The Way We Were (14 page)

From behind,
she heard, “Sofia?”

Max walker had returned. She’d come to the high school for a meeting with him and the vice principal and encountered a fight he’d just broken up in the hall. Since they had to wait for the VP to deal with the kids, Max escorted her to the teacher’s cafeteria and detoured to get her tea. The respite from his presence had allowed her to even out her reaction to him. Now he
was back.

She turned and saw him there, this big jock who was intimidating, probably, to most people. She herself was thrown by the impact of his size and machismo in, well, a feminine way. She nodded to the cup of steaming water he set down. “Thanks.”

They sat and she fished some herbal tea out of her purse.

“Always carry that?” he asked, extending out his legs as if his body required
special accommodation most people didn’t need.

She, for example, perched on the chair, straight up, spine long, neck relaxed. “I do. I have to be careful of what I eat.”

He tried to stifle the snort. “No garbage plates for you, huh?”

At the mention of the fat filled, bad-for-your-arteries dish, she shook her head, said, “No, none.” And changed the subject. “I’m wondering how your staff
is reacting to the yoga classes I’m teaching in the fall. As head of Physical Education department, you’d know by now.”

“Mostly positive. The female PE teachers especially. One guy is definitely not on board.”

“Let me guess, Mr. Cook.”

Dark brows rose. “How’d you know?”

“I was a student here and had him in class. He used to make snide comments about boys taking Home Economics or
whatever they call it now.”

“Home and Careers. I didn’t realize you went to Eastside.”

“I did.” Though a lot of what she remembered was her illness. She’d struggled with the horror of trying to do school work and not give up because of the cruel anxiety and physical side effects of leukemia treatment. Thank God she’d found yoga after she’d had to give up dance.

“Not a good experience?”

“Why would you ask that?”

“Your face. It’s expressive.”

“Ah. I was sick, but I’d prefer not to talk about that, Mr. Walker.”

A smile turned up the corners of his mouth. His
nice
mouth. “Max. We’re going to be working together.”

“You’re the football coach here, too, aren’t you?”

“Yeah, and I hope to keep the job for a while.”

“Aren’t you good?”

He winked. “Darlin’,
I’m great.”

She rolled her eyes. “I meant how’s the team doing?”

“We had a losing season last year. A
bad
one. Most of the players on our past winning teams graduated. It was like starting over. I’m praying for success this year, but they have to be in the right mind set.”

“There are ways to help that along.”

“Sure, I know. They’re lifting weights with me all winter. And we have
a football camp in the summer. Practice starts in August.”

“I didn’t mean your skill preparation, or your tackling routines.”

“What
did
you mean?”

“Your players should do breathing exercises, centering meditations, as well as stretches and calisthenics.”

He laughed out loud. “That’s a bit namby-pamby for us jocks, don’t you think?”

It was her turn to laugh. At him. “Seriously?
You still use words like that? It’s the twenty-first century.”

“Words like what?”

“Let’s see. Pansy. Sissy. Not to mention the more hurtful ones that are gender orientation slurs.”

His gaze turned glacial. “I’m not bigoted. I think yoga is too easy, no not that, too
tame
for my guys.”

“And for you?”

“Uh-huh.”

She nodded to his leg. “As soon as we started talking about the
team, your knee started bobbing. Fast.”

“Yeah, my mother always said it was a tell-tale sign of…” He trailed off. “I get it, you think I’m a nervous wreck and could use all that stuff—the focusing, the meditation.”

“I do. Everyone can benefit from it. But I’ve been doing some research on yoga for high school kids. Athletes are the number one group they cite for needing that kind of practice.”

“That can’t be true, lady.”

“You really should watch your language, Coach. You didn’t mean
lady
kindly.”

“Christ.”

She shook her head. “I’m sorry we’re getting off on the wrong foot, Max. All I was suggesting was that you and your team could be better if you used some yoga routines. I was hoping some of the guys would sign up for the fall session.”

“Ain’t gonna happen.”

“Obviously not, with you as a role model.”

He sat up straight and his fists clenched on the table.

Leaning in, she put her hand over one and felt the tension. She was surprised he didn’t snatch it back. “Again, I apologize. We have a difference of opinion on this. I won’t bring it up again.”

“Good.”

“On one condition.”

Now that gaze narrowed. “What?”

“Come to Serenity Yoga,
my studio. Take a few classes. They don’t have to be from me. But we’ll do it free of charge. If that doesn’t convince you, I’ll be silenced till the end of time.”

As soon as she touched him, Max went off-kilter. He stared at their hands, her small one covering his big paw. Both strength and comfort transferred from her to him. He couldn’t explain it. He raised his head. It was a mistake.
She wasn’t exactly pretty, though the long hair, hanging down her back in a braid was probably stunning. In her eyes he saw…what the hell was that? Confidence. Security. Ah…peace. Which he longed for it all of a sudden.

“Max?”

“Sorry. Your presence is…disturbing.”

“I don’t mean it to be.”

“No, that’s okay. So let’s go over this again. You want me to take some yoga classes at the
studio where you work. See if I think it can help my players, what, be better at football?”

“Yes, they wouldn’t be the first.”

He frowned.

“You know who Ray Lewis, Victor Cruz and Vernon Davis are?”

“Yeah sure. They play for Baltimore Ravens, the New York Giants and the San Francisco 49ers.”

Approval in her eyes. Hell, he couldn’t believe he liked it. Because he didn’t much
like her.

“They all take or took yoga.”

“Seriously?” Though even as he said the word, he remembered reading something about that.

“LeBron James and Shaquille, too. They’re athletes who turned to yoga to learn stretching, focus, and body awareness.”

Max didn’t know what to say so he shut his trap.

“The basketball coach from Duke did, too, and they recently won a NCAA championship.
When asked how he stayed so calm, he said it was with yoga.”

Feeling at a disadvantage, he did what all guys do when put on the spot. He went on defense. “You came prepared for the game, Ms. Ludzecky. I’m not in shape for this argument.”

“Sofia,” she said mimicking his earlier reference to using his first name. “And yes, I came prepared.”

Max watched her. Suddenly, he realized having
her in his department, even for a few classes a week, wasn’t going to be a piece of cake like he thought. And the notion bothered him a lot. He looked down. Shit! His knee was bobbing again.

SECRET SERVICE AGENT C.J. (Caterina) Ludzecky and her three colleagues hustled into New York City’s Memorial Hospital on the heels of the Second Lady and the vice president of the United States. Though she kept her emotions at bay when she was on the job, C.J. couldn’t help but empathize with Bailey O’Neil, the vice president’s wife of two years. She remembered
well the night her own father had died in an institution far too similar to this one. She’d been fifteen, and she and her brother, Lukasz, had taken it the hardest, probably because they were the oldest of his eight children. Briefly, C.J. wondered how Bailey’s brothers were faring. Embedded in her memory was the image of holding a weeping Luke in her arms. His vulnerability had crushed her.
She considered saying a prayer for this family, but dismissed the notion; she didn’t believe in that anymore.

The group of six reached the admittance desk and were met by a man dressed in an impeccable suit. “Mr. Vice President. Ms. O’Neil. I’m sorry to meet you under these circumstances. I’m James Jones. I manage New York Memorial.”

Bailey and Clay shook hands with the administrator.
“Thank you for coming in at this hour,” the vice president said.

C.J. watched Clay slide his arm around his wife’s shoulders; Bailey leaned into him. They had to be the most demonstrative political couple she’d ever encountered in the six years she’d been with the secret service. Their open affection for each other was often a topic of discussion among the who’s who in Washington—much of it
not always kind. Since Bailey was four months pregnant, Clay was even more attentive than usual.

As they spoke with the doctor, C.J. scanned the forty-by-forty hospital reception area. The other three agents did the same, though her partner, Mitch Calloway, who headed the Second Lady’s detail, and Tim Jenkins, the special agent in charge of the vice presidential force, moved in close to the
protectees.

“I’ll show you the way.” The hospital administrator glanced at the agents, then back to the Second Couple. “All of you, I guess.”

Calloway looked over at C.J. About forty, he had shrewd brown eyes and dark hair accented by a touch of gray at the temples. Nodding to the other side of the room, he signaled her to take note. A striking redheaded woman was arguing with a...uh-oh…a
man with a camera. Damn it, how had the media gotten wind of the vice president’s midnight trek on Marine Two, the VP helicopter, from Washington to New York? And how did they get past the uniformed guards at the entrance to the hospital? True, the service hadn’t had time to do any advance work because this was an emergency. But, still…

Irked, C.J. strode across the area. When she reached
the pair, their disagreement was in full swing.

The female stood tall on her three-inch heels. Apparently she was digging them in. “I said no, Ross. We’re not intruding on them. We’re leaving right now.”

“Yes,” C.J. said, drawing herself up to her full five-eight height. “You are.”

The cameraman, a wiry wrestler-type, peered over half glasses at her. “Yeah? Who says?”

Brushing
back the tailored jacket of her black suit, C.J. exposed her semiautomatic then flashed her badge. They could guess who she was by her suit and the American flag pin on her lapel, along with her earpiece, but a little show of force never hurt. “The United States Secret Service. No media here, hotshot.” She shook her head and let her usually even temper spike. “Can’t you people be humane for once?
This is a family emergency.”

“First Amendment gives us—”

The woman stepped forward, sending a fall of auburn hair into her eyes and perfume wafting toward C.J. “I’m Rachel Scott. Our TV station, WNYC, got a tip that Vice President Wainwright and his wife had arrived in town and were headed to Memorial. But we won’t intrude. Obviously a family member is more ill than we anticipated. We’ll
be leaving.”

“Thank you. I’ll follow you out.” C.J.’s comment was neutral, as she’d been trained in responding to questions.

Don’t confirm or deny the press’s comments. Usually they’re on a fishing expedition. If you agree with them, they’ll phrase it like you said the words.
Her first boss, David Anderson, had given her good advice on all aspects of being an agent. He’d been her mentor,
until he turned on her, which still made her furious, except that it led to her working with Mitch in the D.C. field office. When Mitch had gotten into the coveted VPPD, the Vice Presidential Protective Division, he’d often called on her to substitute for agents or when extra protection was needed. After a year, one of the Second Lady’s personal agents cycled out in the customary rotation of agents,
and Bailey had asked for C.J. to join their detail permanently. That was how she’d come to such a plum position with not even a decade in the service under her belt.

Because she saw to it that the press exited through the front door without taking any detours, and turned them over to the uniformed agents standing post outside, C.J. had to find her own way to the CCU. As she traversed the corridors,
she said into her wrist unit, part of the service’s restrictive radio network, “Reporters are history. I’m on my way back.”

“Understood,” Mitch said. “We’re at the CCU with Bulldog and Bright Star.”

Code names were given to protectees, usually indicative of their personalities. Clay Wainwright was known for fighting relentlessly for the rights of others, and Bailey was a standout on the
Hill because she didn’t play politics.

The smell of
hospital
assaulted C.J. as she made the trip upstairs. Antiseptic, ripe food and something best left unidentified abused her senses. She remembered the odors. She associated them with death. For Bailey’s sake, C.J. hoped her own visceral reaction was wrong this time.

Her three colleagues, Clay and Bailey were in the corridor outside of
CCU talking to a doctor whose tag read, Edward Crane,
Chief of Cardiology
. The vice president of the most powerful country in the world commanded top people’s attention. C.J. came up next to Mitch, who threw her a quick nod.