create an environment where the team felt more like family than coworkers, but I didn’t get close to anyone until Mel arrived. And then I met Candace.

I’ve learned a lot about myself since I met Candace. Being part of her family only increased my time with family. The thing about Candace and me is once you are in the circle of trust, you become family. Sometimes, that complicates things. Everyone needs someone to confide in who isn’t close to their spouse or partner. Dana and I walk a fine line. She considers Candace a mentor and a mother figure, but she’s been part of my life longer. I don’t need to confide in Dana. She knows me better than almost anyone. Having her on my team isn’t only an asset for me as First Lady, but it’s also a relief for me as just JD.

“It helps,” I explain. “Having you here—not needing to explain what I’m uncomfortable with.”

“Good,” Dana says. “I needed this change, too.”

I tilt my head curiously.

“I love Candy. I love working for her. Watching the toll this job takes on her, JD, has become more difficult. Being here, I can help you both, and I have my best friend close. This breakup with Steve has been hard.”

“I’m sorry, Dana.”

“So am I. It’s for the best. I think it’s the right time to make changes.”

I point to the pint of ice cream in front of Dana. “Eat your ice cream,” I tell her.

“JD?”

“Yeah?”

“You always say how lucky the country is to have Candy. I agree. They’re lucky to have you, too. We all are.”