WHEN THE KITCHEN PHONE RANG AT SEVEN-FIFTEEN that evening, I was surprised to see the in-house ID indicate it was the First Lady calling.
“Hello, Ollie,” she said. “I’m glad it’s you who answered. Are you very busy?”
A visit from Gavin-who pilfered Bucky and Cyan for half the afternoon-had set us even further behind than we’d been. We had all hoped to leave by eight tonight, but from the looks of things now, we wouldn’t get out until after ten.
“Not at all,” I said. “What can I do for you?”
“My husband and I are expecting a guest this evening. I inquired and found that he hasn’t eaten yet. In fact, neither have we.”
That surprised me. I said so.
“Yes, I know,” the First Lady continued, her voice just above a sigh. “We had planned to, but I don’t find myself with much appetite today.”
With everything that was swirling around in their lives-the president’s high-level meetings, Sean’s death, Gene’s death-I couldn’t imagine eating either. “I understand.”
“I knew you would, Ollie. That’s why I have a particular favor to ask. Would you be willing to prepare something for us and for our guest this evening?”
“Of course,” I said. I was about to ask a question when she interrupted.
“There’s one other thing. Could you take care of all this up here? In the family kitchen? I’d prefer to keep it informal. I don’t want any other… anyone else… present. Would you be willing to do that?”
“I’d be glad to,” I said. “Can you tell me who the guest is, so I can look up his dietary requirements?”
“Yes, of course. Senator Blanchard will be joining us this evening. He and I have much to discuss.” She paused for a moment and I sensed it best to give her time to collect her thoughts rather than rush off the phone. “We have a lot to talk about that”-she hesitated before saying his name-“that matter Sean advised me on. You have been privy to information of which the rest of the staff is unaware. I would prefer to keep it that way. Just a limited contingent tonight. Dinner doesn’t need to be elaborate. Do we have any leftovers you can use?”
In my mind, I’d already begun pulling together a menu. “How soon would you like to sit down?”
“Whatever works best for you. Just come up as soon as you can; the kitchen will be yours alone. After a day like today, I’d like to relax and not stand on ceremony for once.”
WE KEPT SO MUCH ON HAND IN THE WHITE House kitchen that the First Lady’s request made for no difficulty whatsoever. After assigning Bucky to take over holiday preparations-and it seemed there was no end to them in sight-I gathered ingredients, utensils, and assorted necessities onto one of our butler’s carts and made my way up to the second floor.
The kitchen here was cozy-flowered wallpaper and warm-wood cabinets similar to those found in middle-class homes across the country. Although there would have been enough room for two of us to work comfortably together, I was content to handle this dinner for three myself. More important, that’s what the First Lady had requested.
Dinner was to be served in the adjacent dining room. Occasionally referred to as the family’s private dining room, it was often confused by non-White House personnel with the Family Dining Room on the first floor, or with the President’s Dining Room in the West Wing. But we staffers knew the difference. This room, formerly known as the Prince of Wales Room, due to the fact that the Prince of Wales slept there during James Buchanan’s presidency-before it was outfitted as a kitchen-became the First Family’s private dining room under Jacqueline Kennedy’s direction.
I’d just started breading the chicken breasts I’d pounded the heck out of earlier when Mrs. Campbell knocked at the doorjamb.
“I hope I’m not disturbing you,” she said.
“Not at all. I’m hoping to be ready to serve at eight-thirty. Will that be all right?”
She nodded, and wandered into the kitchen. “I asked the butlers to set places for three, but now I understand that Treyton may bring Bindy along. Would it be too much inconvenience to prepare dinner for four, in the event she does show up?”
I’d brought extras up with me. One doesn’t get to be a top chef without preparing for such exigencies. “Not a problem,” I said.
Mrs. Campbell began opening cabinets. “Can you believe I haven’t yet figured out where everything is in here?” She gave a sad laugh. “I’m getting too used to having people wait on me all the time. I don’t think I like that.”
“Enjoy it,” I said. “We’re happy to be here.”
She had her back to me, two side-by-side cabinets open. “I’m glad you’re here, Ollie. I trust you.”
I didn’t know what to say to that, but Mrs. Campbell wasn’t finished.
“My husband and I don’t believe Sean took his own life. His mother doesn’t believe it either.”
I hadn’t expected her to talk about Sean, but I covered my surprise as best I could. She turned to me, tears swimming in her eyes. “You knew him, too. Maybe you saw something we didn’t see? Do you think it’s possible that… that he-”
“No,” I said quickly. “I don’t.”
She graced me with a sad smile. “Thank you.”
Although I was often sorry for speaking out of turn, this time I really couldn’t help myself. “If I may say so…”
Mrs. Campbell inclined her head. “What’s on your mind?”
“I just want to tell you how much I admire your composure.” I groaned inwardly. Composure? There had to be a better word. That wasn’t what I meant and it was coming out all wrong. “Dignity, I mean. I admire the way you handle everything. What I mean to say is, Sean’s death has been so hard on you. On everyone…”
She flinched at Sean’s name, but her eyes urged me to continue.
“I can’t imagine how hard it must have been to entertain all those women yesterday. And yet you’re still always…” I was trying hard to get my point across without babbling. Failing miserably. Summing up, I said, “You truly are the epitome of grace under pressure.”
Another sad smile. “When my husband agreed to serve our country by taking on the presidency, we knew we would be held to a higher standard than we had been as civilians. As First Lady, my actions have a ripple effect across the country.” She seemed to be speaking to herself. “It’s frightening in some ways, empowering in others. I realize the effect my actions have, and try to comport myself in a way that deserves emulation, no matter how hard the circumstances.” She squinted at me. “I see a lot of that trait in you, too, Ollie. We have a core”-she pulled both fists in, toward the center of her body-“that holds us steady even when the rest of the world is falling apart. You have the same strength you claim to admire in me. I just pray you never have reason to call upon it the same way I’ve found myself doing these past few days.”
I felt my face grow hot. Worse, I was speechless.
Mrs. Campbell must have sensed my surprised amazement. Without waiting for me to reply, she turned her back to me again and grabbed a stack of white bowls in the cabinets. “You can use these,” she said setting them on the table between us. “Like I said, I had dining places set out earlier. We can serve ourselves family style. After all, we are practically family. I’ve known Treyton since before he was born.”
One of her assistants peeked around the door to let Mrs. Campbell know that Blanchard had arrived. I secretly hoped Bindy wasn’t with him. If Mrs. Campbell was looking to share memories with an old friend, the last thing she needed at the table tonight was an ambitious political emissary who giggled whenever she got nervous.
IN FAIRLY SHORT ORDER I GOT ONE OF THE Campbell ’s favorite dinners started. Nothing fancy, a simple breaded lemon chicken served over angel hair pasta, with capers. The pre-course salad would be served with Bucky’s newest dressing. I’d pre-tested it myself and pronounced it wonderful. Dessert would be simple, too. Fresh sorbet, in hollowed-out oranges, waited in the freezer for a whipped cream and peppermint leaf garnish. The preparation took some effort, but I wanted to bring a touch of cheer to what promised to be a difficult evening.
I was so immersed in preparation that I didn’t notice Bindy until she called my name.
Startled, I glanced up, hoping as I reacted that my disappointment didn’t show.
“This is nice,” she said, walking into the kitchen. “I’ve never been in this room before.” She carried a plate, silverware, napkin, and crystal water glass. In addition, she held a diplomatic pouch under her arm.
“What’s going on?”
The disappointment on her face told the story before she could. “Treyton asked if I minded excusing myself.” She flushed. “How embarrassing. We thought this was supposed to be a real dinner, downstairs, with a few other people. I guess I should’ve…” She shook her head. “Doesn’t matter now, does it? I’m here. I’m stuck till it’s time to leave. Do you mind if I sit in here with you?”
She arranged her place settings on the table, as though preparing to be served. With care, she placed the package on the chair next to hers. “That’s for later,” she said cryptically.
I’d planned to clean up as soon as dinner was served, and then beat a path back downstairs. My estimated ten o’clock departure was looking ever more unlikely. “Sure,” I lied. “Have you eaten?”
She shook her head.
“Well, I’ve prepared plenty,” I said. “Let me just take care of them first, okay?”
If I’d expected an offer of help, I was mistaken. But in truth, I was glad. Preparing a dinner for this small group wouldn’t be difficult, and I’d rather do it myself than have to coach an amateur. Bindy sat at the table, watching me work, occasionally asking a question about preparation or presentation.
She had the good sense to speak in a whisper. Since we could hear most of the conversation going on in the next room, it stood to reason they would be able to hear us, too.
I wheeled out the salad, dressing, and bread, feeling more like I was serving my mother and nana at home than the president of the United States, his wife, and their guest. Meals in this home were usually served by tuxedoed butlers, amid much pomp and circumstance. Right now, in my tunic and apron, I felt positively slovenly.
“Good evening, Mr. President, Senator Blanchard,” I said, nodding to each of them and to Mrs. Campbell. The president greeted me by name and Blanchard smiled. I saw in him what most voters must have seen. He exuded charm and confidence-so much so that it almost seemed as if he had the power to dispel the house’s sad pall.
I set the food items on the table. “I’ll be in the next room, if you need anything.”
Having gone silent when I entered, they started conversation start right up again as I crossed the threshold into the adjacent kitchen.
“I know the timing is terrible,” Senator Blanchard said, “but this is the situation we’re faced with. This was brought on by our fathers. It’s unfortunate that we’re required to deal with their shortsightedness. Especially at a time like this.”
Bindy made a face that let me know she was as uncomfortable as I. “Salad?” I whispered.
She nodded, so I set one in front of her and used the remaining time to finish preparing the entrée. As she ate, I couldn’t help listening to the terse conversation in the next room.
“My wife has shown me the corporation’s financials,” President Campbell said. “Based on the company’s projected growth, I don’t understand why any of you want to sell right now.”
“I beg your pardon, sir,” Blanchard said, “but I believe my analysts have a better grip on the company’s financials than either you or I could hope to have. We are, after all, in the business of serving our country rather than wizards in the financial world.”
“Still,” President Campbell said, “when Sean took a look at the books-”
“Your nephew would have advised you to sell, too.”
“No,” Mrs. Campbell said. “He advised me against selling.”
I heard a chair scrape backward and I could picture Blanchard’s reaction. As I poured sauce over the chicken breasts, I fought to tune out Bindy’s mouth sounds and listen in to Blanchard’s reply.
“You must be mistaken.”
“I am not.” A clink of silverware. I could imagine Mrs. Campbell sitting up straighter. “Don’t you remember? I told you on Thursday.” Her voice faltered. “Before we learned… before…”
“I truly am sorry to bring up such a difficult subject at a time like this,” Blanchard said again. “But I can’t imagine such a fine young man giving you bad advice.”
Whispered: “Ollie?”
I turned. Bindy held up her glass. “Do you have anything stronger than water?”
I pulled open the refrigerator door, wondering why she didn’t get it herself. Then again, she might not feel comfortable puttering around in someone else’s kitchen, especially one in the White House. “Orange juice, milk, iced tea…”
“Iced tea, thanks.”
As I served her, I listened again to the conversation in the other room. Bindy’s body language suggested she was eager to keep me from hearing what was going on, so I strove for nonchalance, moving with care, trying to make as little noise as possible. Not that it mattered. The adjacent room’s conversation came through loud and clear.
“No, I don’t believe this is our fathers’ fault,” Mrs. Campbell was saying. “I believe they wanted to ensure their children’s security. And my father would not have wanted me to sell out at the first opportunity after his death.”
Blanchard spoke so quietly I almost couldn’t make out his words. “But you must understand that my father, Nick’s father, and Helen’s all died years ago. We couldn’t move on this business venture until… well, until you inherited your share. This can hardly be considered too quick of a decision.”
“It is for me.”
“But don’t you see? That’s the problem. Our fathers believed-erroneously, I might add-that the four of us needed to reach a decision unanimously. If they hadn’t put that codicil in their agreement, I can guarantee Helen would have sold out within a year of her father’s death. She’s been waiting ten years for her portion of the proceeds.”
The president chimed in. “What I don’t understand is why the need to sell? None of you is destitute; you don’t need the funds to survive. Why the rush?”
I carried a platter of succulent chicken breasts and steaming pasta into the dining room. As I set the dish down, I wanted to ask if there was anything else the diners required, but Blanchard was talking, so I held my tongue.
“It’s Volkov,” he said. Then, with a pointed look at me, he stopped talking and took a drink of water.
I grabbed my chance. “Will there be anything else for now?”
“No, thank you,” Mrs. Campbell said. “Is Ms. Gerhardt faring well in the kitchen?”
“Just fine.”
“Thank you, Ollie.”
The moment I left, one of the president’s aides, Ben, met me in the kitchen, coming in from the hallway. He gestured to me. “Where’s everyone else?”
“Informal tonight,” I said.
The assistant didn’t hesitate. “He’s needed downstairs.”
“Now?”
Without answering, Ben strode into the private dining room and spoke quietly to the president. I watched from the doorway. Sighing deeply, President Campbell wiped his mouth with his napkin, then dropped it on the table. “If you’ll excuse me,” he said.
I ducked out of sight.
As soon as the president left, Blanchard spoke again, now more animatedly. “Volkov is going to bring us all down. This scandal he’s involved in is not going away anytime soon. In fact, I see it getting worse. Every day that we keep Zendy Industries alive with his name as one of our co-owners is a day that we risk losing everything.”
I heard the sounds of passing plates, and then Mrs. Campbell said, “Surely, Treyton, you exaggerate.”
“Not at all. In fact, he’s the one spearheading this sell effort. At first I dismissed the idea, just as you’re dismissing it now. But think about it. He may be desperate for funds to cover his legal bills, but he’s right. We need to sell now, while Zendy’s at the top of its game. Not later, when Volkov’s troubles expand to include us all.” Blanchard made a sound, like a tsk. “It’s just a terrible shame that our fathers insisted on that unanimous vote.”
There was silence for a long moment, with only scraping sounds of silverware on china and bodies shifting in seats.
“My father would not have wanted me to sell Zendy. Not this soon after his passing.”
“Elaine,” Blanchard said. “I know you’re suffering still from the loss of your father. I offer you my sincere condolences on his passing and on Sean’s, but we have very little time to make this decision.”
“I disagree. We have ten years.”
Blanchard took in a sharp breath. I assumed it was Blanchard, because he then said, “Perhaps you misunderstand. We have to wait ten years only if we decide not to sell at this time.”
“And that’s what Sean advised me to do.”
The silence was so heavy I felt it in the kitchen. Bindy watched me with wide eyes. The chicken on her plate remained untouched.
“I hate to say this, Elaine, but if that’s what Sean advised you, he was wrong. In fact, as distasteful as it sounds, I’m now beginning to wonder… if that’s why he shot himself.”
I heard Mrs. Campbell gasp. “No. No. Of course not.”
“Can’t you see it, Elaine? He might have believed he disappointed you by giving bad advice. He might not have seen any way out but to take his own life.”
“Treyton, that’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. And I will thank you to not discuss Sean’s death anymore. That subject is closed.”
I heard him sigh. “I’m sorry.”
“Yes, well, I would also like to table the Zendy discussion as well. We can talk about it another time.”
A long moment of silence. “Just remember one thing, Elaine,” Blanchard said. “Our window of opportunity won’t stay open for long. And once it’s closed, we won’t have another chance to sell for ten years. There are buyers out there now. The time to sell is now.”
“Actually, now is the time for two old friends to enjoy dinner together. No more business discussion tonight. Are we agreed?”
I couldn’t see Blanchard’s face, but I could imagine it as he said, “Whatever’s best for you.”
When they moved onto other topics, including the exploits of Blanchard’s kids, I pulled the sorbet-filled oranges from the freezer and began to prepare them for serving. I liked to allow the sorbet to soften slightly for easier eating. Bindy broke the silence in the kitchen by asking, “How much do you know about this Zendy situation?”
I shrugged, shooting a look toward the other room. Even though she spoke quietly, I worried about being overheard. “Not much.” I didn’t want to tell her what Sean had shared with me. For some reason it seemed to be a betrayal of trust. I had no doubt that if Bindy perceived any value in my musings, she’d scurry to share them with Blanchard at her first opportunity.
The girl watched me work. Halfway between anxiety and expectation, the expression on her face told me she was hungry for any specifics I could give her. Little did she know that when it came to the First Family’s business, I was as mute as a mime.
“Why all the fuss?” I asked, lowering myself into a chair opposite Bindy’s so we could talk like girlfriends sharing a common concern. “I mean, really. Why can’t the three other people sell and leave Mrs. Campbell to hold on to her share?”
“That’s the thing,” Bindy said. She seemed to fight back her natural reluctance to talk about her boss’s business. Maybe she believed she’d glean some vital information from me. Bringing her head closer to mine, she whispered, “According to the company history, the four men who founded the company never wanted their children to sell. Zendy was set up as a research company with the mission of bettering the world. It’s done that. In fact, the company has done it so well that it’s made billions on research. Most of that money goes to philanthropic causes.”
“Oh.” I was beginning to understand. Although I trusted Sean’s instincts, it had made no sense to me to put an investment on hold for ten years with no promise that the current successes would continue. I knew there had to be more to the story. “And Mrs. Campbell is reluctant to sell, because…?”
Bindy glanced toward the doorway leading into the dining room. “They can’t hear me, can they?”
I shook my head.
“The company looking to acquire Zendy intends to change its mission.”
“How so?”
“Zendy is worth more in pieces than it is as a whole.” She licked her lips. “If they sell now, Zendy will be split up into smaller units and sold off one at a time.”
“What will happen to the philanthropic agenda?”
She shrugged, then gave a slight giggle. “That’s one of the downsides. But that’s a small price to pay for all the good the four partners can do with the proceeds.”
“I understand now why Mrs. Campbell is opposed to the sale.” I remembered her comment on Thursday, arguing that the new owners might not respect the same goals.
“That’s it,” she said.
“Sounds like Senator Blanchard is tired of giving away the money to the needy and wants to collect the proceeds of the sale for himself.”
Put that way, my reflections made Bindy squirm. “It isn’t Treyton,” she said. “It’s that Nick Volkov. You heard about all the trouble he’s in.”
“There’s no way he’s hurting for money to pay for legal counsel,” I said. “I don’t buy it.”
“You have no idea how deep he’s in debt.”
“But you do.”
She looked away. “I know stuff,” she admitted.
I had a sudden thought. “Is Senator Blanchard planning to run for president?”
When her eyes met mine in that immediate, panicked way, I knew I’d struck a nerve.
“No,” she said unconvincingly. “He’s the same party as President Campbell. That would be silly.”
“True.”
I stood and finished setting up the serving trays, arranging the sorbet so it would look pretty as well as appetizing. I peered into the dining room and saw that both Mrs. Campbell and Senator Blanchard had pushed their empty plates just a little forward. They were done. Moments later, I had their places cleared and dessert served.
Back in the kitchen, I asked Bindy, “And so why are you here?”
“I told you. We thought that this dinner was involving more people.”
For some reason I doubted her. But I couldn’t think of any other plausible reason for her presence, so I let it go.
When the First Lady and the senator were finished eating, I cleared the table one final time, but since they were deep in conversation, I didn’t interrupt. As I washed the remaining dishes and put everything away, Bindy and I discussed the gingerbread men. “They’re incredible,” I said.
“Thanks. We worked hard on them,” she said.
“You and the Blanchards’ chef?” I asked with a tilt to my head and a tone in my voice that asked if she and the chef were romantically involved. She turned away without answering and tried to listen in to the dining room conversation again. Mrs. Campbell and the senator had gone so quiet that there was no hearing them at this point.
“Oh, I almost forgot,” she said, pulling her package onto the tabletop. She gave the top of the diplomatic pouch a little pat. “This is for you.”
I was confused.
Bindy explained. “Treyton is so grateful you agreed to handle the gingerbread men that he asked me to give you this.” She pushed it toward me. “Just to say thank you.”
“I can’t accept…”
“I know, but it really isn’t for you exactly. It’s for the kitchen. He figured that’d be okay.”
As I opened it the weighty bundle, Bindy bit her lip. I wondered if she’d picked it out.
“Thank you,” I said, as the object came free of its packaging. “It’s lovely.”
It was a clock. A bit large for a desk clock-about the size of a hardcover novel-it would have looked more at home in a French Provincial sitting room than in the White House kitchen. The clock face was small, but it was surrounded by a wide border of gold-colored heavy metal. Had it been real gold, I probably could have retired. As it was, the garish thing looked as though someone had picked it out as a joke, or for a white elephant gift exchange. “Thank you,” I said.
Bindy breathed a sigh of relief. “You like it?”
“Sure!” I said. “I’ll keep it in the kitchen right where we all can see it.” To myself, I added that we’d keep it there long enough for Bindy to see it a couple of times. Then off to the warehouse with this clunker. “You really shouldn’t have,” I said, wishing she hadn’t, “but thank you.”
I offered coffee on my last foray into the dining room, but Blanchard declined. He stood. “Has Bindy been good company?” he asked me. “I’m so sorry we had a misunderstanding, but she said she hoped she might be of help back there.”
She must have heard her name because before he finished asking, she was at my side. “I enjoyed reconnecting with Ollie,” she said, with a little lilt to her voice that be-lied her words.
“That’s great,” Blanchard said. To Mrs. Campbell, he smiled and nodded. “It’s been a pleasure, as always, Elaine. I hope you’ll give some serious thought to the matters we discussed.”
“Of course,” she said.
“The clock’s ticking,” he said, tapping his watch. “I don’t want you to forget.”
With a smile that took the sting out of her words, Mrs. Campbell said, “How can I, when you’re so eager to remind me?”
BY THE TIME I GOT BACK TO THE KITCHEN-my kitchen on the ground floor, that is-everyone had left for the day with the exception of Cyan and Bucky. They looked as exhausted as I felt. “Go home,” I said.
Cyan tried to argue, but I shook my head.
“We’ll start fresh in the morning,” I said. “It’s been a tough few days, but I think we made good headway. Tomorrow we’ll turn the corner.”
The relief in their eyes made me glad I’d insisted. “What time tomorrow?” Cyan asked.
With the president in residence, we’d be preparing full meals all day. As Cyan and Bucky traded information and agreed on plans for the next morning, I had a happy thought: The president back in town meant that Tom was back in town, too. Our schedules had kept us apart for too many days in a row. I needed to talk with him. Heck, I just needed to be with him.
Fifteen minutes after Cyan and Bucky left, I was headed to the McPherson Square Metro station for my ride home.
A train pulled into the station just as I made it to the platform. Perfect timing. I claimed a seat near the door and rested my head against the side window, allowing myself to relax just a little bit. I decided to wait to try calling Tom until I was walking to my apartment building. Less chance of losing our connection than if I tried to call while racing underground.
When I emerged outside again, it seemed the temperature had dropped ten degrees. We’d been in the mid-fifties lately, but tonight’s raw air and sharp wind caused my eyes to tear. I shivered, pulling my jacket close, trying to fight the trembling chill.
I loved my jacket. Filled with down, I’d brought it with me from Chicago, where it very effectively blocked the wicked wind. January in Chicago always meant bundling up with a hat, a sweatshirt hood covering that, and big, insulated mittens. Today, here in D.C., I took no such precautions. It was just me and my jacket against this peculiarly icy wind.
With my head ducked deep into my turned-up collar and wisps of hair dancing around my face, I couldn’t see much more than my feet beating a quick pace to my apartment building. I gave up the idea of calling Tom. My right hand pressed deep into my pocket, hiding from the cold, while my brave left hand pulled the collar close to my face so only my eyes and nose poked above it.
When the clouds above me opened and the rain came, I squinted against the sharp prickles of ice that stung my face. My quick walk became a hurried trot. It was then I noticed the accompanying trot behind me. Someone else was hurrying to get wherever he needed to go. Despite the fact that I was moving pretty fast, the person behind me was moving faster.
I glanced back. A man in a black Windbreaker was closing. With it being so dark, and with the icy rain blurring the street and my vision, I couldn’t tell the guy’s age, but he had to be fairly young-or in very good shape-to be moving at such a quick clip. Wearing blue jeans and shoes that made a unique double-clicking sound as he walked-almost as though he wore tap shoes-the man kept his head down. He wore a baseball cap with a dark hooded sweatshirt pulled tight around his face. Both hands were stuffed in his pockets.
Maintaining my own hurried pace, I eased to the right of the sidewalk to let the runner go by, peering over the edge of my collar as he got close enough to pass. He was tall-maybe six foot-and if the tight jacket was any indication, he weighed more than two hundred pounds.
There was a tree in my path. I could scoot left and possibly bump this guy, or go way off to the right, near the curb.
I veered right, hoping to reclaim my wide sidewalk berth once the guy passed me.
But he didn’t.
Coming around the tree, I was forced to either speed up or slow down. He’d slowed his own pace and was now blocking my way. This was like a bad merge on an expressway.
I wrinkled my nose against the cold and eased in behind him. My apartment was just another couple of blocks away, and I rationalized that this big, bulky guy would block the wind for me.
But when I got behind him, he slowed down again. The trot lessened to a brisk walk, then lessened again to what could only generously be called a stroll.
Was this guy playing games with me? Did he not know I was behind him?
Whatever was going on, it was giving me the creeps. My building wasn’t much farther, and I’d planned to cross the street at the light, but common sense told me to change my course right now.
I shot over to the curb and waited for a pair of shiny headlights to pass before racing across the street. My heart pounded as I skipped up the far curb. I chastised myself for my anxiety. Just my imagination working overtime again. I knew I had a paranoid streak, but the truth was, that paranoia had come in handy more times than I cared to count.
I pulled my collar close again, and tried to make out where the guy across the street had gone. The sleet was heavier and the cold seemed to worsen with every slash of rain against the dark cement. I couldn’t wait to climb into my flannels and pull a cover over my chilled limbs. I couldn’t see the opposite side of the street, but I took comfort in the fact that it meant he couldn’t see me either.
Just the same, I resumed my trot. A moving target is harder to hit, as Tom always tells me. I smiled again at the thought of calling him. With any luck, he’d brave the elements and we could snuggle under those covers together.
My smile vanished when I heard the double-clicks again. Behind me. No way.
I was about to turn to see what I already knew-that the bulky guy was back-but by the time my head twisted over my shoulder, it was too late.
In a searingly hot second, he kicked me in the left knee. I shouted, both in pain and surprise. Unprepared for the attack, I flew facefirst to the sidewalk, my arms coming up just in time to break my fall. Even as I went down screaming, I prayed my hands and fingers wouldn’t be hurt. They were my life, my livelihood.
The bulky guy didn’t break stride, didn’t turn.
Once I was down, he broke into a full-out run and was gone.
“Hey!” I yelled, noticing belatedly that my purse was gone. “Hey!” I said again, but by then I knew it was futile. I tried sitting up, but in the cold my knees felt as brittle as glass. At the same time, my palms burned from where I’d skimmed the sidewalk.
I shouted after him. “You big jerk!”
A soft voice next to me. “Are you okay?”
I felt a tug at my elbow. A small man hovered over me. Even from my seat on the wet sidewalk, I could tell he was shorter than I was. He pulled at my elbow again, trying to help me stand up. When I tried to get my footing, I slipped and sat down hard in wet dirt.
“Ick,” I said, wincing as I struggled to my feet. “I’m okay.”
“You are sure?” The man’s voice held the touch of an accent and now that I stood up, I got a better look at my would-be rescuer. He was of Asian descent with hair so short as to be almost invisible. Although I couldn’t peg his age, I guessed him to be on the far side of fifty. “What did that man do to you?” Using just his eyes, he gestured toward an idling car. “I was driving past and I saw him push you down.”
I wiped my face with the back of my hand, trying to compose myself. The past several days had crushed the very energy out of everyone at the White House. But this was too much. After everything we’d been through, I shouldn’t have to deal with this. Not today. I stared after the jerk who’d grabbed my purse, fighting overwhelming despair. All my ID was in there. Everything. I’d have to jump through a hundred hoops tomorrow just to get into work. I shook my head, then realized the little guy was waiting for me to say something. “I’m okay. He kicked me. Stole my purse.”
“I am so sorry.”
“Yeah,” I said, blinking against the rain. “Me, too.”
“I am Shan-Yu,” he said, stepping forward.
“I’m Ollie,” I said, responding automatically, thinking that I’d prefer to limp home in a hurry rather than stand in the sleet and chat. My mind was furiously trying to process everything that had just happened, but ingrained politeness kept me steady.
Shan-Yu gestured again with his eyes, keeping his hands together low at his waist. “May I offer you a ride?”
“No, thank you,” I said, slapping my backside to release the dirt that crusted there. It hurt my hands, so I stopped immediately. “I live on the next block.”
“As do I,” he said, then mentioned his address.
“That’s my building, too,” I said.
He smiled. “Please, it would be my pleasure to help you after your encounter.”
The biting rain had turned into a full-out downpour. I looked at the little guy standing next to me, his smile the only brightness in the dark enveloping rain.
“Thanks,” I said. “That would be nice.”
The Toyota Celica’s windshield wipers were flapping as we made our way over. “Allow me,” he said, and he glided ahead to open the passenger door.
We were directly under a streetlight, and as I started around him, I turned once more to take a look at my backside. “Oh,” I said, “I can’t get in your car like this. I’ll get mud all over your seats.”
“Not a problem,” he said, just a little bit too quickly.
I turned, ready to explain again about the dirt on my backside, but the little guy’s eyes suddenly shifted. Too close to me now, he said, “Get in.”
“No, really, I-”
Before I could react, he hit me, hard, in the abdomen. I doubled over and he shoved me into the open door, pushing me down onto the seat. Neither of us counted on the ground being wet, however, and to his dismay and my delight, I slipped and fell to the ground, out of his immediate reach. Scrambling toward the back of the car on all fours, I screamed, both in terror and from the pain. “Help me!”
Every ounce of me surged out in my screams. I tried to get my footing, but he kicked me in the side. The darkness impaired his aim and it hit me only as a glancing blow. Still, it was enough to throw off my balance. “Help!” My voice carried along the wet street and I thought I heard an answer. My voice strained with effort. “Please!”
The little guy had begun to pull at the back of my jacket, and though I already knew I was no match for him, I remembered what Tom had told me about the knees-a lesson recently reviewed with the passing tap-shoe guy. With Shan-Yu’s hands gripping the fabric on my back, I wrenched sideways and lashed out at him with my foot. I connected with his knee, just as Mr. Tap Shoes had connected with mine. The little guy went down.
Fighting sparkles of pain that danced before my eyes, I made myself stand-just in time. Although he’d gone down, he didn’t stay there. In one smooth roll, he’d bounced himself back to his feet and come at me again.
I dodged him, spinning around the back of the car and racing to the open driver’s-side door. I’d thought to jump in and drive away, but Shan-Yu was too fast, too close. Just as I got near the door, I whirled to face him. He hadn’t expected that. When I ducked, he toppled over me. Scratching, biting, and screaming, I fought my way out from under him, hearing footsteps-loud ones-and knowing I had almost nothing left with which to fight.
“Hey!” someone yelled.
Shan-Yu turned long enough for me to get another good look at his face. I scrambled out of the way of the back tires as he leaped into the car and tore off down the street.
A big guy wearing jogging pants and a do-rag leaned down to me, rain pouring down his bewildered face. “Are you okay?”