Game Over (13 page)

“Since I've cleaned you all out, pay up,” Harry said cheerfully.

Bert slid fifty bucks across the table. Ted signed an IOU for seventy dollars, explaining that he and Espinosa had left all their ready cash back on the table in Vermont.

Harry looked pointedly at Espinosa, who signed his own IOU for eighty-five bucks. Jack was the last to pony up, with forty-eight dollars.

Bert looked at his watch. “Looks like they're going to be in there for a little longer,” he said, jerking his head in the direction of the command center. “Let's head over to the dining room and guzzle a few beers.”

No one needed any urging as they beat a path to the door.

“I have a great idea. We can plan Ted's bachelor party while we toast him,” Jack said. “I think we should do it in Vegas, because you know what they say about Vegas. What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas, and we're definitely going to want whatever we plan to stay there. What do you say, Ted? Vegas?”

Ted nodded. “Why the hell not.”

“Once you put that ring on Maggie's finger, she's going to like the way it looks, and then she's going to start having second thoughts, and I betcha that inside of a month she's picking a wedding date,” Espinosa said.

“Who died and appointed you Mr. Bridal Consultant with all the answers?” Ted snarled.

“I have a lot of sisters, and that's the way it works. So, okay, don't believe me. See if I care,” Espinosa returned.

Ted wanted to cry all over again.

I
t wasn't that there was no activity at the White House; there was. Behind the scenes, people still moved about, seeing to things. The Secret Service moved a little slower, possibly a little quieter, because it was the middle of the night. Phones still rang; computers and printers were being utilized by a skeleton staff. The kitchen wasn't exactly a beehive of activity, but chefs were moving about, seeing that things were ready the moment the president woke.

No matter how hard the kitchen staff worked to anticipate this new president's culinary desires, they failed. One day the president wanted dry toast with elderberry jam, and the next day, peach-and-honey yogurt. On still another day she requested a grilled cheese sandwich on sourdough bread, for breakfast no less. Taking her requests as personal affronts, the head chef had scoured the District for elderberry jam, and now the pantry had a whole case of it, but the president had never asked for it again. The peach-and-honey yogurt expired before she could request it a second time. The sourdough bread grew healthy mold before she ever asked for it again.

The absolute bottom line for the head chef and all his staff was that coffee was to be ready at all times, even in the middle of the night. Freshly brewed when the request came in and five minutes to get it to her. The beans had to be freshly ground, and the president wanted only recycled filters used to filter the strong coffee. Under no circumstances was she ever, as in ever, to be served anything other than 100 percent Colombian coffee. The pantry held six burlap bags of the fragrant beans.

The president had been what the kitchen staff called uptight for the past week. She'd found fault with everything they prepared for her. Even the coffee. She'd made a special trip to the kitchen to ask the chef and his staff what
their
problem was. Then she had raided the pantry and the larder right under their noses and had had one of the staff carry everything up to her own personal kitchen, where she said she would cook for herself since they couldn't get it right.

There was turmoil among the Secret Service agents, who grumbled to their superiors, who told them just to do their jobs, and they knew that women were difficult to deal with at certain times of the month. They would try to share the burden fairly among those assigned to the president's personal detail.

The only person who appeared unaffected by the recent turmoil was the new chief White House counsel, Elizabeth Fox Cricket.

The scuttlebutt was that there was an internal war going on in the White House, and bets were being laid down as to who would win, the president or the people who worked for her. The current score was zip to zip.

The latest rumor to circulate was that heads were going to roll. But probably not till after the president's cockamamy patriotic party in February.

The night chef looked at one of four clocks he kept in his kitchen, four clocks so no matter if he was standing north, south, east, or west, he could see the time. Right now it was shy of five minutes to four in the morning. He anticipated a call any minute, because the president had a guest, who would undoubtedly be leaving soon. He was almost certain a call would come down for coffee, juice, and possibly bagels. He'd just made a batch, and they were still warm. He looked over at one of his assistants, pointed to a bowl of oranges, and said, “Squeeze them. Be sure there are no seeds left, and leave the pulp. The president likes pulp.”

Sad to say, the president and her guest would not be partaking of the chef's efforts on this particular morning.

Martine Connor rolled out of bed, took one look at the mangled sheets, then at the man sleeping peacefully on the left side of the bed. She pulled on her favorite robe to cover her naked body and ran to the kitchen. She felt like a giddy schoolgirl as she made coffee, squeezed six oranges, and sliced several stale bagels. When they were toasted, no one could tell that they weren't fresh, she told herself. She quickly set the table for two. Then she leaned against the counter to stare at her reflection in the black glass on the microwave's door. Considering the wild night she'd just had, she didn't look all that bad.

Where this relationship was going with Hank Jellicoe, she had no idea. She did admit to herself that she would like to see it go
somewhere,
though. She let a smile tug at her lips. Here she was, the leader of the free world, wondering where this particular relationship was going and worrying about her messy hair.

She heard him before she saw him. He was fully dressed in jeans, a flannel shirt, and sturdy boots. His hair was slicked back, and he smelled minty and manly when he took her in his arms. They both laughed when he nuzzled her neck and whispered, “Was it as good for you as it was for me?”

Then they both laughed out loud when she responded, “Better.”

The toaster oven pinged. Martine extricated herself from Jellicoe's embrace and proceeded to serve him breakfast.

“This is one for the books. The president of these United States is serving this lowly peon breakfast in the White House. I like it,” Hank said, chomping down on a bagel. “These are stale. You know that, right?”

“I was hoping you wouldn't notice. I like extra crunch.”

“I do, too, as long as it doesn't crack my teeth. Look at me, Marti. What's wrong? You're with me, but you're not. I'm a good listener, and you know I will never divulge anything you tell me. My clearance is at the top of the ladder.”

“I'm not trying to be evasive, Hank. It's personal, and I have to work it out in my own way and deal with it. I'm just not ready to talk about it to anyone.”

Hank finished his coffee in one long gulp and handed her the cup. The president hustled to fill it. Hank was chauvinist enough to appreciate the president hustling to please him.

“Don't you have any friends you can talk to? Women do that, I hear.”

“You can't have friends, living here. I used to have friends. I suppose you could say Lizzie Fox, my new chief White House counsel, is a close friend. At least she used to be. That's why I fought so hard to get her to take the job. I felt like I needed an ally in here. The only problem is, I don't have time to spend with her. I made a lot of concessions to get her to come on board, which means she's either eight to five or nine to five. She makes her own hours, and I think it's safe to say, she makes her own rules, too. I live in fear that she's going to bail on me.”

“Why would she do that?”

The president got up and pulled the belt of her robe so tight, she actually winced. “I didn't say she would. I said I live in fear that she might. She just got married, and her first loyalty is to her new husband. If her husband needed her, and she was in the middle of some earth-shattering crisis, she would flip me the bird, and off she would go. That's Lizzie, and there is no one in this whole wide world that I admire more than her.”

Jellicoe appeared thoughtful. “Does she feel the same way about you?”

“She used to. I don't see the harm in telling you I owe her a debt, and I made a promise to her, but I am having a hard time honoring that debt and honoring that promise. I want to so badly, I can taste it, but…other people are standing in my way. That's part of my problem.”

Jellicoe leaned in closer to the table. “Then get rid of those people, Marti. A person is only as good as her word. I personally want to believe that I am solid gold when it comes to my word or promises that I make. How else do you think I managed to survive in this business? I want you to think about that. Lizzie Fox is someone you never want to make an enemy of.”

Martine Connor's eyes popped wide. “Just like that? Get rid of them? Where do I find their replacements? I seem to be batting zip here with staff. Do you know Lizzie?”

“All you have to do is call me, and I can have your replacements on board within hours. People who will be loyal to you, people who have no agenda other than to serve at your command, people you will be comfortable with.
People you can trust.
Of course I know Lizzie. I know Cosmo, too. They're at the top of my short list of friends.”

“You never told me you knew Lizzie.”

The president's voice was so accusatory, Hank reared back in his chair. He looked at his breakfast partner and saw the panic on her face. “I know a lot of people, Marti. Why would you think I should mention the names of my friends to you? I didn't see you mentioning any of yours first crack off the bat. What difference does it make, anyway, if I know Lizzie and Cosmo Cricket?”

“That's because I don't have any friends. I did mention Lizzie when you asked. I just find it strange that you know Lizzie and didn't see fit to mention that you knew her and that she now works here. How…how well do you
know
Lizzie?”

Hank laughed. “Well enough that I sent a smashing wedding present and well enough to get ticked off that I wasn't asked to be Cosmo's best man, but I understand the serendipitous decision to get married, and I wasn't around at the time. Actually, I was in Angola at the time, but I would have done my best to get back if I had been asked. Lizzie and I used to have dinner when I was in town. I can't think of a more perfect couple than Cosmo Cricket and Lizzie. Listen, honey, I have to leave now. It's getting late. I guess I should say early. So, do I get to see you sitting behind your desk in the Oval Office before I go, or are you going to weasel out on me? I'd kind of like to take that particular memory with me when I leave.”

Martine Connor bit down on her lower lip. “Why does that sound to me like you aren't coming back? But as you like to say, a promise is a promise. How's that memory going to look, me in my bathrobe, my hair all messy?”

Jellicoe smiled. “Why would you think I won't be coming back? I will if you want me to. But to address your question, that's the beauty of a memory, Marti. The real you. I want to see the real you behind that desk. I want to see where you live and work so when I think of you, I can visualize it. That's why I love memories. They can be so real at times when you don't have anything else. So, is it a go or not?”

Martine slipped into presidential mode. “Come along. Don't look at anyone or make eye contact, okay?”

“Got it! I know the drill, Marti.”

“Why are we doing this, Hank? I think you know this building better than I do. Off the top of your head, how many times have you been here?”

Hank stopped in his tracks so abruptly, the president smashed into him. “Thousands. I told you why. But I wasn't sleeping with my commander in chief then. Therein lies the difference. If I wanted to, which I don't, I could sketch this out for you right down to the tiles and the wormholes in the wood on the floor. Like I said, I just want to see you sitting behind your desk in your bathrobe. Humor me. Or, I can leave now and let you get back to running the world. Your call, Marti.”

“Don't be silly. We're here. I have to take a deep breath each and every time I walk into this room. I don't know if I will ever get used to it. So, you just want me to sit behind my desk and look presidential in my ratty old bathrobe?”

“Exactly!” He grinned. “Now, lean forward and look straight at me.” He made a box with his hands, like a photographer framing his next shot. “You are now speaking to the man who is falling in love with you.”

“Oh, Hank, really?” She wasn't the president then, even though she was sitting in the president's chair. She was just Martine Connor, who was falling in love with the man staring at her.

“Yep. Now, wink at me like we share a secret. Ah, now, you see? That's the memory I'm going to take with me. My turn now.”

“What do you mean, your turn?” Martine asked nervously.

“My turn to sit behind the desk so you can capture my likeness. I want us both to have the same memory. What? Did I say something wrong?”

“Well, no…I don't…this is…”

“Highly irregular?”

“That, too,” Martine said, getting up from behind the desk and walking over to where Hank was standing.

Hank did some arm flapping and foot shuffling as he seated himself. The toe of his boot snaked out imperceptibly to open the bottom drawer of the president's desk. He raised his ankle a little higher as he smiled into the make-believe camera the president was holding.

“Do I look handsome and dashing? Do I look like a man you could maybe fall in love with?”

Clearly flustered, Martine smiled weakly. All she could do was nod, because she didn't trust herself to speak. This wasn't right. Some internal something or other was twanging away at her insides.

“Okay, here comes the wink! Did you capture me in all my glory?” Hank asked as he slid the bottom drawer shut, with barely any foot movement at all.

“I did. I have to get back. They'll be bringing me the PDB to look over.”

“Ah, yes, the President's Daily Brief. Okay, I'm outta here. Do I get to kiss the president in the Oval Office?”

Hank had a bad moment when Martine jammed her hands into the pockets of her robe and looked him in the eye. “Do you want to?”

“I do, but I can see your heart isn't in it. I guess it's all those cameras. I'm sorry, I've made you uncomfortable by asking you to bring me down here. I know there are a hundred sets of eyes on me, so I can find my way out. Thank you for a wonderful evening, Marti.”

The president licked at her lips, turned, and left the room without another word. She turned right, and Hank turned left. Her shoulders slumped, and there were tears in her eyes as she walked down the hall. She felt one of them splash on her hand.

Every pore in her body shrieked that the leader of the free world had been conned, and it had all just been captured on film.

But it wasn't captured on film. Hank Jellicoe had seen to that. The only thing captured on film was the contents of the president's bottom desk drawer.