He touched her face ever so gently so as not to wake her. The texture of her skin was so much like that early spring night in Minneapolis. He hoped against all logic that the woman in front of him was Kate. He wanted to finally be able to tell her what he felt, even after all these years. But watching her sleep wasn't going to make the answers come any sooner, so he kissed her forehead lightly and retreated to his bedroom to try to sleep.
The phone rang 20 minutes before the alarm, with Leo on the other end telling him that the Federal government was closed for the day. If there was a National crisis, they'd track him down. Hanging up the phone, Sam turned off the alarm and fell into a dreamless sleep. He didn't move when his door opened.
She woke to the pale sunlight coming in through the window. Blinking her eyes, she sat up slowly, unsure of her environment. The last thing she remembered was falling in the snow and hoping that she'd be home soon. She looked down and didn't recognize the clothes she had on. A Princeton sweatshirt and pair of Duke sweats; she was certain that these weren't hers. She looked around the room for clues as she pulled the socks off her hands and feet. It was comfortable and well decorated, but beyond that it was fairly nondescript. A look around this place was definitely in order.
She quietly padded down the stairs to the living room. Whoever brought her here definitely had nice taste. It looked like a room from a high-end decorating magazine. 2 couches, a chair and ottoman in forest green and navy with pale cream berber wall to wall carpeting that had threading of the same green and navy as in the furniture, as well as some in cranberry. Bookcases filled nearly to the top with nearly every book imaginable, and the top shelves reserved for photos and other little items.
She noticed a few ship models in bottles up towards the top, along with some other little nautical pieces here and there throughout the room. Looking over the walls, this person's taste in art was definitely not lacking, either. She recognized a few of the pieces; Ginzburg's 'Crimson Solitude' and 'Wrapped in Time', along with some classic prints. Glancing at the coffee table; she saw a small plate and glass. 'Well,' she thought as she picked them up, 'since this person's been so nice to me, I should probably take these into the kitchen for them. I don't want them to think that I'm ungrateful.'
The kitchen was nearly as beautiful as the living room had been. Dark blue floor tiles with black grouting and black marble countertops. All the appliances were stainless steel, and the cabinet facings were done in a blue barely lighter than the tiling. 'A bit small,' she thought as she put the items in the sink, 'and no one's kitchen is this clean, unless they hardly ever use it.' Opening the fridge, she was surprised to see it nearly empty, except for a few little things here and there. "Guess that confirms my suspicions about how often the kitchen gets used," she quietly said to herself.
Walking back out to the living room, she noticed a room with a partially open door. Being more curious than she should be, she slowly pushed the door open to get a look. Right away she knew that this was their home office. Bookcases lined the wall, filled top to bottom with legal texts and binders. The desk was covered in paperwork and the monitor stuck out like a red flag in a storm. She noticed the degrees on the wall, impressed when she saw that they were from Princeton University and Duke Law. Being the classic New Yorker that she was, she couldn't help thinking where his sanity had gone, since he did his undergrad work in Jersey.
The next thing that caught her eye was a framed certificate that looked like it had been done entirely in calligraphy. It was in a spot that was a little over her head, but she tried to read it as best she could.
"...designates Samuel Norman Seaborn to the post of Deputy Communications Director and Special Assistant to the President. He is authorized to execute and fulfill the duties of this office with all the powers and privileges and subject to the conditions prescribed.
Josiah Bartlet, President of the United States January 20, 1999"
From her vantage point, she could see the signature and a bluish colored mark near it. Suddenly, her breath caught in her throat. Someone from the White House was nice enough to bring her into their home? She couldn't believe it. Nothing like this ever happened to her. She looked around the office as she tried to catch her breath, but the next thing her eye settled on knocked everything out of her.
There was a photo on one of the shelves above the desk that looked familiar. She stepped closer to the desk to get a better look. She felt like she'd just been punched in the stomach.