***
February
Washington, D.C.
***
At a year and two months of age, Helen Seaborn was quite a handful. Sam claimed
that it was caused by all the music she'd heard in utero. Nina was inclined
toward the theory that listening to endless political rhetoric cooed over her
cradle had made her hyperactive. "God knows it leaves me squirming," she said as
she held her daughter on her lap and gently ran a brush through her curly black
hair.
Helen scowled and fidgeted, her blue eyes welling up with tears. Remembering
what it was like to be in her own mother's lap, undergoing the same torture,
Nina paused and sang a little song in Helen's ear. Helen grabbed the brush in
her own chubby fist and made a few passes at her mother's hair, giggling. That
task accomplished, she reached out toward the man sitting next to them.
"Good luck," Toby said, indicating the last of the remaining waves of
salt-and-pepper hair at the back of his head. "How good is her aim?"
"Not so good," Nina mumbled around the bristles that were tickling her lips.
"Okay, that's it for today. If your daddy wants you to grow your hair long
because it's so pretty, then he gets to brush it out."
Seemingly content with that remark, Helen snuggled between Nina and the side of
the loveseat and curled up for a nap. Toby took the opportunity to hand Nina a
cup of coffee, which she accepted with a grateful sigh.
"Thanks for coming on such short notice," she said, "although I still don't know
why everyone things I need a watchdog just because Sam and Josh are in
California. What's the deal with this guy, that Sam thinks I need protection?"
"Bruno Gianelli is...he has a reputation for being...difficult."
"So does Josh."
"Yes, and it's well-deserved, but..." Toby waved his hand in the air, drawing
imaginary shapes. "There's one difference between Bruno and a piranha." He
paused, consummate speechwriter that he was, then answered his own riddle. "A
necktie."
Nina, confused, blinked at him. "If he's that bad, then why is Sam consulting
with him - and why is he coming to see me?"
"Because he may be a barracuda, but he's an absolute genius at political
strategy. After the M.S. scandal broke, and the entire world thought the Bartlet
administration was going to go down in flames, Bruno managed to get us back on
our feet and headed in the right direction. Not that we thought so at the time -
believe me when I tell you that I wanted nothing more in the world than to see
his body rotating on a spit over an open fire - but now, looking back on it,
we'd have been dead in the water without him."
She understood that part. What she didn't understand was why, since Sam was
doing so well in the polls that he was practically a shoe-in for the nomination,
they needed to consult this Gianelli guy in the first place.
"You and I both know that Sam's going to be the nominee," Toby said as if
reading her mind, "and that it doesn't seem as if we need any help. However, it
doesn't hurt to ask, just in case we missed something."
"Something about my image?" Nina asked, wrinkling her nose. "What's wrong with
my image?"
"I have no idea.We all think you're going to be an exceptional First Lady.
However, the campaign managers think it might be a good idea to get input from
someone who doesn't know you personally, just to make sure you get to be First
Lady."
The title still made her a little queasy. "I wish people would stop saying that.
Some days I'm convinced that I'd just be an exceptional basket case."
Toby nodded, rubbing his beard between thumb and forefinger. "Abbey's really
sorry that she couldn't come up, but her schedule's pretty full for the next few
months. Why she thought I'd be a good substitute, I can't imagine."
"Oh, I understand exactly why." She knew that behind Toby's relaxed posture and
veiled, smoky eyes was a mind every bit as keen as Sam's, if not more so, and
the heart of a warrior. He was a panther masquerading as a housecat. He also had
a deep and abiding affection for his friends, tucked carefully away behind a
caustic façade. So, if Bruno Gianelli was going to be inclined to push Nina
around, then Toby would be the perfect foil.
Suddenly nervous, she took a few swipes at her own hair with Helen's brush and
ran her fingertips under her eyes, checking for wayward mascara. The doorbell
made her stiffen, her hands clutching the brush as if it were a lifeline. She
heard a Secret Service agent ask a few questions, then looked up to see a dark,
hawklike man looking down at her.
"Don't get up," he said, standing in front of her with his hands clasped behind
his back. "I know we don't have a lot of time, so why don't we get down to it?
Can the child go away, please?"
"She's sleeping," Nina said, half angry with the man's incredible rudeness and
half angry with herself for being affected by it.
"Whatever." He turned around and nodded at Toby. "You're here."
"I am," Toby said mildly.
"Why?"
"Because Sam's out of town, and I felt like visiting." Although he hadn't moved,
Nina got the impression that he was coiled for a strike.
"Whatever," he said again. At last he seemed to remember his manners, and he
held his hand out to Nina. "Bruno Gianelli."
"Thank you for coming. Won't you have some coffee?" Shifting carefully so as not
to wake Helen, Nina went into the kitchen and brought back a pot of coffee and a
clean cup for Bruno. She set everything down on the table. "All right, then, Mr.
Gianelli - what shall we talk about?"
"You," he said, pouring coffee without changing the direction of his gaze. He
took a seat in the chair next to Toby's. "I'm here to talk about you."
"What do you need to know?" Nina asked, but Bruno waved the coffee at her.
"Please - there's very little about you that I don't know. Born in Boston to an
American father and British mother who died when you were in your teens. Spent
summers studying with William Primrose in Utah. Attended Oberlin for your
undergrad degree and Juilliard for your Master's, then went to England to study
with Gwynne Edwards. You were the youngest member of the Philadelphia Orchestra,
and the youngest woman ever to be an Assistant Principal of the American
Symphony until being asked to take a leave of absence last month. In December,
2007, you married Sam Seaborn, and then just one year later, you gave birth to a
daughter, Helen." He paused. "She's a big girl for her age, isn't she?"
Nina smiled at this first glimpse of warmth. "She's tall - my father's very
tall, so I suppose--"
"Let's make sure we have a statement from your physician, just in case someone
decides the child was born eight months after the wedding or something. All we
need is the gossip that you caught Sam the old-fashioned way."
Momentarily stunned, Nina had to take a few breaths. "How...how dare you even
think things like that?"
"Nina," Bruno said, leaning toward her with his eyebrows raised, "how dare you
not think about these things? Do you honestly believe that people won't look for
a chink in the armor of this happy marriage? If my questions seem harsh, then
please remember that it'll be harsher still coming from the mouths of some of
the right-wing reporters waiting to trip you up, or from the insipid women's
magazines who want to make a spectacle out of someone so young, pretty, and
successful."
She looked at Toby, whose face bore a studied expression of neutrality. Okay,
save it, she told herself. Toby will jump in when he thinks the time is right.
"Sam and Josh said you were an image expert," she said, hoping to distract Bruno
from any further impertinence about Helen's conception. "What is it, exactly,
that you want to do to mine?"
"I want to figure out which way to go with you. You're quite the enigma, as
political wives go. No politics in your family, no sudden surges of interest on
your part. You're a successful career woman who took her husband's name, then
surrendered her career for his. It's not going to play well, the way it's
happened."
"With whom?"
"The ladies," Bruno said with a smug smile. "They want a role model, but your
role is so damn confusing that they don't know what to make of you."
Nina glanced at Toby, who made the merest shrug but said nothing.
"What do you want me to do?" she asked.
"Stand up."
"I beg your pardon?"
"Stand up." Bruno waved his finger in the air. "You're not very tall, but that's
okay because Sam isn't, either. Don't wear shoes with more than one inch of
heel. Dresses rather than suits, I think. More feminine."
"Excuse me, but what the hell--"
"As for the job thing, maybe if you had another baby - that's why you left the
symphony, so you could concentrate on Helen and take care of yourself during the
busy campaign season." Before Nina could do anything other than clench her
teeth, Bruno shook his head. "No, I guess not."
"I should say not!" Nina exclaimed.
"March, April, May, June..." He ticked off the months on his fingers and
frowned. "Even if you got pregnant now, you might not have the baby in time for
the election, and it would be catastrophic if you went into labor late in the
campaign and Sam had to miss an event. Besides, you might not have your figure
back in time for the inauguration."
"Heaven forbid," Toby mumbled into his beard. He shot a glance at Nina, his dark
eyes shining with amusement.
Son of a bitch, he was enjoying this.
"Sam's and my plans for...for...procreation are none of your business," Nina
growled. "What other plans do you have for me?"
"Most of it's pretty simple - working with kids, getting musical instruments to
children in poor districts and getting photo ops while you teach them to play."
He made it sound disreputable. "Then we need to work on the physical stuff - not
so much with the glamor, because women already resent you for taking Sam off the
market. I'm thinking understated elegance. Like Jackie Kennedy."
"Planning to bring pillbox hats back into style, Bruno?" Toby asked.
"Don't mock me. We haven't had a lady as a First Lady in a while, and here we
have one born and bred." He narrowed his eyes at her. "Nina's just a nickname.
You should go by Jacqueline. It'll get shortened to Jackie in the press, and
that way it won't look like you did it yourself."
"Are you serious?" Nina asked incredulously. "I mean it - are you serious?"
"It could give Sam a big bump in the polls, and softening you might help with
Republican-leaning women who are sick of cows like May Schiller."
"You're insane."
"Listen, Nina, this whole freakshow of a campaign is insane. I have no doubt
that Sam means well, and I'll definitely be voting for him. But he's got a gay
running mate with a goddamn dress designer - and, by the way, could it be a
worse stereotype? - for a boyfriend, and a campaign chairman who's a
card-carrying nutjob whose wife left him for a woman. Then, to top it off, Sam
has a wife who has her nose so far up in the air about keeping herself away from
the uncleanliness of politics that she could very well cost him entire states!"
Roused by the noise, Helen pulled herself upright and started to cry. Nina swept
her up in her arms, stroking her hair and glaring at Bruno. "I'll give your
suggestions the consideration they deserve," she said between clenched teeth.
"Which is to say that I'll have dismissed them by the time you get your ass out
of my home."
"Have it your way," Bruno said as he rose and headed for the door. "Just, for
the love of God, don't do anything that'll put Schiller back in the White House
for another four years. The country can't take it."
Nina watched as the Secret Service agent escorted Bruno out of the house and
closed the door before discreetly fading into the kitchen. Still cradling Helen,
she gave Toby an angry look. "Thanks so much for all your help."
"Didn't think you needed any," he said softly. "You were doing pretty well,
there."
"Pillbox hats, my ass," she said, then grimaced. "I just said 'ass' twice in
three minutes with my daughter right here."
"She spent the weekend of your anniversary up at the farm with Jed and Abbey.
You think she didn't hear 'ass' a few times?"
"I suppose." Nina started to tremble, anger and misery at war inside her head.
"Do you think any of what he said is true, Toby? Am I a liability to Sam?"
"Sure you are," Toby said, setting his coffee cup down carefully and getting up
from the chair. "Just as any strong-willed, intelligent woman would be to a
politician. But it's time for the country to get over itself." He stood next to
her and held his hands out. "Go for a walk, get some air. I'll take her."
To Nina's surprise, Helen reached for Toby and let him carry her to the chair,
her sobs subsiding to little hiccups as he put her on his lap and patted her
back gingerly. "Go ahead. We can talk when you get back."
Dawn.
"That's why you're here, isn't it? They sent you to talk about my 'image,' and
they wanted to soften me up by showing me the worst-case scenario."
"Maybe," Toby said quietly. "Listen, can Helen have coffee?"
"No!" Nina snatched a plastic cup from the table. "It's milk. She won't spill
because the lid has a thing."
"Ah. No caffeine for you, then," he said as Helen smiled up at him.
"Okay." Nina ran her fingers through her hair for a moment. The gesture always
made Sam laugh when he saw it, because Josh so often did the same thing when he
was thinking. "Okay. You can talk to me when I get back, but I won't promise
anything. And no coffee, no sugar, no anything for Helen."
"Yes, ma'am."
"Toby, are you listening to me?"
"Absolutely..." Toby mumbled as he reached for a nearby shelf and pulled out a
well-worn book. He waited until Nina had joined up her agent and left the house
before picking up one of the soft cookies on the saucer, breaking it in half,
and presenting it to Helen with exaggerated courtesy. "...not," he finished.
Opening the book, he started to read aloud as Helen gnawed on her treat.
"'Dorothy lived in the midst of the great Kansas prairies...'"
***
March
***
"It's all wrapped up?" Sam asked Ginger, who rolled her eyes at him.
"Hand-delivered by courier. The House opens it tomorrow, and the debate's not
anticipated to last longer than a day. Wrapped up," she said as she turned back
to her computer screen.
"Good." Sam smiled at the back of Ginger's head. Trying to accomplish anything
on women's issues was tricky at the best of times, but now that he was the
prohibitive favorite for the Democratic nomination he found that his hands were
tied by accusations of electioneering. He'd been channeling some of his ideas
through others in the Senate, and in the House as well, keeping his name off of
legislation and keeping his profile as low as possible. It was driving him
crazy, but it had to be done that way. Usually.
This time, however, it was personal. He knew he was going to push for a
resolution to get the United Nations to propose a ban on female genital
mutilation on an international level from the moment he had seen C.J.'s news
report. He didn't need C.J.'s prodding, Abbey's reminders, or Donna's outright
demands. He was convinced long before he picked Josh up at the airport when he
came back from New York, and that conviction was only strengthened when he went
to visit Amy at the rehabilitation hospital.
He was going to get this done, no matter what.
"I have a meeting with Senator Skinner. Page me if you hear from Hernandez or
McMillan, but otherwise just take a message and I'll get back with them."
"Oh. Wait." Ginger reached into her desk drawer and pulled out a thin notebook.
"Could you give this to Matt, to give to Gary? He's going to save me the blue
dress from the Crisis Center benefit and let me wear it to the Cherry Blossom
Ball - I marked it, here, with a post-it--"
Sam, indignant, took two steps backward. "Ginger, I'm a United States Senator.
Do you really think it's a good idea to take up my precious time shopping for
evening wear for my assistant?"
"You're playing basketball, Sam. It's not like a matter of life or death." She
got up and tucked the notebook in Sam's breast pocket, then patted him on the
chest. "There. It won't be so bad."
He gave her a glum look. "You need to treat me with more...deference. That is,
if you want to work in the White House someday."
"Been there, done that, still have parking tickets from last time." She smiled
at him. "Sam, believe me, I will defer to you in all matters of importance to
the nation. But this is about the Cherry Blossom Ball, and I will not be
denied."
"Got it." Sam grinned at her, his mood improving by leaps and bounds. He was
having a good day. He'd buy her the damn dress, and everything that went with
it, just to see the look on her face. Before that, however, he'd kick Matt's ass
at basketball, have lunch, and be back at the office in time for a series of
interminable meetings about grain silos and import taxes on stupid things that
no one wanted to buy, anyway.
Vote for me, he thought, and I'll run through Congress on horseback with a
scythe, cutting the chaff.
There would be a coaching session on international economic policy via the
internet while he had dinner at home with Nina and Helen, a few minutes to chat
with Toby about recent polling data, and notes about three bills coming through
the Senate in the next week.
Following that, he decided, there would be sex.
He stopped by Matt's office, waving his duffel bag in Donna's direction as she
stood by a white board, farming out duties to assorted staffers. She grinned at
him and gave him a thumbs-up as he passed.
Matt met him at the door, his backpack slung over one shoulder. "You ready?"
"More than ready. And you can get me up to speed on the Mitchell thing while we
go." They each had Secret Service agents with them - Matt had received more than
his fair share of what Josh called the "interesting" letters - and for that
reason their entourage was bigger than they wanted when they tried to sneak away
to play basketball and talk strategy. Nonetheless, they often managed to get in
a few fast games before it was time to get ready for their respective afternoon
tasks. Today Matt, as usual, beat Sam rather handily in the first game and then
deliberately threw the second.
There were so few indulgences in their lives, anymore.
Sam made a truly impressive three-pointer at the beginning of the third game. As
he dribbled the ball a few times, he saw his lead agent coming onto the court.
"Oh, this can not be good," he mumbled, tossing the ball at Matt.
"Sorry to interrupt, Senator, but there's something on television that you need
to see."
Sam grabbed a towel and mopped his forehead. "What's going on?"
"It's a crawl on CNN, sir. It should play back in a moment." The men stared at
the screen as sports scores went past. "That's it."
Matt wrapped his towel around his neck as he read aloud. "'International groups
decry U.S.-backed proposal to ban female circumcision, citing U.S. colonialism
attempting to rob nations of their cultures.' Wow - that's unexpected."
"Colonialism?" Sam snapped. "Colonialism is colonization. It's putting
McDonald's on every street corner and ousting heads of state because we don't
like them. This is about keeping young women and girls from being brutalized!"
"I know, I know." Matt put his hand on Sam's arm. "Get back to the office and
find out what the hell's happening. I'll go home and make some calls."
"Yeah." Sam stalked to the showers, feeling as if there couldn't be enough soap
in the world to wash him clean of the unadulterated anger. He dressed quickly,
not bothering to comb his hair, and let the agents take him back to his office.
Josh was already there, looking for all the world as if he'd been eating raw
coffee beans by the handful. "How the hell did the wheels come off this thing,
Sam? Didn't we talk to just about everyone, and didn't they all agree that this
needs to happen?"
"Yes. And sit down, for God's sake. You're making me nervous." Sam plopped down
in his chair, looking with aggravation at the television. A journalist he'd
never seen before was interviewing a pundit from some global organization no one
had ever heard of.
"The sickening tendency of the United States to put its bland stamp on native
customs all over the world must be brought to a halt," said the pundit, his
gold-rimmed glasses winking in the studio lights.
"But there are those who say that this custom amounts to child abuse. What does
your organization say about that claim?"
"We don't have to say anything. Women and girls from countries where
circumcision is the norm say it for us. For every American who says it's an
outrage, there are ten women - who underwent the ritual themselves - who say
that they would be outcasts in their own societies without it and that they'd
find ways to do it themselves if it were banned. It's not for us to interfere."
The journalist had the decency, unprofessional as it may have been, to look
nauseated. "Your organization has filed a specific complaint against the authors
of the legislation, Congresspersons Hernandez and McMillan, is that correct?"
"They're just the fronts," said the interviewee. A graphic went up to say that
his name was Allen Deskin. "The man behind the idea is Senator Sam Seaborn of
California."
"I'm breaking heads!" Josh cried. He reached for his cell phone and stormed out
of the room. Sam, meanwhile, watched in fascination as the interview played out.
Deskin was obviously someone's shill, parrotting carefully-rehearsed lines. It
was annoying, to be sure, but it wasn't going to be a thing.
At least, that's what he thought before Josh came back in a few minutes later.
"We've got a thing," he breathed. "This guy, Deskin, he's nothing. No one knows
anything about him - except that his son-in-law works for the President's Liason
office." He paused. "Know what I think?"
"That Schiller was waiting to drop this on me?"
"Yes, but I think it's going to go farther than that." Josh's mind was obviously
moving faster than his mouth, and he had to stop to take deep breaths. "Okay.
You've got polling numbers so high you need to take Dramamine to look at them.
You're obviously going to be the Democratic nominee for President - screw the
primaries. No one's gonna run against you at that level. So let's say I work for
Schiller, and I want to give him four more years in office. Short of having you
killed, what do I do?"
Sam's heart sank. "You have got to be kidding me."
"Pick an issue that's tied closely to you, get ultra-liberals worked up over it,
get women's groups divided over it, and then produce a third-party candidate
who'll shave votes from just one party--"
"--the Democrats," they finished together.
Josh leaned against the bookcase while Sam stood, frowning, with his arms folded
across his chest. "What do we do for damage control?" he asked.
"I swear to God, I don't know." Josh's tone was rough, edgy. "I'm going to call
C.J., get her opinion. And Toby. I am not going to let this yutz screw us." He
sighed heavily and put his hands over his face. "Leo would've seen this coming a
mile away. He'd never have let you get into a situation like this."
"Hey. None of that." Groaning, Sam settled into the chair behind his desk.
"Nobody thought of this. We talked to Toby, to Jed, to people from State, to
delegates to the U.N. This one's not you."
"That's not good enough," Josh said firmly. "It's my job to keep crap like this
from happening. It's my job to plan far enough ahead, to look at all the angles.
I figured it out fast enough once the pieces were put in front of me - the
problem is that I didn't see the pieces until they were dropped on my head."
"It happens," Sam said softly. "We'll fix it."
"There shouldn't be anything to fix. It shouldn't have happened in the first
place. C'mon, Sam, you know my head's been everywhere but the game the last few
months. You should fire my ass, you know."
Oh, God, please, not a full-blown Josh Lyman self-loathing session. "I'm not
going to do that."
"Why the hell not? If I were you, I'd fire me."
"Well, it's lucky for both of us that you're not me. Because I absolutely
cannot, will not, do this without you at the wheel. It's a screwup, Josh, and
it's too bad because this project is something we both believe in. But we will
find a way to hit whatever Schiller's throwing at us out of the ballpark and get
the proposal passed in the bargain."
Josh regarded him with bleary eyes. "How?"
"Same way I get everything else done," Sam said, getting up and putting his hand
on Josh's shoulder.
"How?" Josh repeated.
"I tell my best friend about it, let him think it through, and then take his
advice."
Josh, who had never been able to receive a compliment without coming completely
unhinged, looked down and away for a moment. Nodding, he walked to the door that
connected Sam's office to his, but before he left the room he turned around and
looked at Sam, the beginnings of a smile curving his lips as he spoke. "I won't
let you down."
The door closed, and through the space at the bottom Sam could see the lights
going on. Sam smiled. Nothing made him happier than a good metaphor.
"You never do," Sam whispered. "You never do."
***
Part Three
February
Washington, D.C.
***
At a year and two months of age, Helen Seaborn was quite a handful. Sam claimed
that it was caused by all the music she'd heard in utero. Nina was inclined
toward the theory that listening to endless political rhetoric cooed over her
cradle had made her hyperactive. "God knows it leaves me squirming," she said as
she held her daughter on her lap and gently ran a brush through her curly black
hair.
Helen scowled and fidgeted, her blue eyes welling up with tears. Remembering
what it was like to be in her own mother's lap, undergoing the same torture,
Nina paused and sang a little song in Helen's ear. Helen grabbed the brush in
her own chubby fist and made a few passes at her mother's hair, giggling. That
task accomplished, she reached out toward the man sitting next to them.
"Good luck," Toby said, indicating the last of the remaining waves of
salt-and-pepper hair at the back of his head. "How good is her aim?"
"Not so good," Nina mumbled around the bristles that were tickling her lips.
"Okay, that's it for today. If your daddy wants you to grow your hair long
because it's so pretty, then he gets to brush it out."
Seemingly content with that remark, Helen snuggled between Nina and the side of
the loveseat and curled up for a nap. Toby took the opportunity to hand Nina a
cup of coffee, which she accepted with a grateful sigh.
"Thanks for coming on such short notice," she said, "although I still don't know
why everyone things I need a watchdog just because Sam and Josh are in
California. What's the deal with this guy, that Sam thinks I need protection?"
"Bruno Gianelli is...he has a reputation for being...difficult."
"So does Josh."
"Yes, and it's well-deserved, but..." Toby waved his hand in the air, drawing
imaginary shapes. "There's one difference between Bruno and a piranha." He
paused, consummate speechwriter that he was, then answered his own riddle. "A
necktie."
Nina, confused, blinked at him. "If he's that bad, then why is Sam consulting
with him - and why is he coming to see me?"
"Because he may be a barracuda, but he's an absolute genius at political
strategy. After the M.S. scandal broke, and the entire world thought the Bartlet
administration was going to go down in flames, Bruno managed to get us back on
our feet and headed in the right direction. Not that we thought so at the time -
believe me when I tell you that I wanted nothing more in the world than to see
his body rotating on a spit over an open fire - but now, looking back on it,
we'd have been dead in the water without him."
She understood that part. What she didn't understand was why, since Sam was
doing so well in the polls that he was practically a shoe-in for the nomination,
they needed to consult this Gianelli guy in the first place.
"You and I both know that Sam's going to be the nominee," Toby said as if
reading her mind, "and that it doesn't seem as if we need any help. However, it
doesn't hurt to ask, just in case we missed something."
"Something about my image?" Nina asked, wrinkling her nose. "What's wrong with
my image?"
"I have no idea.We all think you're going to be an exceptional First Lady.
However, the campaign managers think it might be a good idea to get input from
someone who doesn't know you personally, just to make sure you get to be First
Lady."
The title still made her a little queasy. "I wish people would stop saying that.
Some days I'm convinced that I'd just be an exceptional basket case."
Toby nodded, rubbing his beard between thumb and forefinger. "Abbey's really
sorry that she couldn't come up, but her schedule's pretty full for the next few
months. Why she thought I'd be a good substitute, I can't imagine."
"Oh, I understand exactly why." She knew that behind Toby's relaxed posture and
veiled, smoky eyes was a mind every bit as keen as Sam's, if not more so, and
the heart of a warrior. He was a panther masquerading as a housecat. He also had
a deep and abiding affection for his friends, tucked carefully away behind a
caustic façade. So, if Bruno Gianelli was going to be inclined to push Nina
around, then Toby would be the perfect foil.
Suddenly nervous, she took a few swipes at her own hair with Helen's brush and
ran her fingertips under her eyes, checking for wayward mascara. The doorbell
made her stiffen, her hands clutching the brush as if it were a lifeline. She
heard a Secret Service agent ask a few questions, then looked up to see a dark,
hawklike man looking down at her.
"Don't get up," he said, standing in front of her with his hands clasped behind
his back. "I know we don't have a lot of time, so why don't we get down to it?
Can the child go away, please?"
"She's sleeping," Nina said, half angry with the man's incredible rudeness and
half angry with herself for being affected by it.
"Whatever." He turned around and nodded at Toby. "You're here."
"I am," Toby said mildly.
"Why?"
"Because Sam's out of town, and I felt like visiting." Although he hadn't moved,
Nina got the impression that he was coiled for a strike.
"Whatever," he said again. At last he seemed to remember his manners, and he
held his hand out to Nina. "Bruno Gianelli."
"Thank you for coming. Won't you have some coffee?" Shifting carefully so as not
to wake Helen, Nina went into the kitchen and brought back a pot of coffee and a
clean cup for Bruno. She set everything down on the table. "All right, then, Mr.
Gianelli - what shall we talk about?"
"You," he said, pouring coffee without changing the direction of his gaze. He
took a seat in the chair next to Toby's. "I'm here to talk about you."
"What do you need to know?" Nina asked, but Bruno waved the coffee at her.
"Please - there's very little about you that I don't know. Born in Boston to an
American father and British mother who died when you were in your teens. Spent
summers studying with William Primrose in Utah. Attended Oberlin for your
undergrad degree and Juilliard for your Master's, then went to England to study
with Gwynne Edwards. You were the youngest member of the Philadelphia Orchestra,
and the youngest woman ever to be an Assistant Principal of the American
Symphony until being asked to take a leave of absence last month. In December,
2007, you married Sam Seaborn, and then just one year later, you gave birth to a
daughter, Helen." He paused. "She's a big girl for her age, isn't she?"
Nina smiled at this first glimpse of warmth. "She's tall - my father's very
tall, so I suppose--"
"Let's make sure we have a statement from your physician, just in case someone
decides the child was born eight months after the wedding or something. All we
need is the gossip that you caught Sam the old-fashioned way."
Momentarily stunned, Nina had to take a few breaths. "How...how dare you even
think things like that?"
"Nina," Bruno said, leaning toward her with his eyebrows raised, "how dare you
not think about these things? Do you honestly believe that people won't look for
a chink in the armor of this happy marriage? If my questions seem harsh, then
please remember that it'll be harsher still coming from the mouths of some of
the right-wing reporters waiting to trip you up, or from the insipid women's
magazines who want to make a spectacle out of someone so young, pretty, and
successful."
She looked at Toby, whose face bore a studied expression of neutrality. Okay,
save it, she told herself. Toby will jump in when he thinks the time is right.
"Sam and Josh said you were an image expert," she said, hoping to distract Bruno
from any further impertinence about Helen's conception. "What is it, exactly,
that you want to do to mine?"
"I want to figure out which way to go with you. You're quite the enigma, as
political wives go. No politics in your family, no sudden surges of interest on
your part. You're a successful career woman who took her husband's name, then
surrendered her career for his. It's not going to play well, the way it's
happened."
"With whom?"
"The ladies," Bruno said with a smug smile. "They want a role model, but your
role is so damn confusing that they don't know what to make of you."
Nina glanced at Toby, who made the merest shrug but said nothing.
"What do you want me to do?" she asked.
"Stand up."
"I beg your pardon?"
"Stand up." Bruno waved his finger in the air. "You're not very tall, but that's
okay because Sam isn't, either. Don't wear shoes with more than one inch of
heel. Dresses rather than suits, I think. More feminine."
"Excuse me, but what the hell--"
"As for the job thing, maybe if you had another baby - that's why you left the
symphony, so you could concentrate on Helen and take care of yourself during the
busy campaign season." Before Nina could do anything other than clench her
teeth, Bruno shook his head. "No, I guess not."
"I should say not!" Nina exclaimed.
"March, April, May, June..." He ticked off the months on his fingers and
frowned. "Even if you got pregnant now, you might not have the baby in time for
the election, and it would be catastrophic if you went into labor late in the
campaign and Sam had to miss an event. Besides, you might not have your figure
back in time for the inauguration."
"Heaven forbid," Toby mumbled into his beard. He shot a glance at Nina, his dark
eyes shining with amusement.
Son of a bitch, he was enjoying this.
"Sam's and my plans for...for...procreation are none of your business," Nina
growled. "What other plans do you have for me?"
"Most of it's pretty simple - working with kids, getting musical instruments to
children in poor districts and getting photo ops while you teach them to play."
He made it sound disreputable. "Then we need to work on the physical stuff - not
so much with the glamor, because women already resent you for taking Sam off the
market. I'm thinking understated elegance. Like Jackie Kennedy."
"Planning to bring pillbox hats back into style, Bruno?" Toby asked.
"Don't mock me. We haven't had a lady as a First Lady in a while, and here we
have one born and bred." He narrowed his eyes at her. "Nina's just a nickname.
You should go by Jacqueline. It'll get shortened to Jackie in the press, and
that way it won't look like you did it yourself."
"Are you serious?" Nina asked incredulously. "I mean it - are you serious?"
"It could give Sam a big bump in the polls, and softening you might help with
Republican-leaning women who are sick of cows like May Schiller."
"You're insane."
"Listen, Nina, this whole freakshow of a campaign is insane. I have no doubt
that Sam means well, and I'll definitely be voting for him. But he's got a gay
running mate with a goddamn dress designer - and, by the way, could it be a
worse stereotype? - for a boyfriend, and a campaign chairman who's a
card-carrying nutjob whose wife left him for a woman. Then, to top it off, Sam
has a wife who has her nose so far up in the air about keeping herself away from
the uncleanliness of politics that she could very well cost him entire states!"
Roused by the noise, Helen pulled herself upright and started to cry. Nina swept
her up in her arms, stroking her hair and glaring at Bruno. "I'll give your
suggestions the consideration they deserve," she said between clenched teeth.
"Which is to say that I'll have dismissed them by the time you get your ass out
of my home."
"Have it your way," Bruno said as he rose and headed for the door. "Just, for
the love of God, don't do anything that'll put Schiller back in the White House
for another four years. The country can't take it."
Nina watched as the Secret Service agent escorted Bruno out of the house and
closed the door before discreetly fading into the kitchen. Still cradling Helen,
she gave Toby an angry look. "Thanks so much for all your help."
"Didn't think you needed any," he said softly. "You were doing pretty well,
there."
"Pillbox hats, my ass," she said, then grimaced. "I just said 'ass' twice in
three minutes with my daughter right here."
"She spent the weekend of your anniversary up at the farm with Jed and Abbey.
You think she didn't hear 'ass' a few times?"
"I suppose." Nina started to tremble, anger and misery at war inside her head.
"Do you think any of what he said is true, Toby? Am I a liability to Sam?"
"Sure you are," Toby said, setting his coffee cup down carefully and getting up
from the chair. "Just as any strong-willed, intelligent woman would be to a
politician. But it's time for the country to get over itself." He stood next to
her and held his hands out. "Go for a walk, get some air. I'll take her."
To Nina's surprise, Helen reached for Toby and let him carry her to the chair,
her sobs subsiding to little hiccups as he put her on his lap and patted her
back gingerly. "Go ahead. We can talk when you get back."
Dawn.
"That's why you're here, isn't it? They sent you to talk about my 'image,' and
they wanted to soften me up by showing me the worst-case scenario."
"Maybe," Toby said quietly. "Listen, can Helen have coffee?"
"No!" Nina snatched a plastic cup from the table. "It's milk. She won't spill
because the lid has a thing."
"Ah. No caffeine for you, then," he said as Helen smiled up at him.
"Okay." Nina ran her fingers through her hair for a moment. The gesture always
made Sam laugh when he saw it, because Josh so often did the same thing when he
was thinking. "Okay. You can talk to me when I get back, but I won't promise
anything. And no coffee, no sugar, no anything for Helen."
"Yes, ma'am."
"Toby, are you listening to me?"
"Absolutely..." Toby mumbled as he reached for a nearby shelf and pulled out a
well-worn book. He waited until Nina had joined up her agent and left the house
before picking up one of the soft cookies on the saucer, breaking it in half,
and presenting it to Helen with exaggerated courtesy. "...not," he finished.
Opening the book, he started to read aloud as Helen gnawed on her treat.
"'Dorothy lived in the midst of the great Kansas prairies...'"
***
March
***
"It's all wrapped up?" Sam asked Ginger, who rolled her eyes at him.
"Hand-delivered by courier. The House opens it tomorrow, and the debate's not
anticipated to last longer than a day. Wrapped up," she said as she turned back
to her computer screen.
"Good." Sam smiled at the back of Ginger's head. Trying to accomplish anything
on women's issues was tricky at the best of times, but now that he was the
prohibitive favorite for the Democratic nomination he found that his hands were
tied by accusations of electioneering. He'd been channeling some of his ideas
through others in the Senate, and in the House as well, keeping his name off of
legislation and keeping his profile as low as possible. It was driving him
crazy, but it had to be done that way. Usually.
This time, however, it was personal. He knew he was going to push for a
resolution to get the United Nations to propose a ban on female genital
mutilation on an international level from the moment he had seen C.J.'s news
report. He didn't need C.J.'s prodding, Abbey's reminders, or Donna's outright
demands. He was convinced long before he picked Josh up at the airport when he
came back from New York, and that conviction was only strengthened when he went
to visit Amy at the rehabilitation hospital.
He was going to get this done, no matter what.
"I have a meeting with Senator Skinner. Page me if you hear from Hernandez or
McMillan, but otherwise just take a message and I'll get back with them."
"Oh. Wait." Ginger reached into her desk drawer and pulled out a thin notebook.
"Could you give this to Matt, to give to Gary? He's going to save me the blue
dress from the Crisis Center benefit and let me wear it to the Cherry Blossom
Ball - I marked it, here, with a post-it--"
Sam, indignant, took two steps backward. "Ginger, I'm a United States Senator.
Do you really think it's a good idea to take up my precious time shopping for
evening wear for my assistant?"
"You're playing basketball, Sam. It's not like a matter of life or death." She
got up and tucked the notebook in Sam's breast pocket, then patted him on the
chest. "There. It won't be so bad."
He gave her a glum look. "You need to treat me with more...deference. That is,
if you want to work in the White House someday."
"Been there, done that, still have parking tickets from last time." She smiled
at him. "Sam, believe me, I will defer to you in all matters of importance to
the nation. But this is about the Cherry Blossom Ball, and I will not be
denied."
"Got it." Sam grinned at her, his mood improving by leaps and bounds. He was
having a good day. He'd buy her the damn dress, and everything that went with
it, just to see the look on her face. Before that, however, he'd kick Matt's ass
at basketball, have lunch, and be back at the office in time for a series of
interminable meetings about grain silos and import taxes on stupid things that
no one wanted to buy, anyway.
Vote for me, he thought, and I'll run through Congress on horseback with a
scythe, cutting the chaff.
There would be a coaching session on international economic policy via the
internet while he had dinner at home with Nina and Helen, a few minutes to chat
with Toby about recent polling data, and notes about three bills coming through
the Senate in the next week.
Following that, he decided, there would be sex.
He stopped by Matt's office, waving his duffel bag in Donna's direction as she
stood by a white board, farming out duties to assorted staffers. She grinned at
him and gave him a thumbs-up as he passed.
Matt met him at the door, his backpack slung over one shoulder. "You ready?"
"More than ready. And you can get me up to speed on the Mitchell thing while we
go." They each had Secret Service agents with them - Matt had received more than
his fair share of what Josh called the "interesting" letters - and for that
reason their entourage was bigger than they wanted when they tried to sneak away
to play basketball and talk strategy. Nonetheless, they often managed to get in
a few fast games before it was time to get ready for their respective afternoon
tasks. Today Matt, as usual, beat Sam rather handily in the first game and then
deliberately threw the second.
There were so few indulgences in their lives, anymore.
Sam made a truly impressive three-pointer at the beginning of the third game. As
he dribbled the ball a few times, he saw his lead agent coming onto the court.
"Oh, this can not be good," he mumbled, tossing the ball at Matt.
"Sorry to interrupt, Senator, but there's something on television that you need
to see."
Sam grabbed a towel and mopped his forehead. "What's going on?"
"It's a crawl on CNN, sir. It should play back in a moment." The men stared at
the screen as sports scores went past. "That's it."
Matt wrapped his towel around his neck as he read aloud. "'International groups
decry U.S.-backed proposal to ban female circumcision, citing U.S. colonialism
attempting to rob nations of their cultures.' Wow - that's unexpected."
"Colonialism?" Sam snapped. "Colonialism is colonization. It's putting
McDonald's on every street corner and ousting heads of state because we don't
like them. This is about keeping young women and girls from being brutalized!"
"I know, I know." Matt put his hand on Sam's arm. "Get back to the office and
find out what the hell's happening. I'll go home and make some calls."
"Yeah." Sam stalked to the showers, feeling as if there couldn't be enough soap
in the world to wash him clean of the unadulterated anger. He dressed quickly,
not bothering to comb his hair, and let the agents take him back to his office.
Josh was already there, looking for all the world as if he'd been eating raw
coffee beans by the handful. "How the hell did the wheels come off this thing,
Sam? Didn't we talk to just about everyone, and didn't they all agree that this
needs to happen?"
"Yes. And sit down, for God's sake. You're making me nervous." Sam plopped down
in his chair, looking with aggravation at the television. A journalist he'd
never seen before was interviewing a pundit from some global organization no one
had ever heard of.
"The sickening tendency of the United States to put its bland stamp on native
customs all over the world must be brought to a halt," said the pundit, his
gold-rimmed glasses winking in the studio lights.
"But there are those who say that this custom amounts to child abuse. What does
your organization say about that claim?"
"We don't have to say anything. Women and girls from countries where
circumcision is the norm say it for us. For every American who says it's an
outrage, there are ten women - who underwent the ritual themselves - who say
that they would be outcasts in their own societies without it and that they'd
find ways to do it themselves if it were banned. It's not for us to interfere."
The journalist had the decency, unprofessional as it may have been, to look
nauseated. "Your organization has filed a specific complaint against the authors
of the legislation, Congresspersons Hernandez and McMillan, is that correct?"
"They're just the fronts," said the interviewee. A graphic went up to say that
his name was Allen Deskin. "The man behind the idea is Senator Sam Seaborn of
California."
"I'm breaking heads!" Josh cried. He reached for his cell phone and stormed out
of the room. Sam, meanwhile, watched in fascination as the interview played out.
Deskin was obviously someone's shill, parrotting carefully-rehearsed lines. It
was annoying, to be sure, but it wasn't going to be a thing.
At least, that's what he thought before Josh came back in a few minutes later.
"We've got a thing," he breathed. "This guy, Deskin, he's nothing. No one knows
anything about him - except that his son-in-law works for the President's Liason
office." He paused. "Know what I think?"
"That Schiller was waiting to drop this on me?"
"Yes, but I think it's going to go farther than that." Josh's mind was obviously
moving faster than his mouth, and he had to stop to take deep breaths. "Okay.
You've got polling numbers so high you need to take Dramamine to look at them.
You're obviously going to be the Democratic nominee for President - screw the
primaries. No one's gonna run against you at that level. So let's say I work for
Schiller, and I want to give him four more years in office. Short of having you
killed, what do I do?"
Sam's heart sank. "You have got to be kidding me."
"Pick an issue that's tied closely to you, get ultra-liberals worked up over it,
get women's groups divided over it, and then produce a third-party candidate
who'll shave votes from just one party--"
"--the Democrats," they finished together.
Josh leaned against the bookcase while Sam stood, frowning, with his arms folded
across his chest. "What do we do for damage control?" he asked.
"I swear to God, I don't know." Josh's tone was rough, edgy. "I'm going to call
C.J., get her opinion. And Toby. I am not going to let this yutz screw us." He
sighed heavily and put his hands over his face. "Leo would've seen this coming a
mile away. He'd never have let you get into a situation like this."
"Hey. None of that." Groaning, Sam settled into the chair behind his desk.
"Nobody thought of this. We talked to Toby, to Jed, to people from State, to
delegates to the U.N. This one's not you."
"That's not good enough," Josh said firmly. "It's my job to keep crap like this
from happening. It's my job to plan far enough ahead, to look at all the angles.
I figured it out fast enough once the pieces were put in front of me - the
problem is that I didn't see the pieces until they were dropped on my head."
"It happens," Sam said softly. "We'll fix it."
"There shouldn't be anything to fix. It shouldn't have happened in the first
place. C'mon, Sam, you know my head's been everywhere but the game the last few
months. You should fire my ass, you know."
Oh, God, please, not a full-blown Josh Lyman self-loathing session. "I'm not
going to do that."
"Why the hell not? If I were you, I'd fire me."
"Well, it's lucky for both of us that you're not me. Because I absolutely
cannot, will not, do this without you at the wheel. It's a screwup, Josh, and
it's too bad because this project is something we both believe in. But we will
find a way to hit whatever Schiller's throwing at us out of the ballpark and get
the proposal passed in the bargain."
Josh regarded him with bleary eyes. "How?"
"Same way I get everything else done," Sam said, getting up and putting his hand
on Josh's shoulder.
"How?" Josh repeated.
"I tell my best friend about it, let him think it through, and then take his
advice."
Josh, who had never been able to receive a compliment without coming completely
unhinged, looked down and away for a moment. Nodding, he walked to the door that
connected Sam's office to his, but before he left the room he turned around and
looked at Sam, the beginnings of a smile curving his lips as he spoke. "I won't
let you down."
The door closed, and through the space at the bottom Sam could see the lights
going on. Sam smiled. Nothing made him happier than a good metaphor.
"You never do," Sam whispered. "You never do."
***
Part Three