The plus side of avoiding the terminal was not lost on Trixie.  She didn’t have to fight the crowds or wait endlessly for her suitcase to show up on the carousel.  And she could be certain the crew on Air Force One wouldn’t lose her luggage.  It was a small overnight bag with only a few essentials, as it hadn’t been determined when they left if they would return to Washington late that night after the Hollywood fundraiser or wait until the following morning to depart.

The down side was the missed opportunity to pick up a souvenir for Dan.  After they had found her first floaty pen on their trip to Atlantic City, they each started picking up floaty pens for each other anytime they happened to see one.  It was now their floaty pen collection, rather than hers, and airports were a prime location to find them.  Hopefully, there would be another opportunity while they were in Los Angeles, especially since Zoey would be doing some sightseeing while they were there.  It would be a whirlwind trip but maybe there would be a chance.

“I still think we should be going to Disneyland,” Zoey said as she walked beside Trixie to their limousine.

“We’re only going to be here for about sixteen hours,” Trixie reminded her.

“And that’s not enough time to go to Disneyland?”

“The security logistics were too difficult.  You made the decision to come out here with your father too late for us to plan an outing of that magnitude.”

They stopped at the limousine and waited outside while the President, two congressmen, the mayor of Los Angeles, and several City Council members had photos taken.

“That has nothing to do with it,” Zoey scoffed.  “The security logistics are a pain wherever I go, whenever I go.  Couldn’t you just shut down Disneyland for me?  Make it my own personal playground for the day?”

Trixie knew she was being facetious.  Zoey was very sensible and never took advantage of her father’s stature to get things done for her.  She lived in the dorms at Georgetown.  She took the Metro.  She ate lunch at McDonald’s.  And she didn’t have amusement parks shut down for her arrival, even though it must have been tempting at times.

Trixie tried to keep her facial expression serious but even her Secret Service training couldn’t completely eliminate her horrible poker face.  “The truth is, your father wouldn’t allow it because he couldn’t be there with you.  He’s dying to get on Space Mountain.”

Zoey laughed.  Trixie opened the door of the limo for her and she slid inside.   “You’ll have plenty of time to sightsee today without going to Disneyland,” she reassured her charge, grimacing inwardly as she considered the hectic day ahead of her.

Zoey spent the morning touring the city and doing some shopping on Rodeo Drive while her father had briefings with his staff and a meeting with some civil leaders to discuss a proposed Constitutional amendment prohibiting flag burning.

Trixie had to admit that she was far more focused on the job while Zoey shopped—an activity that bored her to death—than she would have been if they had gone to Disneyland.  She was pretty sure she would have just died if she had been at Disneyland on duty, watching Zoey enjoy the park while she kept busy looking for threats and skipping all the rides and attractions.  She couldn’t imagine any Secret Service agent on duty had ever had their photo taken with Mickey Mouse.

Late in the morning, they drove up the coast to Santa Monica where Zoey planned to have lunch at a local restaurant.  She had been hoping for “the L.A. experience” and Sam Seaborn, the Deputy Communications Director who had grown up in the area, had suggested the Playa Cantina.

Unfortunately, a good chunk of the “experience” went out the window when her father impulsively decided to join her.  Instead of a quiet lunch in a crowded restaurant filled with local flavor, the Secret Service cleared out the restaurant for President Bartlet and his staff.

Now, Zoey and her father sat at one table while President Bartlet’s staff sat at another, having a meeting over tamales and burritos with a weasly-looking man named Al Kiefer.  The Secret Service agents sat at two additional tables nearby, enjoying their lunch in rotating shifts as best they could while keeping one eye on the President and his daughter and one eye on every door and window in the establishment.

“Dad, I can’t believe you did this,” Zoey grumbled as she poked her fork petulantly at her guacamole.

“Surprised you for lunch?  I know.  I’m the best.”

“Dad, I wanted to have lunch in Los Angeles—”

“You are.”

“With people, with L.A. people.  I wanted the atmosphere.  And they’ve cleared out the place.”

“Yeah, but on the other hand, the guy made guacamole right in front of us.”

“Dad!”

Trixie tried not to chuckle.  A conversation between a father and his exasperated teenage daughter was pretty much the same everywhere, even if the father was the President of the United States.  And the guacamole was excellent.

“This is father/daughter fun time.”

“I was having fun,” Zoey replied, giving her father a gentle glare.  “And then you come within 100 meters of me and my protection, like, quadruples.”

President Bartlet looked around the nearly empty restaurant with an expression of mock surprise.  “Oh, you know, I hadn’t thought about that.  Now that you mention it, yeah, I think you’re right.”

“What?  Is someone after me in California?”

“All kinds of things in California, Zoey.  You've got your smog, your freeway shootings, brush fires, mudslides.  Plus, apparently…”  He paused and shot a furtive glance over his shoulder before lowering his voice and concluding, “…there's a mad rash of flag burning going on, and you don't want a piece of that.”

“See, you think you're funny.”

“Right there, right in front of me, they made the guacamole.  Now, how about that?”

Trixie lowered her head and grinned at the banter but inwardly she was grim.  President Bartlet had chosen not to share with his daughter the sudden surge of threatening letters the White House had been receiving regarding Zoey’s relationship with Charlie Young.  His reasoning was that there was enough danger involved merely by being the President’s daughter.  Until they could verify the authenticity of the letters and determine who was sending them, he didn’t want her any more fretful about her protective detail than she already was.

The stress of that potential threat was not lost on President Bartlet and he tended to deflect the worry by making fun of topics that others took too seriously while he didn’t.  Topics such as the flag burning that Al Kiefer seemed to be up in arms about.  Trixie could hear him ranting about it with the President’s staff at the next table.

“On the flag burning, the bottom line couldn't be clearer. If he says nothing, he takes a hit, but not a fatal one. If he stands in opposition to the amendment, you can all start updating your resumes.”

“I don't buy that,” Sam Seaborn said evenly.

If Trixie thought Josh Lyman was attractive, with his dimples and his own endearing brand of arrogance, the Deputy Communications Director was so pretty it made her teeth ache.  And he was so idealistic and earnest that he made Jimmy Stewart in Mr. Smith Goes to Washington look apathetic by comparison.

Al Kiefer was sitting with idealistic Sam Seaborn, argumentative Josh Lyman, the quietly stoic but deadly Communications Director Toby Ziegler, and C.J. Cregg, a statuesque redhead who could’ve been a silent film star in another life but instead dealt with stark raving mad reporters every day in her job as the White House Press Secretary.  Any one of the four could take Al Kiefer with one hand tied behind their back.  Together, they were a formidable team.

Sort of like a political version of the Bob-Whites, Trixie thought with an inward grin.  Al Kiefer doesn’t stand a chance.

They argued spiritedly for a few minutes about the issue until Trixie, whose head tended to spin whenever politics were involved anyway, felt completely at sea by Kiefer’s roundabout doubletalk.  C.J. Cregg laughed derisively at one point and Kiefer took her moment of distraction to direct his attention to the table next to them.

“Mr. President, do you want to sew up reelection right now? Do you want a lock on your second term right here, right now in this room?”

“What do you got?” President Bartlet asked, his tone clearly uninterested and nearly dismissive.

“Why do you encourage him?” Josh Lyman asked.

“What do you got, Al?” the President repeated.

“A truckload of voters, Mr. President, about 47%. Overwhelmingly white men, pool and patio types, who voted against you by 20 plus points.”

He rose from his seat and moved over quickly to the Bartlets’ table.  Trixie wasn’t the only agent who seemed poised to leap over but Bartlet waved them off.  Al Kiefer was no threat.

“They share an affinity towards authority, a President.  And they see you as smart and having vision, so why didn't they vote for you?  Because they also see you as a wimp. Two-thirds of them on a thermometer place you as some degree of weak.”

Josh Lyman had turned and scooted his chair closer to the Bartlets’ table as well.  “We’ve heard these numbers before.”

“Yeah, but I never get tired of hearing them, you know,” President Bartlet said dryly.  He paused, then with a voice filled with disdain for his uninvited table guest, added, “Especially in front of my daughter.”

“Agent Mangan.”

Butterfield was calling and Trixie immediately pulled her attention away from the intriguing conversation at the Bartlet table and followed her boss off to one side of the restaurant.

“There’s a good-sized crowd out front,” Butterfield said.  “I know you’ve been trained, but this will be your first real experience with crowd control, correct?”

“Yes, sir,” Trixie replied evenly.

“We’ve received some more threatening letters directed toward Charlie and Zoey, including one I thought you should see.”  He held out a photocopy of the letter that had been received at the White House and faxed immediately to the team in California.

The typed letter was brief and to the point:  Don’t think you can hide among the California queers.  We’ll still find you.

She looked up at Butterfield, her expression cool.  “They’re here?”

“The agents outside have done their job but there’s only so much you can do in an uncontrolled environment like this one.  We have no reason to believe there’s a threat outside at this very moment but you know the drill.”

“There’s always a threat.”

Butterfield nodded approvingly.  “It’s just a matter of how serious and if it will present itself or not.  Stay close to Zoey and keep your eyes peeled.”

“Yes, sir.”

Charlie Young interrupted the discussion at the table—for which Trixie was sure President Bartlet was eternally grateful—in order to keep the President on his schedule.  He was due in South Central L.A. for a town hall meeting on school vouchers.

Trixie moved to Zoey’s side as she gathered her things, looking slightly perturbed at how her “L.A. experience” lunch had turned out.  She found it hard to stay mad at her father for long but she’d need some time to gripe about it before returning to the enjoyment of her day in the California sunshine.

The crowd outside was much larger than Trixie had expected for an impromptu stop on the President’s schedule.  A few people held signs in support of, or in protest against, President Bartlet and his policies.  Most, though, had come on the spur of the moment, just hoping to catch a glimpse of the President while he was in their neighborhood having lunch with his daughter.

They quieted somewhat as President Bartlet got into his car and was driven away before turning their only slightly less enthusiastic fervor to his daughter. 

“I just wanted a regular lunch, you know?” Zoey complained as she and Trixie made their way toward her car.  “In a restaurant?  With people?  My father sees danger behind the curtains.”

Trixie kept her sharp eyes on the crowd.  Her days at Rowley had trained her well.  In a large, noisy, unruly crowd, you kept your eyes open for the anomalies, for the one thing that wasn’t quite right.  The man in a long trench coat on a warm day.  The woman wearing dark sunglasses on a rainy night.

Today, in the boisterous crowd of mostly young supporters, the two that caught Trixie’s eye were dressed appropriately for the pleasant afternoon and were approximately the same age as most of the crowd in the hip area of Santa Monica. 

But they weren’t cheering and screaming.  They weren’t reaching out hands, hoping for a handshake with the President’s daughter.  They weren’t holding out autograph books or taking pictures.

One of the young men looked like someone she might have gone to school with.  He wore a navy blue polo and had dark sunglasses dangling from one hand as he leaned on the barrier separating the crowd from the Washington visitors.  He had a stocky build, like a wrestler, not overly tall, with hair so closely cropped it was hard to tell if it was dark blond or brown.  The taller boy next to him wore a dark, long-sleeved shirt.  His dark hair was slicked back sharply from his forehead and his small mouth was pursed in a tight scowl.

They never took their eyes off Zoey and Trixie as they made their way to the car.

“Hey, Zoey, do me a favor and walk on the other side of me, would you?”

“Trixie…”  She sounded exasperated.  She had just gone through this with her father and now with the agent she was trying to confide in about her father’s overprotectiveness?

“Let’s just get in the car, okay?”

She instinctively put one hand to the weapon stowed safely under her leather jacket.  Opening the car door for Zoey, she turned, keeping her body between Zoey and the two suspicious looking men.  After Zoey was safely in the car, Trixie shut the door and turned back.  The two men were still staring with dark, distinctly unhappy expressions on their faces.  Trixie hadn’t quite mastered the lethal stare of authority that Ron Butterfield could do so well but she held their gaze fearlessly for a moment before pointedly removing her hand from her weapon, smoothing her coat over it, getting into the front seat of the car and instructing the driver to move on.

It was well after midnight and Air Force One was somewhere over the Rockies.  It had been a very long day but Trixie was wide awake.  Several of the agents were catching some shut-eye and most of the other passengers were trying to sleep as well.  Zoey had gone to her father’s private quarters to sleep and Trixie was officially off duty.

She had been doing some research online on white supremacist groups until Butterfield had caught her and ordered her to get some rest.  Work could wait until tomorrow.  She had been about to shut down the laptop when she decided to send an email to Dan.  He was still at work but he could get it when he came home at dawn in a few hours.

It’s about 1:30 a.m. and I’m on my way back to Washington ... on Air Force One!  I have M&M’s for you ... with the Presidential Seal on the box.  How cool is that?  If you weren’t at work, I’d give you a call, even if it is 3:30 in New York.  I miss the sound of your voice. 

“Beatrix?”

Trixie looked up.  President Bartlet was standing by her seat and she immediately began a frantic scramble to her feet.

“No, no.  Keep your seat.  May I?”  He indicated the empty seat across from her and Trixie nodded, momentarily speechless.

“Are you working at this hour?” he asked in a fatherly tone, forehead creased in rebuke.

“I was.  I’m just sending an email to my husband right now.”

“Why aren’t you sleeping?”

Trixie shrugged.  “Too wired, I guess.”

“You should cut down on the coffee.”

They both smiled, knowing caffeine wasn’t the reason Trixie was awake tonight.  It occurred to her that he was awake at a late hour as well.  Could you tease the President of the United States?  Since stepping foot onto Air Force One—heck, since stepping foot in Washington—Trixie had been walking the straight and narrow line, wanting to make a good impression.  It hadn’t always been easy for her to curb her natural instincts to speak up, butt in, take charge, but she had succeeded.  Until now.

“Maybe you should cut down on the coffee, Mr. President.”

She felt a tiny lurch in her throat that told her maybe she had stepped over that line but his relaxed smile quickly put her at ease and once again she was struck by his understated manner.

“Among other things,” he replied.  “I seem to have a somewhat stressful job.”

“Me, too.”  She grinned more broadly this time as she tried to compare careers with the leader of the free world.

“Zoey had a good day?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Spend all my money?”

“I think she still has a few dollars left.”

He turned and stared out the window for several seconds.  He looked tired, Trixie noted.  God, who would ever want that job?  “Sir?”

“What does your husband do, Beatrix?”

He sounded sincerely interested while at the same time his eyes told her he didn’t want her to pry into his troubles.

“He’s an officer with the NYPD.”

President Bartlet raised his brow slightly and nodded.  “Before I was elected, I thought there was no tougher job than being the President of the United States.  Now I wonder if there’s any job tougher than being married to the President.”  He paused and let out a long, quiet sigh.  “I can’t imagine it’s much easier for your husband.  How long have you two been married?”

“Um ... about a year and a half ... or six months ... depending on how you look at it.”

He chuckled but didn’t seem inclined to dig to the bottom of that enigmatic statement.  “He’s okay with you being so far away?”

“Dan’s very supportive of my career.  This phase of it is limited but very once-in-a-lifetime.  We both agreed I couldn’t pass up the opportunity.  We’re young.  When my job is done here, we can be together, start our family.”

“Well, you make sure Butterfield gives you ample opportunity to spend time together.  Vacation time, holidays...”  He trailed off, turning to look out the window again. 

Was he worried about her and Dan?  Or about his own family?  He had enough on his plate without worrying about his agents’ home lives.  Firmly, she said, “Sir, I fully understand the demands of this job.  So does Dan.”

President Bartlet pushed his breath out slowly as if forcing his worries away as well.  He patted Trixie on her knee as he stood.  “My wife and I will make time as a family to go up to the farm in New Hampshire this summer.  We like to invite the staff, the agents, and their families, so make sure you and Dan put it on your calendar.  I’m going to try to get some sleep.  You do the same.”

“Yes, sir.  Goodnight.”

She watched him walk off, hands thrust in his pockets, the weight of the world—literally—heavy on his shoulders.  She returned to her laptop.

Thank you for being you ... and for letting me be me.  I miss you.  I love you.  Today was a good day.

Author's Notes