Red, White, and Blue

by Laura Hayden

  All Kate could do was convince herself that this was simply a work-related function. “It’s not a real party,” she repeated to herself as she climbed into the limousine. When she stepped through the VIP entrance to the main floor of the ballroom, she tried to remind herself one more time, but as she looked out at the crowd of fancy dresses and tuxedos, she found it hard to tell herself otherwise.

  A ripple went through the crowd, an unofficial fanfare announcing the arrival of Emily and her security entourage. Kate walked backstage and waited for Emily to appear. As Emily’s campaign manager, it had always been Kate’s self-appointed task to make one last review of Emily’s appearance before she stepped onstage. It was a hard habit to break.

  For both of them.

  Emily’s slightly pinched features relaxed when she saw Kate. “There you are! How’s the dress look? Is it hanging straight in back?” She turned as if trying to catch a glimpse of herself.

  Although Emily had the figure and the bearing to pull off an Academy Award–red carpet–worthy dress, she’d selected something a little more sedate from the spate of designers who offered their wares in hopes the president would give them some high-ranking exposure.

  The gown she selected had simple, classic lines that accentuated her athletic figure without flaunting it and a neckline that displayed a tasteful hint of cleavage. The dress from an unheard of but soon-to-be-famous designer named C’Teris was a shade of deep crimson so dark that it verged on black but was livened up by small crystals woven into the fabric. With no precedence as to what a female president should wear to this function—or any other function for that matter—Emily had decided to write the rule book, using her own good taste plus an unerring sense of color combined with the talents of Marjorie Redding, image consultant extraordinaire.

  Kate admired the finished product. “You look perfect.” It was no lie. Emily absolutely glowed, looking both commanding yet comfortable.

  “Thanks. Wish me luck.”

  Kate took her place in the front of the crowd right as four ruffles and flourishes, then “Hail to the Chief” echoed across the enormous room. Emily’s arrival was preceded by an eruption of applause and cheers.

  She spoke with her usual combination of elegance and ease, keeping it light. No heavy political speeches here. She offered her thanks and spoke more about the tone of her administration and plans rather than getting into details about the upcoming policy changes.

  She quipped, “And now let’s see if my cousin actually remembers anything from the dance lessons we took as kids.” She and Richard took center stage as the orchestra struck up “Some Enchanted Evening.”

  Someone tapped Kate on the shoulder and said over the music, “She always could dance.”

  Kate turned, stunned to find Nick Beaudry standing next to her, impeccably dressed as always. “What are you doing here?” she mouthed.

  He leaned closer so he wouldn’t have to yell over the competing music. “Don’t worry. I didn’t crash the party. Security is too tight to do something like that.” He grinned as he reached into his tuxedo jacket and pulled out an envelope and ticket stub. “I guess by the look on your face you didn’t send this.” He flushed a little as he laughed. “Seems to me I’ve said that to you once before . . . not too long ago.”

  Kate ran her finger across the raised letters of the return address—the White House.

  “I guess I made another wrong assumption, which leads me to wonder . . .”

  They both looked out toward the dance floor, where Emily and Richard twirled in rhythm to the music.

  To his credit, Nick watched her with mild interest, betraying more a sense of nostalgia than unrequited feelings. “You don’t think she’s getting sentimental in her old age, do you?”

  “Emily?” Kate sputtered.

  He made a dismissive gesture. “Scratch that. I guess I forgot who I was talking about.” He stuffed the invitation back into his jacket pocket. “This may be a signal that you need to take a closer look at the Protocol Office. If they can make a mistake like this . . .”

  Kate waved away his concern. “Maybe this is just Emily’s way of saying bygones are bygones.”

  He looked dubious. “Maybe.”

  They watched the lower dance floor begin to fill with couples. Emily and Richard still danced by themselves on a higher dais decorated with a large presidential seal on the stage floor.

  Nick held out his hand. “Care to dance?”

  If he were anybody else but Emily’s ex-husband, Kate would have seriously considered saying yes. Nick Beaudry had transformed himself into a pleasant, intelligent, and well-mannered man. But beyond political ramifications, beyond social manners, the unofficial girlfriend’s rule book said to never date your best friend’s ex.

  “Thanks, but—”

  “No thanks,” he supplied with a nod. “I understand. I should have thought before I even offered.” He turned slightly away. “Uh-oh . . . she spotted us.”

  Kate looked toward the upper stage and caught Emily’s raised eyebrow expression. In response, Kate lifted one hand to offer her friend a small wave.

  Nick glanced at Emily, his expression growing sheepish as he turned away. “I knew this was a mistake. Coming here.”

  Kate continued to smile at Emily but spoke to Nick at her side. “You were invited. You have every right to attend.”

  He sighed. “I need a drink.”

  Sudden alarm filled Kate and she pivoted sharply. “No you don’t.”

  His sheepish look faded into something much more reflective but controlled. “No, not drink as in alcohol. I need one of those overpriced sodas. You know—all ice and an ounce or two of Coke for five bucks. American free enterprise at its best. Or worst. Can I get you something?”

  “I . . . I’ll go with you.”

  His voice grew quiet. “I’m not going to get any booze, Kate. I’m not foolish enough to say those days are behind me—one day at a time, you know—but today? A pricey soft drink or tonic water will do me just fine.”

  Kate felt her face flush with embarrassment, but before she could apologize, Chip McWilliamson wedged himself between them. It was obvious that the young man was taking advantage of the ebb and flow of the crowd to expertly cut Nick off. After spending the better part of the last two years being in close proximity to Emily while on the campaign trail, he’d learned how to rescue her from overexcited supporters with a well-placed body block.

  Only Kate didn’t need or want any rescue.

  “Sorry to interrupt, man,” he called over his shoulder to Nick, whom he’d forced to step back. Then he turned to Kate, winked, and stated in a voice a little too loud for the situation, “Ms. Rosen, the president needs to speak with you immediately.”

  Kate glanced over and saw that President Benton, Emily’s uncle, had cut in on his son Richard and was now dancing with his niece.

  Two presidents, one former, one current, dancing together. The entire ballroom was lit up with camera strobes. It was obvious that Emily wasn’t waiting to talk to Kate or anyone else at that moment. Nothing in the world would make the woman give up the limelight at the moment.

  Kate tried not to look annoyed at Chip but knew she’d probably failed. If her self-appointed Rescue Ranger was going to make up an excuse, he certainly could have done a better job of it and made up something believable.

  “Kate, I’ll talk to—” Nick was jostled from behind by a woman, and as a result, he took a step closer to Chip, trying to regain his balance.

  Before Kate could turn back to inform her would-be hero that everything was actually fine, Chip continued with his imaginary role, raising his voice. “Maybe you didn’t understand me, but get lost, Beaudry. You’re not wanted here.”

  A Secret Service agent, stationed nearby in the crowd, made eye contact with Kate, raising his hand to his ear in order to report the disturbance into his sleeve microphone. She made a small dismissive gesture with her hand to wave off his concern. He lowered his arm, acknowled
ging her command with a barely perceptible nod of his head. If she needed any real rescue, he would be the person to turn to, not some slightly inebriated soon-to-be semiofficial White House blogger who had the hots for the president.

  Nick peered around Kate’s self-appointed liberator who had placed himself between them and mouthed, You need any help? He obviously realized that Chip was no threat to her. When she shook her head, he shot her a small salute and mouthed, Catch you later and then was swallowed up by the crowd.

  Chip peered over his shoulder at Nick’s departure, then turned back, smirking in triumph over his apparent success. “Beaudry was the last person I expected to be here. He’s lucky I didn’t have him escorted out.” He puffed up his chest in a classic big-protector-of-small-women way.

  Kate motioned for him to come closer, and he leaned down accordingly, probably expecting her undying thanks or, worse, a chaste kiss on the cheek.

  The white knight syndrome could be so tiring. . . .

  Kate kept her voice low and even. “If you ever pull a stupid stunt like that again, in public or in private, I will have every press credential you possess revoked and you will be banned from covering any and all White House events during this administration. Your official blogging days will be over. Do you understand me?”

  He gaped at her and suddenly the twenty-year difference in their ages made him truly seem a generation away. Then he flushed with an unexpected flair of anger. “Now wait a freakin’ minute, I thought—”

  She met his ire with her own. “You didn’t think. That’s the problem. If you did stop to think, you would have realized that you do not insert yourself into private conversations, especially ones that show no signs of any discord or uneasiness. You don’t get to run roughshod over any of my discussions simply because you’ve decided Nick Beaudry shouldn’t be here.”

  “C’mon, Kate . . .”

  Her irritation flash-boiled over into full-blown anger. It was probably a result of the building pressures of the past few weeks and the fact that she’d worked hard to find the right tone for her new position as White House chief of staff. The last thing she expected was to be forced to deal with backsliding among those senior campaign staffers who were being integrated into White House staff.

  Perhaps what was really bothering her was that Emily had insisted on finding Chip a position that would put them in daily contact.

  And probably nightly contact, if Chip had his wish.

  “Let’s get one thing straight, Mr. McWilliamson. We’re no longer on the campaign trail, where we maintained less formal procedures out of convenience. I’m now Ms. Rosen to you, the White House chief of staff. I am your boss. And I will hold conversations with whomever necessary, whenever I deem necessary. If you can no longer control your impulsiveness or your alcohol intake, you will be removed from this event and all others if I deem necessary.”

  Although she knew she’d probably regret giving him a little dig, she succumbed to temptation and added, “And just so you know, Mr. Beaudry was invited—” she leveled him with an I-know-more-than-you glare—“by someone in the White House.” She tipped her head toward the dance floor. “Understand?”

  The young man’s mouth dropped open. “You mean . . .” He watched Emily on the dance floor. “She and . . . Beaudry? Again?”

  The color began to drain from his face, and Kate took a tiny amount of pity on him.

  “If I were to speculate—and that’s my privilege, not yours—I’d suspect President Benton may have wanted to make a pointed statement to her ex-husband. You know . . . ‘Look what you gave up’? A little salt in the wound?”

  Kate suddenly realized what she’d just done to the love-struck young man herself—found his weakness and exploited it. Realization left a bad taste in her mouth.

  “Salt,” he repeated in a flat tone. “Sure.” He straightened. “Yeah.” He was gaining some momentum now. “Giving him a front-row seat and twisting the knife a little.” That seemed to satisfy his more bloodthirsty instincts, and he nodded in approval. “Pretty smart,” he said in admiration, watching Emily as she displayed talents honed at more than one Virginian cotillion in her youth.

  Chip tore his attention away from Emily long enough to stutter out a passable apology, and then he slunk away. But now Kate had questions eating at her. What was Emily doing? And more importantly, why? First, she helped Nick and excused that as a bit of quid pro quo. But then she sent him a ticket to an inaugural ball? Maybe Chip had it all wrong. Maybe Emily wasn’t twisting the knife but inviting Nick back into the fold. Now that he was reformed—a model citizen of sorts—was Emily considering him as a possible First Gentleman?

  EMILY AND NICK, TOGETHER AGAIN.

  Kate’s mind conjured an uncomfortable image of the two of them, a charming portrait of two people smiling at an invisible camera.

  The practical side of her rationalized that such a reunion would play well in the press and would likely appeal to the general public. The Prodigal Husband returns a renewed man, to reunite with the woman he loved but wronged. Then again, the more practical voice suggested that something like that would have been far more useful during the campaign. . . .

  And if Kate thought about the idea, it was sure that Emily had already completely dissected the concept, investigated its individual parts, and perhaps reassembled it into something Frankensteinian in nature.

  A voice intruded on her ruminations. “Ms. Rosen? I just wanted to congratulate you on your new position.”

  Her greeter became the first in a long stream of Washington movers and shakers who firmly believed that an inaugural ball was the perfect time to remind Kate that they’d met her years ago or they hadn’t had the chance yet to meet her or that they hoped they could get a meeting with her after she got settled in her new position.

  Finally she managed to use Emily’s imminent departure to the next in a long line of official balls to excuse herself from her glut of well-wishers, implying that regrettably, she too had to be part of the progressive ball program.

  “Is it safe to talk?”

  Kate turned at the sound of the familiar voice. “Safe is a relative term.”

  Nick held two small plastic glasses of soda and offered her one. “I figured you might be thirsty after surviving that rather impressive political gauntlet. I never thought I’d see the ranking member of the House Armed Services Committee stoop to such obvious brownnosing.”

  “Impressive, wasn’t it? Thanks,” she said, accepting the drink. “I guess it’s all just part of the job description.” True to Nick’s earlier description, the cup contained more ice than anything else, but despite that, the soda was refreshing, if briefly so. Although it was a cold January evening, the ballroom was starting to grow warm thanks to the crush of people, not to mention the hot air they generated in true Washingtonian fashion.

  “I thought you’d be headed off with Emily to the next big gala, along with what’s-his-name, her puppy–slash–guard dog.”

  She hid a smile. Chip and Buster did seem to have more than one quality in common, particularly the strength of their bark in comparison to their “byte.” “Don’t mind Chip. He’s harmless.”

  “He is now, thanks to the dressing-down that you gave him.”

  “You overheard us?” She hadn’t thought anyone had; she’d tried to keep her voice under control. The last thing she’d wanted to do was attract any attention to their terse discussion.

  Nick laughed. “Don’t look so worried. I didn’t hear anything. But I did get a puerile sense of enjoyment watching his expression as it changed. Whatever you said, it made him realize he’d stepped over a very big line and made an even bigger mistake.” He paused. “Is it bad of me to have found a bit of pleasure in that?”

  “Not bad. Just human.”

  “Then can this ‘just human’ offer to dance with you?”

  She hesitated. Why, she wasn’t sure. Too many complications, she decided. Whether he was simply in Emily’s past or possibly in her
future, he really had no business in Kate’s present.

  “I’d like to; I really would. But I’m late for the Commander in Chief Ball.”

  “Hot date?” he quipped.

  “My brother.”

  Something that almost looked like relief crossed his face, then dissipated quickly. “That’s right. I remember that he’s . . . what? Air force?”

  Before she could answer, Nick’s body language shifted perceptibly, suggesting that something or someone unpleasant was approaching. Although he lowered his voice, he maintained his expression. “You won’t believe it, but your rescuer has returned.”

  Sure enough, she felt a tap on her shoulder.

  “Please pardon me for interrupting you, Ms. Rosen.” The voice contained equal parts caution and respect.

  Kate turned around, ready to read Chip McWilliamson the riot act again until she caught sight of his face. This was not a young man making a foolish decision but one with an honest message. He also wasn’t alone. The man standing one step behind Chip wore his experience like the badge he probably carried in his pocket. Although suitably attired for a business meeting, his dark suit made him stand out like a beacon in the sea of tuxedos. Whether he was plainclothes police, FBI, or Secret Service, she wasn’t sure. But he was definitely a cop of some sort.

  Before the man could even speak, Chip blurted out, “Something’s happened and I’m not sure if we should inform the president.”

  Only one day into the job . . .

  “Chip, that’s my decision. Not yours. And you are, sir . . . ?”

  The man produced his credentials, which identified him as Special Agent Brown of the Secret Service. “Ma’am, I’m assigned to the command post here. We just got word from the Park Police that there’s been an accident involving one of the president’s former campaign advisers.”

  Kate’s mind jumped ahead. Dozier? Francesca?

  She motioned for them to follow—Nick included—as she led the way to a less crowded corner where hopefully they wouldn’t be easily overheard. Once they were out of the mainstream traffic, she shooed Chip away. “Make sure we get some privacy.” She turned to the plainclothes cop. “Who?”