Early Monday afternoon, June called Sharon from New York.
Barely missing a beat as she typed furiously on her laptop, Sharon hit her the button on her headset.
“Hey, June, what’s up?”
“Just checking in,” said June. “Five o’clock okay for your make up and hair for tonight?”
“Not even.” Sharon sighed and stopped typing. “I’ll just do my own in my office. I’m swamped, what with going home next week and the Mexico trip after that.”
“You sure?”
“It’ll have to do, June. But thanks.”
“Okay.” June hung up reluctantly.
But Sharon was relieved that June didn’t press the point. The formal dinner that night at the Russian embassy had originally been just a meeting with the ambassador. However, since the event at the South Korean embassy almost two weeks before had been such a success, the Russians had decided they’d better go one better. Sharon was glad her mother had shipped out all Sharon’s party clothes and formals the week before.
The dinner, itself, turned out to be beyond boring. Sharon was seated next to the ambassador, as dictated by correct seating. The only problem was that Mark was seated at the other end of the very long table next to the ambassador’s wife, whose English was not as good as she thought it was. Even more disturbing, after the dinner, as Mark and Sharon left the embassy, there were the usual questions about Sharon’s dress.
“This is ridiculous,” she grumbled as the presidential limo left the embassy.
“What?” asked Mark.
“All these stupid questions about what I’m wearing,” Sharon groaned. “Who cares? Nobody asks you who designed your formal wear. And I don’t even want to think what Jean’s going to say tomorrow.”
“Why would Jean say anything?”
“Because I have no clue who designed my dress,” Sharon replied, testily. “I didn’t say so, but I got it off the rack my first year out of college when a whole bunch of us were sent to a company retreat, and then told we had to dress for dinner.”
“It’s a very nice dress,” Mark said, feeling somewhat wary. It was a very nice dress, strapless and straight in apricot silk with a jeweled belt. “But why are you so prickly about it?”
Sharon sighed. “Because our honored guest from Russia kept making eyes at me all through dinner. I tried to talk to him about some of our talking points, but he kept blowing me off. He didn’t say anything, but it just felt like he didn’t want to talk business with the president’s date.”
“You may have a point.” Mark frowned.
“It probably wouldn’t be so bad if I got asked substantive questions on the press line. But all they want to know is who I’m wearing.”
Mark nodded and pulled his iPhone from his pocket. “All right, I’ll make a note to talk strategy on this with Jean and Gus. Do you want in on the discussion?”
“Can’t even if I wanted to,” Sharon said, pulling out her Blackberry. She kept one eye on it as she scrolled through her email and messages. “I’m trying to get on top of several things, including that Mexico trip. Plus we’ve probably got a situation in Nigeria developing and you don’t want to know what a mess the Middle East is again.”
Mark winced. “You’re right, I don’t. But I’ll probably have to soon enough.”
“Well, you’ll get it in your national security briefing tomorrow.” Sharon paused as she read an email. “Good news, it doesn’t look like it’s going to break out in open hostility.”
“Good.” Mark shifted and rubbed his left shoulder.
“You okay?” Sharon asked.
“Oh, yeah. Just a little stiff. It’s been a few years since I pitched overhand.”
“Pitched?”
“I’m throwing out the first pitch of the season at the National’s game on Wednesday.” Mark grinned. “I’ve been working out with their pitching coach.”
Sharon snorted. “Given their bullpen, you’d have done better with a Little League coach.”
“Very funny.” Mark chuckled. “He clocked me at 83 miles an hour.”
“In the strike zone?” Sharon grinned.
Mark shrugged. “Mostly.” He looked at her again. “You’re a baseball fan.”
“Yeah. It was Dad’s way of keeping us in touch with our U.S roots since we were living everywhere else. I’ve been rooting for the Dodgers all my life.”
“Hmmm.” Mark grinned. “This could be a problem. You realize that June and I are big Minnesota fans.”
“I suppose I could cut you some slack on that.” Sharon smiled, as well.
At Sharon’s townhouse, Mark walked her to her door, but didn’t go in.
