Part 5

April 20, 2000

“So, tell me, Doctor.  Will I ever play piano again?” Trixie joked as she buttoned her blouse.

Dr. Lambeth chuckled as he made a few notations on her chart.  “Let me guess, you’ve never played piano before.”

“Nope.  Not a musical bone in my body.”

“Well, everything looks fine.  It’ll take a couple of days to get all the bloodwork back, but I’m not expecting to see anything amiss.”

“Since nothing was amiss six months ago when I was put through every test known to mankind before they’d let me take this job...” Trixie griped good-naturedly.

“Protocol, Agent Mangan.  Every new agent gets a check-up twice a year the first two years.  After that, it’ll be only once every three years, until you turn 40, then once annually.”

“I know, I know.  But honestly, I feel fine.”

“Good,” Dr. Lambeth said with an approving nod.  “Let’s keep it that way.  Try not to go out and get yourself shot.”

“That’s the plan,” Trixie replied with a grin.

“Anything you need to discuss?  Any troubles adjusting?”

“No.  I’m a little tired but considering my work schedule—well, I guess using the word ‘schedule’ is kind of a joke—and considering that I’m basically surviving on coffee and strawberry pop, I guess I’m doing okay.”

“Getting enough exercise?”

“Yes.”

“Taking your vitamins?”

“Yes.”

“Getting enough sleep?”

“No.”  She grinned and added, “I try.  I actually had a whole weekend off last month.  I went home to see my family and that really recharged me.”

“Good.  I know the work is intense and the schedule can be pretty tortuous, but just remember that you can’t do your job properly if you’re rundown mentally or physically.  This isn’t the kind of job where you tell yourself to suck it up and go to the office anyway.  Don’t be a hero, Mangan, or you won’t be able to be a hero when it counts.”

“Aye-aye, Cap’n,” Trixie said with a mock salute for the naval doctor.

“Lieutenant Commander, actually,” Dr. Lambeth corrected with a wink.  “Now get out of here and let me get back to tending sick people.”

Trixie was more than happy to obey.  She hadn’t enjoyed spending half of her only day off that week in the doctor’s office.

Why are doctors always running behind schedule? she mused irritably as she left the clinic and began fishing in her purse for her cell phone.

It was Dan’s birthday and it was bad enough that she couldn’t be there to help him celebrate.  “If he’s already gone to work,” she mumbled to herself, “I’m suing the doctor’s office for making me late.”

Luckily, Dan picked up on the second ring and Trixie’s face lit up at hearing her husband’s voice.

“Hello, beautiful,” he crooned.

“Happy Birthday, baby,” she sang.

“You already tried ‘Baby’,” Dan reminded her teasingly.

“Yeah, I know.  So, how’s the big 2-5, old man?”

“And you definitely can’t call me ‘Old Man’!”

“Not even when you’re 75?”

“Trix, if you haven’t come up with a suitable nickname for me in 50 years, I think you can pretty much give up.”

Trixie laughed.  Instead of continuing on her way to the nearest Metro station, she found a bench and sat down, intent on enjoying a comforting conversation with her husband.  “How’s your birthday going?”

“Well, my wife’s not here, so that’s kind of a bummer.”

“I’m sorry,” Trixie replied with a frown.

“I know you are.  We’ll see each other next weekend.”

“Yes, and you know I’m going to make it up to you.”

“That’s something to look forward to,” Dan enthused.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t get off this weekend for Easter.  Zoey’s going to Good Friday services with her mother here in Washington.  All of the Bartlets will be high profile Sunday at the National Cathedral—the President, Mrs. Bartlet, and Zoey, plus Zoey’s sisters Ellie and Liz and Liz’s husband and two children.  That’s going to be fun for Secret Service.  There’s the Easter egg roll on the White House lawn Monday, which will probably be a nightmare.  Then I’m escorting Zoey up to the farm in New Hampshire Tuesday afternoon.  School’s out all next week for her and they don’t need the extra agents at the farm, but I’ve got a lot of paperwork and research assignments to take care of here in Washington.  This’ll probably be my only day off until next weekend.”

“You’re off work today?”

“Yeah, I had them designate your birthday as a national holiday,” she sassed.  “I had my biannuals on the schedule today.  I've got my fitness test and weapon requalifications later today.  I just got out of my physical exam.”

“They decide if you’re crazy or not?”

“Ha-ha.  They don’t do a psych evaluation, just a medical check-up.  And speaking of crazy…”  She sighed.  “…I wish you were here.”

“Har-har.”

Trixie giggled.  “That’s not what I meant.  I just—well, despite the obvious reasons, I just wish you were here.  I like to talk things out with you.”

“Problems?”

“Just work stuff.  Not problems, really.  Just things I have to dig into, and I wish you were here to help me wade through it.”

“Anything you can talk about?”

Dan knew much of her work was classified for security reasons.  Trixie figured it would be pretty much the same if she had gone into private investigation, but maybe Dan would’ve joined her and Honey as a partner.  She smiled at the thought and made a mental note to think about the possibility of the Mangan-Mangan Detective Agency when she moved on after the Secret Service stint.

Deciding she could be vague and not break any of the seemingly hundreds of confidentiality clauses she had had to sign prior to starting her job, she said, “Mostly threats that I have to investigate.”

“The letters to Zoey and Charlie?”

The specifics were not discussed with the public but it was common knowledge that there were several hate groups not happy about the President’s daughter dating an African-American.

“Yeah.  The White House normally gets a few thousand threatening letters and emails every year,” Trixie said.  “About 75% of them are from mentally ill people who are locked up in institutions, but the Secret Service has to investigate all of them.  And it’s increased this year because of Zoey and Charlie.”

“You’re a good investigator.  Once you sit down and focus yourself, you don’t give up until you’ve got your man.”

Trixie smiled at Dan’s unwavering belief in her.  “Thanks.  The problem here isn’t so much ‘Who?’ as ‘How serious is it?’  They’re not really disguising their feelings.  It’s just that there are so many hate groups and it’s hard to pinpoint where the credible threats lie.  And while a lot of these groups are just spouting hot air, there’s no telling what kind of lunatic they might influence to take action all on his own.”

She sighed.  “When I was studying terrorism in college and at Rowley, my mind was always set on foreign threats.  It’s kind of sad knowing how many terrorists are born and raised right here in this country.”

 

April 24, 2000

Just as Trixie had predicted, Monday was a nightmare.

The White House lawn was filled with children and their doting parents, all of them taking pictures or shooting video of their little darlings as they rolled souvenir wooden eggs, signed by both President Bartlet and his wife Abigail, across the front lawn of the famous estate.

The tradition, dating back to Presidents Hayes’ term in office back in 1878, had grown into a media event in the modern age.  Tickets were offered online and swept up faster than you could say Peter Cottontail.  More than 20,000 families came from across the nation for the event, which included other activities for the children and their parents, live music, and refreshments.

Security was tight and kept the Secret Service vigilantly on their feet all day.  Despite carefully posted warnings, people still tried to bring in prohibited items.  Most of these violations were completely innocent in nature and the embarrassed guests willingly turned over the items in question to the agents at the gates—aerosol cans of hairspray so that Missy would look just so when she got her picture taken on the White House lawn, duffle bags with changes of clothing for the children in their Sunday best, bags of snack foods for impatient and cranky toddlers waiting in line to be admitted.

Trixie got so tired of explaining for the millionth time why Johnny’s favorite water pistol wasn’t allowed in—no matter that it was bright green with Buzz Lightyear stickers all over it and in no way resembled an actual weapon—that she almost kissed the agent who came to relieve her after her ten-hour shift.

When she stumbled into her apartment after six, she immediately decided she was more tired than hungry.  She kicked off her shoes, tossed her jacket on a dining room chair, and unfastened her hip holster, letting her sidearm drop carelessly to the floor.  Her radio, handcuffs, and bulletproof vest quickly followed.

She saw the red light on her answering machine blinking and hit it as she made her way to the couch and collapsed with a moan.  She dug under the cushions, searching for the television remote as she listened to her parents wishing her a Happy Easter.

“Happy Easter, Moms and Dad,” she mumbled, mentally smacking herself for forgetting to check her messages the day before.

She turned on the Weather Channel as she listened to her almost twin wax eloquent about the Drake family Easter buffet and her stomach growled.  Maybe she wasn’t more tired than hungry.

She muted the irritating elevator music that accompanied her “On the 8’s” forecast and listened to Dr. Lambeth’s office asking her to call to go over her tests from the previous week.

“No,” she groaned into a throw pillow.  “Too tired.  I’ve been living on fast food for the last four months and I’m about to have potato chips for dinner.  Now is not the time to find out my cholesterol is through the roof.”

Satisfied the flight to Manchester wouldn’t be delayed or cancelled by a freak April snowstorm, she turned the television off and listened to Suzette confirm the same thing.  Suzette was the scheduling coordinator for the White House detail of the Secret Service and her annoyingly nasal twang was almost unbearable, as was her fanatical attention to detail.

“Agent Mangan, I’m calling to confirm your travel plans for tomorrow, Tuesday, April 25th, 2000.  You and Miss Bartlet will be picked up by the front door of her Georgetown dormitory, located at 504...”

“Gleeps!  I know where it is!  I practically live there!”

“...You will be driven to Washington Dulles International Airport located in Chantilly, Virginia...”

“Thanks, Suzette.  I had no idea where Dulles was,” Trixie said dryly.  She was tired and crabby and would’ve cut off the message if she’d had any energy to drag herself over to the answering machine.

“...on American Airlines.  It is scheduled to land at Manchester Boston Regional Airport, located in...”

“Yeah, yeah!  I know!  I don’t need every last friggin’ detail!”

She pulled the pillow over her head to muffle the voice droning on about their hired car and the exact route it would take to the Bartlet farm and when they could expect to arrive.

“Hello, Spy Girl.  Secret Agent Mangan here with a highly classified message for your ears only.”

Tossing the pillow to the floor, Trixie smiled.  Now there was a voice worth listening to.

“I love you.”

Trixie let out the tension of the day in a long, blissful sigh but when there was nothing further, she sat up and peered over the back of the couch at the answering machine.  “Is that all?”

Immediately, Dan’s voice came again, making her laugh out loud.  “No, that’s not all.  Also, I can’t wait to see you.  Only four more days.”

“Is that all?” she asked.

After a couple seconds of silence, Dan replied, “Yes, that’s all.”  Changing his voice to a robotic tone, he added, “End of top secret communication.  This message will now self destruct.”

Trixie fumbled at her pockets for her cell phone, thinking she’d at least leave him a funny message on his voicemail if she couldn’t actually reach him.  But the phone was in her jacket pocket and her jacket was miles away in the dining area of the tiny apartment.

She tried to motivate herself to get up and get it.  She could call Dr. Lambeth to get the exam results over and done with.  No, it was after office hours and he wouldn’t be available.  She’d call him tomorrow before she left for the airport with Zoey.  She should call Suzette before she called back, confirming that Trixie had received her confirmation call.  That thought just made Trixie groan.  She should call her family and wish them a belated Happy Easter.

Eh, belated.  What’s the point? she thought grumpily.

“Face it,” she said out loud, her voice echoing slightly in the empty apartment, “if calling Dan isn’t motivation enough, nothing’s going to make you go get the phone.”

She closed her eyes, thinking she’d nap for a little while before making something to eat and doing some work.

The next thing she knew it was Tuesday morning.

 

April 25, 2000

“You look like hell, Mangan.”

“Thanks, Kelly.  Good morning to you, too,” Trixie replied with a grimace, taking another lifesaving sip of her coffee as she stopped outside Zoey’s dorm room.

“Late night?”

“No.  Early morning.  I conked out on my couch about six thirty last night and got ten hours of sleep.”

“I’m totally jealous,” Agent Sams replied.  “I can’t remember the last time I even got six or seven hours of sleep.”

“Plan for it this week while Zoey’s in Manchester.  It might be the only chance you get.”

“So you’ve been up since four?”

“Yeah.  Heck of a way to finally get things done around my place.”

The door behind them opened and Zoey poked her head out.  “Morning.  Is the car here yet?  Because I’m not quite ready.”

Trixie checked her watch.  “By my account, you’ve got eight minutes and 14 seconds.  I’m assuming Suzette is tracking the driver so that he arrives precisely on time.”

Kelly gave a chortle of amusement at Trixie’s annoyed assessment.  She glanced longingly—not for the first time—at Trixie’s coffee cup and Trixie clutched it tighter and gave her a Butterfield death stare.

Zoey left the door open as she returned to her last-minute packing.  From the dimmed lighting of the room she called out, “Did I hear you’ve been up since four, Trixie?”

“Yeah.  Cleaned the whole apartment, did some online research, made a few calls once it got to a civilized hour.”

“You had all this free time and you worked?” Kelly asked.  “You’ve got a problem, Mangan.”

Trixie shrugged.  “I’ll be off next weekend.”  Blushing slightly, she added, “And I might have been doing some non-work things online, too.”

“Porn?” Kelly teased.  “It’s been a month.  You must be missing your husband pretty bad.”

“She doesn’t look at porn, Kelly!” Zoey blurted in feigned shock.  “She’s a woman madly in love.  She was probably on the Lucy Radcliffe message board.”

“Yeah, reading naughty fanfiction.”

Trixie reached out her free hand and flicked her colleague on the arm.  “She thinks I’m a saint, Sams.  Let’s not destroy that illusion.”

Kelly rolled her eyes and checked her watch.  “You on duty or do you want me to stay until the car comes?”

“No, I’m good.  Go ahead and get out of here.”

“Thanks, Mangan.  See you at tomorrow’s staff meeting.  Have a nice flight.  Bye, Zoey.”

Trixie waved a goodbye and turned to stare into Zoey’s room.  “You almost ready, Bookbag?”

Zoey crinkled her nose distastefully.  “I hate my code name.  It makes me sound like a little kid.”

“Probably because you were a little kid when you got your code name.”

“I was sixteen.”

“A little kid,” Trixie affirmed with a mockingly disdainful sniff.

“Oh my gosh, she’s 22 and thinks she’s got years of maturity on me.”

“I’m almost 23 and who are you talking to?  Did Charlie spend the night?”  Trixie stepped into the room and gave the cramped living space a quick visual sweep.

“Ha-ha.  The dorm doesn’t allow overnight guests.”

“I’m sure there are ways around that,” Trixie muttered.

“Anyway, Charlie and I aren’t there yet.”

Trixie smiled as she saw Zoey’s cheeks pink up.  She was glad she wasn’t the only one with uncontrollable blushing impulses.  “Sorry,” she said.  “Didn’t mean to pry or assume.”

Zoey gave an unconcerned wave to dismiss the apology.  “No biggie.”  Zipping up her bag she turned and said, “You really don’t look good.  You’re not getting sick, are you?”

“No,” Trixie replied firmly.  “I just slept too hard and too long and got up too early.  That’s all.  Let’s get downstairs before Suzette sends the schedule police after us.”

“I don’t know if I can get my parents to go for it.  I think Mom will be a tougher sell than Dad, actually, if you can believe that.”

Receiving no response, Zoey pulled her focus from her notebook and turned to her bodyguard.  Trixie was staring out the window of the plane, her chin cupped in her palm.

“Trixie?”

Trixie jerked to attention and turned to Zoey.  “I’m sorry.  Did you say something?”

“I’ve been saying something for the last ten minutes,” Zoey teased.  “Where were you?”

“I’m sorry.  I’ve got my mind on other things.”

Zoey frowned.  “Work things?”

The threatening letters hadn’t stopped but neither had they escalated, either in volume or in tone.  The Secret Service hadn’t been able to pin down any specific threats but they kept at it.  Trixie, in particular, had burned a lot of midnight oil trying to make sure all their bases were covered as far as protection and anticipating potential problems.

Zoey turned back to her notes, tapping her finger on the paper to keep Trixie’s attention on her.  “When you have a big favor to ask, do you go to your mom or your dad first?”

Trixie grinned.  “I go to my husband.  He’s a big softie underneath the streetwise cop exterior.”

“I meant when you were a kid,” Zoey laughed.  Without waiting for an answer, she turned slightly in her seat and went on enthusiastically.  “Liz went to Italy for a summer and Ellie went to England.  I know my parents expected I’d want to go to Europe, too, but do you think they’ll go for the idea of me spending a whole year in France?”

“What?”  Despite the fact that Zoey had been talking about it for ten minutes and had probably been dropping hints in Trixie’s presence for weeks, it totally took her by surprise.

“France.  The Sorbonne.  Trixie!”

“You’re going to transfer to the University of Paris?”

“Just for a year and only if my parents agree to it.  So, do you think they will?”

“I don’t know,” Trixie replied absently.

She tried to listen as Zoey went over her whole idea again, getting progressively more excited and animated as she envisioned spending a year abroad.

France?  For a whole year?  What would that mean to the Secret Service?  To her job?  Would they ask her to go with Zoey?  Would they insist on it?  Would Zoey or her parents insist on it?

France?

It was hard enough being four or five hours away from Dan.  They couldn’t be an ocean apart for a whole year and make it work, could they?

An ocean apart.  The thought suddenly made Trixie a little nauseous and she took a quick sip of her tea to help settle her.

God, don’t I have enough on my plate to worry about?

April 27, 2000

“Hey, Scrappy.”

Trixie was standing by the door that led to the portico of the White House.  She glanced over her shoulder but as she suspected, she was the only other person in the room outside the Oval Office.

Charlie paid her no mind as he went around behind his desk and sat down, his focus on the documents in his hands.

“Did you just call me Scrappy?”

Charlie raised his head and nodded, his expression solemn but his dark eyes twinkling mischievously.

“Why?”

Now he grinned, the tomfoolery spreading to the broad smile and shining from his sparkling white teeth.  “Zoey and I gave the agents nicknames.  You know, like the code names you all give us.”

“And I’m Scrappy?  Like Scrappy Doo?”

“Well, yeah.  You’re small, feisty—”

“Annoying!”

Charlie shrugged and winked.  “I don’t think you’re annoying.”

Trixie made a face but said nothing as President Bartlet’s personal secretary, Delores Landingham, entered the office.  Mrs. Landingham had known President Bartlet since he was in prep school, serving as secretary to his father, who was the headmaster.  She was in her late 60’s and often seemed more grandmotherly than secretarial.  But she was hard working and completely devoted to President Bartlet.  She was also feisty enough to deserve the nickname Scrappy herself.

“Good morning, Agent Mangan.”

“Mrs. Landingham.”

“Are you waiting to see the President?”

“Yes, ma’am.  He knows I’m out here.”

“That’s fine, dear.  Would you like a cookie while you wait?”  She picked up the glass jar on her desk and held it out to Trixie.

“Thank you, Mrs. Landingham.”  She took a cookie and noted that since it was oatmeal raisin she could probably rationalize it as breakfast.

“Charlie, would you like one?”

“He called me Scrappy,” Trixie remarked.

As Charlie moved his hand toward the jar, Mrs. Landingham pulled it back out of his reach.  “You called this lovely young woman with a sidearm Scrappy?” she questioned.

“Yes, ma’am.  Like a Secret Service code name.”

Mrs. Landingham raised her brow and turned to look at Trixie.  She turned back to Charlie, staring authoritatively over the tops of her thick glasses before going back behind her desk, the offer of a cookie retracted.

Trixie grinned wickedly at Charlie and took a satisfying bite of her cookie.

“So, are you talking to the President about Zoey going to France next year?” Charlie asked.

Trixie’s smug expression vanished and she choked a little, a large chunk of the cookie getting temporarily lodged in her throat.  She nodded as she pushed it down with a hard swallow.  “I guess she called him last night and told him.”

“Will you have to go with her?”

Trixie could feel the blood draining from her face at the idea but she said firmly, “I serve at the pleasure of the President.  Anyway, he may not even agree to let her go.”

“Zoey has her father wrapped around her little finger,” Charlie replied.  “I’d be practicing my parlez-vous français if I were you.”

“Charlie,” Mrs. Landingham warned gently.

Trixie gave him a semi-fierce Secret Service glare as she tried to reassert her position of authority.  Without taking her eyes off him, she reached into Mrs. Landingham’s cookie jar, took a second cookie and bit savagely into it with a very vocal groan of pleasure.  Charlie scowled at her, pretending he was peeved about the cookie but not quite able to contain the merry twinkle in his eyes.

The door to the Oval Office opened and Leo McGarry, the President’s Chief of Staff, came out.  “Good morning, Beatrix.”

“Mr. McGarry,” Trixie mumbled through a mouthful of cookie.

“What do you have this morning, Mrs. Landingham?” he asked, peering hopefully at the cookie jar.  Leo’s face was as leathery as a cowboy’s, though he’d spent most of his adult life dealing with bull in Washington’s political rodeo rather than on the free range.  His smile was rare when he was occupied with work but at the moment it was as playful as a leprechaun’s.

Mrs. Landingham took the lid off the jar in invitation.  “Oatmeal raisin.” 

“The President isn’t going to like that,” Leo remarked as he pulled a cookie out.  “He prefers your iced sugar cookies.”

“Oatmeal raisin is better for him,” Mrs. Landingham returned.  She firmly put the lid back on the jar as Charlie tried to sneak his hand in on his way to the copier.

“Beatrix, good morning,” President Bartlet greeted cheerfully as he came out of the Oval Office.  He studied the cookie jar on Mrs. Landingham’s desk and scowled fondly at her.  “Oatmeal raisin?”

“They’re very good,” Trixie offered.  “Better than my mom’s, even.  But don’t tell her I said that.”

“It’s Mrs. Landingham’s devious attempt to get me to eat more healthy foods,” the President grumbled, dismissively waving his hand as Mrs. Landingham offered him a cookie.

“And if you don’t stop complaining, I’ll be stocking this jar with carrot sticks,” Mrs. Landingham said smartly.

A sarcastic “Bah!” burst from his lips as he turned and gestured to Trixie to follow him back into his office.

“Thank you for the cookies, Mrs. Landingham,” Trixie said.  She smiled at the kindly woman then turned and stuck her tongue out at Charlie as she passed him.

“Bon voyage, Scrappy,” he muttered with a thick French accent.

As she turned to shut the door to the Oval Office behind her, she shook her finger at Charlie and whispered harshly, “Don’t call me Scrappy!”

April 28, 2000

The knock on Trixie’s apartment door startled her.  She rarely had guests and was getting ready to head over to the airport to pick up Dan.

She stood on her tiptoes to peer through the peephole.  A smile so bright he must have seen it from the other side of the door burst across her face and she hurriedly undid the locks and flung the door open, throwing herself into Dan’s arms in the same explosive movement.

“You’re here!” she exclaimed, peppering his face with kisses.

“Caught an earlier flight.  Thought I’d surprise you.  Are you surprised?”

“Yes!  How did you get in?  Did you hack security?”” she joked.

“No, one of your neighbors was coming out as I was coming in.  I guess I’m not all that scary.”

Dan picked her up bodily and she clasped her legs around his waist.  Somehow, they managed to get themselves in the door.  He stepped backward, leaning his weight against the door to shut it and she agilely reached behind him to lock it, neither of them ceasing their physical affection for one another.

“A whole weekend,” Dan murmured between kisses.  “Three whole days.”

“I’ve been waiting for it forever,” Trixie agreed, her lips buried in his neck.

At the same time they stopped and pulled back to take a moment to stare into each other’s eyes.  Trixie loved Dan’s eyes, so dark brown they were almost black—coffee-colored eyes.

“I think of you every morning when I get my cup of coffee,” she told him with a grin.  “You have mocha eyes.”

He chuckled, leaning in to give her a light kiss on the lips.  “I’ve missed you.”

“Right back atcha ... buddy?”

“Buddy?”  Dan grimaced and shook his head.  “I’d rather not be your buddy, thank you very much.”

They shared another, very un-buddy-like, kiss.

“Do you want to see me naked?  Or do you want to see the city?” Trixie asked.

“I want you in every way, shape and form imaginable this weekend, babe.  I just want to be with you.”

She laid her head on his shoulder and sighed, stroking his jaw with her fingertips.  “I’ve had dreams about sitting on the couch with my feet in your lap, sharing a bowl of popcorn while we watch a chick flick.”

“A chick flick?  Really?  Not a Bond film?”

“No.  I miss making fun of sappy movies with you.”

“Did you rent Steel Magnolias again?”

“Beaches.”

Dan eased his way into the small living room, Trixie still in his arms, and sat down on the secondhand sofa.

“Tell me about my family,” Trixie implored.

“Matthew is growing like a weed.  And he already says my name.”

“Really?  He says Dan?”

“Sort of.  He says Da.”

Trixie giggled.  “And you don’t think he’s going for Daddy?”

“No,” Dan said assuredly, a broad grin on his face.  “Definitely Uncle Dan.”

“More.”  She snuggled down against him and laid her head on his chest.

Dan twined his fingers with hers, gently twisting the rings around her finger and watching as his mother’s diamond glinted in the late afternoon sun coming through the patio door.  “I took Penny to Sleepyside last weekend.”

“Another futile attempt to teach her to hunt rabbit?”

Dan snorted.  “Not this time.  Your mom wanted me there for Easter Sunday and to celebrate my birthday.”

Trixie squeezed him a little harder, silently conveying her apology for missing his birthday.

“It was nice.  Me, your mom and dad, Bobby, Uncle Bill, Edwin, Brian and Honey, and Diana.  And Diana brought Larry and Terry over, too.”

“Sounds like typical Crabapple Farm chaos,” Trixie remarked wistfully.

“Yeah, it was a hoot, all right.”

“Did you get anything nice for your birthday?”

He buried his lips in her riotous curls and murmured, “You.”

“I thought you were my birthday present,” she teased.

“Your birthday’s not ‘til Monday, Miss Fidget.  It’s still my birthday until then.”

“Fine, have it your way.  What else did you get?”

“Diana’s father took BLT to a Mets game a few weeks ago and they all pitched in and got me a shirt.”

“BLT?”

“Yeah, Bobby, Larry and Terry.”  As Trixie laughed, he added, “I don’t know which one of them came up with it, but they all laugh like loons whenever somebody calls them that.  I think Larry and Terry have even taken to calling your brother Bacon.”

The mere mention of bacon made Trixie’s stomach growl and they both laughed. 

“I take it dinner is high on the itinerary tonight?” Dan joked.

“In or out?”

“In?” Dan gasped.  “You mean you’ll cook for me?”

“Don’t die of shock but I miss cooking for you.  Never seems to be much of a point when it’s just me.  Or else I’m too tired and just grab a burger on the way home or something out of the freezer.  I’m actually looking forward to cooking this weekend.”

“Well, I can’t honestly say I’m looking forward to cleaning up after you, but...”  He laughed as she poked him in the ribs.

“What’re you in the mood for?”

“What do you have?”

“I went shopping this morning when I got off work, so I’ve got whatever might strike your fancy.”

“Like what?”

“Pasta, meatloaf, chicken, steak, potatoes, salad, asparagus, broccoli...”  She lost her train of thought as Dan’s free hand wandered downward, slipping underneath her shirt and moving up her back.

“What can you put together that’ll take a good long time to cook while we get busy working up an appetite?”

His fingers were still laced with hers and she brought his hand up and grazed her lips across his knuckles.

Now?  After they made love?  Before dinner or after?  When should she bring it up?

“You know what I want to do tonight?” she blurted impulsively.

“I have a pretty good idea.”

“Besides that.  I want to take you on the Monument Walk.  It’s so cool at night.  I want you to see it.”

“Okay,” Dan said agreeably.  “After dinner?”

“Yes.”  She pulled herself off his lap and stood, tugging him along with her.  “And after...”  She waggled her eyebrows and his almost pained look of need made her giggle.

Yes, after they had the perfect evening together she’d tell him.

But she didn’t.

After a delicious dinner of grilled chicken with a garlic butter sauce over penne pasta, a tossed salad, and homemade garlic bread, which Dan made while Trixie supervised the amount of garlic he added, they took the Metro into the heart of the city for the Monument Walk.

It was a gorgeous spring evening, with just enough of a chill that they were glad they wore their jackets.  The sky was clear and even the well-lit tourist attractions couldn’t dim the stars that insisted on shining their way through the blue-black of the night.

Trixie enjoyed showing Dan the city she had come to love in just a few short months.  Not enough to live there permanently, she knew, but she could be happy for as long as she was here.

A stretch of time that might be shorter than either of them had anticipated.

By the time they made their way around the Tidal Basin to the Jefferson Memorial, they were ready to take a break.  They sat on the cool marble steps that led up to the monument and stared out across the Tidal Basin, where the nearly full moon reflected brightly up at its celestial twin.

“This is my favorite place,” Trixie told Dan.

“Why?”  Not questioning but just wanting to hear her voice.

“I guess because it’s quiet.  It’s far away from the other memorials so it doesn’t get quite as crowded, especially at night.  I like to come here and think.”

She leaned back and rested her arms on his legs as he sat behind her with his elbows resting on the step behind him.  “Have a lot to think about, do you?” he teased.

“Mm-hmm,” she murmured.  If you only knew...

She had to tell him but part of her hated to ruin the peaceful togetherness of this moment.  No matter what they decided and how it all ended up, it would start badly.

But it’s not like I can put it off.  “Dan...”

“Excuse me?”  A pleasant-faced man with a camera in hand interrupted.  “Would you mind taking our picture?” he asked, gesturing to a woman and two preteen boys that stood up at the top of the marble stairs.

“No problem,” Trixie replied amiably.  She reached for the camera but Dan quickly grabbed it first.

“Let me.  Otherwise they’ll have a blurry photo of four headless people in front of a monument they can’t identify.”

“Ha-ha,” Trixie snarked back.

The man showed Dan how to use the camera’s dark lighting feature then joined his family near the foot of Thomas Jefferson’s massive figure.

By the time Dan had snapped off a few shots, a large group of noisy high schoolers and their chaperones had come to visit Jefferson, and Trixie and Dan’s quiet place to converse had disappeared.

Dan gave Trixie a look that clearly conveyed his desire for them to be alone.  She put her hand in his and they made their way around the monument, over the bridge, and back to the nearest Metro station so they could return to her apartment.

As it had been when she had been in Georgia and Virginia training for this job, the first time they made love after being apart was feverish and needful.  It was steamy sex that left them both breathless.  And extremely ravenous when it came time to sit down to dinner.

And just as it had been when she was in training, the second time they made love was lingering, passionate, and tender.  Just as steamy and leaving them just as breathless but with satisfied sighs as they curled up in each other’s arms with the sheets tangled at their feet.

Trixie’s fingers idly traced the tattoo on Dan’s arm, watching the moon slowly make its way across the room, blanketing them in its gentle glow.  Finally, she spoke.

“Dan?  I have something to tell you and I need to be able to get it all out without being interrupted, okay?”

He didn’t reply so much as emit a sleepy grunt, but she took that to mean he was listening.

“I should’ve told you before and I’m sorry I didn’t.  I mean, I didn’t want to tell you over the phone but I should’ve told you as soon as you walked in the door.  I guess I was just surprised since you came early and all.  And then we—well, got distracted,” she teased.  “But I’m telling you now, so please don’t be mad.

“I guess I waited because I didn’t know what I wanted.  I mean, deep down in my gut I guess I always knew but that doesn’t mean I didn’t have to think long and hard about it.  I had to be sure myself before I told you.  No.  That’s not it.”  She shook her head, irritated with herself.  Her curls must have tickled under his nose because he snorted softly and reached up his free hand to brush them away.

“I know you’ll support me.  I always knew you would.  I guess I was just ... afraid.  Everything’s moving so fast.  I’m only 23.  It’s just ... a really big step.  It’ll change everything.  And I’m just not sure I’m ready for any more change.

“What I’m trying to say is...”  She hesitated and propped herself up on her elbow, turning so she could look directly into his eyes and gauge his reaction.

His eyes were closed, his mouth slightly agape, his breathing rhythmic and soft.

“Dan?”

He caught his breath and let it out again, smacking his lips together as he swallowed and settled back down.

“Dan?”

Her husband didn’t stir from his sound sleep.  He’d tease her tomorrow that she wore him out.

She’d have to screw up her courage all over again in the morning.

With a sigh, she laid her head down on his chest and listened to his heart beating, waiting for it to lull her to sleep.

Then, in a whisper so soft not even the moon heard, she said, “Dan ... I’m pregnant.”

 

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Author's Notes

Part 5 (6,287 words)

Trixie’s first battery of tests came in October when she was being screened for the position at the White House.  On October 3, 1999 during Chapter 25-The Runaway, Dan mentions that Trixie was in Washington for a few days. The Secret Service does have periodical testing for all agents, including medical exams, physical fitness tests (running, sit-ups, push-ups, etc.), and weapons requalifications (handguns and rifles).

The Metro is the public transit system in the Washington DC area that includes the train service (Metrorail) and the bus service (Metrobus).

I found information on the White House Easter Egg Roll at whitehouse.gov.  Some of the security measures may be more in line with the post-9/11 world but I loved torturing Trixie (grin).

Much of my information on the Secret Service came from the book To Be a U.S. Secret Service Agent by Henry M. Holden.  Bookbag was Zoey’s Secret Service code name in West Wing canon.  According to the book, the President (in addition to the common name POTUS—President of the United States) and everyone in his family gets a code name, as well as the Vice President and his family as well as any other staff, cabinet members, presidential candidates, etc. deemed necessary.

Zoey went to France for the summer after her graduation from Georgetown at the end of Season 4.  Her pondering about going for a whole year is my idea.

Scrappy Doo is the Great Dane puppy nephew of Hanna-Barbera cartoon character Scooby Doo.  And yes, I remember finding him highly annoying.  I don't think I want to make any profit by his use here. *g*

Steel Magnolias and Beaches are both weepy chick flicks.  I either like them or like to make fun of them, depending on my mood.

I’m not sure who first called Bobby, Larry, and Terry “BLT” (the F/U game?  Leigh?) but it’s pretty amusing, especially to me.  My sister was sometimes called Bacon when she was a teenager.  She had a friend named Leslie but she was called Eggs not Lettuce.  I can’t recall if they had a friend whose name started with a “T” but they did start calling our minister Father Toast at one point. (grin)

Mal and Mary were gracious hostesses and tour guides who took Zeute and I on the Monument Walk (during the day) when I went to DC over Labor Day weekend 2009.  The Jefferson Memorial was my favorite, too, and now you know why I chose it as my header for this story.  If only I were a real writer maybe I could’ve taken the trip off on my taxes as “research”. (grin)

I was actually surprised to discover that according to this site and this site, the incidence of unplanned or unintended pregnancies and/or births is anywhere from 30% to 50% (which includes both married and unmarried women and couples actively using birth control).  I didn't feel so guilty then about letting Trixie's birth control fail after Honey's already did (grin).

Except for my created characters (Dr. Lambeth, Suzette), all characters either belong to Random House (Trixie Belden) or Warner Brothers (West Wing) and are borrowed lovingly and with full respect.