Chippendale desk were intended to check the demands of those at the height of their power, the effect on my twenty-one-year-old self was such that my legs literally trembled.
Jean looked up from her novel to welcome me. “He just stepped out, but you can go ahead in, dear.”
“Thank you.” I tugged at the blazer I’d thrown on over my sundress in a last-minute insecurity fit. The lamps were on, casting a warm glow against the dark sky. Behind his desk there was a new addition to his sterling framed photos: Alison’s ponytail flipped over her shoulder as she gazed at those fireworks. Looking away, I cauterized my shame while hastily reaching up to tug out the one I’d spent ten minutes brushing into place.
“Jamie,” Greg called as he arrived behind me from the receptionarea, looking relaxed in a loden polo that matched his eyes. “Thanks for coming in.”
“Hi.” I waved.
“This’ll be good.” He rubbed his palms as he passed Jean’s desk. “We can go over those details and you can get them in to Margaret tomorrow morning. Save us all a meeting.” Jean continued reading. It’s true what they say. Greg has the ability to reset your perceptions through sheer force of presence. He’s notoriously rerouted more than one foreign leader between their arrival and departure. And that afternoon he radiated a decorum that made me immediately ashamed of the erotic curiosity that had brought me there.
“Yes, well.” I buttoned my blazer as I walked over to meet him. “I’m glad I could help.”
“Hell of a day out there.” He dropped his broadcasting tone as he crossed the threshold, leaving the door purposefully open.
“Yes.”
“Have a seat.” He sat on the blue couch and I cut across the oval, avoiding treading on an eagle wing to sit opposite, unsure of the script we were reading from for Jean.
“So you wanted to go over some scheduling?” I glanced at the doorway.
He stared at me. “You look like summer,” he said, his voice much quieter so that only I could hear. “Cheesy?”
I nodded. But truthfully it was the most romantic thing anyone had ever said to me. To this day it probably still is.
“You just . . .” He shrugged. “Do.”
“Thanks.” I smiled and he blushed. He was blushing. “So how was your thing yesterday with N.A.S.A.? There was a lot of discussion about whether the fans in the tent would be too noisy—were they?”
“Didn’t even notice, so there’s your answer. It was sad, honestly. Strange. I hate that that era is coming to a close under me. No more final frontier.” He sighed. “What did you do last night?”
“I, um.” I stared at the phone. “Went out—with friends.”
“To a bar?” He picked up his glasses from the coffee table between us.
“Yes. Yup. Just a few drinks out.”
“Fun.” He fingered the frames.
“It was no state dinner, but it was good.”
He blew a huff of steamed air on the lenses and cleaned them with the hem of his shirt. “Only someone who has not suffered through a state dinner would say that. I bet you were fending them off with a stick.”
“Well, you know,” I demurred. Contrived demurring. His brow dropped and he folded his glasses back on top of his papers. Was that why he called? To make sure I hadn’t spent the night out? It’s strange looking back to think I was so flattered, taking his signs of possessiveness as some sort of currency. As if it could be cashed in for having a real relationship.
“Sir, your lunch is here,” Jean called.
“Great, thanks.” He hopped up to greet the server and take the tray. “Hope you don’t mind. I’m starving.”
“No, please eat.”
“It may not be the Crystal Mall.” He set it on the coffee table between us, the muscles of his forearms momentarily defining. “But!” He gestured to three tall glasses. “Mango, strawberry, and pineapple—no, not pineapple—peach. Tell me you’re not a blueberry. Or tell me you’re a blueberry and I’ll have one
Jean looked up from her novel to welcome me. “He just stepped out, but you can go ahead in, dear.”
“Thank you.” I tugged at the blazer I’d thrown on over my sundress in a last-minute insecurity fit. The lamps were on, casting a warm glow against the dark sky. Behind his desk there was a new addition to his sterling framed photos: Alison’s ponytail flipped over her shoulder as she gazed at those fireworks. Looking away, I cauterized my shame while hastily reaching up to tug out the one I’d spent ten minutes brushing into place.
“Jamie,” Greg called as he arrived behind me from the receptionarea, looking relaxed in a loden polo that matched his eyes. “Thanks for coming in.”
“Hi.” I waved.
“This’ll be good.” He rubbed his palms as he passed Jean’s desk. “We can go over those details and you can get them in to Margaret tomorrow morning. Save us all a meeting.” Jean continued reading. It’s true what they say. Greg has the ability to reset your perceptions through sheer force of presence. He’s notoriously rerouted more than one foreign leader between their arrival and departure. And that afternoon he radiated a decorum that made me immediately ashamed of the erotic curiosity that had brought me there.
“Yes, well.” I buttoned my blazer as I walked over to meet him. “I’m glad I could help.”
“Hell of a day out there.” He dropped his broadcasting tone as he crossed the threshold, leaving the door purposefully open.
“Yes.”
“Have a seat.” He sat on the blue couch and I cut across the oval, avoiding treading on an eagle wing to sit opposite, unsure of the script we were reading from for Jean.
“So you wanted to go over some scheduling?” I glanced at the doorway.
He stared at me. “You look like summer,” he said, his voice much quieter so that only I could hear. “Cheesy?”
I nodded. But truthfully it was the most romantic thing anyone had ever said to me. To this day it probably still is.
“You just . . .” He shrugged. “Do.”
“Thanks.” I smiled and he blushed. He was blushing. “So how was your thing yesterday with N.A.S.A.? There was a lot of discussion about whether the fans in the tent would be too noisy—were they?”
“Didn’t even notice, so there’s your answer. It was sad, honestly. Strange. I hate that that era is coming to a close under me. No more final frontier.” He sighed. “What did you do last night?”
“I, um.” I stared at the phone. “Went out—with friends.”
“To a bar?” He picked up his glasses from the coffee table between us.
“Yes. Yup. Just a few drinks out.”
“Fun.” He fingered the frames.
“It was no state dinner, but it was good.”
He blew a huff of steamed air on the lenses and cleaned them with the hem of his shirt. “Only someone who has not suffered through a state dinner would say that. I bet you were fending them off with a stick.”
“Well, you know,” I demurred. Contrived demurring. His brow dropped and he folded his glasses back on top of his papers. Was that why he called? To make sure I hadn’t spent the night out? It’s strange looking back to think I was so flattered, taking his signs of possessiveness as some sort of currency. As if it could be cashed in for having a real relationship.
“Sir, your lunch is here,” Jean called.
“Great, thanks.” He hopped up to greet the server and take the tray. “Hope you don’t mind. I’m starving.”
“No, please eat.”
“It may not be the Crystal Mall.” He set it on the coffee table between us, the muscles of his forearms momentarily defining. “But!” He gestured to three tall glasses. “Mango, strawberry, and pineapple—no, not pineapple—peach. Tell me you’re not a blueberry. Or tell me you’re a blueberry and I’ll have one
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