Sometimes, neither Sam nor Toby make any sense at all. Tonight is one of those times. We've been in this meeting now for thirty-five minutes, going letter-by-letter over one short – forty four words! – paragraph in a short – five page/five minute – speech to the national convention of the Veteran's of Foreign Wars. The State Department thinks that it's too soft, because Toby gave in to his ex-wife, the Congresswoman, and toned down the rhetoric on the Islamic extremists. The International Relations Committee thus thinks that it's perfect.
It is our job, in the next ten minutes, to rewrite this paragraph so that neither the State Department nor the House International Relations Committee is happy. Then we'll know that we've hit the nail on the head and can carry on into the night with a foreign policy that makes as much sense as the Cold War ever did.
I would rather be spending this time trying to figure out if my guess as to the identity of The Rose King is correct. More accurately, I'd like to be able to admit that I've been using this time to figure out how to verify my deduction, because if I really force myself to be honest, that's the reason that neither Toby nor Sam is making any sense at all.
"Why don't we simply say that we will not tolerate extremism of any kind when it leads to the violation of the basic human rights of freedom of speech, freedom of religion, education, and self-determination," I say in total frustration. "Political, economic, and religious extremism are all equally intolerable and will be resisted by all freedom loving peoples whenever and wherever such injustice arises."
Toby is doing a respectable imitation of a salmon at the moment. Sam just lays his head back against the couch with his eyes closed, whether in awe or disgust, I can't tell.
"Say that again," the Communications Director finally says, overcoming his fascination with fish.
So I do, and this time the awe is evident in Sam's eyes.
"You are 'da man,'" my best male friend shouts, jumping up from his seat on the sofa to thump me on the back.
"Of course I am," I say modestly. I've known that for years, so it's about time that others recognize this fact and laud me as I so richly deserve. "Are we done here? 'Cause I've got a thing tonight."
Toby's eyebrows arch at that. "You mean you and Amy actually lasted past the two week mark?"
Immediately feeling like a popped balloon, I stammer out an answer. "Uh, no, actually, we broke up."
"When?" Sam asked, to my ears without any surprise.
"Tonight."
Neither other man says anything. After a moment of odd looks between them, I break the silence. "Okay, so I'm going. See you tomorrow." I get up from the chair beside Toby's desk and stride out of his office, intending to go back to my own office and call Donna to implement the plan that just now completed itself in my head.
"Josh, wait," Sam calls after me, and he catches up in a jog. "You probably shouldn't be alone tonight. Why don't you call someone and go out?" He thinks for a moment. "Or you could go ask Toby."
"Sorry," Toby's voice comes from behind us, "I don't go out in public on Valentine's Day. Besides, I have plans at home."
Both of us turn and look at the taciturn Ziegler, who hasn't quite had time to hide the smile that crossed his face as he thought about those plans. "You do?" Sam asks a millisecond before I can.
"Yes. Good night." And with that, Toby leaves.
"How about CJ?" Sam suggests.
"She's got plans, too."
"You and Donna were in good form today." His suggestion remains unspoken.
I chew on that silent plea for a few seconds, then shrug with as much devil-may-care attitude as I can. "The Rose King asked her out."
"Oh." He looked puzzled for a moment, then shrugged. "Well, cut yourself off at 4 beers, would you? You're so hard to deal with the next morning after 5."
"Yeah, whatever." Sam waves as he strolls off, then begins to whistle some nameless tune in preparation for his date. My guess would be Ainsley, after his comment about her being enough to make a dog break his leash. Apparently, she was flattered.
Now I am alone, and I have to call my best female friend for my schedule tomorrow. That, and to ask her out, because I just told Sam that The Rose King asked her out. And I am pretty sure after that conversation with what's her name that I am The Rose King.
She answers her cell phone on the second ring. "You're right on time. Did you get it done?" she asks without preamble.
"Yeah, and this time, I'm da man," I say with no little amount of pride in my voice. "So I thought we could celebrate, if you're done with your thing."
There's jazz playing on the other end, something mellow and sensuous, and I suddenly wonder if I really have interrupted The Rose King and Donna on a date. Her voice, when she finally replies, is low and husky, and I am thinking way too much about where that card has been since she read it this morning. "No, Josh, I think you should just go home and go to sleep. The change of pace will do you well."
"One drink?" I plead. I really do want to see her, even if it's just for a little while. I want to see that smile one last time so there's a better chance that I'll dream of something better than beeping medical monitors and rifles and broken glass. Don't worry – it's not a recurrence of the PTSD. This, Stanley assures me, is reasonably normal as long as I don't wake up screaming.
"Maybe," she relents. "I'll call you later at home. Not on your cell phone – at home." There's that command voice again. "And be sober. If you aren't there or you're drunk when I call, you'll lose any chance of changing my answer."
Since that is indeed what I want to do, I assure her that I'm going home to do something other than drink, and am in fact putting on my coat as I finish the conversation.
*****
I drove in today, so I have to drive home instead of enjoying the unusually balmy air for February in Washington. I'm at my building less than 10 minutes after I hang up from my call with Donna. Looking up toward my windows, it's dark, as I expect, even though I was hoping that someone might be waiting for me.
Then again, the only other person with a key is Donna, so that was more than a little unrealistic on my part.
The elevator from the parking garage isn't working, so I trudge up the stairs toward my flat with growing resignation. Donna will call me later, but she won't want to go out. We may be back to almost normal, but we've gained so much ground in one day that I can't hope for more. So maybe I'll have one beer while I'm waiting for her call.
As I arrive on my floor, I can hear music that sounds strikingly similar to that I heard playing over Donna's cell phone a few minutes ago. It further depresses me, because someone else is undoubtedly enjoying that music with the woman they love more than life itself –
I can't believe I just admitted that. Oh, wow.
Wham, slam, al-a-kazam. I am reeling as I make it to my door and insert the key.
Then I realize that the music is coming from inside my apartment, and I reach for my cell phone.
CJ answers on the third ring. "Make it fast, Josh," she commands, as though I've interrupted something. A thought zips across my mind that both CJ and Toby have plans but not public plans tonight…
"How did you know it was me?"
"Caller ID, knucklehead. It's the 21st century. Now, what do you want?"
I clear my throat. "I'm giving you the heads up that I am about to do something monumental."
"Monumentally stupid or monumentally intelligent?"
After a quick yet careful review of the situation, I reply. "Both."
CJ is obviously not used to such blatant honesty, because it takes her three seconds to respond. "Don't blow it with her, Josh."
I take that as permission to unlock and open my door, and sign off from my call with an admonition to my friend in the Sisterhood. "Be nice to Toby tonight, CJ."
She couldn't hide the gasp of surprise, and I am smiling broadly as I power down the phone and put it back in my coat pocket. Da man is on a roll.
I turn back to my front door and turn the key, open the door and step inside.
The music pounds out a slinky rhythm and the candles around the room seem to bend and sway with the beat. The roses from her desk sit on the table beside the couch, and their fragrance fills the air.
I take a few more steps inside to find some wonderful aroma floating through the air, making me fully aware that lunch was a very long time ago, and behind that I catch a hint of a scent that I have enjoyed every day for almost four years.
She doesn't seem to know that I'm home yet. I take off my coat and hang it on my coat tree, then slip quietly into my room to get comfortable. And, truth be told, to clean the bedroom up a little bit. Just in case.
I come out about five minutes later to find Donna sitting on my couch, sipping a glass of white wine. Okay, I noticed the wine only after I start to breathe again.
She had indeed been at Union Station when she called me. At a lingerie store. I think that no matter what happens in my life, I will always envision Donna in the sapphire gown and robe ensemble that left both everything and nothing to the imagination.
Given my imagination with regard to Donna, that's saying something.
"Did you mean it?" she asks simply. There is no mistaking what she means; the card is in her fingers as she relaxes into the cushions.
I stand transfixed, unable to work my jaw to make the words in my heart come out. Instead, I am stuttering, trying desperately to get the single most important word of my life to roll off my tongue.
Finally, it comes. "Yes."
Much later, deep in the darkest hours of the night, Donna stirs in my arms and reaches up to trace my face with her feathery touch. "The Rose King," she sighs, and drifts back to sleep.
There were roses on Donna's desk on Valentine's Day, and I sent them.
Fine