The West Wing Fanfiction: That Way Lies Madness, Part 1/2
Title: That Way Lies Madness, 1/2
Author: ygrawn
Fandom: The West Wing
Parings: Donna/Sam, Donna/Josh
Timeline/Spoilers: Goes AU from about mid-way through Season Three.
Rating: M
Word Count: 16, 800~
Summary: For years, I thought we were friends because that was the closest we could each get to Josh. But that isn’t true. We’re friends because that’s the closest we can get to each other.
Author’s Notes: This one was started before Season Three and has kicked around on my hard drive ever since. I really need to write faster!




********

I’m admiring Central Park from the balcony when the question comes, so I’m distracted by the extraordinary view. Toby and CJ pay a fortune for their apartment and every time I visit I know why.

“Do you ever wonder? What it would have been like?”

I look at CJ with confusion. “What?”

“You and Josh.”

I don’t hesitate to answer because I’ve been expecting the question for years. “No. That way lies madness.”

Suspicion rides her eyes. “Not even idly?”

“Why put myself through that?” I shrug, too high, too carelessly, too deliberately. “Josh is happy.” CJ makes a face. “Okay, Josh thinks he’s happy, and his life isn’t terrible, and that’s almost the same as being happy.”

“Do you honestly believe he’s happy with her?”

“CJ, Josh’s happiness is no longer my concern.”

“It’s just…” She gestures helplessly with her hands. Her husband has rubbed off on her in the way that people rub off on each other after so many decades of knowing each other and loving each other.

She continues. “The two of you were supposed to end up together. We all knew in the back of our minds, that after…everything, after we left office, after we could stop and think, the two of you would get married and be ridiculously happy and have lots of children.”

“You thought that?” I ask, surprised. “That we’d live happily ever after? Nobody does.”

“You used to believe in happy endings.”

“The younger Donna needed to believe in happy endings,” I point out. “She was sustained by that belief. Nothing else mattered because there would be a happy ending for her.” I frown. I’m discussing myself in the third person – never a good sign. “Why are we discussing this now?”

CJ scratches her shoulder. “We saw them for dinner a few days ago, when they were in the city. Amy’s pregnant.”

My stomach shifts. “Oh.” It shifts again, but I ignore it. I’m good at ignoring that pit-in-the-stomach feeling. I used to get it every time Josh said my full name. “Well, that’s…good. Josh will be an excellent father.”

She snorts. “The kid will be an argumentative brat.”

“True.” I half-smile. Thoughts of Josh don’t make me unhappy. But I can’t claim indifference. “He’ll know the history of the Democratic Party before he starts elementary school.”

“Don’t laugh. Rachel refuses to visit elephants at the zoo.”

“Really?”

I glance over my shoulder, into CJ and Toby’s living room. For such an expensive, showy apartment, it looks homey, with bright mismatched furniture, eclectic art, throw rugs and large cushions, black-and-white photos, toys scattered across the floor, coats and scarves tossed over couches, and newspapers and magazines piled on tables and chairs. It’s the kind of clutter that tells you they have a full, busy life.

Rachel is sitting at the coffee table, her dark head bent over a piece of paper. The pink corner of her tongue is visible between her lips as she draws. Toby is on the phone, pacing in circles, stopping periodically to look at Rachel’s drawing. I can hear him speak, that constant, dipping sarcasm timbre of Toby’s voice, but I can’t make out what he’s saying.

Every time Toby stops at the coffee table, Rachel elbows him in the knee, not wanting her father to see the picture.

“Really,” CJ says dryly. “Toby thought it was delightful.”

“He’s such a pushover with Rachel,” I observe. “He should be careful – his prickly reputation is slipping.”

“You know she had two miscarriages?”

I sigh. “CJ…”

“What? You think it’s wrong that I see him, and I see you, that I see you separately, and I wonder what went wrong and why he’s with Amy and not you?”

“Things didn’t go wrong, CJ. The just didn’t go right. And Josh made those choices, not me. He could have got over Cliff, could have stopped the pig-headed routine, but he didn’t. He continued to hold it against me, and I realized there was nothing to keep me there, so I left. I refuse to spend my life wondering what if.”

Afternoon sunlight slides across CJ’s neck. “Why not?”

“I don’t have that luxury,” I point out. “I made the choice to go. I thought about what I was giving up before I left and I left anyway. I can’t regret something I thought was right at the time. I’ve made my own life, and it’s a good one.”

“It’s just that you and Josh had something. It wasn’t always good, but it could have been. It was something most people spend forever waiting for, and I…”

“I know,” I interrupt. “I know, CJ. But like I said, that way lies madness.”

The French doors creak as Toby steps out onto the balcony. “That was Leo.”

“How is he?” CJ asks.

“Good. He wants to know if we’re going up to Manchester in April, for the President’s birthday.”

“Of course.” Then CJ frowns at her stomach. “I can still fly then, can’t I?”

“Just,” her husband replies. His dark, seamless gaze shifts to me. “Are you going?”

“I’m not sure. I’m always busy around April.”

“You’re busy all the time,” Toby points out.

“And you’ve missed the last two birthdays,” CJ argues.

“I wasn’t a member of the Senior Staff.” Two years ago, I deliberately missed it. Last year, I was honestly too busy. “It’s not…it’s not my place.”

“Margaret’s always there,” CJ says.

I roll my eyes. “Margaret and Leo are attached at the hip. He’s retired, she has another job, and I swear to God she still calls him every day to nag him about his diet.”

“You have to come,” CJ insists. “The President and Abby always comment on your absence.”

I glance reflexively at Toby to verify that. He nods.

“You can catch up with everyone,” CJ continues.

“I see you guys nearly every month, I bump into Leo too often to mention, and I live a five-minute walk away from Sam. He’s always at my apartment – I see him too much.”

“How is he?” Toby asks. He sits next to CJ. She shifts, moves into his body. They’re more demonstrative than any of us ever thought they’d be.

“He nearly worked himself to death during the Miller trial, so he’s only working mornings at the moment.”

“I’m sure he’s enjoying that,” Toby comments.

“I had to nag him for over a week. It wasn’t until I threatened to tie him to the bed that he acquiesced. But I’m enjoying it – he spends his afternoons cooking, at my apartment. It’s fabulous.”

CJ musters her Press Secretary look. The one that scared Josh, Sam and Toby into doing what she commanded. It even made Leo pause. “You should come in April,” she says.

“I’ll see what my schedule is like.”

I promise only that much, because the thought of seeing Josh and Amy makes my organs melt into each other. It annoys me, because I want to be past this. Above this. Wiser. More enlightened. Anything but this pit-in-the-stomach feeling.

“Donna,” Rachel calls, from the doorway. She’s a serious five-year-old, with her father’s dark hair, and her mother’s wide mouth. It’s an incongruous mouth on a little girl but she’ll grow into it and own it, like CJ does. Her eyes are hers alone; a strangely bright green.

“Rachel,” I reply, in the same serious voice.

“I drew you a picture.”

“Show me.”

Rachel comes to stand between my knees, a little-boned, magnetic girl, with her mother’s lush mouth, and I stroke her shiny hair, unable to resist its lustre. I have been entranced by Rachel since before she was born, since CJ told me she was pregnant.

Rachel begins to explain her picture. It’s of Sam and me.

********

“Honey, I’m home,” I sing. I toss my keys on the hallstand that overflows with belongings that might be mine. They might not be. I’m not sure anymore.

I can tell that Sam is here – the yeasty aroma of baking drifts down my hallway

“In the kitchen,” Sam sings back, over the strains of U2. He loves The Joshua Tree, and he burnt a copy for me so he could listen to it when he’s at my apartment. Which is pretty much all the time.

I make my way down the narrow hallway of my brownstone apartment, dropping my bag and briefcase in my bedroom. I pull off various articles of winter clothing along the way until I’m down to my black power suit and three-inch heels. They make me taller than most important people and I like that.

Sam is at my stove, vigorously stirring something. He’s wearing faded jeans and an untucked blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up. And a frilly, floral apron that my mother gave me five years ago in the hope that I would marry a rich politician, buy a string of pearls and start baking cookies. Or something like that.

Sam is barefoot and tanned, and his hair is tousled and thick, and I think for the thousandth time, that he’s too beautiful to be real. Too beautiful to be in my apartment, my office, my kitchen, my life.

“Hey you,” I say, kissing the corner of his mouth.

“Hey.”

I rest my forehead against his jaw momentarily. In my heels, we’re the same height. His skin is warm through his clothing. “Don’t you have an apartment of your own? That you live in?”

“I just store stuff there,” Sam smiles. “I knew you were coming back – I thought I’d cook dinner. How are they?”

“Same as always,” I reply, heading for the fridge. “CJ looks radiant. Toby is working his ass off at the Times but CJ says he’s been writing some fiction.”

“Really?” Sam hands me two wineglasses as I pull a bottle of zinfandel from the fridge. “I knew he had the desire, he just wouldn’t admit it.”

“Mm. Rachel’s grown again. She drew a picture of us – I’m supposed to hang it in my office. We’re standing in front of the Washington Monument.”

“She was barely four when she saw it,” Sam comments. “I’m surprised she remembers.”

“She’s Toby Ziegler’s daughter,” I point out. “She says that it’s your turn to visit next.”

“It is,” Sam admits. “How are you?”

I sigh and lean against the bench. “Amy’s pregnant.”

Sam nods. “Toby rang this afternoon and told me.”

“He must be thrilled.”

“Toby? He’s mostly indifferent about it.” Sam leans next to me, his hip nudging mine. “Josh is probably stunned, distracted and overwhelmed.”

“Yes.” I pause. “I’m happy. For him.”

Sam smiles. “For him.”

“Mm.” He gives me a look. “What? I went to the wedding, I told her she was a beautiful bride and meant it. I sat through the speeches, watched their first dance and smiled. I have never bad-mouthed her, and in fact, speak very little of her. I don’t actively dislike her. She’s a clever, committed woman who loves Josh. What more is expected of me?”

“Nothing,” he assures me. “That way lies madness, right?”

“Indeed.” I’ve been saying that to Sam for years. “What’s for dinner?”

“Osso bucco. And lemon tart for dessert.”

“I’ll get changed.” I head down the hall, but continue to talk. “Did you see Lillienfield’s latest faux pas?”

Sam’s laughter floats from the kitchen. It makes me happy to hear it, because he didn’t laugh for so long after he found out about the President’s MS, and we had to work so hard to get him back. He has dark stains that he didn’t once own, but the flashes of light and colour are still there.

“I seriously think there should be an enforced retirement age in Washington,” Sam contends. “He’s got to be senile.”

I make a noise of relief when I peel off my pantyhose. Removing my pantyhose is often the best part of my long, draining days. Which is kind of sad, really. I rifle through my closet until I locate my jeans. They’re so faded and worn that I probably shouldn’t wear them in public anymore.

I’m searching for a sweater when I hear Sam behind me.

“It should be your baby,” he says quietly. With certainty.

“Sam...” I find my Wellesley sweater and yank it over my head. This isn’t a conversation I want to have half-naked.

“No, I don’t care that we never talk about this.” He steps towards me. “It should be your baby.”

“It shouldn’t,” I insist. “Josh should be with Amy. He chose to be with her. From what I hear they’re happy. They work hard, they travel a lot, and they’re a celebrity couple in political circles. They’re about to become a family.”

“And what about you?”

I smile. “I’m happy. I have a job that I love and I’m a celebrity in political circles. I see CJ and Toby at least once a month. I have a goddaughter who is magnificent. I’m financially independent. I practically live with my best friend. I’m happy,” I repeat.

“I…”

“Sam,” I say again, firmer this time. “I am fine about this.”

As I walk past, he grabs me and hugs me tightly. His large hands are warm against my lower back, and I remember how easy it was to almost fuck him, once, nearly five years ago. Just a normal night – we had dinner, came home, discussed a Bill, and we were suddenly making out on the sofa.

It was good, easy, our mouths somehow familiar with each other. I was two kisses away from letting Sam undress me, but he pulled away and smiled ruefully, and we moved on, easily.

But it was hard, too, because Sam wasn’t Josh.

He was something else, a different person. For years, I thought we were friends because that was the closest we could each get to Josh. But that isn’t true. We’re friends because that’s the closest we can get to each other. And that makes an us – a SamandDonna, one word rolling off the tongue – that lives in a Josh-free environment.

He constantly threatens to invade, though.

“Love you,” Sam says. With certainty.

“Love you too.”

********

ONE MONTH LATER

My cell phone bleats as I walk out of the White House. I smile pleasantly at the guard at the front gate and look at the number on display. It’s Sam.

“Hello,” I say.

“It’s me. Where are you?”

“Just leaving the White House.”

“How’d the meeting go?”

“Fine. We got what we wanted.”

“She screwed ’em over,” Sam says to someone.

I laugh. “Where are you?”

“With CJ, Toby and Rachel,” he tells me. “I flew up this morning for a deposition. Remember – it was my turn to visit.”

“Say hello for me.”

He does so, and continues, “CJ wants to know if you’re going up for the President’s birthday next month.”

I roll my eyes. “She’s impossible!”

“Well, are you? You missed the last two years.”

“I’m not sure, Sam. You know how chaotic things are right now.”

“You can take the weekend off. You could take the Friday off as well, and we could find a little B&B, and…”

“Sam,” I interrupt gently. “We are not going antiquing.”

“Why not?” he half-whines. “It’s New Hampshire. How could we not go antiquing?”

I hear CJ and Toby laugh in the background.

“You’re such a geek, Sparky,” CJ tells Sam.

“Shut up,” Sam fires at her. “Come on, Donna. You know you want to see the President and the First Lady again. We haven’t seen Charlie for ages. And Leo and Margaret will be there.”

And Josh and Amy, I think.

“Please?” he says again.

I do want to see the others. And I can’t say no to Sam when he uses that tone of voice on me.

“Alright,” I cave. “I’ll go. But if there’s an emergency at the last minute, I’ll…”

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Sam says. “She’s coming.”

“Donna?” CJ suddenly asks.

“Hey!” Sam exclaims. “Give that back.”

“I’m having a boy,” she tells me. “We found out today.”

“CJ, that’s fabulous,” I exclaim. “Toby’s already buying baseball stuff, right?”

“Oh, yeah. He’s got the kid’s alma mater all planned out.”

“He could do a lot worse than NYC,” Toby says faintly.

“He could do a lot better,” Sam offers. “Like Princeton, for example.”

I listen to the three of them bickering as I walk down Pennsylvania Avenue. Spring is in the air. It’s nice.

********

ONE MONTH LATER

Sam and I don’t get to leave early for Manchester, despite our well-laid, military-like plans. There was a typed schedule and everything.

Both of us had to deal with last-minute work emergencies, so I changed clothes at the airport and did my make-up and hair in the car without a mirror, much to Sam’s amusement. Sam changed his shirt and tie in the backseat, a remarkably aerobic feat. And it gave me an unparalleled view of Sam’s naked chest.

Hey, I’m female.

So, we’re an hour late and we’re exhausted.

The car drops us at the Bartlet’s farmhouse. Our driver will now take our bags to the hotel. Despite the stress of my job, there are some excellent perks. I tuck my beaded evening bag under my arm and mount the steps to the front door.

“Donna, get off the phone,” Sam says, pulling at my elbow.

The sky is fading to aubergine behind us. The farmhouse hasn’t changed – agents still guard the perimeter, many of them familiar from our time at the White House. Quite a number of President Bartlet’s agents requested a transfer to his detail when he finished his second term.

Manchester hasn’t changed either, dredging up both pleasant and unsettling memories as we drove through the city.

“Sam…” I warn, cupping my hand over the bottom of the cell phone.

“We have to go in,” he insists, ringing the doorbell. “And the country will hardly fall apart if you take one night off.”

“Shows how much you know,” I retort. I poke out my tongue for good measure.

A butler in a crisp suit answers the door. He’s obviously been hired for the occasion, because the President loves opening his own door these days. He claims that opening his front door and doing the grocery shopping are the greatest pleasures of his retirement. Abby complains that he comes back from the store with the wrong things.

“Is that Sam?” Michael asks, from his office in Washington.

“Yes,” I reply.

“Put him on.”

I hand the cell phone over as we step into the house. “Mike wants to talk to you.”

“Hey Mike.”

There’s silence, then Sam laughs. The butler closes the door behind us. “I’m happy where I am, Mike. Give it up. I’m putting Donna back on.”

I reclaim the phone as Sam follows the butler. Sam hooks an arm through mine, dragging me along.

“You in the market for a speechwriter or a lawyer?” I ask Mike.

“Donna,” Sam says again.

“You go ahead,” I tell Sam, unhooking my arm from his. “I’ll just finish up here.”

Sam catches my eye and nods reluctantly. I reach out to tweak his tie and smooth his collar. He lightly brushes my wrist with his thumb and I smile at him. Sam hands his coat to the butler and walks quickly down the hall. I can hear distant music.

“So, who would it be?” Mike asks.

I turn my mind back to business and think for a moment. “Ted Maclay. I had an odd conversation with him the other week about the new Bill. It makes more sense to me now. He wants more funding for Montana and he knows he won’t get it, so now he’s stirring up trouble in Committee.”

“I’ll start working the phones,” Mike says. “Thanks, Donna.”

“Are you sure you don’t need me to come back?”

“We can head this off at the pass. Besides, it’s President Bartlet’s birthday. Stay, have a good time. Catch up with your friends. Mock them mercilessly.”

“Will do.”

“Enjoy it. You work too hard,” Mike adds.

“You sound like my mother,” I sigh.

“I see you more often than your mother.”

“My mother lives in Wisconsin. You and I work in the same building,” I point out. “Call me if you need anything.”

“I will. Give President Bartlet my birthday wishes. ’Bye Donna.”

“’Bye Mike.”

I hang up on the Senate Majority Leader, square my shoulders and walk in the direction that Sam went. The music grows louder, a classical piece. I concentrate for a moment until I can tell that it’s Dvorak. Two agents are posted at the entrance doors to the parlour and I smile at them as I walk through.

Sam is standing at the fireplace with Charlie, laughing. The President and Toby are obviously debating something and the President is obviously winning. CJ, Leo and Margaret are listening to Abby tell a story. She’s gesturing wildly, her face lit-up, and Leo looks indignant.

Josh is nowhere to be seen.

Amy is standing by the window, and she turns and sees me in the doorway. Our eyes meet and lock.

********

I walk across the room to her, because I’m a mature, adult woman who is powerful and capable, and I refuse to be the naïve, young, blonde assistant in this scenario any longer.

Amy looks elegant in a navy blue dress that falls just above her knees. The matching wrap is draped artistically over her pale, angular shoulders, and the beaded tassels on the ends glimmer under the lights. Her hair is shorter and lighter than the last time I saw her, which was her wedding day.

I take a small moment to notice the lines around her mouth and eyes. I’ve never pretended I’m not petty.

“Hello Amy.”

“Hello Donna. How are you?”

“I’m well, thank you. And you?”

“Oh you know,” Amy shrugs nonchalantly. “Tired, overworked, retaining fluid, but I’m okay.”

I smile. “Yes, I understand congratulations are in order.”

She gives me a genuine smile in return, and she is suddenly radiant and beautiful. I wasn’t prepared for it, and I blink a few times. Of course she’s radiant. She’s having Josh’s baby.

“Thank you. How did you hear?”

“CJ told me,” I confide. “How far along are you?”

“Almost four months,” Amy tells me. “Are you guys onto Maclay?”

I raise an eyebrow. “Yes. He’s pissed off and looking to cause trouble, but he won’t get anywhere. And he moved too early.”

“Mm,” Amy agrees. “When is Mike going to throw his hat in the ring? We’re all waiting. Some of us more patiently than others.”

I laugh. “The next election’s not for two years.”

“So?”

“So, Mike isn’t going to commit to anything. And Sorenson looks good for a second term.”

“You think?” somebody asks in an amused voice. “I’d lay long odds on that.”

I turn. “Good evening, Mr. President. I’m sorry Sam and I were late.”

He looks the same, but there’s more silver at his temples. He’s in casual slacks and an open-collared shirt tonight, but he’s still imposing and impressive. He’s smiling fondly at me and I remember why we would have followed this man anywhere. Two years is too long.

President Bartlet kisses me on the cheek. “You’re forgiven, Senator Moss.”

********

The President drags me off to get a drink and then to talk to Abby. I toss a look over my shoulder at Amy and she grins evilly. I discover that the lines around her mouth are not smile lines.

“I’ve entrapped Donna for you,” the President tells his wife. “You can’t have her for too long – I’m taking her back in fifteen minutes to talk trivia.”

Abby shoos CJ to the other side of the couch and pats the space beside her. “Honestly, Jed, she’s not a toy that you can retrieve from me when I’ve had my allotted playtime. Now go and annoy Leo or tease Charlie.”

The President grins. “I’ll never get tired of either of those joys.” He crosses the room to Leo and Charlie, positive glee in his expression.

“How are you?” Abby asks. “Really.”

“I’m great,” I reply, shifting further back into the couch. “You look fabulous.”

“Doesn’t she?” CJ agrees.

Abby really does. She’s tanned and relaxed, and although she’s stopped dyeing her hair, there isn’t much silver threaded through the ruddy brown.

“Thank you. I’d say that having my husband at home all the time agrees with me, but it doesn’t. The man’s a royal pain in the ass.”

I laugh. “I don’t listen to your complaints anymore, ma’am. You love that he’s a pain in the ass.”

“I tell you all the time to stop calling me ma’am,” Abby insists. “I hated it then – I hate it now.”

CJ shrugs eloquently, just a tiny shift of her shoulders. CJ is all tiny, intricate little moments, covered by her large, loud voice, reputation, and intelligence. “How are Annie and Liz?”

The former First Lady sighs. “They’re doing well. Annie still blames her mother for the divorce, but she visits Liz most weekends when she can get away from college. It’s getting easier.”

“Has she decided on a major yet?”

“No. She’s threatening to give up on college entirely, join a commune, and sculpt penises for the rest of her life. Jackass over there keeps encouraging her to do it, much to her Liz’s despair.”

We all know who the Jackass is. I’ve always liked their irreverence with each other. I’ve always envied it.

“And Ellie?” I ask.

Abby takes a sip of wine. “Georgia and Thomas have the chicken pox, and she was recently promoted at work, so her life is hectic. They’re coming up for Easter. Zoey’s madly in love with a fellow Ph.D. student, Daniel. He’s all we hear about these days. Jed hasn’t met him, but he hates him already.”

“That’s no surprise,” CJ comments.

“No,” Abby agrees.

“I had lunch with Zoey and Daniel the other day,” I offer. “The President would actually like him, I think. He’s an intelligent guy.”

“Not as intelligent as my husband, of course,” Abby says with mock-sarcasm. “But how’s your work, Donna? I haven’t seen you in so long. Too long. I take it you’re still enjoying the Senate.”

“As much as a person can enjoy the long hours, the tense meetings, the endless lobbying, wheeling, dealing and backstabbing,” I laugh. “I still love it,” I assure her. “It’s still new and challenging and exciting.”

“Sam says you might be moving to Budget,” CJ remarks.

I take a sip of champagne. “Maybe,” I say vaguely.

“And when is Mike going to make his move?” Abby asks.

I laugh again. “That’s what I was invited for, wasn’t it? So you could all ask me about Mike’s intentions.”

“We know Mike’s intentions,” CJ shrugs again. “He’s not making any noises of commitment but he’s quietly lining his ducks up.”

“Toby would kill you for using those clichés,” I tease.

CJ points to her rounded stomach. “Toby made me this way – he feels guilty every damn minute of the day. He learnt last time not to pick me up on clichés or idioms.”

I roll my eyes. “Some people argue about the toilet seat – you and Toby argue English.”

But a flash of jealousy runs through me. CJ and Toby do not have the same lightness that the President and the First Lady do. CJ and Toby are shades of grey; something heavier and more beautiful. And I wish I had something like it.

“Word has it, Donna, that you’re one of Mike’s ducks,” Abby comments.

I shake my head. “No, not at all. Besides – Sorenson’s looking good for a second term.”

“Unfortunately.” CJ rolls her eyes. “I think Mike can do it. His record is impressive. He’s always taken a firm stance on issues. Sorenson weaves and ducks and gives the diplomatic answer without actually saying anything. It’s not obvious unless you put him against someone like Mike, but it’s there to exploit.”

“Let’s not talk business,” Leo interrupts.

We look up to find his dark eyes twinkling. Leo looks less stressed than he did during his Chief of Staff days. It makes him look younger, which looks damn good on him. “I’m sure the Senator’s had enough for the week.”

I stand and kiss Leo. “Yes.”

“He’ll go after the boys on Justice,” Leo says to me in a confidential tone.

I nod. “Mike’s working the phones as we speak.”

“Sam also says you might be moving to Budget. That’ll probably depend on Jackson and Moore, won’t it?”

“Yes, and they’re waiting on Mike’s decision.”

“You’ll give up Governmental Affairs?”

Abby rolls her eyes. “Certainly, Leo, we won’t talk business at all. I’m sure the Senator gets enough of it during the week.”

“The Senator never shuts up about her work,” Sam complains.

He’s suddenly standing behind me and the warmth of his body touches the edges of mine.

During my Senate campaign, the huge crowds overwhelmed me. I was used to looking at them, but I wasn’t used to them looking at me. Sam was with me most of the campaign, and I liked it when he stood so close to me – he was solid and reassuring and reminded me of what I was doing.

I told him that once, and he always stands close now.

“It’s all I ever hear about. I don’t think the Senator remembers how to relax, or take a break,” he continues dramatically. “There’s always some emergency, some crisis that has to be dealt with, and…”

He’s interrupted by the loud ring of my cell phone.

“See?” Sam sighs theatrically.

The others laugh. I smile apologetically as I slip out of the room.

********

Usually one of my assistants would answer my phone for me, but I refused to bring any of them with me for the weekend, much to their horror. I pointed out however, that this is a personal weekend, not a business trip, and I’m paying my own way.

“Hello,” I answer.

“Sorry to interrupt,” Mike begins.

“It’s okay.”

I follow the hallway around until it opens up into a kitchen with windows from ceiling to floor. Catering staff mill about organizing trays, washing champagne flutes, stirring and frying and organizing things. I spot a sliding door and exit onto the porch. The air is spiked with a slight chill.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

“I’m almost certain that Ted got to Donaldson. Someone needs to talk to him and you deal well with him.”

“You mean,” I tease, “I don’t end up yelling at him like you do?”

I can hear Mike’s shrug. “He’s an ass. He’s an ass from Delaware, a state that people barely remember and nobody could care less about, he can only operate two brain cells at the same time but he swans about the building like he’s God’s gift to the Senate, and I…”

“Okay, Mike, I’ve heard this speech before. Granted, you’re usually drunker but the tune’s the same. I’ll call Donaldson.”

“Thank you. I really am sorry for interrupting. How is everyone?”

“Good. The same. Different. It’s strange seeing them under normal circumstances. You work with them for so long in intense situations and you’re so close…you know how it is…”

“Not really. I’ve never worked in the White House.”

“Yet,” I say quietly. There’s a pointed silence. “Goodnight, Mike.”

“Goodnight.” A pause. “Donna?”

“Yes.”

“We have to talk. When you get back, we should go for lunch. About…well, we have to talk.”

“Sure. Goodbye.”

I ring off and realize that somebody is standing behind me.

I speak without turning. “Hello, Josh.”

********

He’s surprised. “How’d you know?”

“Lucky guess.”

I turn around and find Josh leaning against one of the pillars. He’s tossing his cell phone up and down in one hand. He’s always liked casual, disarming poses. He drapes on things, leans on couch arms, wriggles and shifts, fiddles with and taps on objects on the table or the desk.

Except when he’s out to screw you. He’s deathly still then.

He’s my past personified, everything that made me Senator Moss of Washington D.C., the darling of the left, the media’s favourite photo opportunity, the only unmarried, undivorced, unwidowed Senator, and youngest of the hundred. He’s everything that made me a single and slightly bitter woman. He’s everything I don’t want to remember but can’t let go of.

“You look good,” Josh tells me in that offhand way of his. It’s supposed to be as casual as he is, a passing observation, but his eyes follow my body.

My dress is from an exclusive Washington boutique. I bought it impulsively three days ago when I walked past the window. It’s green, sea-green and it glimmers under the lights. It’s a strapless sheath with a chiffon overlay and a hemline just above my knees.

“Thank you.” I remain silent.

“Ah, the lady doesn’t return the compliment,” he says self-deprecatingly.

He does look good. I want to tell him that he hasn’t really aged. He’s in his mid-forties now and he has less hair and more wrinkles, he’s thinner than he should be, and I can see a residual stiffness in his shoulders, but he still looks energetic and purposeful.

He still looks like Josh, with his mobile mouth and dimples, and that glint in his deep brown eyes – the one that draws everybody in the room to him and promises magical, heady, remarkable things.

I shrug, though, and say, “Your ego doesn’t need stroking.”

“Well, God knows my ego has missed your regular disparagement of it.”

“My regular disparagement had little or no effect at the time. I kept knocking you over and you kept getting back up,” I say. “How are you?”

“I’m well, thank you.”

“Congratulations.” I let the word fall between us, refusing to pretend any longer. He’s married with a baby on the way, and this is not The Way We Were. “About the baby. CJ told me.”

“Oh.”

“You must be thrilled.”

“We are.”

Josh invokes the pronoun deliberately. I know he does. Just like I know that he’s about to fiddle with the knot in his tie. Just like I know that he hasn’t had anything to drink tonight but he’s seriously wishing he had now.

“You guys are onto Maclay?”

Josh pulls at his tie and I hide my grin.

“Yes.”

“He’ll…”

“Be going after the Justice boys,” I say. “Mike’s fixing it now. I have to call Donaldson, so if you don’t mind…”

He stares blankly at me.

“I need some privacy,” I finally say.

“Oh.” Josh nods uncertainly. “I’ll see you in there.”

“Thanks.”

I’ve thrown him and I did it deliberately.

********

Donaldson is too easy – it takes me six minutes and a breezy tone of disbelief to bring the guy back around to the party line. But he’s the type. The kind of Senator who plays the game without understanding the rules or the strategies. The guy who’s so worried about making a mistake that his resolve is only as firm as the last person he spoke to.

I’ll call him tomorrow morning before Maclay can get to him again.

I head back inside to find Abby ushering people into the dining room for entrée. When I say ushering, I mean she’s standing at the door commanding them to move. I’m the last in, but Sam has saved a seat for me. Between him and Josh.

“Sorry,” I say to Sam as I slip into the seat. “Did I miss anything interesting?”

“The First Lady called the President as jackass again. The baby kicked.”

I glance reflectively as Amy – she’s the next seat over from me, beside Josh. “Which one?”

“CJ’s,” Josh replies. “Our baby isn’t kicking yet.”

“Not for another few weeks,” Amy adds.

“Oh.” I turn back to Sam. “Did Mike offer you a job before?”

He nods as a short blonde girl serves him parsnip chilli soup. “He’s been asking me for weeks now.”

“Lining his ducks up,” CJ observes from the other side of the table. She glared at Toby. “Don’t you dare, Toby.”

Her husband makes a face – a face that is painful just to look at – but he says nothing. Toby has finally learnt the wisdom of keeping his mouth shut. Of course, CJ had to break a teapot over his head before he did, but the resulting humiliation and the seven stitches he received finally taught him to stop messing with his wife when she’s pregnant.

“I’m not a duck,” Sam protests.

“No, I always thought of you as a beaver,” Josh says. We all stare at him with surprise. “What? He has…beaver-like qualities.”

I shake my head. “He’s far too good-looking to be a beaver.”

Under the table, Sam squeezes my knee.

“A beaver?” Toby asks in disbelief. “You thought about things like that? And you were the third person in charge of the country for eight years?”

“Fourth,” Leo speaks up. “I would have put Toby in charge before Josh.”

“Hey!” Josh exclaims.

Leo is grinning good-naturedly. “After the secret plan to fight inflation I had serious doubts about your ability to converse properly. I wasn’t going to let you run the country.”

“I’m still fighting the inflation thing?” Josh groans.

Charlie chuckles and says, “They’re still talking about it over at Treasury.”

Sam nods. “Besides, if I’m a beaver, you’re a hippopotamus.”

“What?!” Josh’s horror is fabulously comical.

CJ nods, her expression perfectly serious. “I can see that. Always getting stuck in mud. Lumbering around and knocking into things.”

“Donna’s crashing theory,” Sam adds.

Amy frowns and looks at me. “Crashing theory?”

I blow on a mouthful of soup. “Josh’s former habit of randomly crashing into women and hoping they’ll break up with him.”

“Your point was a moot one. I never once crashed into Joey Lucas,” Josh tells me.

“Not for lack of trying,” I mutter.

“And there was the whole coffee mug thing,” Charlie adds. Josh glares at him.

I twist back to Sam. “Why don’t you want to work for Mike?”

“He has bad taste in ties.”

I roll my eyes. “Sam!”

“I like being a lawyer,” Sam answers laconically. “I like being a successful, well-known, extremely wealthy lawyer. I don’t want to get back into politics.”

“That’s why you insist on reading all the papers and reports I get, and commenting on them and editing my speeches and making so-called notes in the margins, which usually end up being a whole new speech, huh?”

“Well, my impressive speechwriting skills should benefit somebody.”

“You have impressive speechwriting skills?” Toby asks with surprise. “I never noticed.”

Sam ignores him. “And there’s nothing wrong with being informed about the political climate of my country. I do live in D.C.”

“Who did you crash into?” Amy asks Josh.

He shakes his head. “Nobody. It was just another of Donna’s…things.”

“Things?” I ask. “I didn’t have things. You had things. Not me.”

“You did so,” Josh insists. “The Karen Cahill thing…”

Sam and Leo laugh.

Margaret glares at Leo. “Donna didn’t start the problem in the first place by making a stupid remark about shoes.”

I glare at Sam. “And at least I know where Kazakhstan is.”

They both stop laughing, and Margaret and I exchange amused looks.

“What’s the Karen Cahill thing?” Amy asks.

I immediately swing and glare at Josh. “Don’t even think about it. I’m a Senator. I can make life very difficult for you. And your IRS threat doesn’t work anymore.”

“You used to threaten people with the IRS?” the President asks from the head of the table. “I don’t think that was particularly professional, Josh.”

“Oh, like you didn’t do the same kind of thing,” Abby says. “‘I’m Commander-in-Chief – I can blow you up with nuclear weapons’.”

“I never said that!”

“I distinctly recall a Thanksgiving dinner that involved you saying that to anybody who disagreed with you,” Leo speaks up.

“Et tu, Brutus,” the President glares at his best friend.

“And you used to ask Ron Butterfield if he could kill Abby’s ex-boyfriends,” Charlie informs the group.

The President drops his spoon. “Whatever happened to loyalty?”

“I’m not even going to get started on how juvenile you are about my ex-boyfriends,” Abby says.

“I want to know about the Karen Cahill thing,” Amy insists.

“You really don’t,” I tell her. “It involves Karen Cahill, shoes, nuclear weapons, Kirkestan, and my underwear.”

“Oh, the underwear thing,” the President nods. “I remember that.”

CJ also nods. “The underwear thing. Josh was holding up your underwear in the middle of the bullpen.”

Amy’s eyes widen.

“Not like that,” Josh hastily says. “It was – the pant-leg. Donna didn’t shake it out, and when she went to the exhibition, she…ow! Don’t kick me!”

“Wasn’t me,” I say innocently. “Why not work for Mike?” I ask Sam. “He could benefit from your impressive speechwriting skills.”

“Again,” Toby begins, “I say that…”

“Shut up,” CJ interrupts.

“I only want you to benefit from my impressive skills,” Sam tells me with a grin.

I drop my voice and lean closer. “We’re now talking about sex, right?”

Josh is looking at us with hooded eyes.

Sam’s grin widens. “When are we not?”

“When we’re talking politics,” I counter, raising my voice back to normal pitch. “You could do some good work for Mike.”

Sam shakes his head. “I’ll do better for you. When you’re ready.”

“I’m not going to…”

“Yes you are,” Toby says quietly, but with a conviction that could move mountains.

I ignore them all and return to my soup.

“Where did you get that necklace?” the President asks. He’s looking intently at my neckline, which is a more disconcerting experience than the time Ted Kennedy walked in on me when I was only wearing was panties and a bra.

Love, money, and the promise of the Presidency will not drag that story from me.

The necklace is a gorgeous emerald set in a simple pendant. There’s a matching bracelet and earrings that dangle and glitter under the lights. They’re all antique pieces.

“Sam gave me the set, last Christmas.”

“Expensive jewellery,” Amy comments. Like all of Amy’s comments, this one has a not-so-hidden meaning.

Sam shrugs. “I’ve got the money and no-one else to spend it on.”

“You could spend it on me,” Margaret and Abby say in unison. They smile at each other.

“Paul buys you jewellery all the time,” Leo says to Margaret, referring to Margaret’s husband, a Boston based neurosurgeon she met in the last year of Bartlet’s second term. Leo still doesn’t like Paul; he merely tolerates his presence.

“Not jewellery like that,” Margaret counters.

“Emeralds are a beautiful gem,” the President comments.

Abby groans. “I feel a lecture about gems coming on.”

“Mike’s asked me to work for him,” someone says conversationally. “I’ve said yes.”

It’s Josh.

********

Part Two