Chapter Forty-Seven
Late March
I’ve been back in Washington for a year now, and it’s hard to believe I ever left.
My life is so deeply entwined with Elliot’s that we literally can finish each other’s sentences. It feels totally right cuddling on the sofa in the den in the evenings while Elliot lies there, his head in my lap, while he reads briefing materials for the next day.
Don’t get me wrong. I know Elliot loves Leo, and Leo loves him, but I can look back twelve months and see where Elliot has a completely different and deeper dynamic with me in many ways that he’s never had with Leo.
To Leo’s credit, he’s never complained about that, either. He’s never been anything but loving and supportive to both of us, even when it means he’s alone most of the time.
In his mind, his most precious possessions aren’t lonely, and they’re safe and happy, and therefore he’s happy.
He’ll always put himself last.
I guess that’s why neither Elliot nor I can ever let go of him.
Now that we have Iowa behind us, the GOP field is reduced to only three viable contenders, and all caucuses and polls are showing Elliot comfortably ahead of any potential GOP candidate, I relax a little.
Only a little. I refuse to grow complacent or allow Elliot to think he can skate. If I do that, I’ve failed him.
We set up a rigorous weekend campaign schedule making stops in every damn state in the nation. We won’t ignore flyover country, because it would make Elliot look like he’s forgotten his roots. If anything, we spend more time in Midwest states, because I need local media outlets on his side, even if he is a Democrat and those areas traditionally trend toward conservative candidates.
Plus there’s still the nation’s work to do, and Elliot is far from a decorative figurehead in President Samuels’ administration.
Unfortunately, Grace Martin’s been particularly persistent as of late. To the point that I confer with Leo and decide to offer Stella an olive branch when I find a perfect opening in Elliot’s schedule. A Monday meeting gets cancelled late the Friday before, but I keep that fact concealed from the public.
President Samuels is away on a trip to a UN humanitarian summit in Geneva, and took a goodly chunk of the national press with her because the kids are also going. Family vacation time, and the press eats that shit up with a spoon.
Leo’s with them, too.
That means things are quiet in DC that Monday, with little chance of the press covering what I’m going to set up. I know the perfect restaurant, one that is open tonight, but traditionally Mondays are reserved for high-profile clients only. You must have a reservation.
No press allowed, either. The staff and facility are pre-cleared by Secret Service, because of the frequency of its use for just this reason. It’s one of the few establishments where they can schedule drop-in meals for the highest-tier protectees without needing several days’ notice first.
When I talked to Leo on Friday, he coached me about what to do. First, I call the restaurant and obtain a nine p.m. reservation for four. Obviously, they’ll always find room for POTUS or VPOTUS, even if they were fully booked. They also have no problems agreeing to my other special requests regarding the evening, including preferred table and instructions about the vice president’s meal.
Next, I arrange the logistics with Elliot’s detail. Easy-peasy, that.
Finally, I call Stella’s private cell from my private cell. At first, I’m not sure she’ll even pick up, which would also suit me just fine. I launch into my pitch as soon as she answers, without any preamble.
“Jordan Walsh from Vice President Woodley’s office. You and Grace Martin—onlyyou two—may have dinner with the vice president tonight at nine p.m.” Then I give her the details.
She starts to protest and I interrupt. “If you say no, there are no other options for a meeting with him for at least four months or longer. This is a one-time deal, because he had a meeting cancellation. Take it or leave it. You two have been wanting to meet with him? Well, this is youronlychance. Secret Service willnotadmit anyone other than the two of you, and the restaurant’s reservation list is now closed to further reservations.” Well, it’s closed because I asked them to close it, and, again, it’s VPOTUS. They won’t say no.
That way, Grace and Stella can’t try to sneak someone in who “just happens” to stop by the table.
“Fine,” she finally says. “We’ll be there.”
“You’re welcome.” I hang up on her. Now that all of this is arranged, only then do I tell Elliot. It’s not uncommon for him to have zero knowledge of his schedule more than an hour or two in advance. He trusts me and has learned not to ask, only to focus on the immediate task or meeting or briefing book or whatever I have put before him. He doesn’t need to know details. I literally run his entire freaking life for him and meticulously curate every minute of his daily schedule. There is more than enough on his plate, and this is a burden I can take off his shoulders.
I willneverbetray the trust he has in me, either.
I close and lock his office door behind me before I break the news. Letting out a groan, he sits back in his chair and takes off his glasses so he can rub his eyes.
“We can’t schedule me a colonoscopy or something tonight instead? How about an emergency root canal? I’ve heard those are fun. Spinal tap? Emergency gallbladder removal?”
My poor boy.“You need to do this. You’ll receive a phone call early in the dinner, one you’ll have to take, which will require you to leave the restaurant. The detail will transport you home and I’ll follow you there after dinner.”
