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Authors: Nicolle Wallace
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were long gone. She glanced at the headlines: “President’s Approval Ratings at New Lows,” “Women’s Group Assails Kramer’s Apathy on Abortion Debate,” “Conservatives Plot Third-party Challenge to Kramer,” “Economy Continues to Falter.” Melanie sighed. She folded the papers back up and shoved them into her bag. She pulled out her personal BlackBerry and skimmed the e-mails that had come in since she went to bed the night before. She found one from Michael: “Forget Sarabeth’s—meet me at diner on 9th and 58th. Better bacon and more privacy.”
She hadn’t seen Michael since the year before, when they’d run into each other at the Caucus Room in D.C. Michael didn’t frequent the D.C. establishment restaurants. Most of his sources couldn’t afford to be seen with him. He’d been out with his twenty-two-year-olddaughter, Elizabeth, the night Melanie saw him. They were celebrating her graduation from Georgetown. Michael had mentioned that Elizabeth was trying to get an interview in the White House communications office. Melanie had arranged the interview and put in a good word for her. It had been enough. Elizabeth had just completed her first year as a junior press aide in the regional press office, and she sat in the same cramped office that Melanie had occupied when she started with President Harlow fifteen years earlier.
The seven A.M. train arrived, and Melanie stood with the small group of travelers to board. She settled in an empty seat in the quiet car and tried to remember the last time she’d been on the train. When she’d first started working at the White House, she took the train to New York every weekend she could. She’d stay with her older sister, Claire, and they’d wake up early to jog around the reservoir in Central Park. Afterward, they’d order steaming cups of coffee and pastries from one of the bakeries on Madison. If Claire didn’t have to work, they’d visit the Met or the Guggenheim and shop at Bloomingdale’s and Barneys. At night, Claire would take her to Craft or Pastis or one of her other favorite restaurants. Melanie loved those visits. She’d depart Union Station an underpaid and overworked government staffer and arrive at Penn Station ready to dive into her sister’s glamorous New York life. As the head of antique furniture at Sotheby’s auction house, her sister ran with a hip, artsy crowd that couldn’t be more different from the buttoned-down political types who surrounded Melanie.
This was a very different kind of trip. Melanie had lied to Charlotte about needing to visit Claire to get out of going to Camp David. Charlotte’s best friends from college, Brooke and Mark Pfiefer, would be there, Melanie reminded herself, pushing her guilt aside. She tilted her seat back as far as it would go and closed her eyes. Unlike the Acela, which sped to New York in less than two and a half hours, the regional train took more than three and a half hours. Plenty of time for a nap, Melanie thought, covering herself with her coat and turning the ringers down on all her phones and BlackBerrys.
She had known Michael since she first arrived in Washington. One of the last of the old-fashioned “source” reporters, he’d earned aspecial place in her heart early in the Martin administration when he waited for her outside the White House gate to tell her that he’d seen her husband making out with a twenty-four-year-old legislative aide the night before.
Melanie was one of Michael’s best sources at the beginning of her career without even knowing it. He’d befriended her at the bar at the Hay-Adams, where Melanie and other press staffers used to convene after long days in the office. She’d drink big glasses of merlot and enjoy how quickly the alcohol would erase her insecurities. When she met Michael the first time, she’d just been noticed by President Harlow’s senior staff for her attention to detail and sharp political antennae.
“Hi there. You look like
She hadn’t seen Michael since the year before, when they’d run into each other at the Caucus Room in D.C. Michael didn’t frequent the D.C. establishment restaurants. Most of his sources couldn’t afford to be seen with him. He’d been out with his twenty-two-year-olddaughter, Elizabeth, the night Melanie saw him. They were celebrating her graduation from Georgetown. Michael had mentioned that Elizabeth was trying to get an interview in the White House communications office. Melanie had arranged the interview and put in a good word for her. It had been enough. Elizabeth had just completed her first year as a junior press aide in the regional press office, and she sat in the same cramped office that Melanie had occupied when she started with President Harlow fifteen years earlier.
The seven A.M. train arrived, and Melanie stood with the small group of travelers to board. She settled in an empty seat in the quiet car and tried to remember the last time she’d been on the train. When she’d first started working at the White House, she took the train to New York every weekend she could. She’d stay with her older sister, Claire, and they’d wake up early to jog around the reservoir in Central Park. Afterward, they’d order steaming cups of coffee and pastries from one of the bakeries on Madison. If Claire didn’t have to work, they’d visit the Met or the Guggenheim and shop at Bloomingdale’s and Barneys. At night, Claire would take her to Craft or Pastis or one of her other favorite restaurants. Melanie loved those visits. She’d depart Union Station an underpaid and overworked government staffer and arrive at Penn Station ready to dive into her sister’s glamorous New York life. As the head of antique furniture at Sotheby’s auction house, her sister ran with a hip, artsy crowd that couldn’t be more different from the buttoned-down political types who surrounded Melanie.
This was a very different kind of trip. Melanie had lied to Charlotte about needing to visit Claire to get out of going to Camp David. Charlotte’s best friends from college, Brooke and Mark Pfiefer, would be there, Melanie reminded herself, pushing her guilt aside. She tilted her seat back as far as it would go and closed her eyes. Unlike the Acela, which sped to New York in less than two and a half hours, the regional train took more than three and a half hours. Plenty of time for a nap, Melanie thought, covering herself with her coat and turning the ringers down on all her phones and BlackBerrys.
She had known Michael since she first arrived in Washington. One of the last of the old-fashioned “source” reporters, he’d earned aspecial place in her heart early in the Martin administration when he waited for her outside the White House gate to tell her that he’d seen her husband making out with a twenty-four-year-old legislative aide the night before.
Melanie was one of Michael’s best sources at the beginning of her career without even knowing it. He’d befriended her at the bar at the Hay-Adams, where Melanie and other press staffers used to convene after long days in the office. She’d drink big glasses of merlot and enjoy how quickly the alcohol would erase her insecurities. When she met Michael the first time, she’d just been noticed by President Harlow’s senior staff for her attention to detail and sharp political antennae.
“Hi there. You look like
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