Page 2 of Air Force One
“—with the way you hate clothes.” Miranda had rather enjoyed finding a dress that wasn’t annoyingly annoying. Clothes were always a challenge as she couldn’t stand the touch of synthetic fabrics. Or clothing tags. Or too many seams, like Rose’s must have. Or washed with scented soaps.
“Perhaps she should have a casual beach wedding.” There was something about Rose’s smile that said she was having…fun? Oh, perhaps she was teasing Holly? Another thing Miranda’s autism rarely allowed her to identify.
“That is a good idea.” Whether or not it was a tease. Holly said she’d burned her military uniform the day she left the Australian Special Air Service Regiment, and she’d never worn a dress and wasn’t about to start now. She had finally accepted the idea of a nice pantsuit—after Andi had made some dire threats if she showed up at the White House in her normal jeans, t-shirt, and ball cap for the Australian women’s soccer team.
“What part of never getting married didn’t you understand?”
Rose touched Holly’s arm in that way she did. “I’m finding it curious that you’re more nervous at Miranda’s wedding than she is.”
Miranda nodded. That was curious. She was simply glad to be here, though it had included an odd series of events.
She’d called Lizzy to ask if she and Drake wanted to come to her wedding. Miranda had been Lizzy’s maid of honor, so it only made sense. That they were one of the top Washington, DC, power couples—as the future and present Chairmans of the Joint Chiefs of Staff—had never entered her thoughts until Mike had pointed it out later. She’d worked with both of them until they became friends.
But when President Roy Cole heard, he’d insisted on being the officiant and had proposed shifting the wedding to DC in January. She and Andi had planned on a backyard spring wedding, but Roy’s second term of office ended in three weeks. Andi had been glad to move up the date, so they’d all come east. They had kept it small. Which was good, as Miranda had never much enjoyed crowds.
General Drake Nason had insisted on the privilege of giving her away. He looked very impressive in his Army uniform with the four stars on his lapel and all the medals he’d been awarded over the years. Drake, too, was retiring at the end of Roy’s presidency. Roy himself had opted not to wear his old Green Beret uniform. Because, he’d said, I don’t wish to be outranked at your wedding day by a mere upstart of a 75th Ranger turned four-star general.
Miranda didn’t understand. The President was the Commander in Chief, and he was the one who had promoted Drake to being the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff; there was no question of who outranked whom in this case. Yet they had always fomented a rivalry between the Rangers and the Green Berets, though the President hadn’t served in over thirty years. Whatever the explanation, Roy instead opted for a three-piece suit that First Lady Rose said he looked positively yummy in. Why she used an adjective appropriate for food products rather than people, Miranda decided she’d rather not know.
“I’m not nervous,” Holly began pacing from one side to the other of the living room, like a caged…Holly.
Sometimes metaphors were not Miranda’s friend. This one eluded her.
“I’m allergic to weddings.”
With a complete lack of histamines, Miranda couldn’t imagine what immuno-suppression vector that would require, but she’d never researched the possibility. She reached for her personal notebook, except her dress didn’t include a pocket for one. It was a major oversight. Without her notebook, she would now be distracted throughout her own wedding, making sure that she remembered to delve into that question at her earliest opportunity. But then how could she possibly remember her lines for the ceremony at the same time?
“Holly, can you do something for me?”
“Sure. What? Is it far away? Where’s the antipode; can you send me there? Please!”
“No. Besides, the antipode is very wet. The opposite side of the Earth from the White House lies in the Indian Ocean, twelve hundred kilometers southwest of Australia, so why would I send you there? No, the favor I need is that I don’t have my personal notebook, and I need to remember to research how it is possible for you to be allergic to weddings.”
“I’m not allergic to weddings.”
“But you just said— I’ll never understand neurotypicals.”
Rose laughed. “Holly Harper may be many things, Miranda, but typical is not one of them.”
Holly’s protest was unconvincing even to Miranda’s ear. Holly began picking at her maid-of-honor blazer’s sleeves like they were…covered in fleas? That wasn’t a nice metaphor; Miranda edged away a step just in case it was true.
Rose braved the metaphor and gave Holly a gentle hug that didn’t appear to do anything to calm her down. What was the point of being able to tolerate a hug if it didn’t calm a person down?
Miranda wanted to ask, but Drake joined them to say that Roy and Andi were ready for them.
Before leading the way into the Yellow Oval Room on the second floor of the Residence, Rose started the player with the lovely Bach Goldberg Variations. Much prettier than Mendelssohn’s overused “Wedding March.”
Miranda waited for Holly to follow Rose, then she stepped through with Drake on one side and Meg trotting along on the other.
Miranda and Andi had agreed they wanted a small, simple ceremony. She’d invited the rest of her team: Jeremy, Taz, and Mike. The President had invited the President-elect and VP-elect, Sarah Feldman and Carl Crawford, respectively.
These are the two you’ll be working with after I’m gone. It will be a good chance for you all to get to know each other better.
Miranda knew neither one very well, but if Roy thought it was a good idea, she knew it was. Jeremy had worked more with Sarah than she had. But Miranda had been surprised that Andi didn’t know VP Crawford, he was a former Army general after all.
He retired into politics while I was still lieutenant. There were over a million of us in the service, you know.
One-point-three-four at the time you left, Miranda had corrected her.
