Peter's Christmas Read online

  In one corner of the hangar, Geneviève led him on a tour of the various aircraft that had shaped Vietnam’s history. The MiG-15 and the F-14 Tomcat jet fighters loomed above them, but it was the helicopters that had intrigued him. He knew that Emily had started out in a Huey UH-1 Iroquois.

  “We captured one of these on our plantation. Gram used it for transporting a new roasting oven for the coffee before turning it over to the government. Then she let the pilot loose in the woods with a map and a compass, it was the best she could do for him. She received a thank you letter many years later from Alabama.”

  Peter had flown in both the White Hawk and bigger Sea King versions of Marine One and Emily’s Black Hawk. Modern thoroughbreds compared to the Huey and the even more ungainly Seahorse parked close beside it. These machines were primitive by comparison.

  Geneviève had let him look his fill, and now they were headed into the other hangar. A museum manager had made himself discreety available, though it hadn’t taken him long to fade back in with the Secret Service agents. He and Frank appeared to hit it off well, and he clearly liked Beat, which left Peter feeling as if he had Geneviève to himself.

  Their footsteps echoed as they turned between a Messerschmitt and the American version of Hitler’s V-1 Buzz Bomb. The whole museum was so quiet, he could practically hear the planes sleeping.

  “This passage always gives me hope, Mr. President. So much of the Boeing Aviation Hangar is filled with machines of war. This hangar is much different.”

  They stepped through the brightly lit tunnel into the vast dimness of the next hangar. The vista slowly opened before them. At first he couldn’t make sense of the black, bulbous nose that confronted him. A little farther down the tunnel the vista opened before him and he stumbled to a halt. He’d known it was here somewhere, but that hadn’t prepared him for the impact.

  The space shuttle Discovery dominated the space before him. It looked as if it had just now landed, surprisingly world-worn. All of the other craft had been so clean that they might have been manufactured just for the museum. Not the shuttle. Its tiles were discolored. It showed the wear and tear of dozens of missions, scorch marks on her white paint, yet still she stood proudly.

  “This especially I wanted to see, Mr. President.”

  “Why is that?”

  She clucked her tongue at him causing him to focus on her. “Clearly you forget my history.”

  “Your history? Now you’re going to give me more lessons,” he complained. He made it funny, fully acknowledging that the President of the United States was indeed whining. The amount she knew about this museum had staggered him.

  “Yes, Mr. President your history is lacking and you need a lesson.”

  He tried a sulking pout and she laughed.

  “That makes you look like angry two-year old.”

  “So, give me your lesson, Section Chief Beauchamp,” he pouted harder.

  She managed to keep a straight face, but it was clearly a struggle. She finally had to turn away and release a set of girlish giggles that echoed back to them off the high, curved metal ceiling. Catching her breath, she turned back to him.

  “A very good friend of my grandfather flew on a Soyuz in 1980, they were in the VPAF together. What you would call the North Vietnamese Air Force, they both flew in that MiG-15 we just saw. He was made a Hero of the Soviet Union for shooting down one of your B-52 bombers, though your country continues to deny the incident a half century later. I also have an uncle, from the French side of the family, who flew on your space shuttle in 1992. Flew for the ‘other side’ if you will. Just because we are Vietnamese does not mean that we are not modern.”

  “Well,” he gazed at her for a moment. “We Americans are innately arrogant.”

  “I was thinking it is acquired later in life.”

  “No, it’s genetic. We’re born that way. So, is this the shuttle he flew on?”

  “The Columbia. But now she too is a casualty of war, though the battle was with space.”

  Thoughts of that shuttle disintegrating during reentry and killing the crew sobered them. They circled the craft in silence, gazing at the exhibits off to either side, but ultimately returning to the Discovery. When they had fully circled the craft, Peter noticed a long ladder leading up to a small circular hatch in the side. It was open and the light from within shone out into the hangar like a beacon in the night.

  Geneviève looked longingly at the ladder, and Peter had to admit that… He waved over the hangar manager.

  “Mr. Emerson, I don’t suppose that we could,” he pointed up the ladder, feeling stupid for even asking. It was clearly not designed for public usage.

  “The exhibit curator suggested that you might wish to look inside. I admit, I took the opportunity to sit aboard her myself before she went on display. It was quite the experience.”

  # # #

  Genny was in shock that she was climbing the ladder into the actual space shuttle. She’d never dreamed that she’d get to do such a thing. Ducking in through the small lock, she stood, and was immediately disappointed.

  A couple of blue chairs with massive seatbelts filled much of the small space, little bigger than the bedroom of her Paris apartment; which was not saying much, especially at Parisian prices. No windows, no views. The walls were all covered in near-identical cabinet drawers. Most bore some incomprehensible label, equipment to fix things. She understood a few: tile repair kit, avionics spares, food stuffs. She tried to pull open that one, but it wouldn’t move. The curator, who had come in behind her and Peter, showed them how to release the catch to either side. Of course it couldn’t just pull open, not in space. Sadly, the drawer was empty.

  A small corridor led forward, but a quick peek revealed more cabinets and storage lockers. Aft was a big round hatch, that must lead out to the Payload Bay beneath the giant doors on the back of the ship.

  “It is all so tiny.”

  “Normally three to five crew members are in this space, along with their space suits,” the curator pointed out. “They did not send much empty space into space.” It was clearly one of his pat lines, so she laughed dutifully.

  Then he indicated for her to climb the ladder that she’d missed on her first scan of the room. It climbed upward steeply.

  “The proportions are all wrong,” Peter observed. And he was right.

  Her hands, holding onto the two verticals, were too far apart and the steps impossibly steep.

  “Spacesuits and weightlessness,” she and the curator said in near unison.

  Then she finished the climb to the Flight Deck. This was spectacular. Smaller than the area below, it felt huge. Peter actually had to nudge her aside as she gawked. Banks of switches and controls covered almost every surface. There were three seats. One faced rearward, placed before the controls and window that looked out into the Payload Bay. The other two seats faced forward, looking out over the entrance from the Boeing Hangar. She glanced for permission, then slipped into the left hand seat. Peter into the right.

  A large joystick fit her hand, though clearly it could also be used while wearing a spacesuit’s heavy gloves.

  “You, Ms. Beauchamp,” the curator was still being obsequiously polite in the President’s presence, “have chosen the Shuttle Commander’s seat. That makes the President your pilot.”

  “Good, that is where you should be, Mr. President. At the command of the woman.” Out of the corner of her eye, she could see him smiling at her in a strange way. So she carefully didn’t look over, but instead inspected the controls before them. A half dozen screens, as big as the ones on her laptop, were arranged in front of her. From them, in every direction, ranged banks of switches, readouts, and rotary knobs. Some in bright red with special covers. One even needed a key, marked incomprehensibly as “RJDA 18.” She pointed it out to Peter.

  “So, is that the one to make your seat
like an ejector seat? What if we get into space and I forget to bring the key?”

  “Did you always want to go to space, Commander Beauchamp?”

  “No, I would have liked to fly, but I fell in love with old temples and beautiful scenery. Did you always want to be President, Mr. Pilot?”

  At his silence, Genny looked over at him. That’s when she also noticed that the curator had tactfully withdrawn, leaving them to their momentary dreams of space.

  Peter smiled slowly, but looked forward out the windows. She wondered what he saw other than the high ceilings of the hangar in which they sat.

  “No. What I always wanted to do was help people to reach a better understanding. Never thought about politics until my wife came up with it.” He said “wife” as if even that brief mention hurt him, and she was sorry she had caused such a bad memory to return. “Becoming President was simply a way to do that on a scale I hadn’t previously imagined.”

  Genny needed a subject change, as that had all become much too solemn.

  “Weren’t you like other little boys, Mr. President? Didn’t you want to go flying into space?”

  “No. Flying was Em’s dream, not mine.” His smile became soft and wistful.

  “How is it that you did not end up married to Emily?” Genny still couldn’t make sense of that, they appeared so close. Even closer, or at least more familiar, than she was with her husband.

  Peter turned to face her now, turning away from whatever visions lay beyond the shuttle’s windows. His unblinking gaze riveted her to her chair. She couldn’t look away if the shuttle were crashing and it was up to her to save it.

  “I thought that at one time. But Emily was smarter than I was and ran, and I mean that literally, ran in the other direction.” Then he turned back to the window and gazed out into the lights.

  Genny left him to his thoughts for a long time.

  Then he blinked as if coming abruptly back to the present. His smile wiped away any of the gloom that had hovered over his features.

  “Besides, the one time I kissed her, it was like kissing my sister, if I had one. It just didn’t work at all.”

  Chapter 4

  Genny leaned back in the luxury of The Beast. The Presidential Limousine might be a heavily armored rolling fortress, but it was also very, very comfortable. The leather bucket seat wrapped around her. Though if not for the wide, shared armrest, she’d be rubbing shoulders with the President.

  “I thought your car would be wider. It feels very narrow.”

  The President rapped his knuckles on the side panel of the car door as they zipped from the museum back to the White House with a full police escort. “Five inches of bullet-proof protection on all sides has to go somewhere.”

  They turned in at the gates to the White House.

  “I am not returning to my hotel?”

  “I was hoping that you would join me for a late dinner. You don’t mind, do you?”

  Genny began considering the various implications and then stopped. She didn’t want their evening to be over, and that was enough for her. At least for now.

  “My family may still be too French, we rarely dine before this time. Can you cook?”

  “Not even a little bit. I can barbeque, but not cook. You?”

  “I do not even do that.” Genny had always loved food, just not enough to learn to prepare it for herself. And living so much on the road made any effort to maintain a kitchen utterly pointless. She didn’t even have a place to stay other than her family’s house on the plantation and her own a small apartment in Paris close by the World Heritage offices. Everything else was hotel rooms.

  She noted that they pulled up to the South Portico, rather than the North. And that a canopy like a hotel’s shielded the path from the car door to the White House doors.

  “You are afraid to be photographed with me?” The journey to the museum had included an elaborate shell game in which Agent Belfour had led her through the Hay-Adams basement to the church on the other side of the street, and she had been driven separately from the President.

  “No,” Peter hesitated, then confirmed his initial response as if making it more true for himself. “No. I don’t mind. I had thought to shield you from too much media attention for your own sake.”

  Usually Genny found men to be so easy to read, but with the President she had such difficulty that it was hard to be sure. Was he making it up on her behalf or did he not want the negative press? Like that movie, this President had absurdly high approval from the American people. But unlike the movie, he was not facing an election for two more years. Could he afford a girlfriend? Was that something she wanted to be? Too many questions.

  “How is it that you know so little about me? Didn’t your Secret Service investigate me? Even more now that I am seeing you a second time?” She remained seated in the car, so he made no move to open the door. She could just see his bodyguard waiting beside the car door, partially hidden by the thick glass as well as by the shadows beneath the canopy.

  “I’m sure they did.” The President turned on the light inside the passenger compartment.

  Now she could see him more clearly, but she understood him no better.

  “I asked for information about you after our first meeting in July,” he continued. “They told me three things about you: your name, your job title, and that you had avoided any chance at having a decent education by attending Cambridge. I have asked them to tell me nothing else about you.”

  “You must have attended that second-rate place in the Midlands.”

  They shared a smile over the centuries-old rivalry between their schools of Cambridge and Oxford.

  “They told you nothing?” Genny had assumed that she was operating at an immense disadvantage in this relationship. That her life was an open book to a man who she only knew through his public image.

  “Nothing. I ordered them not to.”

  She’d have to think about that. Assuming he was telling the truth, it meant that he was being decent and fair far past any man she had ever met. And she could think of no reason for him to lie.

  “So you asked me to come to the White House because I caught your eye?” If he said yes, he might become the third man she tried her martial arts on.

  “While you are shockingly beautiful, no.”

  Even if she didn’t tie her ego to her looks, the compliment washed over her and added to the warmth she was beginning to feel for the man. A warmth that was spreading far past her thoughts.

  “It was that you, as a woman, talked three Southeast Asian U.N. Ambassadors to a standstill without even breaking a sweat.”

  “Breaking a sweat?” She knew a great deal of American idiom, but not that piece.

  “You made it look effortless.”

  “Ah.”

  “And I thought that this was a woman worth knowing. I see your beauty as a mere bonus.” His smile turned slightly wicked.

  “And now you are baiting me. Well, I shall rise above it and you will now take me to dinner in your house.”

  The President knocked twice on the window with the back of his knuckles. After he helped her out of the car, he did not release her hand while escorting her inside.

  # # #

  They sat together in the Second Floor Kitchen. The staff had tried to place them in the formal dining room, but Geneviève had asked if they could simply dine at the island in the kitchen.

  Peter had liked the sound of that.

  Once dinner had been delivered from the main kitchen in the basement, he’d dismissed both the staff and the Secret Service. He knew the latter had merely retired to wait on the floor below until relieved by the next shift or Geneviève was ready to go home. Which he hoped wasn’t anytime soon. Not only was he enjoying her company, but she was also a joy to watch. Not merely the sleek red dress with ornate golden needlework that wrapp
ed so splendidly about her body.

  When she spoke, her hands came to life. She would fold them quietly when being an attentive listener, and then, as she attempted to draw some mental image, her hands rose and sculpted the air about her until it vibrated with her energy. It was as if she pulled threads of Peter himself and made them glow in the air before her.

  He kept wishing he had looked at her Secret Service file, then he might not feel as if he was constantly in over his head. But that boat had long since sailed. She simply overwhelmed him every moment they were together. Like now, they didn’t even need to be speaking. They simply sat quietly and enjoyed their dessert of coconut ice cream with dark chocolate sauce.

  They sat on barstools across the maple-wood island from each other in his private kitchen, a room he rarely used for more than a late-night scrambled eggs and toast. It was unfamiliar in many ways, but she made him feel as if he had sat here many times. With her. It was as if the room had been waiting only for her to place the final, proper accent upon it. She brought it too to life. The walnut cabinets picked up the highlights in her dark hair. Her eyes shone brighter than the brass fittings in the soft glow of the candles he had discovered in a corner cabinet.

  He did his best not to compare her to his first wife, but it was inevitable. Katherine Matthews had been the center of attention in any room she entered. A red-headed whirlwind with a siren’s body who had bowled him off his feet before he knew what hit him. Yet by the time they arrived at the White House they were barely on speaking terms.

  She had lived on the third floor of the Residence, he’d lived on the second. To this day, he couldn’t stand to go up there. Being a lone bachelor in the entire Residence had felt too foolish. When he made Daniel his Chief of Staff, he’d also given him the third floor to live in. Now he and his wife Alice resided there, and best of luck to them. It made the perfect excuse for him not to go up there. When the three of them dined together, which was several times a week when their schedule at the White House or Alice’s at the CIA didn’t interfere, they met on the second floor or over in the West Wing dining room.