***
Manchester
December
***
They hadn't gotten married over Labor Day weekend, after all.
First, C.J. decided that the "Practical Politics" special was something she
could not abandon. Besides, September was the month the President's book was due
at the publishing house, leaving Toby in a state of such heightened anxiety that
he couldn't even stand to be around himself. In October came the horror of Amy's
situation, when C.J. had been so busy that she'd slept at the studio because it
saved time. November was just a crummy time to do anything. Why? Because, well,
it was cold and the leaves were gone and the pictures would suck.
Or so they said to one another, over and over again. Next month it'll be better.
"I'm not getting any younger," Bartlet had hinted over a glass of wine the
Sunday after Thanksgiving. "And neither are you," he added, glaring at Toby,
"although, C.J., you're holding up pretty well. But tell me - what the hell's
the next delay going to be about?"
And there, over the remains of turkey and pumpkin pie, Toby had stammered that
he didn't have anything pressing to do the following weekend, so if C.J. felt
like it, perhaps they could get married.
In spite of Toby's singularly unromantic gesture, C.J. returned to the farm the
next weekend ready to marry him.
They were true to their word in that they didn't tell anyone, even though Donna
had pretty much divined the situation in that weirdly telepathic way of hers.
The men, fortunately, were clueless. NBC had released C.J. for a week, provided
that her "vacation" include an interview with the former President about his
book.
"In This White House" was a wealth of facts, of course, and contained stories of
both charm and pathos. Toby had done a wonderful job of reining in Bartlet's
overexuberant prose without washing it clean of the man's exquisite intelligence
and charm. The result was a powerful memoir that hit best-seller lists all over
the world.
And, since Bartlet had written at least six pages about each of the members of
his senior staff, the Schiller camp cried that it amounted to free publicity for
the amazingly popular Democratic Presidential hopeful, Sam Seaborn.
"They can stick that up their asses," were the last words C.J. heard from
Bartlet before Abbey spirited her to the master bedroom for one last makeup
check.
"Be sure and say that in the interview," C.J. called back to him.
"Would you stop with the book, already?" Abbey groaned. "You're getting this
weird little line on the left side of your nose."
"I'm 49 years old, Abbey. That's not exactly the only line." Nonetheless, C.J.
tried to relax her tense facial muscles. She fluffed up her hair, scowling at
her reflection in the mirror. "This is crazy."
Abbey cocked her head to one side. "What's crazy? That you're marrying Toby, or
that it took twenty-five years?"
"Can I take the Fifth on that? And what is up with my hair?"
"There is nothing wrong with your hair. It's beautiful. You're beautiful."
"I'm old, Abbey. I'm old and scrawny and the only blushing I'm going to do today
is out of embarrassment that I'm almost fifty and I'm having, you know, a
wedding."
"You, Toby, Jed, me, and a justice of the peace isn't much of a wedding. You
wouldn't even let me order a cake, for crying out loud!"
C.J. shrugged. "Toby likes pie."
"No one has a wedding pie. Even Zoey wouldn't have a wedding pie. I mean, I can
understand you not wearing white - I certainly wouldn't be able to keep a
straight face, and you know damn well Jed would make a comment. I understand
that you can't wear obvious wedding rings. I even get it that you aren't telling
anyone unless there's a dire emergency, and I'm pretty sure we've hit our quota
on that for a year or so. But no one has a wedding pie!"
They looked at one another in the mirror and burst out laughing. "Feel good to
get that out of your system?" C.J. asked, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue.
"Yes," Abbey said, her irascible tone muted by the stifled chuckle. "It's just
that I have fewer and fewer of these to look forward to, and I've always enjoyed
mothering brides."
Alarmed, C.J. turned around to look directly at Abbey. "Please, by all things
holy, tell me that you're not going to sit me down for the 'birds and the bees'
conversation."
Abbey seemed to take a great deal of interest in the ceiling. "Well, if memory
serves, I certainly won't have to tell you to lie back and think of England."
C.J.'s indignant cry was interrupted by a knock on the door.
"Ladies, are you decent?" Bartlet inquired sweetly.
"Yes, Jed," answered his wife.
"Well, hell, then. I'll go away for a while and wait for better things." He
opened the door and peered inside. "I heard raucous laughter. Is there booze in
the room? And if not, how can I get some?"
"Toby's not opening a bottle, then?" Abbey asked as she slipped her arm around
her husband's waist.
"Hasn't touched a drop. I'm beginning to worry about him." Bartlet inspected
C.J.'s raw silk suit, a rich cream color that made her skin look luminous. "You
look lovely, Claudia Jean."
"Thank you - I appreciate that. How's Toby doing?" C.J. asked.
"Last time I saw him, about ten minutes ago, he was marching in concentric
circles around the study, mumbling something under his breath. He's either
practicing his vows or trying to perform some sort of incantation."
They heard the old grandfather clock chime the hour. C.J.'s heartbeat quickened
as she allowed Bartlet the courtly gesture of taking her arm to walk her
downstairs.
She was marrying Toby Ziegler.
Holy shit.
They were to exchange their vows in the study. In the home of the former
President and First Lady. With the former President and First Lady standing up
for them.
Holy shit.
Bartlet patted her arm. She tried to smile but she wasn't sure which muscles to
use. If anyone took pictures, she'd look like the Artist's Composite Picture of
the Criminal. A mental image flashed of her photo next to Toby's on the post
office wall. From there her mind skittered to what her friends would do when
they found out, which was inevitable. Sure, she'd sworn Gary Tennenberg to
secrecy about the handmade suit, but he lived with Matt and was friends with
Donna, who'd made a few offhand remarks...
Holy shit.
Wait, wait, Bartlet was saying something, opening a box and handing her a
perfect nosegay of pure white rosebuds. "I know you said no, but I couldn't bear
the thought of you without fresh flowers in your hands. Will you allow me this
one indulgence?"
She bit her lip, trying to blink back tears, as she took the flowers in her
hand. She leaned against him for a moment, missing her father so very much,
wishing her mother could have seen her baby girl on the President's arm.
Abbey opened the door, and C.J. saw Toby standing next to the justice of the
peace. The one who was going to marry them.
She really needed to stop saying holy shit to herself, she decided.
Toby was, she decided, utterly adorable in his sober black suit. He beamed at
her, his dimples deepening with every step she took toward him, and he put his
hand over his heart for a moment before reaching for her.
Bartlet gave her a kiss on the cheek and went to stand beside Toby as Abbey took
her place next to C.J. Showtime.
Holy...no. Focus.
"Dearly beloved," intoned the justice in her melodious North Carolina accent,
and C.J. couldn't help but smile when Ainsley winked at her, "we are gathered
here today, in the sight of God and in the face of this company, to join this
man and this woman in holy matrimony."
C.J. noticed that Toby was wearing his prayer shawl. How could she have missed
that? And could he see the delicate gold crucifix she wore at her throat?
God must be getting an eyeful. Oh, wait, you're getting married. Pay attention.
"...let him speak now, or forever hold his peace."
Toby glanced nervously at the door, then even more nervously at his best man,
who widened his eyes and made a "who, me?" gesture at his own chest.
"Then please join hands and repeat after me."
C.J. almost dropped the bouquet as she handed it to Abbey.
"I, Toby Zachary Ziegler, take you, Claudia Jean Cregg..."
"I, Toby Zachary Ziegler, take you, Claudia Jean Cregg..."
He was taking her as his lawfully wedded wife. From this day forward, to have
and to hold, for better or worse, richer or poorer...
"...to love, honor, and obey..."
"...to love..." Toby paused and scowled at Ainsley, who shrugged.
"I had to give it a shot. To love, honor, and cherish until death do us part,"
she amended.
"To love, honor and cherish until death do us part," Toby vowed, looking
straight into C.J.'s soul.
He had such beautiful eyes. She could get lost in them.
She didn't even hear her own voice reciting the vows - she made sure Ainsley
didn't try to slip "obey" anywhere into the proceedings, however - and only
scarcely felt the antique ruby ring Toby slipped onto her finger. But her hands
trembled when she gave him a plain gold band and didn't stop trembling until she
heard Ainsley tell Toby to kiss the bride.
He did. Oh. Oh, how he did.
Then there was Abbey embracing her, and Bartlet, and Ainsley throwing her arms
around her, and nearly lifting her off the floor. "You're sure I can't tell
anyone?"
"Yes!" Toby and C.J. said together.
"And now," Abbey said, gesturing heavenward, "it's time for champagne
and...pie."
***
C.J. and Toby didn't emerge from the carriage house for two entire days.
***
Two days later
***
The study was festooned with lights, brightening every corner of the room but
focused mostly on the two leather chairs where C.J. would interview Bartlet
about his book. While they waited for Andrew to call them in, they sat across
from one another in the kitchen, submitting to makeup, and Bartlet appraised her
with a smirk. "You look good, C.J."
"Why, thank you," she replied with exaggerated politeness. So help her, God, if
he tried anything while they were live on the air...well, the Secret Service be
damned. She'd had a good two days - and a remarkable two nights - and she'd take
her chances.
"We have cranberry juice in the fridge." The crew treated the former President's
words as if they were a non-sequitur, ignoring them. C.J. hoped they also
ignored her, or at least the flush she felt creeping up into her cheeks.
"I'm fine, thank you, sir," she said, emphasizing the forbidden "sir."
He was well-rested, feisty, and had something to hold over her head. It was
going to be a long evening.
They took their places in the chairs, and Andrew's assistant gave C.J. a copy of
"In This White House." She had one of her own, of course, signed with what Donna
had called, cryptically, "the second-most-beautiful inscription in the history
of the printed word." But it would be unseemly to flaunt this man's regard, so
she had asked for a copy that hadn't been so well-read. So wept over.
Andrew signaled the last three seconds before they went live. "Good evening, and
welcome to this special edition of 'Practical Politics.' I'm actually a guest of
tonight's guest - this is being broadcast from the home of former President
Josiah Bartlet."
"Thank you for visiting, C.J.," Bartlet said. "And thank you for agreeing to
come all the way out here just for this interview."
Oh, great.
"It's my pleasure. I have here a copy of 'In This White House,' your memoirs
about the years 1998-2006."
"Have you read it?" Bartlet asked, his eyes twinkling.
She nudged his foot. "From cover to cover, Mr. President, and I'm delighted that
you didn't choose any photos of me from when I had a perm."
"Well, I knew that someday we'd be having this little talk, and I wanted to
avoid being taken down on national television." He turned more serious. "I have
always felt a deep and abiding love for this country. It was an honor to serve
as its leader. But the real reason I wrote this book - with the immensely
valuable assistance of Toby Ziegler - was that I wanted to write a love letter
to everyone who served with me in the White House."
They spent a few minutes holding up pictures: Leo holding Ellie's hand as the
President was sworn in, the Bartlet daughters and their mother in the Mural
Room, decked out in their inaugural finery. Josh standing on the portico,
excitedly pointing out something to Donna and Margaret. C.J. pointing to a
reporter from the podium. Sam in his office - so young, God, had he really been
that young? - with Toby standing at his shoulder, gesturing at whatever Sam had
written.
"And, speaking of Sam Seaborn - are you aware that President Schiller's staff
has filed a complaint with the F.E.C., claiming that your descriptions of him in
the book are glossy political ads?"
Over to you, Mr. President.
Bartlet looked at his camera, slightly to the left of the lens. "I'm glad you
mentioned that, C.J. Sam Seaborn, from his first day in Nashua to the day he
almost had to glue his resignation to Leo's desk because we didn't want to
accept it, was a valued member of the team. The power of his prose was only the
tip of the iceberg, just the merest hint of the idealism, wisdom, and quiet
courage that we would all come to know and admire. There wasn't anyone, from
heads of state to someone who accidentally bumped into Sam during a White House
tour, who didn't understand within ten seconds that they were in the presence of
greatness."
He paused, leaning forward in the chair with his hands clasped together. "I make
no apologies for how I feel about him. He is a trusted advisor, a gracious
friend, and one of the great minds of his generation. What it boils down to is
this: I respect and love Senator Samuel Seaborn of California, and anyone who
has a problem with it can kiss my ass."
Commercial.
***
End "The Surest Wisdom"
Thanks to Jo, Ria, and Sacha for their wisdom.
Feedback would be welcome at Marguerite@operamail.com .
Back to West Wing .
Manchester
December
***
They hadn't gotten married over Labor Day weekend, after all.
First, C.J. decided that the "Practical Politics" special was something she
could not abandon. Besides, September was the month the President's book was due
at the publishing house, leaving Toby in a state of such heightened anxiety that
he couldn't even stand to be around himself. In October came the horror of Amy's
situation, when C.J. had been so busy that she'd slept at the studio because it
saved time. November was just a crummy time to do anything. Why? Because, well,
it was cold and the leaves were gone and the pictures would suck.
Or so they said to one another, over and over again. Next month it'll be better.
"I'm not getting any younger," Bartlet had hinted over a glass of wine the
Sunday after Thanksgiving. "And neither are you," he added, glaring at Toby,
"although, C.J., you're holding up pretty well. But tell me - what the hell's
the next delay going to be about?"
And there, over the remains of turkey and pumpkin pie, Toby had stammered that
he didn't have anything pressing to do the following weekend, so if C.J. felt
like it, perhaps they could get married.
In spite of Toby's singularly unromantic gesture, C.J. returned to the farm the
next weekend ready to marry him.
They were true to their word in that they didn't tell anyone, even though Donna
had pretty much divined the situation in that weirdly telepathic way of hers.
The men, fortunately, were clueless. NBC had released C.J. for a week, provided
that her "vacation" include an interview with the former President about his
book.
"In This White House" was a wealth of facts, of course, and contained stories of
both charm and pathos. Toby had done a wonderful job of reining in Bartlet's
overexuberant prose without washing it clean of the man's exquisite intelligence
and charm. The result was a powerful memoir that hit best-seller lists all over
the world.
And, since Bartlet had written at least six pages about each of the members of
his senior staff, the Schiller camp cried that it amounted to free publicity for
the amazingly popular Democratic Presidential hopeful, Sam Seaborn.
"They can stick that up their asses," were the last words C.J. heard from
Bartlet before Abbey spirited her to the master bedroom for one last makeup
check.
"Be sure and say that in the interview," C.J. called back to him.
"Would you stop with the book, already?" Abbey groaned. "You're getting this
weird little line on the left side of your nose."
"I'm 49 years old, Abbey. That's not exactly the only line." Nonetheless, C.J.
tried to relax her tense facial muscles. She fluffed up her hair, scowling at
her reflection in the mirror. "This is crazy."
Abbey cocked her head to one side. "What's crazy? That you're marrying Toby, or
that it took twenty-five years?"
"Can I take the Fifth on that? And what is up with my hair?"
"There is nothing wrong with your hair. It's beautiful. You're beautiful."
"I'm old, Abbey. I'm old and scrawny and the only blushing I'm going to do today
is out of embarrassment that I'm almost fifty and I'm having, you know, a
wedding."
"You, Toby, Jed, me, and a justice of the peace isn't much of a wedding. You
wouldn't even let me order a cake, for crying out loud!"
C.J. shrugged. "Toby likes pie."
"No one has a wedding pie. Even Zoey wouldn't have a wedding pie. I mean, I can
understand you not wearing white - I certainly wouldn't be able to keep a
straight face, and you know damn well Jed would make a comment. I understand
that you can't wear obvious wedding rings. I even get it that you aren't telling
anyone unless there's a dire emergency, and I'm pretty sure we've hit our quota
on that for a year or so. But no one has a wedding pie!"
They looked at one another in the mirror and burst out laughing. "Feel good to
get that out of your system?" C.J. asked, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue.
"Yes," Abbey said, her irascible tone muted by the stifled chuckle. "It's just
that I have fewer and fewer of these to look forward to, and I've always enjoyed
mothering brides."
Alarmed, C.J. turned around to look directly at Abbey. "Please, by all things
holy, tell me that you're not going to sit me down for the 'birds and the bees'
conversation."
Abbey seemed to take a great deal of interest in the ceiling. "Well, if memory
serves, I certainly won't have to tell you to lie back and think of England."
C.J.'s indignant cry was interrupted by a knock on the door.
"Ladies, are you decent?" Bartlet inquired sweetly.
"Yes, Jed," answered his wife.
"Well, hell, then. I'll go away for a while and wait for better things." He
opened the door and peered inside. "I heard raucous laughter. Is there booze in
the room? And if not, how can I get some?"
"Toby's not opening a bottle, then?" Abbey asked as she slipped her arm around
her husband's waist.
"Hasn't touched a drop. I'm beginning to worry about him." Bartlet inspected
C.J.'s raw silk suit, a rich cream color that made her skin look luminous. "You
look lovely, Claudia Jean."
"Thank you - I appreciate that. How's Toby doing?" C.J. asked.
"Last time I saw him, about ten minutes ago, he was marching in concentric
circles around the study, mumbling something under his breath. He's either
practicing his vows or trying to perform some sort of incantation."
They heard the old grandfather clock chime the hour. C.J.'s heartbeat quickened
as she allowed Bartlet the courtly gesture of taking her arm to walk her
downstairs.
She was marrying Toby Ziegler.
Holy shit.
They were to exchange their vows in the study. In the home of the former
President and First Lady. With the former President and First Lady standing up
for them.
Holy shit.
Bartlet patted her arm. She tried to smile but she wasn't sure which muscles to
use. If anyone took pictures, she'd look like the Artist's Composite Picture of
the Criminal. A mental image flashed of her photo next to Toby's on the post
office wall. From there her mind skittered to what her friends would do when
they found out, which was inevitable. Sure, she'd sworn Gary Tennenberg to
secrecy about the handmade suit, but he lived with Matt and was friends with
Donna, who'd made a few offhand remarks...
Holy shit.
Wait, wait, Bartlet was saying something, opening a box and handing her a
perfect nosegay of pure white rosebuds. "I know you said no, but I couldn't bear
the thought of you without fresh flowers in your hands. Will you allow me this
one indulgence?"
She bit her lip, trying to blink back tears, as she took the flowers in her
hand. She leaned against him for a moment, missing her father so very much,
wishing her mother could have seen her baby girl on the President's arm.
Abbey opened the door, and C.J. saw Toby standing next to the justice of the
peace. The one who was going to marry them.
She really needed to stop saying holy shit to herself, she decided.
Toby was, she decided, utterly adorable in his sober black suit. He beamed at
her, his dimples deepening with every step she took toward him, and he put his
hand over his heart for a moment before reaching for her.
Bartlet gave her a kiss on the cheek and went to stand beside Toby as Abbey took
her place next to C.J. Showtime.
Holy...no. Focus.
"Dearly beloved," intoned the justice in her melodious North Carolina accent,
and C.J. couldn't help but smile when Ainsley winked at her, "we are gathered
here today, in the sight of God and in the face of this company, to join this
man and this woman in holy matrimony."
C.J. noticed that Toby was wearing his prayer shawl. How could she have missed
that? And could he see the delicate gold crucifix she wore at her throat?
God must be getting an eyeful. Oh, wait, you're getting married. Pay attention.
"...let him speak now, or forever hold his peace."
Toby glanced nervously at the door, then even more nervously at his best man,
who widened his eyes and made a "who, me?" gesture at his own chest.
"Then please join hands and repeat after me."
C.J. almost dropped the bouquet as she handed it to Abbey.
"I, Toby Zachary Ziegler, take you, Claudia Jean Cregg..."
"I, Toby Zachary Ziegler, take you, Claudia Jean Cregg..."
He was taking her as his lawfully wedded wife. From this day forward, to have
and to hold, for better or worse, richer or poorer...
"...to love, honor, and obey..."
"...to love..." Toby paused and scowled at Ainsley, who shrugged.
"I had to give it a shot. To love, honor, and cherish until death do us part,"
she amended.
"To love, honor and cherish until death do us part," Toby vowed, looking
straight into C.J.'s soul.
He had such beautiful eyes. She could get lost in them.
She didn't even hear her own voice reciting the vows - she made sure Ainsley
didn't try to slip "obey" anywhere into the proceedings, however - and only
scarcely felt the antique ruby ring Toby slipped onto her finger. But her hands
trembled when she gave him a plain gold band and didn't stop trembling until she
heard Ainsley tell Toby to kiss the bride.
He did. Oh. Oh, how he did.
Then there was Abbey embracing her, and Bartlet, and Ainsley throwing her arms
around her, and nearly lifting her off the floor. "You're sure I can't tell
anyone?"
"Yes!" Toby and C.J. said together.
"And now," Abbey said, gesturing heavenward, "it's time for champagne
and...pie."
***
C.J. and Toby didn't emerge from the carriage house for two entire days.
***
Two days later
***
The study was festooned with lights, brightening every corner of the room but
focused mostly on the two leather chairs where C.J. would interview Bartlet
about his book. While they waited for Andrew to call them in, they sat across
from one another in the kitchen, submitting to makeup, and Bartlet appraised her
with a smirk. "You look good, C.J."
"Why, thank you," she replied with exaggerated politeness. So help her, God, if
he tried anything while they were live on the air...well, the Secret Service be
damned. She'd had a good two days - and a remarkable two nights - and she'd take
her chances.
"We have cranberry juice in the fridge." The crew treated the former President's
words as if they were a non-sequitur, ignoring them. C.J. hoped they also
ignored her, or at least the flush she felt creeping up into her cheeks.
"I'm fine, thank you, sir," she said, emphasizing the forbidden "sir."
He was well-rested, feisty, and had something to hold over her head. It was
going to be a long evening.
They took their places in the chairs, and Andrew's assistant gave C.J. a copy of
"In This White House." She had one of her own, of course, signed with what Donna
had called, cryptically, "the second-most-beautiful inscription in the history
of the printed word." But it would be unseemly to flaunt this man's regard, so
she had asked for a copy that hadn't been so well-read. So wept over.
Andrew signaled the last three seconds before they went live. "Good evening, and
welcome to this special edition of 'Practical Politics.' I'm actually a guest of
tonight's guest - this is being broadcast from the home of former President
Josiah Bartlet."
"Thank you for visiting, C.J.," Bartlet said. "And thank you for agreeing to
come all the way out here just for this interview."
Oh, great.
"It's my pleasure. I have here a copy of 'In This White House,' your memoirs
about the years 1998-2006."
"Have you read it?" Bartlet asked, his eyes twinkling.
She nudged his foot. "From cover to cover, Mr. President, and I'm delighted that
you didn't choose any photos of me from when I had a perm."
"Well, I knew that someday we'd be having this little talk, and I wanted to
avoid being taken down on national television." He turned more serious. "I have
always felt a deep and abiding love for this country. It was an honor to serve
as its leader. But the real reason I wrote this book - with the immensely
valuable assistance of Toby Ziegler - was that I wanted to write a love letter
to everyone who served with me in the White House."
They spent a few minutes holding up pictures: Leo holding Ellie's hand as the
President was sworn in, the Bartlet daughters and their mother in the Mural
Room, decked out in their inaugural finery. Josh standing on the portico,
excitedly pointing out something to Donna and Margaret. C.J. pointing to a
reporter from the podium. Sam in his office - so young, God, had he really been
that young? - with Toby standing at his shoulder, gesturing at whatever Sam had
written.
"And, speaking of Sam Seaborn - are you aware that President Schiller's staff
has filed a complaint with the F.E.C., claiming that your descriptions of him in
the book are glossy political ads?"
Over to you, Mr. President.
Bartlet looked at his camera, slightly to the left of the lens. "I'm glad you
mentioned that, C.J. Sam Seaborn, from his first day in Nashua to the day he
almost had to glue his resignation to Leo's desk because we didn't want to
accept it, was a valued member of the team. The power of his prose was only the
tip of the iceberg, just the merest hint of the idealism, wisdom, and quiet
courage that we would all come to know and admire. There wasn't anyone, from
heads of state to someone who accidentally bumped into Sam during a White House
tour, who didn't understand within ten seconds that they were in the presence of
greatness."
He paused, leaning forward in the chair with his hands clasped together. "I make
no apologies for how I feel about him. He is a trusted advisor, a gracious
friend, and one of the great minds of his generation. What it boils down to is
this: I respect and love Senator Samuel Seaborn of California, and anyone who
has a problem with it can kiss my ass."
Commercial.
***
End "The Surest Wisdom"
Thanks to Jo, Ria, and Sacha for their wisdom.
Feedback would be welcome at Marguerite@operamail.com .
Back to West Wing .