Chapter 3

Henry

The Resolute desk isn’t the favorite desk that I’ve ever had, but it’s close.

The size is a bit much for my taste. There’s too much empty space—space that’s supposed to either remain empty-looking and powerful, or be filled with family photos.

Past presidents would fill front of the space with photos of First Family: First Children, First Pets, First Ladies—none of those are photos in my life. As much as I like a good, clean desk, it can get a bit distracting.

Another habit I didn’t carry over from the past presidents is taking evening hours to go over briefings. That’s something I do during business hours, and fortunately, my staff trusts me to absorb crucial documents like security briefings on my own during the workday.

They usually do, anyway.

“Mr President?”

They usually do, anyway.

Lawrence is standing silently right next to the Resolute desk. I didn’t even hear him come in.

After he tries to get my attention, I simply keep reading. It’s not that I’m intentionally ignoring my chief of staff or trying to send him a message about interrupting me, but it’s just that I don’t want to lose my place in this document.

“Ahem. Excuse me, Henry.”

“Just come right in, Lawrence, please. And were you clearing your throat or just saying ‘ahem’?”

“I was trying to get your attention.”

“You’ve officially succeeded,” I say, looking up from the briefing.

“What’s so urgent this morning, Lawrence?”

“Your schedule, actually.”

“My schedule?”

“So far, you’ve only received the daily security briefing. You haven’t been briefed about today’s schedule.”

Slowly closing the briefing, I regard Lawrence with a measured modesty. I should’ve caught on to that earlier.

“Is this the first day I haven’t been briefed about that?” I ask.

“Not the first, Henry.”

“Seriously?”

“Maybe the third or fourth.”

“Oh, that’s not so bad,” I respond.

“Not at all, considering your track record. Do you mind?” he says with a cheeky grin.

Lawrence takes a seat in one of the decorative chairs flanking the desk. I notice he’s carrying a stapled packet of papers.

“Alright old friend, lay it on me.”

“I’m not that old, you know,” he protests.

“No, but you do look it,” I tease.

“This is why you were elected, Henry. Your ultimate honesty.”

Lawrence slams the stapled pages on top of the Resolute desk.

“What’s that? And why are you angry at it?” I ask.

“I’m not, although I’m annoyed you have to take time out of your schedule to take a look at it.”

I purposely pull the packet closer to take a quick glance at what’s printed on the top page. “That’s okay, it’s just a list of names. And I’m almost done reading them.”

“Good, because you have a thirty-five minute meet and greet coming up.”

“Who and where?” I ask, barely paying attention. I’m more focused on what the hell is going on with the untitled list of names in front of me.

“Everyone, but no one important,” Lawrence answers. “Right here in the Oval.”

“Oh, just great. So, Kitty Kelley, Brenda Maddox, Rick Perlstein. All potential biographers, right?”

“Don’t let anyone tell you any different, Henry, but you’re a smart one sometimes.”

“Hey, Lawrence.” I look up at my grinning chief of staff. “Don’t make me call your wife and have her tell you to play nice.”

“Playing dirty so quickly today, I see.”

“Okay, so obviously I need to choose one?”

“Just select a name at random,” Lawrence suggests.

“Fine,” I look back down at the dozens of names printed on the first page. “Do we have any darts? I could throw one.”

“I’ll go check.” Lawrence rises from his chair and I can’t tell if he’s serious about finding some. “But, seriously, pick a name. Meet and greet in fifteen.”

While looking back up to watch Lawrence leave, I lift my forefinger up high into the air before letting it fall slowly back onto the paper.

The moment the door between the Oval office and the chief of staff’s office closes, I look down at where my finger landed. The tip of my finger ended up perfectly underneath a name that’s on top of the list.

Beatrice Barlow.

No. No, that’s not her.

“Lawrence, get back in here.”

It can’t be—it has to be another writer with the same name.

By the time I’m done staring at the name on the list, making sure I’m reading it correctly, my chief of staff has magically reappeared three feet in front of the desk.

“What do you need?”

A lot happened—some of which is public knowledge—about how I was elected to the U.S. Senate at thirty, and the presidency at age thirty-five.

“There’s one name here I don’t recognize.”

“Which one?”

Some of what happened isn’t public knowledge—or anyone’s, but my own.

“This Beatrice Barlow. Who is she?”

Like how I spent my entire senatorial campaign getting to know and connecting with one of the campaign aides.

“You didn’t read her piece on the Digest last year, Henry?”

Or, how I had to cut off the connection the night of my senatorial win.

Or, how I had to cut off the connection the night of my senatorial win.

Being a thirty-year-old senator—and later a thirty-five-year-old president—were both historic and controversial enough situations without letting any potential scandals get in the damn way.

“I’m afraid not,” I lie, unable to look up from the name on the list.

“It won a Pulitzer.”

“Okay, then. Beatrice Barlow it is.”

I move my hand from the list, and look up at my bewildered chief of staff.

Lawrence gives me a look, a look that tells me he knows more than he’s letting on.

He was there during the campaign. He knows full well who she is, but even he doesn’t know about the more intimate history—or if he does, he’s never said anything.

“Are you sure, Henry?”

“You know we me well enough that once I’ve made up my mind, that’s it.”

“Very good. We’ll contact her shortly.”

I take a deep, slow breath.

“Are you okay, Henry?”

“Meet and greet is in what, ten minutes by now?”

“We can push it back. You’re the president, after all.”

“There’s no reason that’s necessary.”

“Whatever you say. Ten minutes, and after that will be your meeting with the Hereditary Prince of Lichtenstein in the Rose Garden.”

“Right, the photo op. I’ll make sure to look my prettiest.” I fight the urge to look down at where my finger is still resting on the list.

“I know how hard that is for you.”

Lawrence disappears as quickly back into his office as he appeared in mine.

I flip the list over so I don’t have to look at it any more right now.

Napoleon once said that, “There is no such thing as an accident; it is fate misnamed.”

Oh, how true it was.