Peter's Christmas

by M. L. Buchman

  Emily kissed him on the cheek, which made Genny feel actively stupid for thinking there had been something between her and the President beyond friendship. Emily was exactly as the President had introduced her. An old friend.

  “Peter has found a very pleasant UNESCO official who is a Việt Võ Đạo third Dan.”

  The newcomer laughed as well, then turned to inspect her. His eyes did a quick flicker down her length, but she didn’t feel offended. It wasn’t as if he were a male admiring her attributes. Instead, she felt as if she’d just been very carefully assessed for weapons and any other potential surprises.

  “Mr. President,” he had a deep voice obviously used to command. He also clearly didn’t share Emily’s “Peter” privileges with his Commander in Chief, or perhaps he did, but chose not to exercise them.

  “Third Dan means she’s a third-level Instructor just an edge below being a Master. Can see it in her posture and balance.” He stuck out a large hand which she shook gladly. “Major Mark Henderson at your service. Do you find much occasion for using your martial arts in the Council Chamber at the U.N.?”

  “My specialty is World Heritage Sites in Southeast Asia. I frequently must work with tribal leaders, military factions, warlords, and the like. I have not yet had to use those skills, Major Henderson, but I do appreciate having them.”

  “Perhaps you haven’t needed to use them because they can see you already have them. Do you play poker?”

  “No poker. But my two sisters and I play a mean Scrabble game though.”

  “You do?” The President brightened significantly while the other four in the circle groaned. “Ignore these heathens. Let me go find a board.”

  He turned as if to start the search immediately, but Emily hooked a wrist and with a simple twist, that Genny knew would cause sharp pain if ignored, brought the President back to the circle.

  Genny wasn’t sure, but she thought she caught the flicker of a smile on the big Secret Service agent standing at the wall.

  “You have a room full of guests, Peter. You two can play games later.” Emily’s smile showed that she knew perfectly well the double-entendre she’d just offered.

  Genny inspected the circle of friends that surrounded the President. For there was no question that while these people served at the pleasure of the President, they also truly enjoyed his company. It was a high recommendation of the man indeed.

  For the second time that night, Genny did something that felt right though it ran counter to her better judgment. She tucked a hand around his elbow, no glove and heavy wool coat to separate them this time. His light jacket and linen shirt was all that kept them from touching. She could feel the difference in closeness.

  “Do not worry, Mr. President Matthews.” She made her voice as sexy as possible, playing up her French accent, knowing its affect on Americans. “We can play games in, perhaps, a later time.”

  He blushed bright red and the rest of them laughed.

  Only Genny felt the slight pressure on her fingers as he squeezed her hand with a bend of his elbow. It was a very welcoming gesture.

  # # #

  Peter was wholly bemused.

  It was past midnight. He’d shed his jacket and his tie and sat in the middle of the Central Hall on a low sofa.

  Across the coffee table, Geneviève Beauchamp was the only remaining guest. Frank and Beatrice had retired to the far end of the Hall to guard unobtrusively while the woman massacred him on the Scrabble board. Maybe he should retreat back to playing on-line, as there he pretty much dominated. Too bad he couldn’t play in the National Championships without actually attending.

  Her silvered jacket was unbuttoned, but still draped upon her shoulders. Her hair, pulled forward over one shoulder, flowed in a lush dark wave. She leaned forward to study the Scrabble board, so that a small Chinese medallion she wore spun and sparkled with each movement. She was absolutely breathtaking.

  “Enfilade, Mr. President.” She’d spent six out of seven letters in her tray around the “AD” already on the board. The four-point “F,” he was chagrined to notice, had landed on a triple-letter score. They had sat down hours before to play a single game to two hundred points. He’d foolishly given her the first move and she’d emptied her entire tray on the first play with “Debacle” gaining a quick eighty points including the bonus for playing all seven letters. They hadn’t stopped at two-hundred points, they’d stopped when the tiles ran out.

  Now they were on their third game and she was close to her second win. He thanked god that her final letter hadn’t been playable or the point bonus for emptying her entire tray yet again would have locked up the game.

  Frank, the head of his Presidential Protection Detail, would play with him when Peter was at loose ends, but they rarely finished those games. Peter did some of his best thinking while playing Scrabble with Frank as it left his subconscious free to nibble away at a political problem. The head of his PPD didn’t appear to mind losing, or mind having the game interrupted once Peter had solved the problem.

  With Geneviève, he had to completely concentrate and still it was a hard fight.

  “Enfilade. Most appropriate, as you have just shot up my two best plays. And you still aren’t calling me Peter.”

  “You are correct again, Mr. President.” She drew four letters then shook the bag. Empty. The end was imminent and he needed a brilliant play to salvage his position.

  “Why is that? And why am I calling you Geneviève, despite the ‘Genny’ liberties you offer to everyone else?”

  “First, Mr. President, you are a head of state, I am not.”

  He grinned. Sparring with her was so much fun. “And second?”

  “Your play.”

  “And second?” He sat back on the couch and crossed his arms over his chest making it clear that he wasn’t going to play until she answered.

  Now she looked up at him from her intent study of the board. He had expected her look of deep concentration, or perhaps the funny tease that had made him so enjoy her company, but instead it was a soft and somewhat bewildered expression that she presented.

  “Perhaps it would be best if I go.”

  Peter came to his feet and extended a hand to help her to her feet. A lady said it was time to go, then it was time. No questions asked. At least not on that front.

  “And second?”

  But she didn’t answer him. They walked side by side down the Grand Staircase, sweeping the two Secret Service agents before them. At the North Portico entrance, there was already a car waiting. Wishing he’d thought to put his jacket back on before stepping out into the freezing air, they stopped together for a moment on the outside steps.

  “No clichés now,” he warned her.

  “I was not planning on one, Mr. President.” Then she took both of his hands in hers.

  He still couldn’t feel the calluses, though he could feel the startling strength in those fine fingers.

  “And second,” she acknowledged his earlier question. “I will ask that you continue to call me Geneviève. For I do so enjoy how it sounds when you say it.” She lifted up lightly on her toes and offered him a kiss on each cheek in the French style, and then a chaste, but not overly hasty one on his lips.

  He held the car door for her as she climbed in. Then she spoke once more just before he could close it.

  “If you play ‘Redacted’ on the ‘E’ I left open in ‘Enfilade,’ it will be your game, Mr. President.”

  Then she was gone, and he was left rocking on his heels. She’d counted each of the tiled letters that had been played, knowing that the bag was empty and what she had on her own tray.

  “Wave, Mr. President,” Frank Adams, the head of his protection detail, whispered at him softly.

  So he did.

  “She’s got you, Sir.”

  He watched the taillights as Agent
Belfour drove Geneviève Beauchamp off the White House grounds.

  “Got you real bad,” Frank was practically chortling.

  There was certainly no chance of him redacting that bit of truth before everyone around him knew it.

  Chapter 3

  Genny received a nasty surprise over her room-service breakfast, but it took her a while before she found out about it. The White House had reserved Genny a room at The Hay-Adams Hotel. She’d had to close the curtains quickly on entering the room, for it had offered a clear view of the White House Residence directly across Lafayette Square Park and that had been just too much to think about.

  She’d held herself together for the short ride to the Hay. It probably would have been faster to walk the two blocks, but her knees weren’t really up to it, so she was quite appreciative of Agent Belfour’s escort.

  Once she was alone, then the nerves set in. President Peter Matthews, the leader of the American people, consumed her thoughts. Throughout the evening he had been charming, thoughtful, funny, and most importantly, real. Throughout the reception and then the Scrabble game he had simply been himself; laughing, casual, self-deprecating. He had granted her a thoroughly enjoyable evening. She knew better than to trust it. Gérard and she had any number of wonderful evenings, right until they’d become married.

  Genny had married straight out of Cambridge University. Gérard had been beautiful, wealthy, and wholly incompatible. In so many ways: political views, disposition, temper. His desire to travel beyond Europe had been non-existent and she had missed home too much. The lush warmth and easy friendships of Vietnam had beckoned her too strongly. She and Gérard hadn’t lasted six months.

  In the years since, her career had broken even more relationships than it had made. She had climbed quickly at UNESCO. Her ability to obtain needed permissions from governments and locals alike to preserve culturally important sites had quickly catapulted her up the ladder. She was the Head of Section for Southeast Asia, which meant that she was more frequently in Paris at the World Heritage Center than in her own homeland.

  And now, she was finding that shifting her attention to New York had allowed her unprecedented access to U.N. Ambassadors and hence the ear of their countries’ leaderships.

  Her work had led her to live much of the year in America, but her life was not here. It no longer resided in any one place. It was scattered across the globe. She rarely came to rest, but it was a lifestyle that worked for her. Genny could imagine no other way of being.

  Yet, sitting last night with the President, just the two of them, had been comfortable. Despite the surreal setting and the unexpected company, she had felt oddly relaxed. As if it were a perfectly normal evening to be sitting in the Central Hall with the President and enjoying a game and friendly conversation as the house quieted. As the White House quieted. And that thought had only wound her nerves back up once more.

  But Peter, it was comfortable to think of him that way, though surprisingly difficult to speak so, hadn’t offered up some heirloom, valuable first edition, or ornate Scrabble board. Instead, it was old and worn—maroon cardboard, a cracking seam down the center, and well-worn letters in a brown paper lunch sack. And a heavily thumbed dictionary. An American one, so all of the handy Scottish words that had a “Q” without a “U” hadn’t been allowed.

  It was when she ordered room service that she received her nasty surprise. Along with a Lemon Ricotta Pancake with berries and American maple syrup, one of America’s great contributions to international cuisine, came the morning’s Washington Post.

  The front page of Post had a grainy photo, obviously taken with a long telephoto lens at night. It was her chaste kiss with the President last night. But it didn’t look chaste. “Mystery Woman Necking President” was the headline over the photo. Obviously late to press, it referred to page A14 for the rest of the story.

  Page A14 had another photo of them walking arm in arm away from the Christmas Tree, identifiable only because of her long hair and his bodyguards. That was all they had, not even her name. But last night’s guest list would provide that soon enough.

  Her first instinct was to call the President and apologize.

  Her second instinct was to scream in rage. It had been so pleasant and now it was tainted, made lurid by the American so-called journalists.

  Thankfully, rational thought quashed that so quickly that it barely had an opportunity to raise its ugly head. The Americans were so very uptight about such matters. It didn’t really affect her after all. Let them have their games.

  Then her phone rang and her forkful of pancake flipped from her fingers and fell to the carpet. She swept it up quickly hoping that it didn’t leave much of a stain on the immaculate white surface. What sort of a crazy hotel used white carpet?

  With three phones in the room, she only had to reach for the one at her window-side dining table. When she answered, perhaps a little tentatively, she was asked to please hold for the President.

  “I’m so sorry about this,” Peter launched right in when he came on the line. His complete lack of morning niceties was so American that it made her smile. “I suppose we should have been somewhat more discreet.”

  “Mr. President, it is not my problem, but rather it is yours.”

  “Ah,” he paused for a long moment. She could almost see him looking for a piece of paper or a pen to fool around with while he considered his response. “Clearly you’ve only seen the paper this morning, and not the television news.”

  “Ah, yourself.” She fought against the irritation she felt as she understood what he was saying. “So, if it is now my problem, that would imply that your American media must be already camped in front of my hotel. They probably also watch the rear exits. I have heard of such foolishness. You really must fix those laws. Your so-cherished American Freedom of the Press has been taken past reason. What of Right to Privacy, I ask you?” The photo in the paper glared, garish in poor color. She flipped it face down.

  “The Fourth Amendment promises security against unreasonable search and seizure. It states nothing regarding privacy.”

  “Therefore I am thinking that your country does not think. In my home country, we have far fewer laws and far more respect.”

  “We think very hard. However, that does not imply that what we have evolved over time necessarily makes any sense.”

  Genny considered what it must mean to be President of such a place. And how much she was enjoying this discussion, despite the topic. She had slept little last night for several reasons, but the main one had been that she’d felt vitalized by his attention. As if he brought some part of her to life with which she was unfamiliar.

  “If you are thinking so hard, Mr. President, what are you thinking?”

  “I’m thinking,” his voice was suddenly warmer and softer, as if he were whispering into the phone. “That I don’t care about any picture as long as I get the chance to kiss you again.”

  She laughed. Genny couldn’t help herself. It was like a release of something deep inside. A part of her that a succession of arrogant men had frozen, she’d feared permanently.

  “I think, Mr. President, that will cause no end of trouble for both of us, but,” she had to be honest, “it is something I too should like to try.”

  “Excellent! So when can I see you again?”

  “I was planning to return to New York this evening after my annual visit to the museum.”

  “Which museum?”

  “Air and Space.”

  Again his laugh was warm in her ear, “Not Art, or Natural History?”

  “Smithsonian Air and Space, the Udvar-Hazy Center, in Virginia.” She had to raise her voice over his laughter. “What do you find so amusing about me, Mr. President?”

  “About you? That’s perfect. That is what I find so amusing. That you are never what I expect.”

  Genny had no good answ
er to that and fooled around with the cooling pancake on her plate. Her ex-husband, past lovers, and even casual dates had always formed a neatly structured casier in their minds for her to belong inside of. It had made her very angry. This man, the first in her experience, was filled with joy so that it burst out of him, precisely because she didn’t fit into a neat pigeon’s hole.

  “Hold on a minute, if you would.”

  He was back in under thirty seconds.

  “It seems that my evening is free. Perhaps we could meet at the museum at six o’clock. I’m booked solid starting five minutes ago, but Daniel can handle the two meetings after six.”

  “It closes at five-thirty, Mr. President.”

  “Yes, it does.”

  Genny’s position had more than once afforded her entry into a cultural site when it was technically closed. On such visits there was a sense of peace and you could feel the air prickling with anticipation and possibility, just as they must have felt when they were first formed. Yet she had never entered a major museum after hours. She could catch an early train tomorrow and still be in time for her first meeting.

  “That is something I will be looking forward to, Mr. President.”

  # # #

  “You never said why this particular museum, Geneviève.” Peter looked about the massive hangar of the Smithsonian National Air and Space Museum’s Udvar-Hazy Center at the south end of Dulles International Airport. He’d never actually been to this one, or known it was so close. Just twenty minutes outside of D.C., the two massive hangars had hundreds of aircraft. It was a kaleidoscopic whirl, so many wings, fuselages, and markings that his eyes had trouble separating one from the next.

  The first hangar had been dominated by four massive planes: the Enola Gay that dropped the Hiroshima bomb and the Boeing Dash-80 that proved the viability of passenger jets. Close beside her was her extreme offspring, the Concorde and at the far end of the hangar stood an SR-71 Blackbird Mach 3 spy plane that could fly twenty miles high.