Sam leaned against the leather-upholstered seat and looked out the window as the car moved along the drive. Ahead of them, the White House stood bathed in light against the night sky. He had worked there for over a year, but his heart still raced every time he looked at it. Of course, tonight nerves might have something to do with that as well.
"My orders are to take you to the South Portico, Mr. Seaborn," the driver called over his shoulder. "You'll be met there."
"Thank you." Sam straightened his tie for the third time since getting into the car and tried to think of something calm, something soothing, something other than the next hour. When Charlie had called at nine that morning with a summons from the President, his stomach had twisted into knots. Now, the knots were knotting, and his heart was pounding.
As the car slowed to a stop, he wiped sweaty palms on his thighs. He used the few seconds as the driver came around the car to take a breath, hold it and exhale. His heart did not slow, but enough oxygen reached his brain to allow him to function.
The driver pointed at the already open door. "Right through there, sir."
As he walked to the entrance, Sam reviewed his meager knowledge of the White House. Wasn't the doctor's office located on this level? Might be good to know that if I have a coronary.
Abbey Bartlet stood in the center of the vestibule. "Hello, Sam."
He glanced around. "G-good evening, Mrs. Bartlet. I was expecting Charlie."
"He's in the Oval, finishing up a few things with my husband, so I told him I'd take you upstairs myself."
Oh, damn. "Thank you, ma'am."
They walked to the elevator, the click of her heels against the marble marking each step. The inherent quiet of the building was almost palpable, but Sam failed to draw any sense of calm from it. He was simply too aware of the woman beside him.
Pushing the button for the second floor, the First Lady turned to him. "Have you been catching up on your sleep?"
"Yes, ma'am."
She frowned. "It's always been 'ma'am', hasn't it?"
"I'm sorry, I don't understand."
"You've always called me 'ma'am'. The others — Toby, Josh, CJ — they call me Abbey, at least they did during the campaign. CJ still does occasionally. But you never have. Why is that, Sam?"
"B-because..." Because you've always scared the hell out of me. He paused, grasping for another explanation; one that he hoped would suffice.
Tilting her head, Abbey scrutinized him. "I've always scared the hell out of you, haven't I?"
He blinked, wondering if he had spoken aloud. "To be perfectly honest, yes."
"Good, then maybe you'll listen to what I have to say."
For one awful moment, Sam was afraid she might hit the 'stop' button and hold him hostage until she finished. As much as he dreaded talking to the President, even that was preferable to a lecture from the First Lady. Suddenly his coat was too warm, the space was too small, and he was immensely grateful he had not eaten before leaving home. When the door slid open, it was all he could do to wait for her to exit ahead of him. Following her down the hall, he nodded vaguely to a Secret Service agent as he fought to control his nerves.
"Here we are," Abbey said, leading him into the President's private study. "Good lord, Sam! You're as white as a sheet."
"I'm fine." Taking off his overcoat, he draped it over the back of the couch.
She poured him a glass of water from the ever-present crystal pitcher. "Sit down and sip that slowly."
"Yes, ma'am." He chose the armchair closest to the door and farthest from the fireplace. As he drank the water, Abbey sat down on the edge of the coffee table just close enough that he smelled a gentle hint of her perfume.
"I'll make this brief."
Setting the glass on the table beside him, Sam tried to avoid the inevitable. "Ma'am, as much as I —" A raised eyebrow stopped him, and he sank back in the chair.
"Sam, Jed and Leo think you have one of the best minds of your generation. Did you know that? Out of everyone they have available to them, the best and the brightest this country has to offer, you're the one they believe in."
Sam grimaced, thinking of the times one or both had dismissed him without even considering that he might have a valid point. In the last month, they had not bothered listening at all.
"You think I'm wrong," Abbey accused him.
"No, I think we have different perspectives."
"And yours is?"
"Mrs. Bartlet, I've learned an incredible amount — more than I ever thought possible — just from being in the same room with them. It's something that will always inspire me."
"That's not an answer, Samuel."
Of course it's not. "Josh is their best and brightest. He's the one on the inside, the one they listen to."
Abbey sighed. "Sam, Sam, Sam, Sam, Sam. For a smart man, you are incredibly dense at times."
Sam shifted in his chair. "To my credit, I'm aware of that."
"You have so many strengths that just knock us all out. Yes, Josh has an incredible mind. But you, Sam, you have passion, the passion to see every side of a question before arguing the one you believe in with such intelligence. And then you translate that passion into inspired oratory."
Sam flinched, thinking of the last speech he had written. There had been no passion, no inspired oratory. He was not sure he was capable of either anymore.
"I've spent my married life listening to my husband give speeches and addresses and lectures. I have never heard him speak with the fervor, the intensity you infuse into everything you write. Your words touch his heart and his soul. Jed glories in your writing, Sam."
"I'm honored to have written for the President, ma'am, both during the campaign and here in the White House, but I'm not irreplaceable. There are dozens of writers who would kill to craft just one speech for him."
"But he wants you," a voice said from the doorway.
Sam rose to his feet. "Good evening, Mr. President."