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The first hour is stilted formality. We pose for a million photographs that leave starbursts burned into my retinas. We walk shoulder to shoulder to the East Room and then shuffle into order for an official receiving line.
Each country is hosting its own table, bedecked in its colors and heraldry. More champagne flows as the courses are served, and the laughter grows louder as the meal ends. I work the room, shaking hands and making toasts, until the Marine Band sets up for the after-dinner dance.
I asked for jazz tonight. New Orleans jazz and Southern blues. Even a few zydeco numbers, if they could make it happen.
In no time, the dance floor is filled. The French president and German chancellor take the prime ministers of Lithuania and Estonia to the floor for a waltz, to the delight of the entire room. That will be the picture on the front page of the world’s papers.
Reese is everywhere and nowhere. Moving through the crowd, then vanishing. Appearing beside his agents to check in, then slipping away. Always on the edges, never in the throngs, but he draws my attention no matter where he is. I want to take him into my arms, ask him if he knows these songs the band is playing. I want to dance with him, feel his hips and mine move together.
I want to know what it feels like to kiss him in the middle of a crowded room.
Midway through my fourth glass of champagne, I can’t tear my eyes away as he checks on his agents.
I know enough to set my glass down.
After the second musical set, waiters appear with after-dinner drinks. I grab a coffee and the Canadian prime minister, and we talk for twenty minutes before the rest of our compatriots descend on our table.
Yawns are smothered as the Marine Band announces the final number.
“Mr. President?” The prime minister of Estonia holds out her hand. “You haven’t danced tonight. Care to change that?”
The only person I want to dance with is standing six feet away, holding post behind the table where we’re sitting. I take her hand and kiss her fingers. “I’m sorry, but I have two left feet, and the last thing I want is to stomp all over your beautiful shoes.”
“I’ll take the lady around again.” The French president, of course, rises to the occasion. He bows and holds out his hand. “Madame.”
Off they go, and I watch as the night winds down.
Most of the guests file out, exiting through the far doors so we’re not inundated by three hundred well-wishers all saying goodbye. The Secret Service herds everyone along, and the click of high heels and the babel of voices grow quieter until it’s just the heads of government and our senior staff left. The spouses are clustered on the far side of the room, well used to the last-minute diplomatic chatter that unfolds at the end of these evenings.
We share one last drink and plan to resume our conversations in the morning. I’m told to make the coffee extra strong. We’ll be meeting in the same room we’ve dined and danced in, but overnight, it will be transformed from ballroom to summit space.
Excitement clings to us all. This is happening, and we can feel it. We’re going to break the mold. We’re going to write history in new and better ways. We are going to change the world together, and it starts here, tonight. Or it started when I invited them all to this state dinner, or before that, when I dared to imagine we could choose better and be better people for one another. Maybe it started when I made that walk across the Golden Gate and swore I would do everything I could in this life. For Sérgio, and for my father, and for the thirteen people in the first mass grave I excavated, who have never, even after all this time, been reunited with their names or families.
It’s surreal, escorting these world leaders to my front door and waving goodbye to each as they climb into their motorcades and drive off.
And then… I’m alone.
Soft clicks of dishes and the clink of flatware being gathered up spill out of the East Room as the staff begins to clean. Vacuums switch on, their dull roar running up the hallway. The candles have all been blown out, and I’m like Cinderella at the end of the ball. I’ve been out too long, and everything is turning into pumpkins.
Loneliness seizes me.
I’m trapped in two worlds, each one hurtling me toward inevitability. Historic changes on the global stage. Human rights and dignity elevated to their rightful highest place.
Reese, and how I’ve already started to fall in love with him.
I’m alone in this empty mansion with only the hum of the vacuum cleaners for company.
“Mr. President.”
And there he is.
Reese is as perfect now, at midnight, as he was six hours ago. His tux still looks pressed and starched, as if he hadn’t been on the move all night long. He’s sporting his dimpled grin, and a single lock of hair has fallen forward, curling over his forehead and brushing across his eyebrows.
Champagne bubbles are floating in my veins. There’s an unreality to this moment, this stressful yet successful night that’s ending with vacuum cleaners and empty hallways. I feel untethered from the world.
We’re alone again. We haven’t been alone since we were in the back of Henry’s SUV after our run.
“Where are your agents?”
