He dabs at his eyes with a tissue. “Well, thank you again, President Samuels. Have a safe trip.”
“Thank you.”
He turns and follows the others, and I still don’t move.
I wait until they have all disappeared over the slight rise between us and the parking lot.
“Hon,” Chris whispers.
“No.”
I’m not a religious person. I believe in the law, I believe in science.
Even still, I try to seek out better angels, within others, and especially myself.
Chris shadows me, once again in Special Agent mode as I walk over to the coffin and rest my hand on it.
“I’m sorry, Laur,” I whisper. “I promise we’ll take care of him and love him.” I kiss my hand and touch the coffin, as does Chris, and then I finally allow him to lead me back to the motorcade.
* * * *
Chris asks one thing of the press corps riding in Air Force One on the way back to DC, and that is they do not film the children, or take pictures of them, or “interview” them. To please, for this one day, to treat them like normal children and just be their friends.
Once we’re wheels-up and reach cruising altitude, and with Yasmine shadowing them, Chris lets the kids roam the cabin, where they can forget for a little while that we were at a funeral for a woman they’d loved as family. They have fun running up and down the main corridor and talking to the crew and press.
I close myself in the office with Chris, locking the door behind us. There, he sits in the big chair behind my desk, and I curl up in his lap and cry.
There is an enormous hole in our lives right now. I know I can’t claim greater suffering than Kev and the Baltazars, but I need some private grieving of my own and don’t want to tie up the front suite when the kids might want to go there, plus Elliot’s traveling with us.
Making this journey without Kev, without Leo, and without Lauren only slams home the loss we’ve experienced.
Unfortunately, I don’t have the luxury of taking time off and escaping.
We have a country to run.
I call Angie once I’ve blown my nose and washed my face. “Release a statement from the Communications Department immediately, no byline,” I tell her. “Something along the lines of, ‘While it is with a heavy heart we say a final farewell to Press Secretary Lauren Baltazar today, President Samuels has directed Chief of Staff Kevin Markos to name Deputy Communications Director Angela Shibata as Ms. Baltazar’s replacement, effective immediately. The mark Ms. Baltazar left on our administration will never be forgotten. She was beloved by President Samuels and the First Family, as well as by White House staff and the press corps. The president is honored and humbled to have known her and call her a friend and adopted family. We ask the public please respects Ms. Baltazar’s family’s privacy through this trying time, and to direct any questions about the investigation into her murder to law enforcement.’ Got it?”
Angie sniffles. “Yes, ma’am. Thank you, ma’am.”
“Leo and Kev are staying behind overnight with her family,” I tell her. “That’s need-to-know. I’m going to call a gaggle here in a few minutes, so they’ll have the news about your promotion. The statement will be the official public word. Please type it up right now and send the final text to Chris so he can give it to me to look at. He’s watching my phone for me.”
“Yes, ma’am. I will.”
“Thanks.”
I end that call and take a deep breath. I know she’s not enjoying this promotion any more than I’m enjoying giving it to her, but Lauren had faith in her, and so do I. This is one thing I can take off Kev’s plate, and it means continuity in the administration.
“You should eat something, Shae,” Chris says. He’s ditched his jacket and tie, unbuttoned his collar, and rolled up his sleeves. I’ve changed into jeans and a blue, short-sleeved collared pullover with the Presidential seal embroidered on it. Barefoot, because I’m tired and done with this day.
“I’m not hungry.” Actually, I haven’t eaten all day, come to think of it. I had coffee this morning…and that was it.
But no, I’m not hungry. My body has hit one of those phases where food isn’t welcomed, and all I can do is ride it out. It’s happened to me plenty of times before in high-stress situations.
After approving the press release, I head aft. The kids are sitting in the conference room with Yasmine, Elliot, and reporters from MSNBC and BBC America. They’re playing some sort of card game. I stop by to kiss the tops of their heads.
The kids, not the reporters.
Duh.
“Whatcha playing?” I ask.
Myla looks up. “Uno.” She grins. “We’re kicking their butts.”
I need that laugh. Desperately. I level a warning finger at the lady from BBC America. “Watch out for Hudson, because he’ll distract you with his handsome charm so the girls can cheat,” I tease, which prompts laughter from all three kids, and a grin from Hudson.
Ivy rolls her eyes. “We only had him help us cheat one time, Aunt Shae.”
I’m aware of Chris shadowing me, standing back with his hands in his pockets and watching, listening, but not interrupting.
He’s trying to channel Kev for me, and don’t think I don’t know it.
Unfortunately, he’s not Kev. He’s my husband and sadist and takes damned good care of me, yes.
But he’s not my Sir, even though I call him that in private.
Chris helps with the private demons in my brain.
Kev quiets and calms my work ones.
I continue on to the press cabin, where they all fall silent when I walk in and step to the side so Chris can enter, then I retake my spot in the entry. I lean against the wall.
“Gaggle,” I say. “On the record, but please let’s keep this short and friendly, okay?”
It’s like a beast has come to life, and they’re all instantly ready for me, cell phones filming, notebooks in hand. I’m aware of the two reporters who’d been playing Uno with the kids now standing behind me in the corridor.
“There’s no easy way to say this,” I tell them. “Lauren wasn’t just my press secretary and director of communications—she was my friend. She was adopted family. Our kids called her ‘Aunt Lauren.’ But we have a country to run, and that means we have to move on. She would have wanted that. In fact, she’d probably be yelling at me for waiting this long to announce this. I’ve directed Chief of Staff Kevin Markos to promote Deputy Communications Director Angela Shibata to Press Secretary and Communications Director, effective immediately. Questions only about this, please?”
The WaPo reporter, Bill Graham, is closest, has seniority, and goes first. He’s in his sixties, and we’ve had a genial relationship ever since I was first elected to the Senate. Before my ascension to the presidency, I was his deep background for more stories than I can count over the years, and he’s always treated me fairly. He and Lauren had a good working relationship.
His question nearly drives me to tears. “Are you all right, ma’am?”
I shake my head. “No, I’m not. For all the reasons. But like I said, she’d kick my butt for not picking up and moving on.”
He sadly smiles. “Yeah, she would. I remember when I first sat down for drinks with her when she and Kev were together, and she got her big break at FNB…”
What started out as a gaggle becomes an informal wake for us. Everyone shares stories, laughs, and cries some more. I ask the flight attendants to bring a couple of bottles of alcohol for the drinkers, and soda water for the non-drinkers.
I stand there with my shot glass of Fireball—Lauren’s favorite—held in the air, and everyone waits on me to speak.
“To Lauren,” I finally say. “Kick-ass friend, superhero press secretary, and beautiful, kind soul. May she know nothing but easy deadlines, typo-free copy, and eager sources willing to talk on deep background.” That prompts some tearful laughter and calls of here, here and To Lauren as we all take a drink.
I end up sitting in one of the press seats as we talk. I know phones and cameras are shut off, and even though we’re on the record, I’d be willing to bet none of this part of it ever makes it public, beyond a generic line or two about us all talking and remembering her fondly and toasting her memory.
“I hear Congressman Markos was running his mouth after the news broke she was murdered,” a reporter from the The New York Times says, his tone dark. “Damn jerk. She smacked him down good last week. That was the most epic burn ever. I hope Angie doesn’t take any shit from him…”
We’re definitely off the record now, from the way they’re all talking.
We’re still sitting there and chatting when the crew notifies me we’re going to be landing soon.
I stand and take a deep breath. “Off the record,” I say, just to clarify, and I wait a moment in case anyone is still recording.
Once I know I have all eyes on me, I continue. “Please give Angie a day or so to get her feet under her, okay? She was friends with Lauren, too. She’s worked with her for years, and this is as hard on her as it is on any of us. She’s heartbroken she couldn’t be here today, but she didn’t have doctor’s clearance to fly.”
They all know Angie was treated for a detached retina last week. Something about the pressure changes and flying could screw up the repair.
“When will she be moving into Lauren’s old office?” another asks.
I feel my breath hitch. “I’m going to wait for Kevin to decide that. We still haven’t packed her things. We were waiting for the investigators to tell us it was okay, and he’s listed as her next of kin. Please, don’t ask him about that. We’ll let you know once she’s moved. Thank you.” Chris and I return to the suite, where the kids, Yasmine, and Elliot are already buckled in.
Chris kisses me before he takes his seat. “That was perfect, sweetie.”
Late that night, once we’re back at the White House and the kids are in bed, I walk down to the West Wing. It’s weird being…alone.
I bypass my office for Kev’s, where I go sit in the chair behind his desk, curling up there and closing my eyes, my arms wrapped around my knees and wishing he was here so I could comfort him.
After a little while, I circle around to Lauren’s office and take a deep breath before stepping inside. This place will not be the same without her.
Not in a good way, either.
I sit on the sofa and stare at her desk, at the drawings from Hudson, Myla, and Ivy tacked to her bulletin board.
The pictures on the bookshelf behind her desk, of her with her parents, of her and Kev, of her and the kids. In a way, we were her family, too.
How many hours did she and I spend in here together? I could always count on her for pushback when I headed astray. Even if she disagreed with me, when I had a stated course, if I strayed from it she would steer me back, or prompt me to officially change course.
I’d even reached a point, although I’m not consciously sure when I did, where I could go weeks at a time without thinking about her being Kevin’s ex and how she knew his O-face the way I did.
My jealousy had waned and faded, because I know where his loyalties lay.
I remember one night when they told me she was still here and working at eleven p.m. that I had the chef make a cheeseburger for her, the way she liked it, and I hand-delivered it to her.
Then we sat and talked for another hour.
She never asked me about Kev and Chris. Ever. I pretended like I didn’t know there was a lie in place.
In some ways, she was a younger sister to me. She was Kevin’s muse, his confidant.
“Shae?”
I look up to see Chris standing there, wearing a T-shirt and sleep pants, barefoot. His hands are shoved in his pockets and he leans against the door frame.
“Hey.” My gaze fixes and focuses on a picture of her and Kev in Japan. I know from Kev it was taken on their honeymoon.
I also know from Kev that, at the time, his mind was on Chris.
There will always remain an incomplete triangle for Kev now, of his memories of and love for Lauren while he’d secretly held Chris in his heart.
He walks in and I make room for him on the couch. “You all right?” he asks.
“Why the hell can’t they figure out who did it?” I ask. “They haven’t caught the fucker who killed Charles and Tory. They can’t track this sonofabitch down. We can spy on people from fricking space, but these two fucks are still out and free. What the hell?”
He gathers me into his arms. “I know, sweetie.”
Chris was in law enforcement, so his reaction to the lack of resolution in Charles and Tory’s case will differ greatly from Kev’s to Lauren’s murder. Chris is pragmatic.
“I want to be there with him,” I say. “I want to hold him.”
He nuzzles my forehead. “Me, too.”
This has to be killing him. “How can you be so calm?”
“I don’t have a choice, sweetie.”
I sit there with him for another few minutes before he stands and holds his hand out to me. “Bed, girl. Now.”
Part of me wants to rebel, to refuse, to claim executive privilege in this moment, and sit here and grieve.
I can imagine Lauren shooing me out of her office, chastising me that I’m not accomplishing anything by sitting here and sulking.
I can also imagine Kev standing there in full-on Sir mode and telling me I need to get upstairs and get to sleep, because the PDB will happen early.
I take Chris’ hand and let him lead me upstairs.
Chapter Nineteen
The next morning, after I help Chris get the kids off to school, I head downstairs with coffee but without eating breakfast. My stomach isn’t thrilled with the idea of solid food.
My secretary is already at her desk. “Any word from Leo or Kev this morning?” I ask.
“No, ma’am. Do you want me to get them on the phone for you?”
Do I?
I could call or text Kev directly except, under the circumstances, if I do that and it’s not about work, I know he’ll kill me.
The optics.
Motherfucking optics.
“No,” I tell her. “But let me know if they check in, please.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
I don’t even pause in the Oval Office. I walk straight through to my study. I’m due my PDB any moment now, but my routine is thrown off without Kevin walking into the West Wing with me.
I force myself to sit down behind my desk in the study, take a deep breath, and hold it for a moment before letting it out.
I have a job to do.
The world can’t stop just because I’m…off-kilter.
I have to get back to work, the reelection campaign—everything.
It’s not fair, but it’s life.
My life.
Once the PDB ends, I find Chris standing in my study door with a plate in hand and another cup of coffee. “You didn’t eat this morning.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“You didn’t eat dinner last night. And when I thought about it, I don’t think you ate the day before, either.”
He’s right, but I wasn’t saying anything.
He walks in and shuts the door with his foot. Then he sets everything on my desk and stands there, arms crossed over his chest. Today he’s wearing jeans and a light blue chambray shirt, button-up, with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. No tie.
Casual, for him, for a work day.
But he’s channeling Sir.
Or, he’s trying to.
It is ironic that the sadist isn’t Sir the way Sir is. I’ve seen Kev reduced to tearful begging for release by this man, and yet, to me, Kev is still in certain ways a scarier Sir than this Sir is.
Chris is the Rottweiler, and Kev is the Border Collie.
You ever fuck with a Border Collie when they’re trying to get you to do something? They’re persistent, they don’t give up, and they are used to single-handedly corralling l
arge numbers of very stupid beings and getting them to do exactly what they want them to do.
Border Collie.
Sure, a Rottweiler can fuck up your day, but most of them are sweet, adorable snot-demons who are great to have backing you up, but you know damn well most of them, they’re not “dangerous.”
Chris has brought me a toasted bagel with cream cheese, a hard-boiled egg, a banana, and a blueberry muffin.
He points at the plate. “There’s got to be at least one thing on there you can eat this morning. So…eat.”
I sit back and stare at him with an eyebrow arched.
He breaks first about thirty seconds later. “Why isn’t this working?” he mutters. “It works when he does it. I’ve seen him get you to do self-care when you’re close to dropping from exhaustion and haven’t eaten in days. He can make you eat when I can’t. What the fuck, Shae?”
I take pity on him and reach for the banana, which I think I might be able to manage a couple of bites of. “Because I’m scared of him,” I tell him. Which is the truth.
Don’t ask me why—I don’t know.
Why are sheep scared of the Border Collie?
Not even the bad kind of scared. That’s stupid, yes, but I can’t explain it. Do I think Kev will harm me? No.
Still…
“Yeah, see, I don’t get that,” Chris says. “I’ve put bruises all up and down your ass. You’ve seen what I do to him. I’ve broken into your house, tied you up, nearly choked you unconscious, and had really long, hard, raunchy sex with you, and you aren’t scared of me?”
After slowly peeling the banana about halfway down, I sit back in my chair and fellate the fruit.
All while my eyes stay fixed on his. And as a realization rumbles through me that, no, I can’t eat. If I try, I’ll puke.
A deep, low rumble rolls from him and I watch the front of his jeans fill in. “That’s a dangerous game, girl. You want to brat me, I’ll throw you over my shoulder and carry you upstairs right now and spank your ass. I can get away with that. I’m your husband. Secret Service will snicker and laugh at us and hold the door for me so I can carry you through.”
I deep-throat the banana, because I just figured it out myself, the answer to his question.
Diligence (Determination Trilogy 2) Page 15
