'Honestly? I'm not sure. I ran up, grabbed the flashlight, and saw the envelope. Part of me thought we should take it as evidence, so I went for it. I thought it'd be an easy way to prove Simon was there--but after the first ten grand, I got scared and ran.'
It's not a bad explanation, but it comes too easily. For Nora, it's too rational. 'So all you wanted was some proof?'
'I'm telling you--that was it.'
I keep staring at her.
'What? You don't believe me?'
'Are you kidding? Give me one good reason why I--'
'Michael, I swear to you, if I could take it back I would. There's no easier way to say it.' Her voice cracks, catching me by surprise. Right there, her guard drops--and the gnawing feeling inside my chest subsides. 'I'm sorry,' she cries, leaning in next to me. 'I'm so sorry I put you in that position. I never . . . I should've just left it there and walked away.'
In the back of my brain, I still picture that brown vial of aspirin . . . but in front of my eyes--all I see is Nora. The look on her face . . . the way her thin eyebrows rise and wilt as she apologizes . . . she's as terrified as I am. Not just for herself. But for me. Glancing down, I notice her hand tightly clutching my own. From there, the words come out of my mouth almost instantly. 'It was an impulse. You couldn't have known.'
'You still didn't have to do it,' she points out.
I nod. She's right.
As we once again start moving toward Pennsylvania Avenue, I have a perfect view of the White House. When I make a left on H Street, it disappears. One sudden move and it's gone. That's all it takes. For both of us.
'Maybe we should . . .'
'We'll take care of it first thing tomorrow,' Nora promises, already two steps ahead. 'Whatever he's up to, we'll figure it out.' Despite her confidence, I can't stop thinking about Simon. But for Nora, as soon as she sees her big white mansion, she's back to her old self. Two people. One body. As I make a sharp right turn, she adds, 'Now pull over.'
I stop the car on 15th Street, around the corner from the Southeast Gate. At this hour, all of downtown is dead. There's no one in sight.
'Don't you want me to pull up to the gate?'
'No, no--here. I have to get out here.'
'Are you sure?'
At first, all she does is nod. 'It's just around the corner. And this way I save you from a confrontation with the Service.' She looks down at her watch. 'I'm in under two hours, but that doesn't mean I'm not going to get my head ripped off.'
'That's why I always leave my bodyguards at home,' I say, trying to sound half as calm as my date. It's all I can do to keep up.
'Yeah, that's why I picked you,' she laughs. 'You know how it really is.' She's about to say something else, but she stops herself.
'Everything okay?'
Moving closer, she again puts her hand on mine. 'People don't do nice things for me, Michael. Not unless they want something. Tonight, you proved that wrong.'
'Nora . . .'
'You don't have to say it. Just promise me you'll let me make it up to you.'
'You don't have to . . .'
She runs her short nails up my arm. 'Actually, I do.'
I see that look in her eyes. It's the same one she gave me in the bar. 'Nora, no offense, but this isn't the time or the place to--' She wraps a hand around the back of my head and pulls me toward her. Before I can argue, she grips my hair in a tight fist and slides her tongue in my mouth. There are probably ten heterosexual men in this world who would pull away from this kiss. Again, I'm not one of them. Her smell . . . her taste . . . they instantly overwhelm. I reach up to touch her cheek, but she lets me go.
'Doesn't taste like pumpkin to me,' she says.
'That's because I have five more minutes.'
Well aware of the time, she sneaks out a grin. 'So you're ready to move past the foreplay?'
I look out the front window, then back at Nora. 'Here?' I ask nervously.
She leans forward and snakes her hand along the inside of my thigh. Still going, she brushes up the front of my pants. Just like Rolling Stone. She's going to do it right here. But as our lips are about to touch, she stops. 'Don't believe everything you read, handsome. That stuff'll rot your brain.' She pulls her hand away and gives me two light slaps on the cheek. My mouth's still agape as she opens the door.
'What're you--'
She hops out, turns around, and blows me a kiss. 'Later, Cookie Puss.'
The door slams shut in my face. Out the front window, I watch her run up the block. I put on my brights. The entire time, my eyes stay glued to the curve of her neck. Eventually, she turns the corner and disappears. I reach into my pants and rearrange myself. It's going to be a long ride home.
* * *
My alarm screams through the bedroom at five-forty-five the following morning. In college, I used to hit my snooze bar at least six times before I got out of bed. In law school, that number shrank by half. Throughout my first few years of government work, I was still able to cling to a single nine-minute pause, but when I reached the White House, I lost that too. Now, I'm up at the first buzzer and staggering to the shower. I didn't get home until almost one-thirty, and the way my head's throbbing, the four hours of sleep obviously weren't enough to make me forget about Simon.
It doesn't take long for me to complete my shower/shave/hair and toothbrush rituals, and I'm proud to say it's been twenty-seven days without hair gel. That's not true, I realize, still blinking myself awake. I used some last night before going out with Nora. Damn. Here we go: hair gel boycott--day one.
I open the door to my apartment and find four newspapers waiting for me: the Washington Post, Washington Herald, New York Times, and Wall Street Journal. With an anxious spot check, I make sure none of them have front-page stories on White House lawyers and newfound cash. So far, so good. Bringing them inside, I scan more headlines and dial Trey's work number.
In ninety minutes, the President's Senior Staff will have their daily seven-thirty meeting in the Roosevelt Room of the White House. There, the Chief of Staff and the President's closest advisors will discuss a variety of issues that will inevitably become the hot topics of the day--and key issues for the reelection. School uniforms, gun control, whatever's the issue of the moment and whatever's going to bring in votes. In my two years in the Counsel's Office, I've never once been invited to the early Senior Staff meeting. But that doesn't mean I won't know what they're talking about.
'Who needs lovin'?' Trey says, answering the phone.
'Hit me with it,' I reply, staring down at the front page of the Washington Post.
He doesn't waste any time. 'A1, the China story. A2, Chicago welfare. A2, Dem race in Tennessee. A4, Hartson versus Bartlett. A5, Hartson-Bartlett. A6, Hartson-Bartlett. A15, World in Brief: Belfast, Tel Aviv, and Seoul. A17, Federal Page. Editorials--look at Watkins and Lisa Brooks. The Brooks editorial on the census is the one to watch. Wesley's already called her on it.'
Wesley Dodds is the President's Chief of Staff. By her, Trey means the First Lady. Susan Hartson. Trey's boss. And one of Wesley's closest confidants. If the two of them are already talking about it, it's on today's agenda and on tonight's news.
'What about numbers?' I ask.
'Same as yesterday. Hartson's up by a dozen points, but it's not a solid dozen. I'm telling you, Michael, I can feel it slipping.'
'I don't understand--how can we possibly be--'
'Check out the front page of the Times.'
