Fonduing Fathers (14 page)

I didn’t bother to ask who “she” was; I’d find out soon enough. One more question could very well send Doug over the edge.

Sargeant and I started up the stairs. When we were out of earshot, he leaned toward me and whispered, “The chief usher position does not agree with that young man.”

“You know it.”

We trekked up to the third floor, keeping an even pace. Sargeant, not one to make small talk, surprised me by asking, “Aren’t you supposed to be on vacation this week?”

“You know how it is,” I said. “When the White House calls, you come in.”

He nodded. “How is your young man?”

“I…” Speechless, I coughed, trying to figure out an appropriate response. “Agent MacKenzie and I haven’t been a couple in a very long t—”

“I’m not talking about Agent MacKenzie,” Sargeant said smoothly.

I stopped at the landing. “Then who?”

He met my gaze now, one eyebrow arched. “Don’t forget, Olivia, I
am
the sensitivity director,” taking me aback with the use of my first name. “With everything that happened here a few weeks ago, your affections toward”—He glanced up and down the empty stairwell to ensure we were alone—“toward a certain Special Agent in Charge were not missed.”

He started up the stairs again, but I caught him by the arm. “Wait.”

Lifting my hand with two fingers, he removed it from his sleeve. “My, my. Did I inadvertently hit a nerve?”

The look in his eyes was unreadable. Sure, we’d forged a truce, but at this point I wasn’t certain how permanent this state was. Humor and Sargeant weren’t words that usually went together and even though I’d been certain he’d been teasing in the kitchen, now I wasn’t sure how to react.

Gav and I were not ready to open our relationship to public scrutiny. Having Sargeant, of all people, in possession of such a secret was not good news. I didn’t bother denying, however. Telling him he was wrong could only buy me trouble. “Who else knows?”

He didn’t answer, but started up the stairs again. I followed. “Your secret is safe with me,” he said.

“Is it?”

He faced me, again with that unreadable expression. “Does my awareness of this relationship make you nervous?”

“Truthfully? A little.”

We reached the top floor and took a left, making our way across the central hall toward the Solarium. “I could get used to this.”

Again I grabbed his sleeve, stopping him. “To what?”

“Making you nervous for a change.”

“When have I ever made you nervous?” I asked.

“Let’s go,” he said, heading up the narrow corridor ramp into the Solarium. “They’re waiting.”

Frustrated, I frowned at his retreating back and then hurried to catch up.

“Ollie.” Josh rushed up as Sargeant and I walked in. “Isn’t this great? We get to wear real costumes. You should see all the noses we can pick.” His face lit up with nine-year-old humor. “Get it? Picking noses?”

I laughed. “Good one.”

He grabbed my hand and pulled me forward into the aptly named rooftop room. First Lady Grace Coolidge had called it the “Sky Parlor” because of its expansive view. The Truman reconstruction had brought bigger windows, providing the sunny, spacious area for First Families to relax in.

Four people watched us as we entered and I did my best to avoid looking ill at ease. Mrs. Hyden sat on a low-slung flowered sofa, her legs crossed, back to the gorgeous southern view. Three tall director’s chairs sat empty in the room’s center, as though waiting for
Dating Game
contestants.

As Josh pulled me toward the small group gathered there, I said “Good morning,” to Mrs. Hyden and then turned to the others. They stood in a small cluster just behind the director’s chairs, surrounding a high-top table on which sat
what looked like a fishing tackle box filled with pots, jars, pens, and brushes.

“Hi, I’m Ollie,” I said to the strangers. Two were in their mid-twenties, one female, one male. They both were dressed head to toe in black and both had dark hair and pale skin. I wondered briefly if they were brother and sister. The third of their group was a much older woman who regarded us with friendly curiosity. “This is Peter Everett Sargeant,” I continued, holding a hand out toward my companion.

“Lovely to meet you both,” the woman said.

Strikingly tall, she was in her mid-sixties wearing head-to-toe black as well. The monotony of her ensemble was broken up, however, by the flowing swoop of the oversized purple, pink, and turquoise shawl that covered most of her torso. Small-boned despite her ample height, she wore her smile lines with powerful pride. All I could think as she introduced herself was that I hoped I’d look that good when I was her age.

She came forward with a graceful economy of movement, grasping my hand with both of her warm ones. “My name is Thora.” She favored Sargeant with a delighted laugh as she greeted him. “So nice to meet you too, Peter.”

He blushed. “Very nice to meet you, Ms. Thora.”

She let go of his hand and turned, her shawl picking up the movement and billowing out capelike around her. “Oh my dear, please. None of that artificial ‘Ms.’ business. I’m Thora. And these two lovely young people are my assistants, Zoe and Adam.”

Neither of them proffered a hand, but both glanced up long enough to make eye contact and nod a greeting. Josh practically danced with impatience. “They came from a real disguise company,” he said. “We even get costumes.”

Mrs. Hyden’s amused look was unmistakable. “Remember, these aren’t superhero costumes, Josh. Our goal is to make you blend in, not stand out.”

“But—”

“Josh.” She said it firmly, gently—enough to make his shoulders slump.

Thora ran an arm around the little boy’s back. “That doesn’t mean we aren’t going to have fun, though,” she said.

Josh looked unconvinced.

Sargeant took a few steps toward the door. “I will leave you to your business,” he said. “Good day.”

“Oh, no, you don’t,” Thora announced, pulling away from Josh and striding toward a bewildered Sargeant. At least a foot taller than our sensitivity director, she nonetheless tucked a hand into the crook of his elbow and urged him back into the group. “Even though you’re not often recognized outside the White House, I have plans for you as well.”

Sargeant looked at me. I shrugged.

Mrs. Hyden spoke up. “I would like you to accompany Josh and Ms. Paras to the convention, Mr. Sargeant.”

The room fell silent. Sargeant stammered, “I don’t understand.”

Sargeant’s discomfort was obvious to the rest of us, but the First Lady continued as though unaware. “I’ve come to understand that I may have been mistaken about you, originally,” she said, referring oh-so-delicately to recent events. Fortunately for Sargeant, we had been able to discover another staff member’s underhanded agenda before our sensitivity director lost his job. “I would like to give you a chance to expand your horizons a bit. To increase your level of responsibility. Let’s see how this goes.”

Sargeant’s chin came up. He straightened to his full height. “Yes, ma’am,” he said.

“Additionally,” she added, “my husband is eager to expose Josh to all levels of diplomacy. This seems like a good opportunity to have him watch you both in action.”

She didn’t add that the president’s wishes stemmed from his desire to diminish his son’s interest in cooking, but I knew that had to be what was powering this new wrinkle.

“You and Ms. Paras proved to be a formidable team on
your first joint assignment,” the First Lady continued. “It would be silly not to put you both together again.”

Was she kidding?
Judging from her serene smile, apparently not.

Mrs. Hyden must have misread our expressions because she hastened to add, “Don’t worry, I wouldn’t allow Josh to accompany you if I believed there was any danger. The Secret Service will be with you the entire time.”

“I’m sure we’ll be safe,” I said. Then, remembering our conversation in the kitchen, I decided to voice a concern. “That is, unless Virgil says something to the press. You know he’s been less than tight-lipped in the past.”

Her brows came together. “He knows Josh is going with you?”

“He does,” I said, omitting the fact that it was Sargeant who had spilled the beans.

“I will talk with him.”

“Thank you.”

“Enough chatter,” Thora said, clapping her hands. The two young people watched her, bright-eyed and ready to move. “Today we plan. Tomorrow we execute!” She thrust me into the center chair, Sargeant into the one to my left, while Josh scrambled up into the one on my right. “And now, we begin!”

TWO HOURS LATER, MUCH TO JOSH’S DISMAY, we hadn’t picked any noses. We hadn’t picked any ears, or eyebrows, either. Nevertheless, that didn’t mean we hadn’t been transformed.

Awestruck by our changed appearances, I looked at Josh for the dozenth time and couldn’t help repeating myself. “I would never recognize you.”

He ran over to a full-length mirror at the end of the room. His mother stood behind him. “Unbelievable,” she said.

Josh grinned at his reflection. “This is cool!”

The little boy didn’t look at all like himself. Of the three of us, his makeover was the most drastic. Thora and her team had provided an undergarment that added about twenty pounds to the boy’s slim frame. They’d also brought along baggy pants and a green-and-white-horizontal-striped T-shirt to cover this new body. They didn’t add any prosthetics to his face, but they did use makeup in a way that truly gave him a pudgy look. I was amazed. A pair of scuffed gym shoes, a baseball cap featuring the Washington Redskins logo, and a pair of dark-rimmed glasses completed his ensemble.

I couldn’t help from exclaiming, “You look like a completely different kid!”

He was laughing, but took time to point at me. “You don’t look like yourself, either.”

“I must agree with the young man,” Sargeant said, shaking his head. “Ms. Paras, your metamorphosis is astounding.” He held his hands out. “As for myself, I do not care at all for this hat.”

Sargeant wore a baseball cap that matched Josh’s except for the fact that Sargeant’s was newer and cleaner. Josh’s rim was more curved, more frayed. Like a boy’s cap might be.

“It looks good on you,” I said.

He wasn’t amused. “This is a foolish addition.” He turned to Thora. “What good is a hat when I’m required to remove it whenever I’m indoors?” he asked. “The moment we step inside the convention, I’ll take it off.”

“You’ll leave it on,” Thora said.

“That’s a severe etiquette breach.”

Thora patted him on the shoulder. “There are exceptions for public places. We’ll decide that this is one of those public places, shall we? Security seems to be a fair reason to make an exception in this case.”

“I don’t like it.”

Thora watched him with an amused look on her face.
“Do you like the mustache?” she asked, effectively changing the subject.

He picked up one of the handheld mirrors and studied himself. “It’s trim, at least,” he said. Thora had darkened and thickened Sargeant’s eyebrows and had given him a five o’clock shadow.

“It would be better if you grow one naturally,” she said, “but we don’t have time for that. I’ll ask you not to shave tomorrow morning.”

“Not shave?” he gasped.

She squinted, ignoring his apoplectic response. Tapping a thoughtful finger against her lips, she tilted her head. “Do you usually shave at night, too?”

By his horrified and aghast expression, you would have thought she’d asked the sensitivity director about his choice of underwear. “My heavens, woman,” he began.

“You appear to have a heavy beard. I’d prefer you not shave tonight or tomorrow, yes? And be sure to wear the clothing we picked out. I’d prefer you try it on now, but since you insist otherwise, I’ll bow to your wishes. Tomorrow, however,” she wiggled her fingers toward the outfit hanging over the back of Sargeant’s chair, “it’s dress-up time.” Without waiting for him to respond, she turned to me. “He’s so cute, isn’t he?”

It took me a moment to realize she was talking about Sargeant and not about Josh, who was preening in the mirror.

“Cute,” I repeated with a wide grin. “Yes, most definitely cute.”

Sargeant gurgled and turned away.

“What about you?” Thora asked. “What do you think?”

Josh piped up before I could answer. “You look like a schoolteacher.”

“I don’t know about this,” I said. Josh moved out of the way so that I could get a full-length look at myself. I held a hand against my mouth and spoke hesitantly through my
fingers. “I’ve never been blonde before. I don’t usually wear clothing like this.”

Thora had outfitted me with a shoulder-length blonde wig that looked surprisingly natural. I fingered the wavy tresses like they were some sort of alien thing. Not me. Not me at all.

“You’ll get used to it,” Thora said with a confident lilt. “I daresay Josh is right. But I think you look more like Reese Witherspoon
playing
a teacher.”

Mrs. Hyden, who had been quiet through this discussion, chimed in, “No, I think more like Julie Bowen from TV.”

“But with glasses,” Mrs. Hyden and Thora said together.

I didn’t see myself as either of the actresses they mentioned. I did, however, see the schoolteacher look. I had to admit, I was able to empathize with Sargeant on this one and understood his discomposure. Every day we look in mirrors and see ourselves exactly as we expect. Today the three of us saw new people gaping back at us. Josh thought it was funny, but to me it just felt weird.

The outfit Thora had chosen for me—I’d learned during the process that she’d been given size information for all of us ahead of time—was as different from my personal style as I could get. “I don’t understand,” I said, “if we’re traveling together—Josh, Peter, and I—shouldn’t we all be dressed similarly?” I grabbed at the side of the pink V-necked dress she’d picked out for me. There was very little give because the dress was so form-fitting. The sleeveless print fabric ended above my knees, showing a great deal of leg over the matching heels.

I was glad I hadn’t eaten lunch yet. One more ounce of fat on me and I risked bursting through the seams. “This is dressy and they’re so casual.”