Brad Meltzer - The First Councel

“And you were doing so well there, weren’t you?” she teases. “You had the strut going and everything.”

“It’s not funny,” I whisper. “Last time I was here, these guys… ”

“Forget about last time,” she whispers in my ear. “As long as you’re with me, you’re a guest.” Up close, she blows me a taunting kiss.

It’s amazing how she can pick the worst moments to turn me on.

As we pass the guard, he barely looks up. He simply whispers three words into his walkie-talkie: “Shadow plus one.”

Once we’re through the doorway, we can get upstairs by taking either the elevator or the stairs. Knowing that there’re guards waiting at the next landing, I head for the elevator. Nora darts for the stairs. She’s gone in an instant. I’m left alone with no choice. Shaking my head, I take off after her.

As we reach the next landing, two uniformed officers are waiting. Last time, they stopped me. This time, as I turn the corner of the stairway, they step back to give me more room.

Taking two stairs at a time, I close in on Nora. She leaves the stairs at the next landing and, following her lead, I head into the Residence’s main corridor. Like the Ground Floor Corridor, it’s a wide, spacious hallway with doors running along every wall. The difference is all in the decor. Painted a warm, pale yellow, and lined with built-in bookcases, half a dozen oil paintings, and plenty of eighteenth- and nineteenth-century antiques, this isn’t a tourist trap. This is a home.

Wandering down the hallway, I scan the paintings. The first one I see is a still-life of apples and pears. “Cézanne rip-off,” I almost blurt. Then I notice the signature at the bottom. Cézanne.

“Got it at a flea market,” Nora says.

I nod. Across from the Cézanne, I notice an abstract de Kooning. Time to slow down. Taking a deep breath, I get back in my zone.

“You want a quick tour?” she asks.

I pause, pretending to think about it. “If you want,” I say with a shrug.

She knows I’m bluffing, but her smile tells me she appreciates the effort. Midway down the hallway, we stop in front of a bright yellow, oval-shaped room.

“Yellow Oval Room,” I blurt.

“How’d you guess?”

“Years of Crayola.” Pointing inside, I ask, “Now what do you do in a room like this? Is it just for show, or what?”

“This whole floor’s mostly for entertaining-after a state dinner, cocktail parties, sucking up to senators, nonsense like that. People always wind up in here because they love the Truman Balcony-makes them feel important when they stand outside and touch the pillars.”

“Can we go out there?”

“If you want to be a tourist.”

She lets the challenge hang in the air. Man, she knows my buttons. Still, I refuse to give her the satisfaction.

“That’s Chelsea’s old bedroom,” she says, pointing to the door opposite the Yellow Oval. “We turned it into a gym.”

“So where’s your room?”

“Why? Feeling frisky?”

Again, I’m not giving it to her. I point to the door at the end of the hallway. “What’s behind there?”

“My parents’ bedroom.”

“Really?”

“Yeah,” she says, studying my reaction. “Really.”

Damn. She’s counting that one against me. I should’ve known better. Her parents are always off limits.

Down the hall, she turns a corner and stops at the wall on her immediate left. Passing her, I’m standing across the hall from the Lincoln Bedroom. “So when’re we going to get this coffee?” I ask.

“Right now.” She’s fidgeting with something on the wall, but I can’t tell what it is. “The kitchenette’s upstairs.”

I assume we’ll head back to the staircase, but we don’t.

Stepping closer, I see that she’s wedging her fingers into a thin crack in the wall. With a sharp pull, the wall swings toward us, revealing an otherwise hidden staircase. Nora looks up and smiles. “We can take the stairs on this side of the house.”

“Pay attention,” Nora says, “because this’s the best part.” She heads up a steep carpeted ramp and leads us toward the room directly above the Yellow Oval. “Voilà,” she says with a bow. “The Solarium.”

Resembling a small greenhouse on top of the mansion, the Solarium’s outside walls are made entirely of green-tinted glass. Inside, wicker furniture and a glass-top card table give it the feel of a Palm Beach den. On the left is a kitchenette, on the right, an overstuffed white sofa and large-screen TV. Scattered around the room are dozens of family photos.

On my far right is a short bookcase filled with what looks like homemade arts-and-crafts projects. There’s a purple and blue birdhouse that looks like it was made by a seventh-grader-on the side of it are the initials “N.H.” in peeling orange paint. There’s also a papier-mâché duck or swan-it’s too warped to tell which-a ceramic ashtray or cupholder, and a flat piece of brown-painted wood with fifty or so protruding nails that’re set up to spell the initials “N.H.” To make sure the letters stand out, all the nailheads are painted yellow. On the bottom of the shelf, I even spot a few trophies-one for soccer, one for field hockey. In all, you can trace the quality of the projects from first grade all the way up to about seventh or eighth. After that, there’s nothing new.

Nora Hartson was twelve years old when her father first announced he was running for Governor. Sixth grade. If I had to date it, I’d say that’s the same year she made the swan-duck. After that, I’d bet the birdhouse came next. And that’s where her childhood ends.

“C’mon, you’re missing the good stuff,” she says, motioning for me to join her by the enormous window.

Crossing the room, I notice the VCR on top of the TV. “Can I ask you a question?” I begin as I move next to her.

“If it’s about the history of the house, I don’t really know my-”

“What’s your favorite movie?” I blurt.

“Huh?”

“Your favorite movie-simple question.”

Without pause, she says, “ Annie Hall .”

“Really?”

She lets out the sweetest of smiles. “No,” she laughs. After today, it’s not as easy to lie.

“So what is it?”

She stares out the window as if it’s a big deal. “ Moonstruck ,” she finally offers.

“The old Cher film?” I ask, confused. “Isn’t that a love story?”

Shaking her head, she shoots me a look. “What you don’t know about women… is a lot.”

“But I-”

“Just enjoy the view,” she says, pointing me back toward the window. When I oblige, she adds, “So whattya think?”

“Sure beats the Truman Balcony,” I say, pressing my forehead against the glass. From here, I have a full view of the South Lawn and the Washington Monument.

“Wait until you see it face-to-face.” She opens a door in the right corner and steps outside.

The balcony up here is a small one, and although it curves like a giant letter C around the length of the Solarium, there’s just a white concrete guardrail to protect you. By the time I get outside, Nora’s leaning over the edge. “Time for some fun-let loose and fly!” With her stomach pressed against the railing, she extends her arms and leans forward until her legs are lifted in the air.

“Nora…!” I shout, grabbing her by the ankles.

Lowering herself back to earth, she grins. “You’re afraid of heights?”

Before I can say another word, she takes off, darting farther around the long, curved balcony. I try to grab her, but she slips through my hands, turns the corner, and disappears. Trying to catch up and trying even harder not to look over the edge, I dash along the far end of the balcony. But as I make my way around the corner, Nora’s nowhere in sight. Undeterred, I plow forward, assuming she slipped through another door and went back into the Solarium. There’s only one problem. On this side of the balcony, no other door exists. Reaching the corner, I hit a dead end. Nora’s gone.