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Midway through changing she picked up her cellphone and called Stevie Popadopolos, a friend from church who had no kids and was usually glad to come sit with the kids at the drop of a hat. The kids liked her fine—perhaps because she spent all her time playing with Annie and John Paul, the eight- and six-year-olds, and left the older kids alone.
"Should I bring Ticket to Ride or have you finally bought the game?" asked Stevie.
"Europe, America, Germany, Switzerland, Nordic countries, I think we have them all," said Cecily.
"And nobody's lost any train cars or destination cards or anything?"
"Lettie removed every destination card that leads to Duluth," said Cecily. "But if you bring your own set, she'll just remove them from yours during the game."
"Thanks for the warning. And … do I smell cookies in the oven?"
"Am I that predictable?" asked Cecily.
"Saturday is cookie-baking day at the Malich house," said Stevie. "Who doesn't know that!"
"The President," sighed Cecily.
"Oh, he knows, he just doesn't think cookies are important."
"And his political maneuverings are? I don't think so."
"I'll be there in half an hour," said Stevie. "Tell the President that he should send a chopper for the babysitter, too."
"He only sent the chopper for me the one time," said Cecily.
"And you're saying he's not sending one this time?"
"Well, no, he actually is, but this is only the second time."
"Seeya!" sang Stevie triumphantly, in her church-soprano voice.
Cecily sighed and finished dressing in time to limit the kids to one hot cookie each as they slid the first batch off the sheets.
The chopper had taken her above the traffic and the bridges and the river, Nate had his little bag of cookies, and of course Cecily spent an hour and a half in a conference room waiting for the President. Nobody even bothered to apologize for things like this—it was part of the President's life.
Some politicians would make her wait as part of some power game. Lyndon Johnson used to put people in their place by holding their meeting in the bathroom while he took a noisy, smelly dump. But Torrent didn't play games like that—though Cecily suspected it was only because he was so absolutely convinced of his own superiority that he didn't need to put other people down in order to prove it to himself.
When her wait ended, though, Torrent didn't send a flunky to get her. He came striding into the room himself and said, "Come on into the Oval, Cecily, we've got us a top-secret situation."
"Meaning the conservative wing of the Republican Party has discovered you're a socialist? Or the dove wing of the Democratic Party has discovered you're an imperialist?"
"For once it isn't politics," he said.
"Well, since that's the only thing I know anything about, I don't know why I'm here."
"So Nate could get your cookies, of course."
"Did he save any for you?"
"No, but I saw the cinnamon on his face."
Which was his way of making sure she knew that he knew what kind of cookies they were. Torrent was good at having enough details to fake sincerity really well. Everyone had assumed when he first took office that since he had been a Princeton history prof and then National Security Adviser, he'd be good at foreign policy and a babe in the woods when it came to politics.
Instead, he turned out to be a superb politician. Partly because he didn't have the stupid idea that his political instincts were enough. He did nothing, politically, without getting advice and learning all he could from the people who knew. Which is what he usually called Cecily in for—her outside-the-beltway perspective. Not that she lived in Arkansas or anything, but she had never lost touch with people who were outside politics. She had a good sense of what people were thinking in every region of the country. Of course she worked hard to stay current, analyzing all the polls and staying in touch with correspondents all over the country. That was what kept her valuable to the President—valuable enough that she was paid six figures a year for a few consultations a month.
And her consulting fees came equally from the budgets of both parties—no way was her salary going to come out of tax money. For her it was an ethical issue. For Torrent, it was a matter of not wanting to have to appoint her to a position that would make their conversations part of the public record.
"Political consultants don't have any kind of privilege," she had reminded him once.
