The Book of Fate - Brad Meltzer [134]
As the room again laughs, I sneak a look at Declan, who knows exactly what he’s doing. He got Woody Allen’s prescription glasses—he can swindle the clothes off a former President.
“Thank you, good sir,” Declan adds in his spit-shined accent as I head back through the hallway and toward the stairs. Usually, I’d fight—but the sooner they’re out of here, the sooner I can find out what’s going on with Boyle.
Focusing on just that, I clutch the banister, already role-playing the moment in my head. When it comes to giving Manning bad news, the best way is to just put it out there. Sir, I think I saw Boyle the other night in Malaysia. I know Manning’s tells—how he grins when he’s mad or raises his chin when he’s feigning surprise. Just seeing his reaction’ll give me all I need to know.
At the top of the stairs, my phone vibrates in my pocket. Caller ID says it’s Lisbeth. I shut the phone, refusing to answer. My bullshit quota for the day is filled. The last thing I need is another fake apology.
More annoyed than ever, I quickly plow down the second-floor hallway that’s lined with two American flags: one that flew over the White House on Manning’s first day in office, the other that flew the day he left. By the time I approach the bedroom on my left, I’m already rethinking my Manning strategy. Maybe I shouldn’t just blurt it. He’s always better with a soft touch. Sir, I know this’ll sound odd . . . Sir, I’m not sure how to say this . . . Sir, am I really as big a puss as I think I am? Knowing the answer, I shove open the bedroom door and—
“Daaah . . . !” the First Lady yelps, jumping back in her seat at the antique writing desk in the corner of the room. She spins to face me so fast, her reading glasses fly from her face, and even though she’s fully dressed in a light blue blouse and white slacks, I cover my eyes, immediately backtracking.
“Forgive me, ma’am. Didn’t realize you were—”
“I-It’s okay,” she says, her right hand patting the air to reassure me. I’m waiting for her to rip me apart. Instead, she’s caught so off guard, it doesn’t come. Her face is flushed as her eyes blink over and over, searching for calm. “Just . . . you just surprised me is all.”
Still mid-apology, I reach down for her glasses and stumble forward to hand them back. It’s not until I’m right in front of her that I see her left hand tucking something under the cushion of her seat.
“Thank you, Wes,” she says, reaching for the glasses without looking up.
Spinning back on my heel, I make a beeline for the door—but not before taking one last glance over my shoulder. Dr. Lenore Manning has been through two presidential elections, three battles for governor, two natural childbirths, and four years of never-ending attacks against her, her husband, her children, her family, and nearly every close friend, including a Vanity Fair cover story with the homeliest picture ever taken of her, over the headline The Doctor First Lady Is In: Why Pretty Is Out—and Brains Are All the Rage. At this point, even the worst attacks roll off her. So when I see her glance back at me—when our eyes lock and I spot the bloodshot redness that she quickly tries to hide with a smile and another thank-you . . . Right there, my legs lock. She can blink all she wants. I know tears when I see them.
As I stumble back to the door, the awkwardness is overwhelming. Go . . . move . . . disappear. This isn’t where I’m supposed to be. Without even thinking, I rush into the hallway and head back toward the stairs. Anything to get out of there. My brain’s racing full speed, still struggling to process. It’s not even . . . In all my years with them . . . What’s so god-awful, it could possibly make her cry? Searching for the answer, I stop at the top of the stairs and glance back over my shoulder. On my right is the flag from the day we left