The PFZ was crowded. In addition to the Advisory Panel members, several spouses were there, including Al’s and Coop’s. Daniel Friedman had been invited and Tanks had brought her daughters and her boyfriend. Al got soundly razzed when he produced his offering, chips and sour cream dip.

“He didn’t tell me it was a potluck,” Carolyn Eddington groaned. She was as tall and ramrod straight as her husband, but a lot more easy going, with steel gray hair and soft blue eyes.

The cheering rose in pitch as Mark scurried into the basement bearing a dark blue covered Dutch oven.

“What you got, Jugs?” the Coop demanded.

“Chili – my own personal recipe,” Mark announced opening the pot with a flourish. “I got up early this morning and threw it together. It has been cooking gently all day and is in full flower.”

“Full sear, you mean.” groaned John Whitesand. “Sheeze, Jugs, I can smell the chiles from here.”

June entered with the bag containing the sour cream, onions and cheese Mark had brought to accompany his dish. Sharon hurried upstairs, hoping there were enough bowls and spoons. There were, but just barely.

There wasn’t much room left around the television, but it didn’t really matter anyway, since at any given time at least half the group was talking with each other while the other half watched. Tanks and Coop sat through all the commercials, and debated the social and economic ramifications of the good ones.

Somewhere late in the third quarter, Sharon overheard Mark and Al discussing something, apparently unaware that she could hear them. Nonetheless, she felt her blood boiling and for the rest of the evening, she couldn’t wait until everyone – including the boss – went home.

Which was why she was even more annoyed to find that Mark was still there when she finally pushed the Coop and his wife out her front door.

“I can clean up myself,” she told him angrily.

Surprised, he stepped back. “I’m sorry?”

Sharon took a deep breath. “Okay, I can understand you being a little nettled earlier today, when I made that crack about you not notching my bedpost. But you didn’t have to tell Al that I was just another beautiful woman and it didn’t matter.”

“I didn’t-“ Mark frantically went over the evening in his head. “Oh, for crying out loud. You’re taking that completely the wrong way!”

“Then Al did, too.” Sharon did not like the shrill notes creeping into her voice, but she couldn’t help it.

“Did you hear me set him straight?”

Sharon snorted.

Mark groaned. “You did, didn’t you? And you’re still mad. What is wrong with you?”

“Because I’m sick and tired of being just another beautiful woman!”

“Then you didn’t hear all of what I said.”

“I don’t care.”

“I do. Al’s the one you should be mad at, not me. He’s the one who said I should sleep with you because of your looks. What I said was that if that was the only reason I was sleeping with you, then – and only then, I might add – you would be just another beautiful woman and it wouldn’t matter.”

“I don’t want to be mad at Al,” Sharon groaned, throwing a napkin on the bar.

“Well, what good is being mad at me going to do?”

Sharon sniffed. “I need the distance.” She looked over at him. “That was great chili, by the way.”

Mark sank onto a barstool. “What are you talking about?”

“Nothing. Everything.” Agitated, Sharon prowled around the room, trying to straighten it. “I was an idiot today, okay? I should never have asked you about Martindale or whether you’ve got somebody else you’re seeing. It’s none of my damned business. And I don’t want it to be my business. And I sure as hell don’t want to end up like Martindale.”

“What do you want?” Mark asked softly.

Sharon looked at him. “Probably the same thing you want.”

Mark winced. “I don’t know about that. It wouldn’t be about the looks, and it would certainly be against my better judgment, but what I want right now may or may not get us to your bedroom.”

“I’m not picky about where.” Sharon swallowed. “But that damned better judgment clause. That’s the only reason you still have your clothes on.”

“Are you going to run away on me?” Mark braced himself.

“No.” Sharon hung her head. “I’ll tell you right now, every freaking nerve ending in my body is screaming to put as much distance between you and me as possible. At this point, Africa is not far enough.” She looked at him again. “But somehow, it just seems like that would be the worst thing I could do. That if I left now, I would regret it for the rest of my life.”

“Sharon, if you need to back off, then we’ll back off.” Mark swallowed. “But, please, don’t go promising that you’ll regret leaving or anything like that until-“

“Oh, for heaven’s sakes, that’s not what I’m saying,” Sharon snapped. “I’m sorry. I’m not promising my life to you or any nonsense like that. What I meant is that I can’t run away now. I don’t know about tomorrow. But right now, I can’t.”

“Yeah, well, do me a favor and be careful with that not running away stuff,” Mark growled, then sighed. “I’ve heard it before. She swore she could handle it.”

“Well, I think I’ve seen what can happen,” Sharon said.

“No. You haven’t. You haven’t seen squat. And you won’t, if I have anything to say about it.” It was Mark’s turn to start pacing. “Look, I think we both know I can’t promise you won’t face some bad publicity at some point or other. None of us can and the best thing we can do is keep our noses squeaky clean just in case. And it’s not as if we’ve known each other all that long. What do we really know about each other? That we like to cook and eat and drink good coffee and wine? It’s not like we can’t be friends and take our time finding out who we are. Seriously, Sharon, you’d have to give up too much to be with me right now. I don’t want to be responsible for that.”

“And I don’t want to put you in that position.” She sighed. “I’m just wondering how long better judgment can hold out.”

“So am I.”

Mark left a few minutes later, after another awkward good-bye at the basement door.

Sharon spent the rest of the night alternating between worrying that things would be forever awkward at work and wondering what it would be like to be in a relationship with Mark. So while she felt for poor Carrie Martindale when things blew up on Sunday, Sharon was glad she had something besides her boss to dwell on.

Eddie Cooper still hadn’t worked out his mystery lunch plan by that Friday, but it didn’t make any difference, since Fridays were usually tight days for Mark. In addition to his regular meeting with the Advisory Panel, he usually ate lunch at his desk while finishing up and assessing his work for the week, then on to a regularly scheduled press conference at 2 p.m. It was all part of his plan to be more accessible and transparent. But it also gave him a chance to control what the weekend talking heads would be talking about, even before the usual Saturday radio address.

The Advisory Panel was slightly more rowdy than usual, since in celebration of the upcoming March Madness college basketball play-offs – starting that night – Coop had brought in a small plastic basketball hoop on a stand with a host of sponge balls to throw at it. Tanks scored a lucky shot by tossing one over her shoulder. Eli Weatherall was still there, but didn’t bother tossing any balls, although he did keep score. Gwen McKelvey was there and didn’t hit anything.

But things got serious quickly as Augie finished his report with a question for Mark.

“Boss, do you know a lobbyist named Carrie Martindale?”

Mark thought it over. “I don’t think so. Let me e-mail Kent and see if she’s in my people database. Why?”

“She’s been working with the House on some proposals that sound suspiciously like your education initiative. Word’s getting around that she got them from you.”

Mark froze, then nodded.

“It was bound to happen sooner or later,” Coop said quietly.

“At least you know the drill.” Mark rattled the keys on his laptop. “I’ll have Johnnie get the memo out.”

“I don’t get it,” said Mackie. “So what if you gave a lobbyist some proposals for an initiative?”

“I’m guessing it’s the implication,” Tanks said. “Less than appropriate means?”

“At the very least making out a romantic attachment, whether one exists or not,” Coop said. “That’s why the policy is not to comment in any way.”

“It’s not the first time it’s happened, nor will it be the last,” Mark said quietly.

Al Eddington sighed. “I don’t know what the issue is. It’s not like you’re married, sir. Why shouldn’t you have an active social life as long as you’re discreet about it?”

“If you could find a woman who’ll put up with the photogs and the tabloid coverage,” Tanks answered.

Augie laughed loudly. “Are you kidding? They’re lining up to sleep with our boss.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not exactly interested in notching marks in available bedposts,” Mark grumbled. “And frankly, given my current work load, I think a social life is going to be moot for the next four years, at least. So for the sake of Ms. – what was her name again?”

“Martindale,” said Augie.

“For the sake of Ms. Martindale, let’s remember that policy is no comment even to deny any social life I may or may not have,” Mark said, glancing at his laptop screen. “Kent’s sending me the wrap it up message. Is there anything else?”

“Game time’s at 8,” said Sharon. “Please remember it’s potluck.”

Mark left, hoping fervently that the matter of Carrie Martindale would not become an issue. But it was the second question asked at the press conference.

He stood behind the podium in the press room, blue curtains and White House emblem behind him. This time, the presidential seal was hung on the front of the podium, a dark wood one with an electronic notepad screen embedded in the surface. Kent and Johnnie stood at the side of the press room, which was, as usual, jammed full with the full range of reporters, print, broadcast and even a few bloggers who’d finally earned their press credentials. Mark had a stylus in his hand to work the screen when he needed an additional fact, unless Kent or Johnnie pulled it up for him faster.

“Mr. President, how well do you know lobbyist Carrie Martindale?” reporter Glenn Garrett asked, a short, graying man from a Miami paper, known for his searing commentary and beat-up wardrobe.

“May I ask why you want to know?” Mark asked.

“There is a rumor circulating that Ms. Martindale may have personal access to you that other lobbyists do not have,” Garrett said. “Like in your bedroom.”

Nervous laughter rippled through the room. Everyone knew Garrett had a gift for the crass, although he usually toned it down out of respect for the office.

“I have no comment on any relationship I may or may not have with Ms. Martindale, or any other woman, for that matter.”

Garrett pressed. “Mr. President, you have promised transparency. Why can’t you deny or substantiate the rumor or correct it?”

“Alright, here’s the drill on this and any other similar rumors,” Mark announced. “I will not deny a relationship because there are an awful lot of people who won’t believe me anyway and the woman still gets her name dragged through the mud. I will not substantiate a relationship because that would give rise to even more speculation and attention paid to the woman, who probably doesn’t want it in the first place. The bottom line is, unless you have hard evidence of something seriously improper falling outside the realm of consenting adults, such as money changing hands, then I’m not saying anything one way or the other and I advise any woman connected to me by rumor or by actual acquaintance to do the same.”

Which settled it for the remainder of the press conference. Mark was still feeling rather grumpy about the whole situation, but at least Johnnie had the stationery ready for him when he got back to the Oval Office. He barely had time to get the note written and in an envelope when Kent announced Ms. Wheatly had arrived for a briefing he’d requested earlier.

It was the sort of thing that was important to stay on top of, but not terribly interesting. Mark listened carefully, adding notes to the document Ms. Wheatly had posted to his personal server, but even so, he wasn’t sure whether he was more distracted by his feelings for her or his fear that those feelings would end up ruining her life.

Sharon wrapped up the briefing quickly. There really wasn’t that much to go over and she could tell the president was not entirely listening.

“Of course, if anything changes, I’ll let you know immediately,” she said, closing the lid to her laptop.

“Of course,” Mark replied. He spied the envelope on the desk and picked it up. “Ms. Wheatly, would you mind giving this to Ms. Bouyer, please? She knows what to do with it.”

“Okay.” Sharon took the simple white envelope and felt the heavy bond paper. “What is it?”

Mark sighed. “Something I fervently hope you will never get from me. It’s a note to Ms. Martindale with an apology for the situation and some tips on how to deal with the press.”

Sharon’s eyes rose. “Ah. Precisely the reason you won’t be carving a notch in my bedpost any too soon.”

“I have never met Ms. Martindale, as far as I know,” said Mark, testily. “I meet a lot of people, so it’s possible our paths have crossed, but we do not have a relationship.”

“Sorry.” Sharon backed up a little, surprised by his tone. “I wasn’t implying that you did. But if this is what happens to women you don’t even know…” She shrugged.

“Trust me, Ms. Wheatly, you’re much safer out in the open like this. The person who starts the rumors doesn’t go after people I obviously know since I almost never date women I obviously know.”

“The person who- You mean, you know who’s behind this?”

“Yes. The same person who’s been playing this game since I was first in the state legislature.”

“But it can’t be working. Even the Kelly Won rumors didn’t come close to panning out.”

Mark sighed even more deeply. “But it has ruined a few good relationships, including one I was pretty darned serious about, and that’s the point.”

“Oh. I’m sorry.”

Mark waited, hoping Sharon wouldn’t press further, but she seemed to understand that wasn’t someplace he wanted to go.

Sharon took a deep breath. “Um, this may not be appropriate, but if not Ms. Martindale, is there anyone else that you’re hiding a relationship with?”

Mark smiled softly. “No. I’m not seeing anyone.”

And found himself biting back that he’d like to be seeing her.

“Well, I probably shouldn’t have been asking,” Sharon said. “I’ll see you tonight.”

IM Session
ChknCoop: Well, you’re finally back online.

Gloryhg: I had some reading to do. What’re you bothering me for?

ChknCoop: Just checking in to see how things went tonight.

Gloryhg: You were there. They went great.

ChknCoop: And it was totally Wheaties’ idea. Of course, I’m working on the lunch thang – proving to be a bit more of a wrangle, but we’ll get there.

Gloryhg: Sounds good. I appreciate the efforts. Listen, I’ve still got a lot of the education initiative to go over before tomorrow’s meeting with the Senate committee. See you tomorrow.

Out on the West Coast, late in the afternoon at an exclusive all-girls high school in Pasadena, Jodi Wheatly sat on the edge of a planter next to the school’s pick up zone with her best friend Tiffany Sheppledorf.

Jodi, at age 14, was on the cusp of blossoming into as rare a beauty as her Aunt Sharon – a fact that numerous relatives remarked upon with appalling regularity. They both had the same blonde hair and brown eyes and basically the same retiring temperament and intense intellect, although while Sharon excelled in languages and diplomacy, Jodi much preferred math and science. Tiffany had Jodi’s slim build, but also had lots of dark curly hair that she wore long. Both wore braces. Both were identified gifted, with Tiffany shooting to become a Renaissance woman, equally well-versed in the humanities, arts and sciences.

Jodi’s older sister Toby stood nearby, surrounded by a gaggle of her girlfriends. The pitch and loudness were at full teenage high. Toby, at 16, had shed her braces, had shed glasses in favor of contact lenses, had brown hair and blue eyes and a tendency toward a more revealing wardrobe than modest. Athletic and outgoing, some were surprised to find that she and Jodi were related.

Toby and her friends were chattering about who was sleeping with whom, who liked whom, who should like whom and why it was all a gross injustice. Jodi just glared down the driveway.

“At least Mr. Perkins said we could be lab partners for the project,” Tiffany said softly.

“Yeah.” Jodi sighed.

“You don’t want to do all the work again, do you?”

“I’m glad about that, Tif, it’s just…” Jodi winced as one of the girls screeched about something. “I don’t know how Toby stands it.”

“Stands what?”

“Everybody looking at her, having to be the center of attention all the time.” Jodi shook her head. “Ms. Wallace had to ask me about Aunt Sharon. Thank God, she didn’t say anything in front of the class.”

“Well, it is kinda cool having an aunt working in the White House.”

“Totally not. It’s almost as bad as having a rock star for a dad. Dude, if anybody finds out, it’ll be so embarrassing. Everyone will be asking me for the president’s autograph. I’ll bet Aunt Sharon never even sees him.”

“Oh, come on. Most of those kids are far too shallow to care about the president.”

Jodi glared at Tiffany. “Except this isn’t just any president. It’s super young, super cute, super single Mark Jerguessen. Even Toby knew who he was.”

“Dude. You’ve got a point.” Tiffany sighed.

Jodi groaned and checked her cell phone for the time. “Toby, what time did you say Mom was coming?”

“She’ll get here.” Toby rolled her eyes and turned back to her friends.

“You didn’t even text her, did you?” Jodi’s jaw dropped in anger, although she knew she should have expected Toby to forget. “You were supposed to text her when cheerleading practice was over. Mom’s gonna be so pissed at you.”

“She knows when practice is over. Get over it.”

“Never mind. I’ll do it.” Jodi slumped as she thumbed the characters into her phone and nodded at Tiffany.. “You’d better text your mom. We are going to be so late.”

Tiffany shrugged. “Mom’s not going to be home. She pulled a night class for the next term.”

Tiffany lived alone with her mother, a history professor at the local university, in a house across the street from where Jodi, Toby and their mother, Cameron Dykstra, lived. Cameron owned a music store in the arts district near the university.

“Mom’s on her way.” Jodi sighed. “She sounds pissed already. I swear, Toby’s torquing her off on purpose.”

“You think?” Tiffany grinned. “Wanna eat at my place?”

“Oh, like I want to eat at mine. Toby and Mom are going to be fighting all night.”

“Maybe then your mom won’t remember my mom’s not home.”

Jodi’s phone chirped and she looked at the screen. “I’m guessing she already remembered. She says you’re having dinner with us.”

Tiffany shrugged. “Well, if your mom and Toby are fighting, we can surf the Congressional Quarterly site without her knowing.”

“I can’t..” Jodi grimaced. “She’s got it blocked and the last time I hacked around it, she made me promise not to.”

“We’ll use my laptop. That way, you’re not hacking around her block and I’ve got the emergency screen with the Jonas Brothers site on it. That way she’ll think we’re being nice and normal.”

“Dude.” sighed Jodi, feeling only slightly less miserable.