by Tara Sue Me
The Secret Service agents look like they don’t know what to do. One of them whispers into his earpiece.
“Madame President,” the other says. “Is something wrong?”
I suppose that’s nicer than asking what the hell I’m doing up and out at this time of the morning. “Everything’s fine,” I assure him. “I just want to pick up a few files. Insomnia, such a pain. Might as well work.”
He smiles and nods, but I’m not sure if he does so because he understands or if he thinks I’m batshit crazy and is only humoring me. I know I have a staff of people who are completely capable of retrieving whatever I request, but there’s no reason for them to be up just because I am. Plus, there’s a reason I’m doing this in the middle of the night. I don’t want anyone to know what I’m doing.
It’s odd to see the West Wing at this time of morning, so quiet and empty. I walk quickly, my destination isn’t far. I don’t know if Navin’s file will have the information I’m looking for, but it’s a start and somehow seems less invasive than the other ways I have of finding out. David’s office is down the hall from mine, and he has the files I want. I step inside, wondering where he keeps everything.
I try his desk first. The top is neat and tidy, though honestly, I expected nothing else. The only personal item is a picture of him and Oliver that looks as if it was taken on their honeymoon. They look so good together, their joy makes me smile.
The bottom drawer on the right side of his desk has a rack holding files, and there’s a large section labeled “Press Pool.” It’d be obvious if I only took the one I want, so I take them all, leaving a note on his desk telling him what I’d done.
Once back in my room, I don’t even change out of my clothes back into pajamas before pulling out Navin’s file. Sitting on the couch in my sitting area, I open it and start reading.
Before being allowed on the Press Pool, every reporter underwent a background check. The agent performing the check wrote an in-depth report included in the paper file I retrieved from David’s desk.
The first part of the report in Navin’s file is interesting, but doesn’t contain what I’m looking for. I don’t need to know anything about his parents or his younger sister or where he was raised. I know from hearing it at Harvard that both sets of his grandparents immigrated to the US from Turkey before his parents were born. I scan through his childhood and early teen years, though I admit I do take more time looking through his high school and undergraduate years.
His academic record is impressive, but I knew that already. As I’d been told all those years ago, he graduated first in his class from a large high school and Columbia as well. I’m a little surprised to read he majored in journalism, but I suppose it makes sense knowing his current job. After Columbia, still driven by his high school dream to become a judge, he was accepted into Harvard Law and entered his first year as one of the top students in the class.
All it states about his sudden departure is it concerned a medical emergency for a family member. Nothing else is mentioned about law school or Harvard. From that point, the report moves to when he took a job at a local TV station. I close the folder.
Damn it. The only thing I learned was he dropped out because of a family medical emergency, which could be about anything. I can look it up, but I yawn. I have a busy day scheduled tomorrow, and it’ll go a lot smoother if I get a few hours worth of sleep. I can look into Navin’s family later.
I slide Navin’s file back into the larger hanging folder, and as I do, I see a name I don’t recognize. I yawn again. I’ll look at it later. Leaving the files where they are on the couch, I turn to go crawl into bed, not even bothering to undress again.
Chapter Eighteen
Him
The White House
Washington DC
A week after returning from London, Anna’s personal secretary calls to tell me President Fitzpatrick has requested to meet with me over breakfast the next morning. I can’t begin to think why Anna would want to share a meal with me. The only time in the last twelve years we’ve been able to talk longer than five minutes without an argument was at the balls and I chalk that up to there being so many cameras around.
Regardless of Anna’s reasoning, I tell Nicole it would be my pleasure. She confirms the time and location before disconnecting. Deciding I need a walk to stretch my legs, I stand and feel the weight of numerous stares. My fellow Press Pool members still don’t consider me to be one of them, even if they’re more willing to chat occasionally. No doubt they heard my half of the conversation and wonder what it would be my pleasure to do.
They can keep wondering. I’m not telling them.
As I’m escorted to the dining room the next morning, I still haven’t come up with a good reason for Anna to invite me to eat with her. My collar feels tight and I pull at it, attempting to loosen it up. The agent escorting me glances out of the side of his eye at me and I lower my hand. He mutters something into his earpiece, but I can’t make out what. If I had to guess, I’d say it had something to do with the flowers I have. He had to call his manager minutes earlier for approval for me to bring them in. I blame my mom.
My mother taught me to never show up for a meal at someone’s house without something to offer the host. I’m not so sure she meant for that to apply to the President and breakfast at the White House. Regardless, I couldn’t find it in me to show up empty handed.
After stressing out and giving the whole situation too much time and effort - there is no guide on the internet for what to bring the President for breakfast, FYI - I decided I wasn’t going to bring anything. Then halfway through my drive over I heard my mother yelling in my head and I made a quick stop by a florist.
Now, every eye is on me and I feel like an idiot because they all know I’m on the Press Pool and now they know I’m bringing flowers to the President. I shouldn’t care what people think, and the fact I do only proves how far gone I am for Anna.
Fortunately, the further we get into the White House, the fewer people we pass. We stop at the door to the dining room and once I step inside, I forget all about idiot me because Anna is, well, Anna.
“Madame President,” I say, hyper-aware we’re alone except for one Secret Service agent in a far corner. And that doesn’t count.
“Mr. Hazar,” she says, but her eyes are on the flowers. “Did you... Are those…”
I can’t talk for a second because I’ve never heard Anna stutter or not have the perfect words to speak. “I got these for you.” She doesn’t say anything as she takes the flowers from my outstretched hand, and I’m afraid I’ve made a terrible faux pas. “It’s probably inappropriate, but my mother would disown me if I showed up at someone’s house without anything.”
Her eyes are downcast and I can’t tell what she’s thinking. “You got me flowers,” she states.
I’m not sure if I should apologize or not, so I say, “Yes.”
She lifts her head. “Thank you.”
It’s my turn to be speechless, because for one glorious second when she looks at me and smiles, she’s just Anna.
She recovers quickly. Or at least that’s the impression she gives. The mask is back, her eyes hooded and expression calm. Just that fast, President Fitzpatrick has returned. “They’re beautiful.”
Of course, I’m useless. I have no idea what to say or how to react. It takes me a second to realize she’s talking about the flowers and not her eyes. I should probably say something about the flowers, but I can’t. Nothing on earth exists that could draw my attention away from her.
She heads to the table already set with silverware and china plates, and places the flowers gently by her place setting. With hands on her hips, she looks around, “Surely there’s a vase here somewhere.”
There are several cabinets in the dining room, but I’m not about to get up and rummage through them. Anna apparently doesn’t want to, either. She sits down, and I follow. “I’ll find one after breakfast,” she says. “I want them in my office,
anyway.”
It’s not until she speaks those words that it hits me the flowers have to go somewhere after breakfast. Not that this is new knowledge, just more proof being around her messes with my head. I’d never thought past breakfast.
Two servers enter the room. Their uniforms are pressed and sharp, not a wrinkle anywhere to be seen. One pours us each a cup of coffee while the other places a plate of delicious-looking Eggs Benedict in front of each of us.
“Shall I put those in a vase for you, Madame President?” the coffee pouring server asks with a nod toward the flowers.
“That would be lovely, Patrica,” Anna says, “And if it’s not too much, could you find someone to take them to my office?”
“I’ll get right on it, Madame President.” Patrica scoops up the flowers with her free hand and holds them up in inspection. I guess they meet her approval, because she nods and gives me a thumbs-up Anna can’t see. As she heads back to the kitchen, I realize I’m screwed.
The White House and its numerous employees are like a small town, and like any small town, there is a lot of gossip. I have little doubt that within two hours everyone under the roof will know I gave Anna flowers.
Oh, well, there are worse things to be known for.
We are about halfway into our breakfast, and we’ve only been exchanging small talk and favorite hockey teams. It’s pleasant, and for once we aren’t arguing. But I can’t believe Anna invited me to breakfast so we could discuss the potential for the DC hockey team to make the playoffs.
I wait until there’s a lull in the conversation. “As enjoyable as this is, I’m sure you had a reason for inviting me to breakfast.” After all, I haven’t heard of anyone else in the Press Pool being asked to breakfast. And with that group, I’d know. No way could anyone have been able to keep that quiet.
Anna shifts in her seat and I do my best not to stare. I can’t figure out what’s happening with her. We’ve been together this morning for maybe thirty minutes, no more than forty-five, and not only has she dropped her mask, but now she’s shifting in her seat. I’ve never seen her do either before and I can’t help but think I’m the reason.
I think back to our talk in the Oval Office and I groan internally. I’d made her admit she wanted me. What had I been thinking? She probably invited me to breakfast so she could tell me I had to quit or else she’d tell George I’d been harassing her. To add insult to injury, I brought her flowers this morning. I clench my teeth. How could I have been so stupid?
It’s too late to do anything now and I’m certain she’s getting ready to tell me because I’d just all but begged her to get it going.
She puts her fork beside her plate and clears her throat. I calmly place my hands in my lap and prepare to hear her ultimatum.
“I know I was an ass in the Oval Office, and I’m truly sorry. I said a lot of shitty things and hurt you. I’m not like that.” She takes a deep breath. “However, I did mean what I said on Air Force One, and if you don’t mind telling me, I’d like to know why you aren’t on my Supreme Court.”
My mind tries to process she’s offering a real apology and not issuing an ultimatum. It’s so much of a shock, it takes me a second or two to realize what she’s asked me. I hesitate before saying anything.
Now that I’m who I am in the world of broadcast journalism, I’m rarely asked about my time in law school. Even then if someone brings it up, I keep it brief by saying it was a personal family issue. I’ve received a few raised eyebrows with my answer, but so far no one’s been bold enough to ask for further explanation.
Across the table, waiting for my reply, Anna has no way of knowing this isn’t something I normally share. She’s watching me with those blue eyes of hers. They’re questioning me now because I’ve hesitated replying. All at once I realize I want to tell her everything. Not because she’s the President but because she, more than anyone else, knows how much I wanted to be a judge. Even more so, she’ll know the magnitude of what it would take to get me to walk away from that desire.
Chapter Nineteen
Her
The White House
Washington DC
He’s not going to tell me. I’m not going to take his silence on the topic personally. I’m not sure he’s ever told anyone why he quit. But just as I’m getting ready to tell him it’s okay, and I didn’t intend to pry, he gives me something that might resemble a smile if he didn’t look so sad when he gave it.
“It was two days after we…” he says, trying to find an appropriate word, I suppose.
God, that night. I remember it vividly. We’d finished the mock trial we’d been working on for months, and, on a whim, decided to hit the town in celebration. I can’t even blame it on the alcohol because I’d only had one beer, and I don’t think Navin had anything other than water.
When he drove me back to my apartment, he insisted on walking me to my door because it was late. Once there, I asked if he wanted to come inside. We both knew what I was asking, after almost a year of heated glances in our study group, and several not-so-accidental touches as we prepared for the mock trial, there was no doubt what would happen.
“Slept together,” I tell him. No use calling it something else.
He gives a curt nod. “Two days later, I’d been out jogging and had returned to my apartment,” he says. “Probably around seven in the morning.”
I definitely remembered him jogging. At the time, I was living in an apartment near campus, but even better, near a popular jogging trail. Every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, I’d make sure I was up at six so I could watch a shirtless Navin jog under my window at six fifteen and again on his way back at six forty-five.
“You always hear about the middle of the night phone call,” he continues, and I force the image of him shirtless out of my head. “No one ever warns you about the seven am phone call.”
My heart clenches because telling this is hard for him, even now, years later.
“My parents had another child shortly after I started at Harvard. A surprise baby.” He gives a little snort, almost a half laugh. “For years after I was born, they tried to have another child, and it never happened. They’d long given up when Mom went to her doctor, concerned about why she was going through menopause early only to find out it wasn’t that at all. She was pregnant.”
I can’t help but smile. It’s such a sweet story.
“They were overjoyed, of course.” It’s clear from the look on his face, they weren’t the only ones. “It was a difficult pregnancy, and Mom was put on bedrest at the end. When she went into labor at thirty-two weeks, they didn’t try to stop it. My little sister, Kyra, was tiny, but healthy. I fell in love with her the second I saw her. She was sweet and beautiful, full of life. We all called her Sunshine, because that’s what she was.” He shakes his head, and I know something horrible is getting ready to come out of his mouth because he’s talking about her in the past tense. But I don’t stop him from continuing. “The phone call at seven that day was from my father. Sunshine was only eighteen months old. At her well child checkup some of her labs came back abnormal. It turned out to be leukemia.”
My hand flies to cover my mouth. “Navin,” I said. “Oh, no. How horrible.”
He only nods. “She needed a bone marrow transplant. As a sibling, I was her best hope for a match. They called to see if I’d be tested. As it turns out I was a match. When I left Harvard to be tested, I thought I’d come back. It never occurred to me I wouldn’t. But the bone marrow surgery took a lot out of Sunshine, Mom and Dad were having a hard time managing everything.” He takes a deep breath. “Just when we thought everything was getting better, and I started making plans to return to school for the fall semester, Sunshine came down with an infection that hospitalized her for weeks. After that she was in and out of the hospital for months. I took a part-time job at the local television station to help out with the medical bills. By the time she was better, you guys had already graduated, and I was working in front of the camera
. Not to mention, the drive to Cambridge from Virginia is eight hours, and I couldn’t be that far away from family.”
Everything becomes more clear as he speaks of his sister and parents. I almost hate to ask my next question, but I need to know. “How is she now?”
His eyes light up at the mention of her. “She’s just turned thirteen and is driving Mom and Dad crazy with teenage girl drama. Skinner than she should be, but she always had a small frame. Tall, though, she could step on the boys her age.” His eyes go distant and I know he’s picturing her. “I saw her over Christmas when I went home. She begged me to bring her back with me to the city. She’s a dancer and dreams of dancing for either the New York City Ballet or the American Ballet Theatre.”
“She’s a ballet dancer?” I ask.
“Yes,” he says and looks at me funny. “Why?”
“I took ballet for a long time, and I too had dreams of being a professional ballerina. I had zero natural ability, but I was determined if practiced every spare minute I had, I could make it.”
“What happened?”
He looks genuinely interested. I don’t think he’s only pretending to be interested. “I had a growth spurt. And then another,” I say and he’s laughing at this point. “And another. Needless to say, that was it. Nothing you can do to change that. It was a hard lesson to learn, but looking back now, I can say I’m much better as President than I ever would be as a ballet dancer.”
“I can see that,” he says, surprising me.
“How’s your sister?” I ask because the intensity he’s looking at me with is making my cheeks flush.
He raises one eyebrow. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I’d much rather her be a dancer than the President.”
“You won’t insult me by either saying or thinking that,” I assure him. “Before I ran, I was sure you had to be missing most of your brain to run for office.”
