Friday, the Secret Service came through for Sharon’s plan, which surprised her, but as the nameless young woman in the black dress suit explained to her, Sharon was asking about a single contained space as opposed to going out in public.

She took the weekend to get everything set up, then sent a memo to the rest of the Advisory Panel inviting everyone out for a post-work drink at the new venue on Tuesday evening. Environmental activist and part-time advisor Eli Weatherall was in town, as well, and agreed to join the crew. Sharon also invited Johnnie, who declined in favor of seeing her husband, Tyronne, who was a curator at the Natural History Museum.

Mark seemed a little down when Sharon reminded the group at the end of the meeting about drinks that evening.

“Hey, boss, did we say you’re not invited?” Coop said, grinning in delighted evil.

“And did you get the bar cleared with security?” Mark asked, aware something was up, but feeling nettled nonetheless.

“As a matter of fact, we did,” Coop replied. “We even had Kent clear your schedule, so you can leave at 6:30. You just check with your man. You’ll see.”

Mark nodded, wondering what was going on, but wasn’t entirely surprised when Riff Butler, a large man of African American descent and an utterly passive face, came to the office door at 6:30. Riff was the Secret Service agent in charge of Mark’s personal protection unit. Mark put him off to finish some reading, but finally got his coat from Gen Forrest, dismissed her and followed Riff to a medium-sized dark sedan with tinted windows.

“Not the usual car,” Mark noted.

“No, sir,” replied Riff.

Nor was Mark let off at the usual well-lit entrance. In fact, if Riff and the rest of his usual team hadn’t been there, Mark might have been more than a little scared as the car pulled into a dark alley behind some Georgian-style townhomes. Even as the car stopped, Riff waited a moment and he and another team member, dark-suited and non-descript as they all were, quickly got out of the car, hustled Mark out and behind a fence with an iron gate.

They walked down a short tunnel and then down several stairs. Riff opened the door, but didn’t follow.

The room had the same ambient light as a comfortable bar. Mark couldn’t quite make out the background music under the chatter. There was a pool table with a good light hanging over it, then two couches facing a huge flat-panel television set, and then at the opposite end of the room, was a bar. The Advisory Panel was gathered around it, with Sharon behind the bar, tending.

“Well, look what the cat drug in,” Augie announced cheerfully.

“Here, here!” Coop added as he and the others came over and grouped around Mark. “Now that we are all here, we can officially open our own little joint. Jugsy, with your permission, this will be a Protocol-Free Zone. No Hail to the Chief, no yes, sirs, no standing when you come in. And definitely no applause unless you really earn it. You okay with that?”

Mark gaped, then grinned. “More than okay.” He looked around. “Ed-man, you okay with it?”

Al Eddington sighed. “Well, even the generals like to let their hair down occasionally. Why not the Commander-in-Chief?”

“Hot diggety,” sighed Mark. Grinning, he suddenly felt more relaxed than he’d had in months. Certainly since before his presidential campaign had begun in earnest. “What do we got for drinks?”

“I’ve got a full bar,” said Sharon. “Just so Ed-man can have a girly drink when he wants one. But I thought to christen the occasion, we could start with a little champagne.”

“She got the real French stuff, too,” chuckled Johnny Whitesand.

Sharon rolled her eyes. “I wouldn’t call it champagne if it wasn’t.”

Karen laughed. “Whitey, it’s a wine snob thing.”

Sharon also had several snacks out on the bar, as well, including a couple of beautifully arranged plates of what Ed-man referred to as fancy cold cuts and Sharon called charcuterie. There were also cut vegetables with hummus dip for Eli, who was a vegan and even some cheddar cheese popcorn.

After a couple minutes arguing over the name – they later decided to call it the Protocol-Free Zone, or PFZ – they toasted the new venue and went on to chatter and just have a good time.

“Holy crap, that’s good pate!” Mark exclaimed suddenly, his mouth still full.

Ed-man proceeded to tease Mark about girly-meat and Mark ended up challenging Ed-man to an arm-wrestling contest. Loser cleaned the bar ware. It was a reasonably even match, but Ed-man lost. Mark stood.

“Now, as a real man, I’ll go ahead and clean the bar ware,” Mark announced.

But both he and Ed-man did it together. Sharon ran up and downstairs several times, returning left over snacks to the kitchen above.

“Where the heck are we?” Mark asked suddenly.

“My place,” said Sharon, busy gathering the last plate with its remains of saucisson and little pickles and good Nicoise olives. “We’re in the basement. It works because of the secret floozie entrance some Senator put in years ago. The Secret Service can get you in and out of here without anyone knowing.”

“Cool.” Mark wasn’t sure how to take the news. On one hand, he was thrilled to have someplace where he could relax and not “be” the president. On the other, he wasn’t sure just how close he wanted to be to Sharon.

Or he knew how close he wanted to be to Sharon, but wasn’t sure if he should even be thinking along those lines. The last thing either of them needed was for the wrong person to start wondering about the two of them.

The others said good-bye to him as he made ready to head out the back with Riff. Sharon showed the others out upstairs, feeling decidedly mixed about their being gone. Or more, rather sad that Mark was gone, and not at all happy that she didn’t want him to leave.

Which added to how startled she was when she went downstairs one last time to pick up and found Mark.

“What are you still doing here?” she blurted out. “I’m sorry. I meant, I thought you’d gone.”

Mark shrugged. “Can’t leave yet. There’s a homeless person in the alley and the team is waiting for Metro P.D. to roust him out first. They don’t want anyone seeing the comings and goings if they don’t have to and they can’t do the rousting without folks knowing they’re there.”

“Oh. Any idea how long?”

“Nope.”

“Oh.” Sharon nodded. “Oh, what the heck. When I was at the deli today, I picked up a rib-eye. I was going to cut it in half, anyway. So would you like to stay for dinner?”

Mark glanced behind him, where Riff was waiting in the shadows. “I suppose that’d be okay. Can I help you put it together?”

“Sure. Why not?” Sharon said as she headed upstairs.

Mark followed along, whistling softly in appreciation as he saw the kitchen. Sharon laughed.

“I’m renting the place from my friend Carla,” she explained. “And Carla is so not a cook. But when she did up the kitchen, she put in all top-of-the-line appliances and everything, except cookware. It was completely useless until I bought all the pots and tools.”

The room was done in soft maple-wood modern cabinets with brownish gray granite counter-tops. The appliances were all stainless steel or black. The sink was built into an island facing into the dining room, with a long butcher’s block work table between the island and the back wall, where a six-burner stove sat under a gleaming beaten copper hood.

Sharon opened one of the double-sided extra wide doors on the refrigerator.

“Let’s see,” she said rummaging through the produce bin at the bottom. “I’ve got some bag greens, those will be good for a salad, and some par-boiled new potatoes. Perfect.”

“Sounds good.”

“Classic bistro fare,” said Sharon, turning from the fridge with the bag, the meat still in its paper wrapper, and a plastic container in her hands and bumping the door closed with her hip.

“I noticed you’ve mostly got ingredients in there,” said Mark, smiling.

“Except I don’t cook much during the week,” said Sharon, setting everything on the worktable. “I mostly do up stuff that I freeze on weekends, then pull together a pre-fab salad and some extra veggies week nights. Assuming I’m not eating out somewhere. When it’s just yourself, it doesn’t make much sense to go whole hog all the time.”

“What can I do?”

Sharon looked at him. “Well, how about putting together the salad?”

“Sure.” Mark went back to the fridge and starting rummaging around, himself. “Hey, you’ve got some ‘shrooms in here. Would you like a sauce to go with that steak? And gorgonzola crumbles, that’ll make a nice vinaigrette and it’ll go great with the meat.”

“That sounds good.” Sharon was impressed in spite of herself. “Tell you what. Why don’t you pick a bottle of wine? I’ve got a cellar over there.”

Mark noticed the two refrigerator-like cabinets, one on top of the other next to the wall by the stairs. Sharon, for her part, had started slicing the steak horizontally, but had one eye on what Mark would do next. He went straight for the top cellar, then bent and looked through the smoky glass at the bottom cellar.

“Not a lot of whites in here,” he chuckled, feeling very pleased.

Obviously, Sharon knew her way around wines, and it was nice being on the same plain as someone else for a change. Most of Mark’s colleagues didn’t share his passion when it came to food and wine. If they did the wine thing, it was all too often for the show. Mark opened the top cellar and was pleased to find a wide variety of good reds, including a couple he knew darned well came with bargain prices, further confirmation that Sharon was buying what she thought tasted good.

“I haven’t got much of a collection,” Sharon said. “I’ve only been here a month. In fact, I only had a couple bottles until this weekend. But I figured while I was stocking the bar, I might as well stock my cellars.”

“Hm. Jordan cab,” said Mark, looking at a bottle. “Way too young, though.”

“I’ve been feeling optimistic about being around here long enough to open that.” Sharon was digging through the fridge again.

“Ah. A Rubicon. Oh. Infanticide. Shavings.” Mark put the bottle back. “Ah. L. Preston red. Say, isn’t that that one little place in Sonoma with the brick oven and the home-pressed olive oil?”

“You’ve been there?” Sharon looked at him with a happy grin.

“Years ago, but I really liked it.”

“I’ve been a member of their wine club for years. My mom ships stuff to me so we can get past the interstate shipping laws.”

Mark nodded. “I’ve been pushing for that one for years. But you would not believe the hold the distribution lobby’s got on some folks. This should be just light enough for a good pan sauce.”

“I’ve got shallots and garlic on the counter here next to the sink.”

“Shallots. Great. And knives?”

“Next to the sink. I’ll go ahead and wash the greens.” Sharon pulled a black cast iron skillet from a cabinet next to the stove.

“That is beautifully seasoned,” said Mark.

“A thing of beauty. It was my grandmother’s in Belgium. I got one and my sister Susan got one. Sarah and my nieces will have to wait for my mother to give up hers.” Sharon grabbed a gleaming chrome skillet from the same cabinet. “Here’s one for the steaks.”

With both pans on the stove, Sharon set about heating some natural lard in the cast iron skillet and when it was just hot enough, she carefully dropped in several tiny new potatoes from her plastic container. Mark, in the meantime, had sliced the mushrooms that Sharon had already cleaned, and had a shallot and a couple cloves of garlic finely diced.

The two shifted around as Sharon went to clean the greens and Mark expertly measured extra virgin olive oil and a red wine vinegar into a bowl and whisked them together. Sharon turned the potatoes, which were just getting a lovely golden crust on them and put the two steaks on.

“How well do you like your meat?” she asked, sprinkling kosher salt over the sizzling steaks.

“Just threaten it with the flame,” said Mark, smiling as he breathed in the smell of grilling beef.

Sharon grinned. A minute later, the steaks were turned and Sharon turned the oven on to warm. Mark was gathering the final ingredients for his sauce, including some beef broth from a box in the fridge and corn starch, which he mixed with some water in a tiny bowl.

Once the steaks were in the oven keeping warm, Mark slapped a tiny pat of butter into the gleaming steak pan and swirled it around. Then, turning down the heat, he lifted the pan to cool for a moment, and tossed in the mushroom slices, the shallots, cooked those for a minute, added the garlic, waited just long enough for the rich scent of garlic to flavor the air, then poured in a generous slurp of wine.

“Yikes, you’re confident,” Sharon observed.

“I’ve singed my eyebrows before,” Mark conceded as he scraped the bottom of the pan to mix any leftover bits from the steaks into the heating liquid. “But that bottle was cool enough, I figured I was safe.”

Sharon went back to pulling out plates, silverware, napkins and glasses from her cupboards. She set a couple placemats on the counter between the dining room and the sink. Then she mixed the salad in the dressing Mark had made, added the gorgonzola crumbles and divided the portions onto the plates. A second later, she had warm potatoes on the side, and Mark had the sauce ready to be spooned over the steaks.

She poured the wine as Mark set the plates on the placemats, next to the silverware. Sharon mmm’d loudly over the sauce, while Mark groaned with pleasure over the crispy brown potatoes. Laughing, they focused on eating, talking about other places and meals they’d loved. Sharon wasn’t quite the omnivore Mark was – he’d eaten chocolate-covered ants in South America. But she was quite pleased to realize how many tastes they had in common.

“It just boils down to living well,” said Mark after a contemplative sip of his wine. “It’s the simple basics of life. Anybody can stuff food in their face to fuel up. And you do have to balance taking care of yourself with enjoying the good stuff. But there are two kinds of people I just don’t get, the folks who are afraid of their food and the folks who don’t even think about it. I mean how could you not think about something that tastes this good?”

“It’s called being shut off from yourself, I guess,” said Sharon. “I sort of get the fear thing. I mean, my dad has to watch out for his cholesterol and I have another friend who’s diabetic. But the assumption that anything that tastes good can’t be good for you.” She shook her head. “Or that it should be untouched by human hands or it’s not safe. I worked food service for two weeks in college. I couldn’t handle people freaking when I touched their food bare-handed and I had just washed my hands.”

Mark looked down at his empty plate. His wine glass was mostly empty, as well.

“I guess it’s time for me to head out,” he said softly.

“You’re not driving, are you?”

Mark snorted. “No.”

Sharon poured some of the bottle into her glass then got the cork and stuffed it into the bottle. “Why don’t you take this with you? I can’t drink the rest of it and I don’t want to waste it. I mean, I’ve got one of those vacu-vin goodies that’ll suck the air out so it won’t go bad, but I just as soon you took it.”

“Thanks.” Mark chuckled. “What are the odds I’ll get tagged for an open-container?”

Sharon shrugged and followed Mark downstairs to the basement. Riff was waiting in the shadows.

“Riff, did you want something to eat?” Sharon called out, suddenly anxious.

“No, Ma’am. We got something. Sir? We’re ready when you are.” He disappeared out the door.

Mark paused. “Well. Thanks for a lovely dinner and a really nice evening.”

“You’re welcome. I had a good time, too.”

There was an awkward pause. Sharon suddenly smiled and moved back.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” she said.

“Yeah. See you tomorrow.”

Mark turned and left, feeling both elated and unsatisfied.

Sharon pounded up the stairs, rather annoyed with herself for letting Mark up there and thoroughly thrilled that they’d been so compatible. There weren’t many people she let cook with her. Mark had even remembered without being told to run the knife blade over the sharpening steel before he used it and had cleaned the knife before putting it back in the block.

She put the used dishes in the dishwasher and scrubbed out the potato pan and the other skillet before heading upstairs to her bedroom and turning on her laptop. She started an e-mail to her friend, Niecy, but then stopped. What was there to say? Yes, it looked like she and Mark could be good friends, but Sharon was determined that it go no further. Absolutely determined.

Tuesday after Monsieur Sartimes’ visit, June got permission to go shopping. She waited just long enough for the Advisory Panel to finish its meeting and caught Sharon and Karen as they left.

Sharon protested that she had to work, but Karen grabbed her arm.

“What else have we got crackberries for?” Karen asked, waving her e-mail phone. “We can e-mail in between trying things on. And you need clothes.”

“That settles it, then,” said June, saluting with her Blackberry, as well.

“Let me get mine,” Sharon said with a rueful grin.

They did not have a lot of time because the Secret Service insisted that June be back in the White House before five p.m. And even though it was Sharon who needed new clothes, it was Karen who did most of the trying on. The problem was, Karen was just a hair too short to wear regular sizes and just a hair too tall to wear petites.

“That’s why I buy so much,” she explained. “If it comes to close to fitting, I’m not letting it go. I can’t afford to. Look at this suit. It would be adorable on me if it fit.”

June took the blue pant suit with short sleeves and looked it over critically. “The pockets on the jacket are kind of boring. You know, if we gathered this section along here and let the gathers work into the pocket opening, that would add interest. I like the shawl collar, but these standard square sleeves. Puffed would definitely do better, and, Karen, you could really pull them off.”

“Really? I mean, I love those cute little round sleeves, but aren’t they too little-girly?” Karen asked.

“With your ‘tude?” Sharon teased.

“You’ve got presence,” said June. “You know, I’ve got some silk shantung in my studio that’s not far off this shade. I bet it would look great on you, Karen.”

“Okay,” said Karen, puzzled.

“We’ll get your measurements when we get back,” June said, dialing a number on her phone. “Ellie, please remind me to get Karen Tanaka’s measurements when we get back…. Thanks.”

Karen and Sharon exchanged puzzled glances. But June had been serious about getting Karen’s measurements and took Sharon’s, as well.

“Just for the files,” June said, airily giving Sharon the once over.

“What are you gonna do?” Karen asked.

“Indulge myself,” said June. But before she could explain further, her assistant pulled her aside and the two talked quickly. “Damn. Listen, girls, gotta fly”

And she dashed off.

Another time zone away, practice was running late. Matt Jerguessen waited in the stands while his coach raised hell with his teammates, his raspy bass voice booming through the rafters. It was only a matter of time before Coach Winslow came and raised hell with him. Matt wasn’t sure it mattered.

Just-turned sixteen years old, he was supposed to be the sophomore miracle for his prep school team in Minnesota. Matt was supposed to be a lot of things, but at the moment, he didn’t care to be anything. He just wanted to be left alone.

Coach Winslow finished his harangue and the team went back to their drills, accompanied by squeaking shoes, thudding balls and murmured complaints. Winslow shook his head and started up the bleachers. He had years of experience working with privileged youth. Matt seemed to be a pretty typical angry young man and yet not. The kid hadn’t filled out yet and still had that lanky but awkward look about him. He’d look a lot like his famous uncle in a few years, especially with those deep green eyes. Girls seemed to melt around Matt, but he was barely aware of it. Or if he was, he was curiously disinterested. Winslow wondered briefly if Matt was gay, but that didn’t feel right, either.

“Matt?” he asked gently as he approached the boy.

“Yes, sir.”

“What’s going on?”

Matt stared straight ahead. “Sir?”

“Cut the crap, Jerguessen. You’re laying down on me. We both know you can do better. What’s going on?”

Matt shrugged.

“Are you trying to tell me you don’t want to be here?”

“Give me one good reason why I should.”

“You owe it to your team?”

Matt didn’t reply.

Winslow sighed. “If you don’t want to be here-“

“Coach, I gotta be here. Okay? I’ll try harder.”

“Who’s telling you you have to be here?”

“Nobody,” Matt murmured.

Coach nodded. “Unless it’s understood that your folks want you to be on the team.”

Matt stayed silent. Of course, his folks wanted him on the team. It’s all his dad talked about. Not that his dad ever showed for games or anything.

“You know, I could drop you,” Winslow said.

“You could?” Matt’s eyes glinted with a spark of interest.

“But I can’t imagine that’d make anything easier for you at home.”

“They don’t care about me at home,” grumbled Matt. “As long as I don’t do anything public.”

“Which getting kicked off the basketball team would be.”

Matt sighed. “Probably.”

“Look, Matt. It’s not like this is the first time I’ve seen a case like yours. Folks want you to make a good name, but don’t seem to care about you.”

Matt shrugged.

“But one thing I’ve noticed about you is you really like playing. When you’re not in one of your moods.”

Matt shrugged again.

“I need you, Matt. You’ve got skills and when you’re not feeling sorry for yourself, you’re a damn good player. Can’t that be enough for you?”

“Dunno.”

“Isn’t there anybody you can talk to?”

“Used to be able to talk to my uncle.”

“So why can’t you now?”

“Uh, hello? President of the United States? I don’t think he’s got time for me.”

“Have you tried?”

“His old e-mail’s down. The one he had in the Senate. Mom won’t let me have the new one. Assuming she even knows it. And she changed our Internet provider, so my old e-mail’s dead. And it’s not like you can just call up the White House and ask to talk to the president. I tried. They didn’t believe me.”

“What about your dad?”

“Are you kidding? He hates my uncle. And he doesn’t talk to me, anyway.”

“Look, Matt, there’s gotta be some way you can get through. You’ve just gotta put your mind to it. You’ve got your grandfather and great-grandmother. I see them here all the time. And don’t you have an aunt?”

“Yeah.”

“So keep trying. I know if you put your mind to it, you can find a way through. In the meantime, I need you to get on your game. You’re a good player and a good kid. So what if some parts of your life suck? Make the best of what you’ve got going for you and it won’t matter that your parents don’t seem to care about you.”

“I s’pose.”

“All right. Now get down there and give me twenty laps.”

“Yessir.”

Matt, still feeling sullen and out of sorts, made his way down the bleachers to the gym floor to begin his laps. His teammates hooted derisively and he flipped them the bird. Aunt June was sympathetic, but didn’t really have any answers for him and he didn’t have her e-mail address, anyway. His grandfather and great-grandma were nice enough, too, but barely knew what e-mail was, let alone Uncle Mark’s address. Uncle Mark was the only people on the planet who really seemed to understand him and his mother had made damned sure he was out of reach.

Coach was right. There were other ways than e-mail and telephone to reach Uncle Mark. It would take some planning and saving. Matt debated just using the credit card his mother had given him, but knew if he spent too much at once, his mother would get called and that would blow everything. It would take a little research and the right timing. In the meantime, he could just play basketball.

IM Session

Swheatly531: Got a question for you.

Ladycarla: What up?

Swheatly531: Just noticed you got a really nice pool table and bar in your basement, mind if I add on?

Ladycarla: What do you have in mind?

Swheatly531: Just a big-screen TV and a couple couches. There’s room. I measured.

Ladycarla: Sure, but why?

Swheatly531: Believe it or not, it’s officially top-secret, but it has something to do with that hidden entrance down there.

Ladycarla: Niecy said you still had the hots for him.

Swheatly531: Won’t do me much good with the rest of the Advisory Panel hanging around, which is the point. Gotta fly.

If Sharon didn’t pay much attention to the looks as she entered the reception at the State Department, it was only because she was so used to people looking at her. Yet, she couldn’t shake the feeling there was something else behind them, at least from the women, beyond the usual jealous glances. It didn’t matter. She had other things to think about and stayed focused on greeting Monsieur Sartimes and chatting with him and the French ambassador for a bit.

After the president had joined them, Sharon moved away and all but ran into June. Which is when Sharon realized that her odd feeling about the other women looking at her wasn’t just an odd feeling. June’s dress may have been pink, but it was exactly the same as Sharon’s otherwise, right down to the gold arrowheads shot through the sheer pink fabric.

June, for her part, started laughing.

“Oh, Sharon, please forgive me,” June hissed, trying to stifle her giggles.

“I’ve got your dress on!” Sharon gasped.

“Yes. But it’s my fault.”

“Huh?”

But at that second, one of the butlers whispered something in June’s ear.

June groaned. “Gotta deal with this now. We’ll talk later. It’s not your fault.”

June scurried off as Sharon stood, trying to digest what had just happened, let alone figure out why June would feel guilty about the mix-up.

Daniel Friedman wandered up at that point.

“It seems to be going well,” he observed blandly.

“Uh. Yeah.” Sharon swallowed. “Anyone talking about the food?”

“Mostly about how good it is. Looks like we dodged that bullet.”

“Good.” Sharon’s voice came out a lot more tense than she’d planned.

“You okay?” Friedman asked

“Fine. Great.”

The president wandered up. “Looks like everything’s going really well, Daniel.”

“Sure seems to be,” Friedman replied. “Um. Did you hear about the menu changes?”

“No. Should I have?” Mark grabbed an hors d’oeuvre off a passing tray and popped it in his mouth.

“No, sir,” said Sharon quickly. “As long as you and Monsieur Sartimes are happy, who cares?”

“Tuna tartare?” said Mark, grinning. “Definitely some wasabi action on the endive? I’m happy and I hear Sartimes is chowing down like a pro.”

Sharon glanced downwards and saw something definitely wrong.

“Sir? Can I confer with you outside, please?”

“Sure,” Mark replied. “You got a headset on I can’t see?”

Sharon smiled. “It’s not that kind of problem. Sir?”

Mark glanced at Friedman. The two shrugged and Mark followed Sharon from the room.

Sharon wandered quickly through the halls, trying each door. “There’s gotta be an open conference room somewhere.”

Puzzled, Mark followed obediently until Sharon found a door that opened. She sighed in relief when it opened into a conference room and not a men’s room.

“Ms. Wheatly?” Mark asked, expectantly.

“I’m sorry, sir, but you’ve got a button missing on dinner jacket,” Sharon said, opening her purse. It was a small rhinestone affair, but big enough for what she needed. “On the sleeve.”

Mark sighed. “Oh. Yeah. I fidget with them. Johnnie’s always on my backside for tearing them off.”

“I think I might have a close enough match here,” Sharon said, pulling out her sewing kit.

“I’ve got it right here.” Trying to hide his flush, Mark pulled the button from his pants’ pocket.

“Well, that makes life easier.” Sharon smiled. “Don’t worry. You wouldn’t believe the number of executives I’ve saved just because I keep a sewing kit on me. May I have your jacket, please?”

Mark pulled his off and handed it to her. “Johnnie’s always telling me to keep my hands in my pockets.”

“Obviously, you’re listening,” Sharon said, then tried not to wince as she took the jacket and pulled out a chair from the conference table so she could get to work.

“Bad habits. What can I say?” Mark smiled.

He allowed himself a covert glance at Sharon. She bent over his sleeve, presumably concentrating on the job at hand. Yes, she was gorgeous. But that was almost a distraction. Granted, her interest in seeing him well-groomed had as much to do with her professional duties as anything else. Yet, there was something. Something he couldn’t quite put his finger on. Something special.

Which, of course, is why at that exact moment, June chose to burst into the room.

“Mark, they’re looking for you,” she began, then saw what was going on. “Oh. For heaven’s sakes. Can’t you keep your hands off your sleeves? For crying out loud. You’re a grown man!”

“I will endeavor to do better,” Mark said, pleasantly.

June rolled her eyes. “You say that every time. I don’t think you’re really trying.”

“It’s irrelevant now,” said Sharon, biting off the thread. “It’s taken care of. Although why more men don’t carry sewing kits is beyond me. It would make my life easier.”

Mark took his jacket back and put it on. “I’ll put it on my to-do list.”

“Get yourself back in there. It’s speech time,” said June, pushing him out the door. As soon as her brother was gone, she turned to Sharon. “Well. Thank you. I swear, it’s scary how often he tears his buttons off. Everyone thinks he’s the proverbial cucumber and no one ever notices how many times the buttons go missing on his suit jackets.”

“It’s not all that uncommon,” Sharon said, ducking her head as she put the sewing kit back together. “It’s why I learned to pack my little kit.”

June giggled. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be laughing. You must be horribly embarrassed.”

“It’s a little awkward on my first night out.”

“It’s my fault. I forgot I put this design into production.”

Sharon looked at her, completely perplexed. “I’m sorry? I just got it today.”

“It’s a Design by JJ, right?”

“I have no idea.” Sharon stopped and thought about it. “I just didn’t have any cocktail dresses and this was the first one that appealed to me.”

She grabbed the back of her dress and tried to wriggle around to look at the tag.

“It’s mine,” said June, laughing. “Are you serious? You had no clue?”

Sharon sighed. “I used to be better at the label game. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” June smiled warmly. “I hate label freaks, although I have to confess, they’ve been pretty good for business.”

Sharon took a deep breath and let it out. “Okay. That makes how many times I’ve messed up tonight?”

“Messed up?” June looked at her. “Oh, Sharon, I’m not mad at you. Actually, I’m pretty complimented. You bought the dress because you genuinely liked it. That’s the best compliment I’ve gotten all year.”

“I’m glad you think so.” Sharon sighed. “I’m beginning to thing Tanks was right. This White House thing is pretty freaky.”

June laughed outright. “Pretty freaky? Good lord, it’s absolutely crazy-making! I didn’t get this messed up dressing Helen freaking Mirren for the Oscars.”

“You’re not upset, then?”
“Why? Because you have such exquisite good taste?
Sharon sniffed and giggled. “Well, if you’re not upset, then to heck with the rest of them.”

“To heck with them, indeed. Shall we return together, arm in arm? That will really get the old gossip mill going.”

Sharon instinctively shrank back. “Oh, lord. Oh, what the hell. The men haven’t noticed. You’re not peeved. Why should I care?”

“You do, don’t you?’ June said softly.

Sharon shrugged. “You’d think I’d be used to the looking and the rumors and all that stuff by now. Funny thing is, I don’t think you ever get used to it.”

June shook her head. “You don’t get over it. But you do get used to it. You can get used to a lot of things. Trust me.”

“Think your brother is ever going to get used to being president?” Sharon blurted out.

“Yipes. Where did that come from?”

Sharon blushed. “I can’t believe I just said that.” She sighed. “It’s funny. I just can’t help noticing how sad he seems every time the rest of the Advisory Panel talks about going out to lunch together and he can’t come with us.”

“Actually, I’ve noticed that, too.” June frowned. “It’s kinda weird, really. Mark is the original every day guy. So it’s totally amazing to me that he’s gotten as far as he has. I mean, the kind of ego you need to pull off a presidential campaign. Mark doesn’t have that. He does have drive, I’ll give him that.”

“Probably accounts for it.”

“Probably. But he’s been having a couple problems settling in.”

“I, uh, talked to Coop about it the other day. He said he’d see what he could do. There’s a bunch of private clubs around the area. Coop said he’d talk to the Secret Service guys and the clubs, so maybe…”

“Maybe,” June said. “What’d be really great is a good hide-out with a secret entrance or something.”

The light went on in Sharon’s head. “Yeah. He likes basketball, right?”

June laughed. “He loves sports, period. The guy will watch curling, for crying out loud.”

“Curling’s kinda fun,” said Sharon. “Now, if he was into watching badminton, I’d really be worried.”

June laughed even harder and Sharon joined in.

“Think you can face ‘em?” June asked, finally.

“If you can, I can,” Sharon said.

So arm in arm, the two returned to the party. Across the room, Mark saw the two enter. Again, he felt his stomach flutter at the sight of her. And she was with June, no less, and the two really seemed to like each other. Mark smiled to himself. How perfect could one woman be?

Sharon, herself, however, was not thinking about being impressive. She was panicking. Tanks had swung by her office and asked if she was leaving early to get ready.

“Ready for what?” Sharon had asked, going over the latest subject lines in her e-mail inbox.

“The reception tonight. Cocktails with the French foreign minister?”

“Shavings!” Sharon gasped at Tanks. “I have to go to that.”

“And so do I,” Tanks sighed. “I just hope I can get out early so my girls don’t start whining about Mom being gone all the time again.”

“Kira’s fourteen. At that age, I would have loved it if my mom was gone all the time.”

“That doesn’t stop them from whining about it if they think they can get something by it.”

“So how ready do I have to get? I can get away with a suit, right?” Sharon looked at the long list of subject lines.

“The memo from State said cocktail dress, to encourage a social and welcoming atmosphere.”

Sharon sighed deeply. “At least they got that straight. The French don’t mix business and social like we do.” She frowned. “Do I even have a cocktail dress right now?”

“You weren’t expecting to go to any parties?”

“Not right away. I haven’t even been here a full month and I wasn’t sure how long I’d be staying. I’ve gotten a couple new suits, but that’s it.” Sharon sighed as she looked at the list of subject lines again, and closed the laptop. “I’ll have to look at these at home tonight.”

Sharon left a few minutes later. Karen met her at the Metro stop and the two went straight to Sharon’s place to see what Sharon already had before picking up Karen’s daughters and hitting the stores.

Karen was suitably impressed by Sharon’s house.

“It’s my friend’s place,” Sharon explained. “I’m just renting it from her. It’s a great old house, built by some senator years ago. He even had a secret doorway put in the back so he could sneak his floozies in.”

“Now that sounds like fun. Too bad I’m in a steady relationship. Let’s see your closet.”

Sharon led the way to the bedroom where Karen stood aghast at the open closet doors.

“You’ve only got about eight suits in here. Four day dresses. Good heavens, woman, why don’t you have any clothes?”

“I used to. I just got into simplifying a few years ago. I was traveling all the time, had no place to put things. And I had stuff that had gone completely out of style that I hadn’t even worn yet.”

“That’s normal. You’re supposed to have stuff like that. You go ahead to the mall. I’ll get my girls and meet you at there. This is an emergency. How can you justify not working to keep our economy going by buying your brains out?”

Sharon chuckled, but sighed and headed out again.

It was not a fun outing. First, Sharon couldn’t find anything she liked, then Karen called and said that her younger daughter had a school project that absolutely had to be finished that afternoon and that she (Karen) would instead be haunting the craft stores that afternoon instead because, of course, her daughter, Allie, hadn’t even started yet.

Finally, as the clock ticked off closer and closer to five p.m., Sharon found a dress that she liked. It was an a-line in a shimmery light blue sheer over a light blue lining. The top fabric had little sliver arrowheads flecked throughout. Sharon found some silver dress shoes that were workable, then a bag, necklace and matching earrings and scrambled back to the office to get dressed.