EVEN IF KATE HADN’T accepted the position of White House chief of staff, she would still have had duties to perform as Emily’s campaign manager, even after the election. One of those tasks was to oversee the dismantling of the Benton campaign war machine.
Benton campaign headquarters across the nation were pulling their signs and shutting their doors. The national headquarters in Alexandria would be the last to close, becoming a transitional administrative office during the interim. But even with a continued mission of transitioning to the White House, Kate still needed to shrink the workforce.
Some personnel would make that highly sought-after transition from campaign worker to White House staff. It was no secret that many people had volunteered for the campaign in hopes that they might benefit from the trickle-up hiring.
During the campaign, both Emily and Kate had been careful to make only a few conditional promises to key longtime staffers who had already proven themselves as irreplaceable and indispensable. They’d identified those people early on and begun grooming them for bigger and better things along the campaign trail.
The first person Kate knew she needed to tap was Miriam Smart, Emily’s master scheduler. Miriam not only had valuable campaign experience dealing with the minutiae of a candidate’s scheduling requirements, but she had worked for Emily’s uncle, President William Benton, as a young assistant in the scheduling department. The woman brought her familiarity with Emily’s personal and professional preferences plus experience with the White House scheduling office to the table.
Although David Dickens, their deputy campaign manager, had all the chops necessary to be named the next White House press secretary, his ultimate goal of becoming a network news anchor had already come true, and he was about to join CBS on the track to the eventual position of nightly news anchor.
Instead, both Emily and Kate had their eyes on another senior staff member, Harold Morelli, who —prior to being the campaign’s director of communications —had been a former head of CNN’s West Coast operations as well as an East Coast journalist. With his dual qualifications of print and broadcasting and his familiarity with the Washington scene, he was the ideal candidate.
But for every Miriam and Harold, there were dozens of other staffers —both paid and volunteer —who were packing their things and bidding a fond farewell to the office and each other. Rather than let most of them slink away without fanfare, Kate had decided to throw a big going-away party.
She glanced across the bull pen at the festivities. They’d rented a large home in Alexandria to serve as the national headquarters, and the huge living room had been refitted with well over a dozen desks as their chief call center. But now the desks had been shoved together to form a giant buffet line, which Kate had filled with food catered by the collective staff’s favorite restaurant, Poco Rio.
Kaleesa King, phone answerer and chief Buster-sitter, held up a glass that contained far more punch than it did rum. “You sure know how to throw a farewell party!” She giggled. “Do you know how glad I am to see decorations in colors other than red, white, and blue?”
Kate had pulled down the patriotic campaign colors and replaced them with fiesta colors of gold, orange, and purple streamers. After living and working in a world of red, white, and blue for so long, Kate had also longed for a different color scheme, even if only temporarily.
Mario Medina, their deputy communications officer, abandoned the buffet table long enough to lean over and give Kate a chaste kiss on the cheek. “The food is fabulous. Just like Momma used to make.” Judging by his plate, he’d concentrated on the basics, mostly tortillas, beans, and homemade salsa. “Maybe even better. But don’t tell her I said that.”
Although this was a farewell party, the group’s general spirits were high. The point of the campaign had been to put Emily Benton in office, and that triumphant goal had been realized. Other than a select few, everyone involved in the campaign efforts would be returning home to their families, their former lives and jobs, rightfully filled with a sense of shared success.
Those who had no prior positions to return to or no future employment in the Benton administration weren’t forgotten either. Kate made sure that anyone needing a job had ample opportunity to interview with several large companies in the area, mostly thanks to the Benton family’s widespread connections. Plus, each job seeker possessed the highest of personalized recommendations, written by Kate and signed by Emily herself.
It wasn’t every day that a file clerk or a receptionist could apply for a job with a written recommendation from the president of the United States.
Being around the high-spirited group helped Kate feel better about her decision to accept the position in Emily’s administration. It felt right.
And speaking of morale boosters, shouldn’t Emily be through by now? Kate glanced at her watch. There had been an unavoidable last-minute meeting with party officials on the Hill that Emily had to attend. But she promised to end it promptly so that she could get back to Alexandria in time to join the farewell bash. It would probably be the last time most of the staffers would be able to walk up to their president unimpeded and strike up a casual conversation or have her ear for a moment.
When the first wave of Secret Service agents entered the building, Kate knew Emily wasn’t far behind. She signaled Steve, their resident audiovisual specialist, and he timed it so that “Hail to the Chief” played right as Emily walked into the room.
Applause and cheers filled the building, echoing from wall to wall and making the windows visibly vibrate. Emily waited until the noise died down before she spoke.
“You know when I got up this morning and looked at my schedule for the day —and a fine schedule it was; thank you, Miriam —I saw two major blocks of time marked out. One said ‘Party Officials,’ and one was marked ‘Official Party.’ I thought this was truly going to be a full day of celebration.”
The room erupted in laughter.
“Boy, did I have a rude awakening when I sat down at the first meeting and all they had was a pot of coffee and a plate of stale cookies.”
“What? No chocolate chip cookies warm from the oven?” a voice chirped from the back of the room.
Emily was infamous for her love of chocolate chip cookies. It had been her honest preference, but the infamy was manufactured by Kate, who realized the search for the “perfect chocolate chip cookie recipe” was an ideal way to humanize the candidate, no matter where in the U.S. she campaigned. Each cookie stop photo op allowed Emily an opportunity to be a “regular” person, to show a slight weakness that Americans could identify with and not-so-secretly appreciate.
“It just makes me that much happier to come here to M Central, where I can meet with you all, thank you for your efforts, and where we know how to throw a real party!” She looked at the impressive array of food. “Not only do I see the world’s best chocolate chip cookies —thank you, Louise —but nachos, fajitas, burritos . . .” She glanced at Kate, a gleam in her eye. “Poco Rio?”
Kate nodded.
Emily smacked her lips. “My favorite too.” She splayed a hand across her stomach. “Do you guys mind if I eat now? And speechify later? I’m starved!”
As a result, Emily headed to the buffet accompanied by a roar of laughter and a backslapping crowd of enthusiasts pushing her onward. A few minutes later, Emily sat at a card table with a full plate and a big glass of iced tea, enjoying her meal. The casual seating had been rearranged so that her table was the unofficial head of a large circular gathering of office chairs and extra folding chairs brought in for the occasion. People abandoned their own makeshift table surfaces in order to move closer to their presidential boss, even if that meant they had to balance their plates in their laps.
“Are you looking forward to living in the White House?” one brave staffer asked.
“I am,” Emily said between bites. “I’ve been living out of suitcases for the past two years. It’ll be nice to have a room I can call my own, even if American taxpayers own it.”
An anonymous voice from the back of the room called out, “Is it big enough for you?”
Emily grinned. “It’s a little small, but I’ll make do.”
Kate heard a noise behind her and saw Buster nudge open the door from her private office. She’d stashed him there with a selection of rawhide treats to keep him out of trouble. He spotted the food, then saw Emily, and something very close to human indecision reflected in his eyes. After a moment’s hesitation, he scampered toward Emily, ears flopping, tail wagging.
Emily greeted him and managed to slip him a chip before Kate could haul him away from the table.
“Are you going to let Buster into the Oval Office?” someone else asked.
Emily grinned. “I don’t know how to keep him out. You know how he is with doors. He and I have an agreement. He can lie in front of the fireplace as long as he doesn’t poop on the big presidential rug —” she gestured with her fork —“which I get to design, by the way. I’m thinking of doing it in the same colors as his fur so it won’t show if he sheds.”
“Are you going to get your own dog someday?”
“Only if I could get Son of Buster. Or Daughter, as the case may be. But I’m afraid that might be a moot point. I’m pretty sure our Buster isn’t going to ever sire any little Busters or Busterettes. His owner’s the most responsible person in politics.”
Laughter erupted throughout the room. Buster had been a campaign fixture in the headquarters, an unofficial mascot of sorts, another humanizing element.
Our president loves chocolate chip cookies and dogs. . . .
The impromptu question-and-answer session continued, lighthearted and wide-open. Emily already knew which people she was going to integrate into her administration. She made time for a private word with them. She also asked about the plans of the others. Even if she was no longer campaigning, an air of “we take care of our own” permeated the conversations. Kate couldn’t have been more pleased with Emily if she’d staged the whole scene herself.
But it wasn’t staged. Or rehearsed. It was just Emily demonstrating some of the lessons she’d learned after two and a half long years of campaigning. Kate had worked hard to help give Emily Rousseau Benton of the Virginia Bentons a better grounding in the ways of the Everyman and Everywoman in the office —their concerns, their interests, their needs, and their dreams. It wasn’t that Emily had lived in an ivory tower all her life and didn’t know about life on the streets, but she had to be reminded when she first started pressing the flesh how to seek out a sense of commonality with others.
Kate watched as Emily reacted warmly with the volunteers. More importantly, she paid attention to their reactions to her. These people were well-versed on Emily’s stance on major issues, so they didn’t need to pepper her with questions concerning the policies and changes her administration would bring. No one challenged her or her plans because those were their plans too.
The calm before the storm . . .
Every now and then, Emily would look up and catch Kate’s attention, and the fleeting look in her eyes would say, “I’m doing good, aren’t I?”
What should have been a statement came across more like a question, her need to be reassured that Kate approved.
It had been like that ever since Kate had sat down with Emily and laid out the conditions for her return and what it would take for her to accept the position of White House chief of staff; Emily had been more cautious and more introspective than usual. Kate likened it to the aftereffects of a near brush with death. When someone sidestepped a potentially disastrous situation and thought, “There but by the grace of God go I.”
Emily had come perilously close to losing Kate’s friendship, her counsel, and her trust. Now Emily realized it. But they both knew that they had to minimize speculation from others and not let anyone else know that there had been a major earthquake that threatened Camelot.
Still, even though she’d made the decision to stay, Kate was finding it hard to recapture the tone of their public relationship. Loretta Keene, Emily’s primary traveling assistant, sidled up to Kate while everyone else centered their attention on Emily’s discourse on cookie recipes.
“You okay, Kate? You look a little under the weather.”
The lie came too easily. “I’m fine,” Kate said in her breeziest tones. “I’m still recuperating from all the election excitement. I keep forgetting I’m not twenty anymore. All-nighters are taking their toll on me.”
“Yeah, right. That will satisfy most people, but not me.” Loretta maintained her smile as if they were having the most pleasant of conversations. “You forget. I work on the other side of the wall.”
That was the euphemism they’d coined long ago for seeing and sharing the everyday life of the candidate in midcampaign. On the other side of the wall, you saw the good, the bad, and sometimes the ugly of a politician after the cameras turned off, the microphones were stowed, and the doors were closed. In Emily’s case, the ugly reared its head when she was too tired, too frustrated, or too angry to cope by herself. Unfortunately, more often than not, Loretta caught the brunt of it.
Loretta had played equal parts hairdresser, clothier, washwoman, masseuse, concierge, and any other role affecting comfort or style that Emily needed fulfilled while she lived on the road. The fact that the woman hadn’t quit two or three . . . dozen times during the campaign was a miracle. It also meant Loretta had a more realistic, if not slightly tarnished, view of Emily than most of the volunteers. Then again, most volunteers hadn’t interfaced with a grumpy coffee-craving candidate on a strict travel schedule that allowed her only three hours’ sleep before heading off to yet another rally or speech or dinner.
“I know why Emily needs you —she couldn’t do this without you. But I’m still surprised she wants me around,” Loretta said quietly.
“Why would that surprise you? You’ve been a key player in her success.”
Loretta offered Kate a small smile. “I thought sure Ms. Exotica was angling for my job and was likely to get it.”
There could be only one Ms. Exotica —the enigmatic Maia Bari. A protégée of Washington’s most lauded political image consultant, the exotic-looking Maia had captured Emily’s favor by bringing some freshness to her wardrobe and style at a key point in the campaign. As a result, Emily had embraced the young woman, pulling her into her inner circle of advisers.
There for a while, Loretta’s job had been in jeopardy. But Kate had recognized the hungry gleam in Maia’s dark eyes and, as a result, had performed an in-depth investigation into the young woman’s background. It revealed that instead of being an ageless beauty from some far-off land, Maia had been born in Bahrain but raised in Hoboken. She’d managed to use a deceased aunt’s identity to create her own mysterious and somewhat hazy background.
No matter if Maia decided on her own volition to steal the Talbot file or whether she’d been sent by Emily, Kate knew the young woman represented an unnecessary liability. There had been no way on God’s green earth that Kate would allow the young woman to work in the White House.
Kate placed an arm around Loretta’s waist to give her a quick hug. “Are you kidding? No way. You were the first person I knew we had to get on the White House team. I have to have somebody at Emily’s right hand that I trust and who I know will be able to handle the day-to-day stuff.”
“Meaning you don’t trust Mata Hari.”
“Meaning I don’t trust Maia Bari.”
Loretta released a huff of relief. “Thank heavens. I was afraid you’d fallen for her charms like most of the people around here.” She made a pointed effort of glancing at Chip McWilliamson, who stood in the corner of the room, taking pictures. “At least he’s been smart enough to look and not touch. Can you imagine him trying to juggle two women at the same time?”
Kate bit her tongue. It was one thing to commiserate with Loretta over a perceived threat to her position. It was another thing to gossip about Emily and the relationship she might or might not have with the younger man.
The much younger man.
Loretta took another sip of her drink. From the aroma, Kate realized the beverage, unlike Kaleesa’s, had more rum than punch.
“If Mata Bari decides to show up here, I just might have to take her aside and tell her a few things. I’m pretty sure she’s the one who made a mess of my makeup case.” A rare look of pure spite crossed Loretta’s face. “And I’m also certain I have her to thank for some straight pins that appeared in one of Emily’s hems after I’d fixed it. I know I took the pins out, but when Emily sat down, one jabbed her in the back of her leg. Of course she assumed I’d been careless and left it behind.”
Loretta muttered a less than flattering word, which Kate assumed was meant for Maia, not Emily. “I could have wrung that girl’s neck, Kate, for trying to sabotage my position so she could take over.” She drained her drink, then wobbled, grabbing Kate’s arm to brace herself. “Tell you what, if she tries it again, she’s gonna be really surprised.”
And I’ll be really surprised if you remember this conversation in the morning, Kate thought as she extricated herself from Loretta’s grasp.
Loretta looked at her hand, her fingers curled as if still clinging to Kate’s arm. “Oops. Am I getting loud and saying and doing things I shouldn’t?”
“Close to it.”
Loretta looked at her empty drink. “I guess I didn’t put this down in time.” She gently placed the plastic cup on the closest flat surface, misjudging the distance and dropping the empty cup a few inches shy of the table. She gave Kate a bleary look. “We have coffee, right?”
Kate nodded. “In the break room.”
“I need some.” Loretta turned and took a step toward the kitchen, then stopped and called back over her shoulder. “Don’t worry. I took the Metro here.” She dug into her sweater pocket and produced a small ring of keys. “See? House keys only. No car keys.” She stumbled toward the awaiting coffee.
“Thank you, Lord,” Kate whispered after she was out of hearing range.
The voice in her ear almost made her jump.
“I’ve never seen her snockered.” Emily stepped next to Kate. “And trust me, I’ve given her plenty of reasons to want to drink.”
“I can imagine. I’m just glad you want to keep her as a personal aide.”
“She’s still young enough; she’s sharp; and so far, she’s done a really good job.” They both watched Loretta carefully pour herself a cup of coffee. “Then again, she’s not the only one suited for the position. I did consider Maia, but —” she raised her hand before Kate could protest —“that was before our issues with her. However, we might have a small problem.”
The muscles in Kate’s back froze in place, the nerves screaming in pain. “What kind of small problem?”
“Since this is a farewell party and we’re saying farewell to Maia, I invited her.” Emily nodded toward the entryway to the headquarters. “She’s standing in the foyer.”
Kate knew she should have realized that when practically every man in the place turned his head and automatically took a step toward the door; it meant Maia had arrived.
She wore a deep red dress that went well with her olive complexion and dark hair. The woman always looked as if she’d stepped out of a magazine —no hair out of place and with the perfect accessories. She moved with the fluid grace of a dancer, charming her way across the room. It was evident her main objective was to get to Emily, but to do it, she had to find a way to subtly maneuver through a gauntlet of male admirers without making them feel slighted.
Judging by their rapt looks, it appeared as if Maia appeased them all along the way as she plotted a straight line to Emily.
“I don’t want to talk to her,” Kate said, looking around for an exit strategy.
Emily released an unattractive snort. “For heaven’s sake, pull up your big girl panties and stand your ground.” Emily raised her hand. “Maia!” she called out as if so very pleased to see the young turncoat. “Over here.”
Maia seemed imminently thrilled to have been singled out and used the excuse to plow faster through her crowd of admirers.
“No you don’t.” Emily switched seamlessly from sotto voce to her polished politician’s voice. “I was just telling Kate that I hoped you would make an appearance.”
They did the usual European air-kiss thing, evidently also the popular greeting for girls from Hoboken. At least Maia didn’t have the audacity to meet Kate’s flat gaze.
She simpered nicely in her pseudo English-as-a-strong-second-language manner. “I just wanted to stop and tell you how much I appreciated being able to work with you. It was indeed a dream come true. As Miss Marjorie said, it was the sort of experience that comes once in a lifetime. I’m so very lucky and thankful that I was allowed such an opportunity.”
“Miss Marjorie” was Marjorie Redding, older than dirt but the foremost authority on image consultancy in the U.S. political arena. She claimed no political affiliations; she had worked with members of both major parties to retool their public images —changing hairstyle, clothing style, manners, and even speaking voices to make them more universally attractive and respected. When Marjorie got through with a client, they looked, sounded, and acted at the top of their game.
Maia, her protégée, had been sent to help Emily when Marjorie had a family commitment and couldn’t help during the debate preparations. Whether Kate liked the young woman or not, she’d done a good job of making Emily look every inch the perfect presidential candidate. And when the final count was tallied, enough people agreed that Emily was the right choice.
That had been the bottom line, at the time.
But now Maia was a liability —either a loose cannon indiscriminately smashing up the campaign deck or an ICBM in the hands of a master missileer like Emily.
Kate reached deep inside and found a smile that didn’t reek of insincerity. “We appreciate all the effort that went into helping refine Emily’s image.”
Now say good-bye and excuse yourself. Kate wasn’t sure if she was trying to instruct herself or influence the young woman.
In polite response, Maia offered her usual enigmatic smile and her hand to Emily. “It was my pleasure.”
Emily didn’t hesitate to accept the handshake. But when Maia turned to Kate, Kate not only curbed the instinct to reach out but found the fortitude to make eye contact with the young woman and say, “You’ll forgive me for not shaking your hand.”
No excuses. No explanations.
The young woman faltered for a moment, then pulled her hand back. “I’m . . . I’m sorry.” She pivoted smartly and made a hasty exit from their small conversation group.
Emily made a clucking noise once the young woman was out of earshot. “Was that entirely necessary?”
“To me, it was. She got the message, don’t you think?”
They both looked at Maia, who seemed to have survived the slight and was bestowing her considerable charms in the direction of Dave Dickens, Kate’s second in command.
“I don’t know about getting a message, but if I were to judge, I’d say you’ve probably made her an enemy,” Emily stated in a rather matter-of-fact voice.
“Probably have.” Kate feigned interest in a basket of Mexican wedding cookies, ignoring her stomach, which seized at the thought of eating anything now. “But I can handle her.”
Emily stepped next to her at the table. “How?” she asked pointedly.
Kate picked up a cookie and sampled its powdered sugar edge. “Pardon the pun, but I stole a page from your playbook. She knows that I know her biggest secret.”
“Which is . . . ?”
“If I told, it’d no longer be a secret, now would it?”