Oath of Office

wanted Lou to pick up some tuna on his way home and drop it off at the office.

Largely because of the documented strength of his recovery, and the way he related to clients, Lou was well regarded by the PWO board. But he was hardly ready to take over as director. And the truth was, there were few beside Filstrup who seemed interested in the job.

From day one, he and Filstrup were like a cobra and a mongoose-actually, more like a cobra and a baby goose. The wellness office was a small one as physician health programs went, leaving the opinionated, bombastic therapist with only a couple of minions to boss around … chief among them, Lou.

“Em,” Lou said, “Barbara will be right back. Linda, please patch Dr. Filstrup over to the doctors’ lounge. I’ll talk to him there.”

The phone was ringing as Lou entered the lounge.

“Welcome? It’s me.”

Lou cringed at the sound of his boss’s voice. “I’m a little busy right-”

“Welcome, listen. You’ve really blown it this time.”

“I left the seat up in the office men’s room?”

“You’re not funny. In fact, you’re never funny.”

“Walter, what is this all about?”

“It’s about your darling client, John Meacham, the man whose license you single-handedly got restored.”

“He’s a terrific guy and a terrific doc. I had coffee with him the day before yesterday. He’s doing fine.”

“Well, today he shot seven people to death in his office and then turned the gun on himself.”

Lou sank onto the arm of the worn leather sofa, unable to take in a breath. “If you’re messing with me, Walter,” he managed finally, “I swear, I’m going to hang you by your thumbs.”

“Turn on the news. Any news.”

“You sure it’s our client?”

“Your client. In case you forget, I never thought he was too tightly wrapped, and I told you that on more than one occasion. I kept pushing to get rid of that touchy-feely social worker therapist you were using, and to get him to a psychiatrist. But no.”

“Walter, stop it! This isn’t the time. Tell me again. John killed seven people in his office and then killed himself?”

“Not exactly. They’re all dead. He isn’t.”

“Where did they take him?”

“DeLand Regional.”

“As soon as I can get relief here, I’m going out there. I can’t believe this.”

“Believe it. And believe something else, too. All those supporters you have on the board may not be so supporting after this.”

Rather than make a disastrous situation even worse, Lou set down the receiver. Surprised when his legs held him up, he stepped numbly into the hallway, headed back to Emily. Ahead of him, facing into the treatment room, her arms folded severely across her chest, her magnificent profile as motionless as marble, was Renee.

Lou moved in next to her. Barbara Waldman had clearly not yet returned, and Emily was alone in the room with Desmond Carter. She had moved to the man’s bedside and was holding his hand.

Renee’s disapproving expression would live forever in the Take Your Child to Work hall of fame.

At that moment, Emily looked up. “Mom!” she cried with unbridled glee. “Guess what? I’m going to be a doctor!”

CHAPTER 3

The First Lady of the United States, Darlene Mallory, snapped her flip phone closed and glanced over her shoulder at her chief of staff, seated directly behind her. That look was more than enough for Kim Hajjar to know what had transpired.

“He’s not coming, is he,” Kim said, leaning forward and whispering in Darlene’s ear.

“No, he’s not. Try to look happy.”

“You mean as opposed to looking like I want to wring your husband’s presidential neck?”

Strictly for any paparazzi who might be watching, Darlene forced a smile and nodded. “I’m getting tired of this, Kim.”

“I know, hon, I know.”

“Last week he announced his intention to begin his reelection campaign.”

“No surprise to anyone.”

“Except me. He never even spoke to me about it.”

Kim hugged her friend. It had been six years since she had agreed to join her former Kansas State roommate, then Senator Martin Mallory’s wife, in Washington. During that time, the two women had grown closer than ever. The press cared little about First Lady appointments, but what coverage they devoted to Hajjar never failed to mention that she was the first Lebanese White House chief of staff, and that she was a former beauty queen. They seldom touched on her master’s degree in sociology. With cameras watching Darlene’s every move, having an aide with whom she could communicate almost telepathically had proved invaluable.

“Well, I suppose I’d better push on with this,” Darlene said, sighing.

“Does Martin know how much press is here covering this event?”

“I believe that’s why he’s not coming. The kids are going to be so disappointed. The director says they’ve worked really hard on their song.”

“I’ll schedule them to sing at the Rose Garden next week when you and Martin are welcoming the President of Ireland.”

“Do you think Martin will be upset if we do that?”

“I don’t think he’ll care. In fact, he may blow off President Callaghan the way he did these kids. The position sounds important, but in Ireland it’s largely ceremonial. Still, Callaghan being a woman, Martin may not want to withstand the flak of standing her up.”

Darlene smiled even though her insides were knotted up. “What would I do without you, Hajjar? Put yourself in for a raise.”

“That’s just what I need to do. I can see the headlines now: ECONOMY DESCENDING DEEPER INTO DUMPER. FIRST LADY CELEBRATES BY RAISING STAFF PAY.”

“Okay, no raise. I’ll think of something, though.… Well, the director’s got a what-are-we-waiting-for expression. I suppose I need to move on.”

“You’ll be great as usual.”

Darlene stood, smoothed her skirt, and gave the press corps her A smile. She had chosen a baby blue suit for the ribbon-cutting ceremony, which was in celebration of the grand opening of D.C.’s new Boys amp; Girls Club. The suit had cost $120 at Macy’s, and it sold out from every department store the first day she had worn it in public. Thanks largely to Kim’s tutelage, she now knew what colors best flattered her fair complexion, light brown hair, and hazel eyes.

Her brief speech would focus on her two favorite topics-raising her daughter, Lisa, now a sophomore at Yale, and working as first a pediatrician and then the president’s wife to improve the nutrition of all citizens of the world, especially children.

Unlike some First Ladies who embraced the guilty pleasure of fashion, Darlene did not, and whenever the cameras weren’t rolling, she favored the dungarees and plaid work shirts that were the mainstay of her wardrobe at K State.

“Once a farmer, always a farmer,” she had been oft quoted regarding her background as a wheat farmer’s daughter.

To the left of the two rows of folding chairs where they were sitting, a broad blue ribbon stretched diagonally across the glass doors of the gleaming new building fluttered gently in the breeze. The Young People’s Chorus stood off to one side on metal risers, waiting patiently to sing their song, “The Face of the Waters.” Kim had researched