“Sorry,” said Harry, reeling in his emotions. “How’s Marilyn?”
“Twenty-eight years of marriage. About what you’d expect.”
Jack said, “Are you okay, Dad?”
Harry nodded.
The president said, “The White House will release a statement in about twenty minutes. I’ll make a public television address from the East Wing this evening. I’ll order flags to fly at half-staff for thirty days. It’s appropriate that we mourn as a nation. But I don’t want that period of mourning to turn into national anxiety over Phil’s replacement. The Twenty-fifth Amendment to the Constitution doesn’t say how quickly I have to move, but I plan to make an announcement on a vice presidential designate as soon as possible.”
Jack bristled. Talk of a replacement so soon after death was a bit unseemly. But most everything about Washington struck Jack that way.
“That’s wise,” said Harry. “As you know, I’m retired from politics, but if I can be of any help formulating a short list, I’d be honored.”
The president cast a half smile in the chief of staff’s direction. “Didn’t I tell you Harry’s the most humble guy around?”
“You did, sir,” she said.
The president said, “You’re a good man, Harry. You were certainly a huge help in delivering Florida for the Keyes-Grayson ticket in the last election.”
“That was my pleasure, sir.”
“Hard to believe we’re less than two years away from another election. Florida will be a key state again.”
“It’s the political story of the twenty-first century: Florida, Florida, Florida.”
“You’re one of the most popular governors that crazy state has ever had. If it weren’t for term limits, I would have put my money on a third term for you.”
“Thank you for saying that, but I have no regrets about moving on.”
“Well, you have certainly kept moving. As you should. You’re a young man.”
“Not as young as you, sir, and getting older every day.”
“Hell, you’re not even eligible for Medicare yet. The bipartisan leadership role you’ve played in disaster relief efforts since your exit from politics has been nothing short of amazing.”
“It’s fulfilling work.”
“Not to mention high-profile. Everyone from Floridians and their hurricanes to Californians and their earthquakes has taken notice.” The president leaned forward in his chair, looking Harry in the eye. “Voters have taken note.”
“Sir-”
“The work you and Phil were doing in the Everglades shows your commitment to the environment. And who knows more about dealing with the burdens of immigration and illegal aliens than a former governor of Florida? Another hot-button issue.”
“Sir, I’m retired, and I-”
The president silenced him with a slow but firm shake of his head.
“I’m not taking no for an answer, Harry. I went through this short-listing exercise a year ago when Phil had his heart surgery. My list hasn’t changed since then. I want Governor Swyteck to be my new vice president.”
“Whoa-” said Jack. It was purely a reflex.
“Double whoa,” said Harry.
Chapter 5
Washington was dressed in black. Flags were flying at half-staff. The country was in an official period of national mourning.
It had nothing to do with Jack approaching forty.
“The nation has lost a great and faithful servant,” President Keyes said in a televised address from the White House, “and I have lost a dear friend.”
William Grayson was the eighth U.S. vice president to die in office, only the second since the passing of President McKinley’s would-be successor in 1899-and the first to be chomped by an alligator. The official cause of death was myocardial infarction, which gave his loved ones the comfort of believing that he’d probably never felt the removal of his right foot and ankle.
Funeral services began the following Monday on Capitol Hill, where Grayson’s body lay in state in a flag-draped oak casket atop the Lincoln catafalque. Family, friends outside the Beltway, and a short list of dignitaries assembled on Thursday to pay their final respects in the vice president’s hometown of Madison, Georgia. The flu kept Mrs. Swyteck from traveling, so Harry brought Jack.
“Name, please,” the Secret Service agent said.
Jack and his father were standing where the taxi had dropped them, outside an iron gate at the entrance to a long and winding brick driveway.
Madison was the historic Georgia town that Union general William Tecumseh Sherman had refused to burn in his march to the sea. The Graysons lived in one of the surviving antebellum mansions, and it was mildly ironic that Phil Grayson became the first vice president to die in office since James Sherman, a relative of the scorched-earth general who had spared the Grayson home. It was a handsome Greek revival-style mansion with a sloping front lawn that was a leafy blanket of kudzu beneath a forest of oaks, magnolias, and dogwood trees. Jack imagined that in spring it would have been a colorful setting, but today’s skies were fittingly gray, and a cool mist in the air was turning colder by the minute. Jack had heard that north Georgia could be balmy even in December, but there must have been some kind of meteorological law against it whenever a thin-blooded Floridian showed up with no coat or umbrella.
“Jack and Harry Swyteck,” his father said.
The agent checked the printed guest list and then double-checked by radio communication. The gate opened, and a black Town Car took them up the driveway to the front door. An attendant escorted them inside. An old friend immediately pulled Harry into a circle of guests, and Jack let him go it alone, opting out of the “this is my son” tour.
The first thing Jack noticed was not the period antiques or priceless artwork, but the fragrance. The interior French doors that connected the foyer, parlor, and living rooms had been opened to create the effect of one continuous room that ran the length of the house, and it was a bower of southern smilax, green palms, white roses, and chrysanthemums.
The second thing he noticed was the tall brunette across the room. She was downright stunning, even dressed in conservative funeral attire, but her eyes showed signs of fatigue, as if broadcasting to the world that she was Phil Grayson’s daughter.
Jack’s cell vibrated in his pocket. He checked the number. Theo-the guy had a sixth sense for interesting women. Jack stepped outside onto the porch to take the call.
“Dude, how’s it going?” said Theo.
Bar noises from Sparky’s Tavern were in the background, and Jack knew instantly that this was another one of those pointless calls that Theo made from work just to pass the time.
“It’s about what you’d expect,” said Jack.
“That bad, huh? Any babes?”
“Theo, I’m at a funeral.”
“That sounds like a yes to me. Who is she?”
It was one of Theo’s favorite games-getting men in committed relationships to admit that they could identify every beautiful woman in any room they ever entered, whether it was a wedding or a funeral. Jack could never fool him, so he just gave it up.
“All right. You got me. Grayson’s daughter is a knockout.”
“You gonna get her number?”
“No.”
“Jack, Jack. You disappoint me.”
“First of all, I’m dating Andie. So why are we even having this conversation?”
“Because you’re not married, and you automatically assume that a gorgeous woman is off-limits. That’s wrong.”
“Look, even if I wasn’t seeing Andie, and even if this wasn’t Phil Grayson’s funeral, she’s in her twenties and I’m, you know”-Jack could barely say it-“hours away from forty.”