Chapter 9

Henry

“Thank you, gentlemen. I will take all of this under advisement,” I say, dismissing this Joint Chiefs of Staff meeting.

It’s been a long, though enlightening session. However, if I’m not careful, the commandant of the Marine Corps could go on for hours.

All the men file out, one after the other, and I make my own way out of the conference room, heading toward the Oval Office. I pass a slew of interns hovering outside the offices, waiting to be called on, while other are dashing around, acting as pages.

Everywhere I look, people are bent to some crucial and consequential task.

The West Wing is a frenetic hive of activity and though I might be at the top, I know I would accomplish nothing without the tireless efforts of every person here. It’s a humbling thought—and one I remind myself of every day.

No man is an island, after all.

I’m about to ask Eugene, my personal aide, if he can find a copy of John Donne’s poems—when I spot Beatrice moving my way.

Her head is cocked attentively as she listens to Hope, her lush brown hair spilling over her shoulders in smooth waves.

I pause, momentarily transfixed while watching her weave her way through the flow of people. She’s so intent on her task and absorbed in what she’s doing that she doesn’t seem to notice I’m here until she’s almost mowed me down.

She stops abruptly, giving me a momentarily wide-eyed stare.

“Ah, Mr President, there you are,” Hope segues smoothly. “I was just filling Beatrice in on her duties, though I’m sure she’ll need to get with Harriet for a complete rundown of your day to day.”

Ah yes, Mrs Harriet Beecher, my gatekeeper. I believe her official title is Special Assistant to the President for Appointments and Scheduling, but most people call her the Guard Dog. Unless you have a special walking in privilege, if you want to get to me, you have to go through her.

And she runs an exceptionally tight ship.

In fact, I should probably be heading to another appointment right now, but I can’t seem to tear myself away. Beatrice’s gaze holds me captive, her look a heady mixture of wariness and awe.

Hope clears her throat. “If you two will excuse me, there seems to be a minor emergency involving the press secretary and the chief of staff.” She waves her smartphone in explanation. “I’ll leave you two to it,” she says with a secret smile, before turning back down the corridor.

Beatrice and I both stand there staring at each other, neither one of us making a move to say anything.

We seem to exist, at least in this moment, apart from the rest of the bureaucratic bustle, within our own universe like islands in a stream. The world of the West Wing seems to ebb and flow around us.

“How are you—”

“I want to thank you—”

We both stop. She gives me a tentative smile so I wave to my side.

“Walk with me,” I say. She nods and follows me as I head down the hall to my private study.

Once there, I signal to Eugene—and the rest of my retinue of aides, secretaries and assistants—that we don’t need anything else. I shut the heavy oak door with a wave of relief—and a little of excitement.

“Please, have a seat,” I say. Beatrice looks around at the small room and selects one of the plush leather club chairs.

“Cozy,” she remarks, with a somewhat skeptical eyebrow raise. I let out a soft laugh, taking the other club chair in front of the windows.

“You know, I actually do most of my work in here,” I say, leaning back and stretching out my long legs. I point to the heavy mahogany desk pushed up against the wall. “At that desk.”

“Really?” she asks, sounding a bit surprised. “When you have the Oval office right next door?”

I nod. “I do,” I say. “Unless there’s a meeting, or I’m signing important documents. I prefer to do most of my day-to-day work in here. I find that intimate quarters, the coziness if you will,” I give her a glance and she gives me a playful half-smile, “helps me think.”

I watch as she opens her bag to grab a notepad and pen and starts taking notes.

“So,” I say, checking the time. I suppressed a sigh. I have a meeting with the speaker of the house in ten minutes. “How’s your first day?”

“I think it’s going really well. Miss Olivier has been showing me around so that I can familiarize myself with the layout. Who to avoid, who to sweet talk if I want the good coffee.”

I huff out a laugh.

“Well, then Hope must really like you, because she doesn’t give that information away to just anyone. I swear I was in office for six months drinking swill before I got the hookup.” At this, Beatrice snorts over her notes, then looks up at me, aghast.

“No! There’s no way the leader of the free world would be given swill in the White House.”

I lean back and throw both hands up in surrender.

“Scouts honor.” But I can’t keep a straight face. With a laugh, I say, “No, you’re right, the coffee for the president of the United States is amazing. But I have tasted the garbage they serve in the staff break room, and it’s pretty terrible. So count your blessings,” I throw in as an afterthought. And suddenly, her face becomes earnest.

She clears her throat. “I do. And I wanted to say thank you again for this opportunity. It is a privilege to be such an intimate observer of history in the making.”

She breaks off, glancing out the window as if she was gathering her thoughts.

Then, she takes a deep breath and continues in a rush, “I’ve been a huge supporter of yours and I’ve followed your political career from the beginning. It’s such an honor to actually be a part of it,” she finishes.

Then a delicate rose tint stains her cheeks. “Not that I am a part of it. I promise, my hope is for you to not even notice I’m here. To just blend in to the background. I want to strive to be as objective an observer of history as I can be.”

I’m not going to lie—the thought that she, personally, has been following my career gives my ego a stroke. Though I arch my eyebrow in disbelief that she could ever do anything but standout.

“So, is there anything you need from me?” I ask, shifting slightly in my seat and holding her gaze. I know what I need from her, though now is not the time nor the place for it.

Her dark eyes dance, and a curious smile tugs at her lips before her expression turns thoughtful. “A background interview would be nice. I know I’m the White House biographer, so I’ll be covering life within the White House during your tenure, as well as the presidency itself. But it’s always good to frame the story. People want to know how you got here, as much as they want to know the inner workings of the White House during your time here.”

With her elbow braced on the arm of the chair, she cups her chin in her hand and taps her index finger thoughtfully against her lips.

“Yes,” she says, almost to herself. “I think that would work. What better place to start, than at the beginning?” Then she hits me with another one of her dazzling smiles.

“I’ll just get in touch with Mrs Beecher and set something up,” she says.

I glance at my watch and realize I’m going to be late. I begin to stand and she jumps up from her chair.

As we make our way out of my study, my brain mentally reviewing my agenda for my next meeting, a thought crosses my mind. “That won’t be necessary,” I tell her. “We can do it tonight.”

“Tonight?” she asks, stunned.

“Yes,” I say as I walk the few steps down the hall to the Oval Office, my staff poised and at the ready. “Yes,” I repeat. “Why don’t you come up for dinner after you’re done for the day? We can eat and you can ask me all the questions your heart desires.”

My heart pounds, and there’s an uncomfortable twist in my stomach, much akin to nerves. Why do I feel so nervous?

Because I can see the reticence in her eyes, she’s thinking about saying no. And I desperately want her to say yes.

“What time?” she hedges.

“How about 8:30 P.M.?”

She glances away, doing some sort of calculation in her head. I can hear Eugene clearing his throat, trying to let me know I’m late for my meeting. Still, I’m rooted to the spot.

Finally, she has mercy. “Yes, that works. I’ll need to head home first and take care of some things, but I can be back here for our interview at that time.”

“Just come to the residence. I’ll have an usher bring you up to my suite.” At that she looks a little nervous, and I have to stifle a chuckle. However, the look is fleeting and her professionalism slips over her face like a mask of cool neutrality.

“Thank you, Mr President. I’d be delighted. I appreciate you giving me the time.” And then she excuses herself, no doubt to find Mrs Beecher to go over my schedule and appointments.

I turn toward the Oval Office and feel a twinge of guilt as my staff seems to give a collective sigh of relief. Nothing for it. Business before pleasure.

Eugene opens the door for me and I step inside. “Ah, Mr Speaker, my apologies for being late. Now, what can I do for you?”