President Pro Tem

By Kelvin L. Reed

“The president died earlier this morning in his sleep.”

That’s the startling news Carla Hamilton, fashion model turn politician—and the first African American woman to serve as vice president of the United States—receives a month after an election that will turn the country over to a new president. Carla understands she will occupy the Oval Office for only six weeks.

But in Washington, D.C., six weeks is a lifetime.

Hours after being sworn in, Carla is confronted by numerous challenges that test her determination. She must resolve a fast-moving international hostage crisis, manage a dysfunctional White House staff and stave off attempts to usurp her authority by the devious president-elect, who has unearthed dirt about her past. Carla’s hectic life is further complicated by family problems and the attraction she feels for her chief military adviser. Is it all too much for one person to handle?

President Pro Tem presents a compelling story complete with all the essentials necessary to captivate the reader: an attractive and intelligent heroine, political intrigue—and a touch of forbidden romance.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kelvin L. Reed
• Release date: Mar 6, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476244235

Kelvin L. Reed

Kelvin L. Reed grew up in Milwaukee, Wisconsin along with his five brothers. He attended college in his home state, eventually earning a Ph.D. in counseling psychology from the University of Wisconsin-Madison. Kelvin has spent virtually his entire adult life working in the field of education. Currently, he is a public school counselor. He and his wife reside in Las Vegas, Nevada.

Book preview

PRESIDENT PRO TEM

a novel

by

Kelvin L. Reed

Smashwords Edition

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Published on Smashwords by:

Kelvin L. Reed

President Pro Tem

Copyright 2010 by Kelvin L. Reed

ISBN 978-1-47624-423-5

Cover design by Todd Engel

Booklocker.com, Inc.

2010

www.kelvinlreed.com

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

Smashwords Edition License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal use only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.

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Also by Kelvin L. Reed

Rookie Year: Journey of a First-Year Teacher

Midnight Sunshine

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Acknowledgements

First of all, I thank my sweet and wonderful wife, Marieta, for her willingness to sacrifice so much of our precious time together, which enabled me to complete this novel. As my initial reader and critic, her contributions have been extremely valuable throughout the process of writing this book.

I thank Hope Hotchkiss, who also served as a reader and adviser.

I thank my family for their continued support throughout my life, especially my brother Melvin. I also thank friends Jimmy, Ken, Rod, Hugh and Barry for their friendship and encouragement in all my endeavors.

I thank my high school English teacher Arvid Goplen, who was the first person to suggest that I keep writing. I also thank mentor D. Mark Rider, who challenged me to become a better writer. I’m still working on that.

Finally, I thank attorney Joseph Hill in Madison, Wisconsin, whose generosity years ago helped me to finish graduate school.

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This book is dedicated to my beloved wife, Marieta, and to my dear, departed brother, Gregory

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CHAPTER ONE

Madame Vice President, I’m sorry to wake you but we have a situation here at the White House that requires your immediate attention.

Carla Hamilton could feel her heartbeat accelerate. The president’s chief of staff had never awakened her in the middle of the night before. She glanced at the digital clock on the telephone base. Four thirty-seven. Make that early morning. What is it, Isaac? she asked before switching the telephone receiver to her right hand and sitting up in her king-size bed. What’s happened? She touched a remote control under her pillow to turn on a lamp next to the bed and derived some reassurance from the familiar surroundings.

Um, well, the man answered, I think it’d be best if I explained everything once you arrive. I-I mean…it’s not something I’d like to divulge even on this secure line.

Carla became even more uneasy. Isaac Gould took pride in his reputation as a cool, analytical man who managed the president’s time and attention with the precision of a skilled barber cutting a customer’s hair—and with about as much emotion. Yet for the first time in the eleven months since she had become the titular second most powerful person in the United States, the sixty-year-old chief of staff, eighteen years her senior, seemed a bit rattled. Carla pushed the covers down to her bare, bronze feet and swung her long legs over the side of the bed. Tell the president I’m on my way.

Your motorcade is being arranged as we speak, ma’am, ready to bring you here forthwith, Isaac informed her. I can’t stress enough how important it is that you come with all deliberate speed.

Carla closed her eyes, then opened them, trying to compensate for only having slept three and a half hours. She had recently returned from yet another state funeral—this time for a government leader in Europe. Isaac’s tone, indicating something was indeed very wrong, concerned her. I’m on my way, she replied with a stronger voice, wincing for repeating herself. Who else has been summoned? she added, trying to sound more like a woman of substance.

Please, ma’am, with your permission, I’d like to explain everything when you arrive. We’ll meet in the Roosevelt Room.

I’ll be there shortly, Carla assured him and hung up. She bounced out of bed, stepped into her slippers and darted into her large walk-in closet. Surrounded by hundreds of shoes and scores of tailor-made, size six suits, she replayed Isaac’s words while running her long fingers along the soft shoulders of a few possibilities. He had called her ma’am and had said with your permission. Since when did he start talking to her like that? A knock on the bedroom door interrupted her thoughts. Carla turned toward the closet entrance. Who’s there?

It’s Rose, Madame Vice President, a young woman with a thick Spanish accent replied, her voice muffled by the closed door. I was woke up and told to help get you ready.

Carla stepped out of the closet holding a dark blue suit with black trimmings on the collar, lapels and pockets. Come in, Rose, she called. A short woman barely in her twenties entered the room slightly dragging her left leg, the result of a childhood accident. She wore blue jeans and a teal housemaid top. Carla noticed the look of surprise on her visitor’s face and realized the young woman had never seen the vice president of the United States clad only in silk pajamas. She handed Rose the suit, then eased over to the foot of the bed and put on a purple bathrobe. You were awakened? By whom?

Some lady at the White House calling for Mr. Gould, Rose reported. "She say help you get ready rapido."

This seemed strange, Carla thought. The president of the United States is given a valet paid for by the taxpayers. However, besides the Secret Service detail lurking about the Vice President’s Residence, located on the grounds of the United States Naval Observatory, the veep has to make do with a couple of household employees who only clean. In fact, since Carla paid for Rose’s services as a domestic helper out of her own pocket, Isaac had no say-so about her duties. Did the woman who called say anything else?

Rose nodded. She say he say make sure you wear a dark suit.

Carla shifted her recently pruned eyebrows nearly together with bewilderment. Now Isaac was taking the time to pass on fashion suggestions? The whole situation grew even more bizarre. She approached Rose and pointed at the suit. Then I guess this’ll do.

Yes, ma’am. Do you want me to make you some herbal tea or fix you some breakfast?

No, thank you, Rose. Just—

I’d be glad to do it, Madame Vice President, the woman gushed. She spread the suit onto a four-foot-tall wooden valet in the corner of the room, then turned back to Carla. It don’t take much to fix you a nice—

Thank you, Rose, but I’m not hungry and there’s no time, Carla replied. Just have a glass of orange juice waiting for me when I get downstairs, please. She dashed back into the closet, returned with a pair of black shoes and handed them to the young woman. I’m going to take a quick shower and be on my way. She marched into the bathroom but stepped back to the doorway and spoke in a hushed tone. Mrs. Jefferson isn’t awake, is she?

Rose shook her head. No ma’am. Aunt Sofie— She put her fingers over her lips. I mean, Mrs. Jefferson’s still asleep. We watched a movie, then she go to bed around ten.

Carla smiled to assure the Peruvian native that her use of the familiar title, actually encouraged by Aunt Sofie, over Carla’s objections, would be overlooked. Thank you, Rose, she said. That’ll be all.

Yes, ma’am.

It took Carla thirty-five minutes to shower, dress and apply her make-up. Afterward, she stood in front of a full length, three-way mirror and assessed her appearance while listening to a cable news station on a television a few feet from the bed. The main headlines revealed no significant domestic or foreign crisis, not that the silly prattling of the attractive, late twenty-something female anchor would reveal anything significant anyway. Carla leaned closer to the mirror and nodded at her reflection. Although forty-two years old and the birth mother of a teenager, she had the face and body of a much younger woman and couldn’t help but take pride in that. The healthy lifestyle she had adopted over twenty-five years ago when she had begun working as a model had served her well.

She fastened her hair with a barrette, leaving several inches to fall below her neck, and rechecked her make-up. Satisfied, she pirouetted to inspect herself and her spacious, comfortable surroundings while rubbing apricot-scented lotion on her hands. Not bad for a little black orphan girl from Providence, Rhode Island, Carla whispered. She returned to the mirror and smiled as she recalled frequent, past adoring exclamations from her two late husbands:

Baby, you look so beautiful!

Carla, you were by far the loveliest woman at the party!

Suddenly, she felt lonely. She missed having a man to love, hold onto and make love to at night. God had blessed her with two fine, although somewhat different men whom she had loved very much. But why had He chosen to take them from—"

A loud commercial reminding viewers that Christmas would arrive in a little over two weeks broke her pondering. Carla refocused on Isaac’s telephone call: So her boss had finally asked her to do more than attend the funeral of some corrupt foreign leader or make an appearance at some ethnic function. Not a minute too soon, with a mere six weeks to go before handing over leadership of the country to a new president and vice president on January 20. But if a crisis existed, why meet in the Roosevelt Room instead of the Situation Room?

That mystery notwithstanding, Carla was thrilled at finally being summoned by the president to help manage a major crisis but apprehensive about what news she would receive once she reached the White House. She pointed at the woman in the mirror. No time for excessive primping, she scolded. One should never keep the president waiting. She turned off the television and the lights, then dashed out the door.

•

Just before five-thirty, Carla entered the windowless Roosevelt Room in the West Wing of the White House, primarily used for small conferences and meetings. Light from the vast, false skylight and thirty recessed overhead fixtures flooded the room. She was surprised to see Isaac sitting near the door at the end of a large conference table, alone. She had expected to see a dozen or so presidential advisors awaiting the entrance of the commander-in-chief. Isaac stood, straightened his tie and tucked it inside the jacket of his rumpled, gray pinstriped suit. His appearance clashed noticeably with the room’s colorful Chippendale and Queen Ann Style furniture. His usually baggy eyes were even more so, and red. He greeted Carla as she neared the table.

Good morning, Madame Vice President, he opened. How was your trip?

Carla approached the obviously tired man. Both stood five feet, ten inches tall but Carla’s heels gave her the advantage. She found his formality puzzling but returned his greeting and opened her hands. Where is everybody? Where’s the president?

Well, Madame Vice President, Isaac mumbled. He—they’re waiting in my office, but the president… His voice trailed off. Can I have someone bring you something? A bite to eat, some tea or something?

No, thank you. I’m fine, Carla answered. You were telling me about the president?

He’s not here.

I can see that, Carla snapped, beginning to lose patience. I don’t understand what’s going on, but somebody better tell me, she ordered. And I mean right now.

I apologize, Isaac muttered. This isn’t easy. He removed his glasses. Well, y-you see—

Just then Carla heard a knock on the door and another man about Isaac’s age entered the room. He held a large, black book in his right hand. Carla felt pleased and relieved to see her mentor and predecessor; the man who had until a year ago been vice president. He and Carla shook hands.

Christian, Carla said. What are you doing here?

Christian Witherspoon frowned and turned to Isaac. Jesus, Isaac, you mean you haven’t told her yet?

Carla rolled her eyes at the resumption of the personal rivalry in which the two men had been engaged for years. Isaac had been opposed to Christian as the president’s vice presidential running mate. Christian’s lifetime appointment to chief justice of the U.S. Supreme Court, which had also been opposed by Isaac, allowed him to speak however he wished to whomever he wished. Carla glanced at Isaac, then Christian. "He hasn’t told me what?"

Isaac ran his hands through his thinning, graying hair. I was just telling her, Christian, before we were interrupted, he explained, clearly annoyed. He turned back to Carla. What I’ve been trying to say and obviously not very well is… He sighed and took a deep breath. The chief justice is here to administer the presidential oath of office. He paused and pointed. "To you."

Carla’s heart beat so fast and hard she feared the two men would notice her torso shaking. To me? W-what do you mean?

Isaac lowered his head. The president died earlier this morning in his sleep. For the next six weeks you’ll be president of the United States.

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CHAPTER TWO

Sweetie, time to get up and meet your foster brothers and sisters.

Carla could feel a hand gently shaking her. She rolled over and opened her eyes. The slanted ceiling and dark paneling on the walls looked unfamiliar. She could hear the voices of children outside the small room but couldn’t make out their words. The girl turned her attention to the twin bed in which she had spent the night and the woman sitting on it. The woman, wearing a satiny brown dress with long sleeves, looked older and thinner than her mother but spoke with a softer voice. But why was this woman waking her instead of her mother, who always called her Pumpkin, or her father?

You’re the youngest, Carla Mae Bailey, the woman declared. The sunlight streaming in from a nearby window bounced off her glasses. She pointed at the matching bed a few feet away. LaWanda—that’s the little girl who was asleep in that bed when you came in—she’s six-years old, but since you’re only five, that makes you our baby.

Carla didn’t recognize the long, yellow nightshirt she wore with its white dancing bunnies either. Where am I? she asked in a barely audible voice.

You’re still in Providence, dear. A few blocks from where you were living.

Carla felt a sharp pain in her chest; not physical but an emotional one. Yes, now she remembered. The white lady wearing the green dress too small for her had brought her here. After Carla’s mother had screamed. After her father had cursed. After the loud, terrifying crash. After the police had pulled her out of the wreckage. After the ride in the ambulance with the loud siren. After the doctor and nurse had proclaimed, Not a scratch. The white lady, who wore too much perfume, said she was a social worker. She had brought Carla to this woman’s house and had told her she would stay here until they got a hold of her mother or father’s relatives.

The mahogany-colored woman with the glasses shook the bed. Sweetie, you got to eat breakfast and get ready for church.

Carla sat up and swallowed. Her mouth felt dry from quietly crying herself to sleep. Church? she mumbled.

Yes, baby, the woman replied. Everybody in this house—all eight of us including me and you—goes to church every Sunday. You’ve been to church before, haven’t you?

Carla shook her head. No ma’am.

The woman shrugged. That’s alright, ‘cause you’re gonna be going from now on. She gently lifted the warm, multi-layered covers off Carla’s thin frame. Sunday school too. The woman got on her feet and spoke while slowly making her way to the door. Now go get washed up and I’ll take you downstairs to meet the other youngins.

Carla rolled out of bed. She felt hollow inside, like an old, unworn shoe. She kept hearing her mother screaming and her father cursing. The memory frightened her. She called to the woman: Ma’am…

The woman stopped and turned around. Child, I told you last night that everybody just calls me ‘Aunt Sofie.’  She looked Carla over and pointed. Just look at you. Ain’t nothing but a couple pairs of long arms and legs. We got to get some good meals into you.

Carla crawled out of bed but stayed close to it. Her broken heart hurt a little less due to the woman’s kindness. Aunt Sofie, she whined. My mommy and daddy…

The woman returned to Carla and kneeled. I know, sweetheart. It was a terrible thing and I’m so sorry. And I’m not just saying that. I lost folks I loved too—my husband and daughter—the same way four years ago come next month. She wrapped her arms around Carla and hugged her. Now I take in kids who need lookin’ after.

Carla welcomed the caring woman’s embrace and wished the feeling of warmth and protection from her strong arms would last forever, but a knock on the door shortened forever to only a few seconds.

A teenage girl’s voice boomed from the other side of the door. Aunt Sofie, will somebody tell Nanna that other people need to get into the bathroom downstairs?

Aunt Sofie released Carla. I got to go see to the others. She walked to the door and yanked it open. I’m coming. Her voice projected authority but not anger. Just then a dark girl with pigtails wearing a purple dress peeked into the room. The girl, about the same height as Carla, smiled and waved. Carla returned the wave but not the smile. Aunt Sofie pointed into the bedroom. LaWanda, would you help your new sister get ready while I go get Miss America out of that bathroom?

The girl nodded. Yes, Aunt Sofie.

Carla watched her new surrogate mother turn left and disappear. She wanted to call after her and plead with her to stay but understood that such an appeal would do no good.

The other girl entered the room leaving the door open, ushering in the aroma of cooked breakfast food from the kitchen downstairs. She proudly pointed at herself with both thumbs. My name’s LaWanda. I’m going to be a teacher when I grow up. What are you going to be?

Carla shrugged. I don’t know, a nurse, maybe. While her new sister explained the location of various items in the two-story home, Carla stared at the snow that had gathered on the windowpanes and sighed with loneliness. Aunt Sofie and LaWanda seemed nice enough, she thought, but she probably wouldn’t be staying with them for very long.

•

In her various roles, Carla had been questioned by the press numerous times: as a part-time model back in high school and college, as the supportive wife of a senatorial candidate, as the replacement candidate after the plane crash, as an elected senator herself, as the vice-presidential nominee following the withdrawal of two previous nominees, and as the first African American woman to become the country’s vice president. She had lost count of how many times she had faced the lights, cameras, microphones and questions.

But this was different.

This was her first appearance in the James S. Brady Press Briefing Room—built in the colonnade connecting the White House to the West Wing; her first appearance as the nation’s spokeswoman, the commander-in-chief of the military, the leader of her political party, and the chief executive of the federal government. Carla estimated approximately one hundred reporters stood before her, awaiting permission to sit in the most coveted seats of their profession. On each side and behind them, several dozen photographers, videographers and boom microphone operators jockeyed for position. Secret Service agents strategically placed throughout the room watched the crowd carefully. Carla could smell coffee and leftover fast food. Beverage cups, food wrappers, crumpled napkins and soft drink cans littered the area. She lamented that the prestige of the White House notwithstanding, no matter how often the room was cleaned, updated or renovated, it took the occupants little time to turn it into a cluttered dump.

Carla gripped the edge of the Blue Goose—the armored podium bearing the presidential seal—and stood erect, placing her weight equally on both feet. Her high heels and the podium’s slide-out step meant to bolster the speaker’s height produced an impressive figure. She glanced at her written text, checked her watch, and took pride on her punctuality. Exactly nine o’clock.

Please be seated, she instructed. The reporters obeyed as if she were the presiding minister of a church service. Good morning, ladies and gentlemen, Carla opened, her voice competing against the rapid-fire clicking of cameras. I will read a brief statement, then take a few questions. She took a deep breath and plunged ahead. As you already know, this morning at approximately three-thirty a.m., President Adam Fox was discovered dead by the first lady, Tiffany Hawthorne Fox. His death was caused by a combination of heart disease and a sleep disorder called central sleep apnea. The entire nation, including, if not especially I, am deeply saddened by the unexpected loss of a man who had faithfully and skillfully served this great country for over thirty-five years…

Reporters scribbled notes and cameras continued to be clicked as Carla read the statement composed for her by two presidential speechwriters. She hit all the necessary points: I’ve assumed the presidency according to the U.S. Constitution…I’ve met with the national security staff…I’ve spoken to the president-elect…I’ll meet with the cabinet and the president-elect later today… Carla paused to observe the reporters and suspected they listened out of politeness as they geared up for the juiciest part of the press conference: the Q & A, or question and answer, session. Two hours