At Any Cost by Cara Ellison

nuzzling into each other, holding hands, sharing a kiss in Central Park one snow-covered Christmas, holding Fallon as a newborn as they gazed at each other like the whole world beyond them had faded to black.
    They had not been faking their love. Something horrible but not dramatic had happened in the intervening years—the love that had once been all-consuming had slowly disintegrated. After it was gone, they could not even respect one another. In the space where happiness and contentment and commitment had once existed, hatred and resentment had thrived. Now they could not stand to look at each other.
    Elizabeth guided a rolling garment rack from the closet. Gently holding up the plastic, she revealed a stunning one-shoulder silver ball gown. “What do you think?” she asked. A dreamy smile of pleasure appeared on her face as she lightly caressed the delicate fabric.
    Fallon reached for something to say, but failed. Elizabeth had been looking forward to the inauguration because it was a connection to her movie star days—the glamour of beautiful styling, the veneration of the masses. Her mother craved spectacle and longed for her former life of acting and magnificent parties. So when she rolled out the gown, Fallon understood that the search warrant was nothing more than a passing inconvenience to her mother. She suddenly felt very small.
    â€œIt’s beautiful.” Fallon murmured the statement her mother no doubt wanted to hear. She watched Elizabeth feign happiness at Fallon’s approval, then look again at the gown, seeing in her mind’s eye how beautiful she would look in the pictures after the inauguration. The pictures were more real to her than the experience.
    â€œI should go,” Fallon said. “Dad is calling an attorney for me.”
    â€œNot yet,” Elizabeth said with a little smile. “I have a secret to tell you.”
    Fallon instinctively backed away. “Mother, we’ve discussed—”
    â€œNot that kind of secret,” she said coolly. She walked back into the sitting room and collected the document on her desk, the one she had been working on when Fallon arrived.
    â€œMy agent has sent what has to be the finest script I’ve read in fifteen years,” Elizabeth said. “It’s titled Kill Shot , directed by Quentin Tarantino.”
    The room fell silent and Fallon realized she was waiting for some kind of disclaimer. Such as: “Wouldn’t it be a hoot to actually do this?” Or: “Can you imagine?” Or, said with a smile of genuine depraved pleasure: “It would destroy your father to see me do this.”
    Instead, it became painfully clear that her mother was serious. The excitement about the prospect of making the movie manifested in the glow of her eyes, the slight Mona Lisa smile on her lips.
    â€œWhat did Dad say?” Fallon asked. It was the first thing that came to mind, and she instantly recognized that she had miscalculated. Elizabeth’s eyes darkened as her mouth tightened, injured by her daughter’s lack of instant support.
    â€œYou’re just like he is,” she said with a soft, low tone. She said this without any apparent anger; they could have been discussing the weather or diminishing rainfall averages in Peru for all the emotion she conveyed. But Fallon’s blood ran cold. “Why must everyone in this family have something for themselves but me? It seems terribly unfair. You have your career. Lord knows your father has his. Why is it that I am expected to simply sit quietly in the background? Am I nothing but a mother?”
    This was the primary battle her parents had been waging for at least two years. Her mother’s ardent desire to continue to make movies conflicted with Preston’s desire to appear to be an average American husband and father. It did seem rather strange and unseemly for a First Lady to continue her career, a fact that puzzled Fallon. Women,