Dancing On The Edge Of A Dream

Category: L/M
Rating: R for those continuing medical descriptions and language
Disclaimer: The West Wing and its characters are property of Aaron Sorkin, John Wells Productions, Warner Brothers Television, and NBC. No infringement is intended on the author’s part.
Spoilers: Through current Season 4 – just to be on the safe side.
Archive: At my site – which is part of the delightful Jeanine’s universe: http://helsinkibaby.topcities.com/Jenni/leomargaret.htm
Feedback: I love it, I crave it, compliments and constructive criticism, I adore it all.
Summary: Treatments, tests, and results.
A/N: This story continues the "Beginning to See the Light" series. Thanks to all of you who have been patient while I sorted RL back into some semblance of order. This one is going to fast forward through the first bit of S4 so I can attempt to get caught up with the WW series timeline by the next story. The stories in this series include:
The Benefit of my Heart’s Inexperience
Celebrations
Serenely Independent
A Lot to Learn
Once More, With Feeling
No
And Swear By Stars Above You
A Trip to the Moon on Gossamer Wings

A/N #2: Thanks, as ever, to Jeanine and Flip who beta, encourage, and kick my ass when the need arises. Props to the Crew – without whom work, late nights, early flights, and those white tie events wouldn’t be nearly as much fun. Here’s to more amphibians in 2003!

Cue the bright lights, the brass band, and the cheering throngs. Release the balloons, the inevitable media firestorm, and too many months of tightly wound emotions and too little sleep. It was done and they had done it. Josiah Bartlet was, once again, his party’s nominee for the Presidency.

Margaret stood in the cavernous backstage area, staring at a huge bank of monitors, her ever-vigilant eyes flicking between the in-house closed circuit feed and CNN’s coverage of the event. The tall red head’s wavering attention was only visible though the barely perceptible fluctuation in her eyebrows, the well-manicured arches rising each time she focused on Wolf Blitzer and his gang of political pundits. Margaret continued to stare at the monitors, her glossy red lips silently mouthing, verbatim, the President’s acceptance speech. To her right CJ, Toby, Donna, and Sam were engaged in identical pursuits. Josh, the adrenaline of a caged tiger denied lunch coursing through his central nervous system, prowled the perimeter of the space, mumbling to himself about their opponent and the need for a large number of debates.

The President concluded his speech and the crowd went wild. Literally. It was New Years Eve, the Fourth of July, the seventh game of the World Series, Christmas, and a tent revival combined into one rowdy, rollicking, celebration of democracy. Margaret smiled as Abbey Bartlet, her daughters and granddaughter in tow, joined the President on stage. Her smile turned to outright laughter as she watched a CNN cameraman capture the moment when the Bartlets’ grandchild practically pulled her "Great Uncle Leo" from his hiding place behind the wall just to the left of the podium. She watched as her boss squinted in the glare of the cameras and klieg lights and tried, without success, to fade into the background.

"C’mon," Sam exclaimed. "Let’s join the party!" Reaching out for CJ’s hand as Toby steered Josh ahead of him, the Senior Staff walked into their evening of jubilee; shoulder to shoulder as they had been since this night four years ago.

Remaining backstage, the Senior Assistants, together with Charlie, allowed themselves approximately 90 seconds of celebration before doing an abrupt about face and stepping back into their proscribed professional roles. Charlie conferred with Ron Butterfield about their departure for DC. Donna and Bonnie activated their cell phones to make sure enough food and beverages would be made available for the late night victory celebration/strategy session that was sure to ensue once everyone was back at the White House. Carol and Ginger began reviewing the press list for the flight home, making sure CJ had some quality face-time with the leading print and electronic media correspondents. For her part, Margaret perched on the edge of a table, making lists of phone calls and emails she and Leo would need to start on tonight; all part of the never-ending political campaign fundraising game.

They were running an hour behind schedule, although thirty minutes ahead of BST or Bartlet Standard Time, as the staff referred to the Chief Executive’s schedule shattering inner clock. Before Agent Butterfield and his staff could become completely flustered by their boss’ lack of regard for procedure and general security, everyone was hustled into town cars and SUVs bound for the airport. Shortly after 1 a.m., Eastern Standard Time, Air Force One was wheels up, climbing toward the pre-dawn sky and the nation’s capital.

"Holiday weekend, three days no less, and where am I? Stuck in DC working my underpaid fingers to the bone," Ginger groused, sorting through a seemingly endless pile of memos.

"Given the alternative, I’ll take civil service holiday labor camp any day," Carol laughed as she placed another stack of paper in the recycling bin.

"Point taken," Ginger allowed as she continued her search. "It’s just that I haven’t seen my family in almost a year."

"Get in line." Walking into the Bullpen, Margaret leaned against the photocopier. "My brother has started dropping less than subtle hints about kidnapping me for Christmas." Margaret examined her fingernails, shaking her head in disgust at their working situation and the chipped state of her once pristine French manicure.

"If the President wins . . . *when* the President wins reelection . . . we’ll be kissing any hope of time off goodbye until at least Easter." Carol plopped down in Bonnie’s desk chair, her left hand snaking out to grab a peppermint from the small oval bowl on the corner of her colleague’s desk.

"Yeah," Margaret replied. "I’d settle for an afternoon off. One that does not carry the caveat of leaving my cell phone and beeper on."

Bonnie wandered into the room and shook her head at the sight of Carol reclining in her chair. "Move it Carol, my feet are killing me."

"Haven’t you learned? Never break in a new pair of shoes at work." Margaret retrieved a stack of copies from the collating bin.

"That lesson I learned early on," Bonnie replied. "However, I’m not quite up to speed on the ‘never run three miles when you have not exercised in a month’ rule."

"Ouch," Carol and Ginger chorused.

Bonnie leaned forward, turning the pages on her desk calendar, and glanced across the Bullpen. "Margaret, when do you go for your tests?"

"Couple of weeks," the tall red head replied.

"Would you like to share the exact date with us?"

"Not really."

"Why not?" Ginger queried.

"Because the lot of you, to say nothing of your bosses, will go into Warp 9 mother hen mode and proceed to treat me like Winnie the Pooh." Noting her friend’s confused looks, Margaret continued, "You know, a bear of very little brain. At any rate, I’ve just gotten back to feeling quasi-normal and I’d like to keep things that way."

"We promise not to mother hen you," Bonnie replied, raising her right hand in the air with mock solemnity.

"We promise not to hover." Carol mimicked Bonnie’s gesture.

"Hell, we promise to act as though we don’t even *like* you," Ginger giggled.

"Who don’t we like?" Donna tossed out as she passed by the Bullpen.

"Margaret!" the three assistants yelled, doing a better than average impersonation of the Chief of Staff.

Donna retraced her steps, leaning into the room. Staring Margaret down, she narrowed her eyes teasingly. "What did you do *this* time?"

Margaret shrugged her shoulders as Ginger provided the answer to Donna’s question, "Margaret’s afraid we’ll treat her like a hot-house orchid if she spills the beans about when her cancer check-up tests are."

"September 27^th " Donna replied, instantly looking at Margaret with a sheepish grin. "I don’t think I was supposed to know that."

"You weren’t supposed to know and how did you find out?" Margaret asked, folding her arms across her chest.

"It’s on Charlie’s planning calendar. I saw it the other day when I was in there scheduling some campaign meetings."

"Charlie had to know so he could cover the phones. Oh well, cat’s out of the bag now. Let the micromanaging and kid glove treatment begin," Margaret sighed and shook her head. She truly wanted this kept private and was planning to keep it from her boss for as long as possible.

"We promise to behave," Carol reiterated.

"And Republicans are known for their spirit of compromise," Margaret shot back, exiting the Bullpen.

Margaret made what felt like the millionth excursion between her office and Leo’s. First it was the campaign contribution statistics, then the expenditure forms from the last campaign, followed by a steady stream of polling data, bill drafts, and security updates.

"Margaret!" Leo called, just as the tall read head poked her head through the doorway. "Oh, there you are."

"Yes for I am nothing if not well trained." Margaret glanced down at her boss, head now buried in a briefing book.

"Sarcasm does not become you, Margaret." Leo’s gaze never wavered from the report he was perusing.

"That wasn’t sarcasm, Leo. That was . . .never mind." Margaret shook her head and rolled her eyes.

Leo glanced up from the agriculture subsidy draft and noticed that his assistant looked a bit pale. Raising his right arm, he looked at his watch. "You should have been home hours ago. Go on, I’ll be okay to finish up here."

"There’s no way I’m leaving you here. Alone. To do heaven only knows what to my filing system," Margaret glowered at her boss.

"I promise not to get into the files."

"That’s what you said *last* time."

Leo chuckled at the memory. "You didn’t speak to me for a week."

"I’m capable of pulling a late night here and there. If I get too tired I’ll take a catnap in CJ’s office," Margaret replied in an effort to pull Leo back to the present.

"There’s a perfectly good couch right here," Leo nodded toward the piece of furniture positioned along the near wall.

"Where the President could walk in at any moment? I don’t *think* so."

Leo knew this was another of those arguments he had no hope of winning. Conceding the point, he moved on to the next subject. "What about dinner?"

"What about it?" Margaret asked.

"Have you eaten?"

"Not yet, and before you go starkers, let me remind you that I’ve been on a perpetual route between your office and mine for the last two hours." Margaret rolled her shoulders in an attempt to alleviate some of the tension building beneath her scapula. "I know for a fact you haven’t eaten either. What would you like?"

"I’d like a filet mignon served with a gratin of winter squash and truffles," Leo grinned at Margaret. "I’ll settle for whatever the Mess still has at this hour."

"Would you like to hold off on asking for more materials for ten minutes so I can go get the food? Or do want me to just twitch my nose and make it appear?"

"You can do that?" Leo asked innocently, his eyes once again focused on the agriculture study.

Margaret shook her head and walked out of the office, blowing an exceptionally loud raspberry as she closed the door.

"I heard that!" Leo called.

Leo and Margaret sat at the small, round conference table, reviewing the daily schedule and the calendar for the week ahead.

"What time does Bruno get in?" Leo asked.

"Too damn soon," his assistant muttered.

"Beg your pardon?"

Margaret reeled off the correct information without consulting her notes. "His plane lands at 8:05 a.m. Eddie will pick him up at Terminal A. He should be in the West Wing no later than 8:45, and that’s allowing for traffic."

"That wasn’t your first response," Leo needled.

"No, it wasn’t," Margaret agreed, refusing to elaborate. "You have Senior Staff in the Oval at 6:30, a briefing on the agriculture subsidy bill at 7:30 in the Roosevelt Room, campaign contribution meeting with at 9:00 with Senior Staff and Bruno also in the Roosevelt Room, that meeting ends at 11:00, and a campaign briefing with The President and Bruno at 11:30 in the Oval Office."

"What about my afternoon?" Leo asked, scanning down the second page of the schedule.

"Lunch with Bruno at noon and National Security with the President and Nancy McNally at 1:30. After that there are only about a hundred people who want five minutes of your time, a list is appended to the back of your schedule. I’ve left the calendar clear after NSC; tell me if there are any of Bruno’s other meetings you want to sit in on and who you want to meet with or talk to, on the list or otherwise. I’ll take it from there."

"You’re a Godsend," Leo sighed, flipping to the back of his schedule and quickly checking off the people he needed to talk or meet with, making shorthand notes in the margins. Grateful that Margaret had once again anticipated his needs, he passed the copy across the table to her. "That should keep me busy for the balance of the afternoon."

Margaret nodded, "I’ll have the revised schedule on your desk by the time you return from Staff. Do you want to wait and do correspondence at the end of the day?"

Margaret deflected Leo’s compliment with practiced ease, rather than be forced to acknowledge his praise. Compliments about her job skills were all well and good, but what she really craved were compliments of a decidedly different nature. ‘Nothing gained by going there,’ Margaret thought as she stacked her files and prepared to exit Leo’s office. Some things were better kept compartmentalized – especially during working hours.

"Please," Leo replied. "Also, call Mallory and ask her if she’d like to attend the DNC thing at the Capital Hilton later this month."

Margaret halted her progress toward the door. "Ask her or *order* her to attend?"

"Whichever works."

Bruno moved into the outer office grinning slightly at Charlie. "He’s running late?" he asked, nodding toward the Oval Office.

"The President is in with Leo. I’ll let them know you’re here." Charlie moved from behind his desk and tapped on the closed door. Receiving permission to enter, the younger man slipped into the office, leaving the door ajar.

Bruno turned and looked out the window as rain lashed across the Portico. Recognizing the reflection in the glass of someone standing behind him, he turned around. "Good morning, Margaret. How are you?"

Somewhat taken aback by his less than abrasive manner, the tall red head allowed herself to be cordial. After all this was the President’s campaign manager and she was going to be nice to him if it killed her. "I’m good Bruno. How are you this morning?"

"That all depends. You’re not gonna force me to feel you up again, are you?" Bruno cracked a grin at his favorite of the Senior Assistants.

Unaware the door to the Oval Office was open, albeit slightly, Margaret retrieved a selection of file folders from Charlie’s desk and started out the door. "You *wish*!" she tossed over her shoulder.

Inside the Oval, Margaret’s comment caused the President and Leo to stare at one another in shock as Charlie attempted to stifle a laugh.

Margaret sat at her desk, and smiled as she worked on the computer files containing her boss’ calendar for the next week. Bruno was, at long last, on his way back to whatever hole he crawled out of. It wasn’t that she hated Bruno, truth be told, she found him mildly entertaining. And he *had* given her a necklace by way of apology for torturing her about her name. No, she didn’t even dislike him. It was more the fact that he acted like the stereotypical, egomaniacal, borderline psychotic campaign manager. Good at what he did, but hell to get along with. Who was she kidding, every campaign manager was like that or at least the most successful ones were. Resigning herself to another couple of months if Bruno-overload, Margaret continued her work,

Leo entered her office from the hallway, pausing to collect a small mountain of phone messages from their usual resting-place on the credenza behind her desk. "Anything earth shattering happen while I was gone?"

"Bruno’s people faxed over some new campaign schedules, all one-day or half-day trips. I gave a copy to Charlie," Margaret replied as Leo nodded. "Josh wants ten minutes to talk about the debate proposal, the President would like to see you before he heads to the Residence." Margaret waited to play her trump card until Leo was halfway into his office. "And the British Ambassador telephoned, he’d like you to call him. Something about the upcoming campaign."

Leo whipped around and Margaret winced as a series of storm clouds crossed his visage. "No doubt his Lordship has some real pearls of wisdom he’s itching to share," the Chief of Staff groused. "Seeing as how I’ve never willingly taken a single piece of advice Marbury offered, that’s one phone call I’m not going to worry about returning. If he calls back, tell him we’ve decided this election will be resolved with a duel."

"Lord Marbury would only want to come watch," Margaret giggled as Leo stalked into his office, slamming the door behind him.

Margaret sorted the last stack of policy manuals, just as Leo walked through the connecting hall between his office and the Oval. Stopping just inside the door, he watched Margaret moving about his office setting things to rights. "Having fun?"

"More than the law allows." Margaret placed a small sheaf of filing on the conference table and turned toward her boss. "What else needs to be done?"

"Nothing that won’t keep until the morning. Let’s call it a day."

"Best idea I’ve heard all week." Margaret replied, scooping up the filing and walking into her office. Depositing the paperwork in her filing basket, she pulled her briefcase from the far-left side of her credenza and her handbag from the bottom right drawer of her desk.

"You need a ride?" Leo asked, coming into her office, briefcase in hand.

"No, thanks, my car is in the lot."

"Have you eaten?"

"Not yet and what’s with you and my culinary habits this week?"

"Just making sure you continue to follow doctor’s orders. I don’t relish a tongue lashing from Dr. Matthews when your numbers come up sub-par." Leo parried. "You want to go out, get something?" Leo mentally chastised himself for being a mother hen and for badgering his assistant to spend more time with him, time that should be her own. Her treatments were well over, she did not need his attentions anymore, of that he was firmly convinced.

Margaret’s reply drew him from his thoughts. "Honestly Leo, I am wiped. I really want to go home and flake out." Wondering briefly at the sanity of her next statement, she pressed on, "There’s leftover meatloaf and scalloped potatoes in my refrigerator, if you’re interested."

"Sounds fantastic, but I hate to barge in on the few hours of reprieve you get from me."

Margaret smiled, "I can take it if you can. Do you want to ride over with me or have Eddie drop you off?"

"I’ll have Eddie take me home so I can change clothes. I’ll be over in an hour or so."

Leo and Margaret sat in the small dining room, lingering over dinner. Crumb scattered plates and empty casserole dishes were all that remained of their repast.

Margaret stood up and began gathering the dishes. "Are you up for dessert?" she asked, knowing full well what the answer would be.

"Of course," Leo replied, rising from his chair and helping to clear the table. Carrying soiled glassware into the kitchen he asked, "What flavor ice cream is it this time?" Years of working together had taught Leo that he and his assistant shared an addiction to ice cream. Didn’t matter what flavor, didn’t matter if it was ten below outside, the two of them could eat ice cream any time. He recalled an article on ice cream that came out in the New York Times, shortly after the first election. Among the facts presented was one that stated the average American consumed approximately 8 gallons of ice cream each year. Margaret had been horrified by this statistic, pointing it out to him before he could start on his daily ritual of solving the crossword puzzle. He’d merely looked at it and said, "Yeah, so?" knowing full well his lack of concern with ice cream gluttony and his own abilities to over-indulge in the confection would irk his assistant. He chuckled as he recalled how she had shoved the paper at him, muttering something about an early grave as she left his office.

"Would you believe there’s dessert other than ice cream?"

"Will wonders never cease?"

"I made an apple tart last night."

"You baked?" Margaret nodded as she loaded plates into the small dishwasher. "You baked last night?" Again she nodded. "Margaret we didn’t leave the White House until almost midnight." Leo said, a look of concern on his face.

"And I had nervous energy to expend." Margaret started the coffee maker and opened the refrigerator, removing a large, round, metal tart pan.

Leo leaned over the counter and stared at the dessert as Margaret removed the plastic wrap. "That’s almost too pretty to eat."

"Okay, we can stand here and admire it." Margaret teasingly put the knife and pie server back in the drawer she’d just removed them from.

"Almost being the operative word," Leo replied as Margaret gently removed the rim of the tart pan and cut two wedges. The coffee maker completed its cycle with a low rumble and a hiss of steam. Leo poured the brew into thick white mugs and followed Margaret out of the kitchen.

Margaret carried the plates into the living room and settled at one corner of the sofa. Leo placed a mug of coffee on the table in front of her and sat down at the other corner, reaching for the plate Margaret held out to him.

For a moment, the only sounds in the apartment were the clink of flatware on china and the faint strains of a saxophone solo coming from a Stan Getz compact disc on the stereo.

Leo broke the near silence, dropping his head back on the sofa cushion and moaning loudly. "Oh Margaret, this stuff ought to be illegal."

"You like?" Margaret smiled and immediately wondered why she was fishing for compliments and basically flirting, over a stupid dessert, with Leo.

"This is beyond like Margaret. This is beyond love. This," Leo motioned toward the remainder of his dessert with the tines of the fork he grasped in his right hand, "is pastry worthy of obsession." Leo moaned again as the second bite of tart entered his mouth.

"I’m glad you like it, but remember, I know what your cholesterol is and your triglycerides suck. You won’t be getting this on a regular basis."

"Mean ol’ Margaret," Leo grumbled, faking a pout.

"Got that right."

Seeking to change the subject, Leo looked out at the streetlights and passing cars. "You know, I’ve looked through the next month on my calendar and nowhere do I find a certain scheduled appointment."

"Oh no. What have I forgotten?" Margaret asked.

"I have no idea when your oncology check up is."

"Um . . . the dog ate my appointment card?"

"You don’t have a dog."

"My oncologist was abducted by aliens?"

"Nice try."

"It’s a state secret?"

"My security clearance is higher than yours. Out with it."

"September 27^th, nine a.m. at the Breast Care Center." Margaret finally disclosed the information.

Leo nodded. "Clear my calendar until 2 that afternoon."

"Why?" Margaret had a good idea where this was going but wanted to hear it from the source.

"So I can go with you."

"It’s not a treatment Leo, it’s only tests."

"Needles and such. I know you’re okay with all that, but still . . ."

"Leo, I’ll be fine."

"And I’ll be there to make sure of that."

Margaret placed her empty plate on the coffee table and walked behind the sofa to the opposite end. Leaning forward she wrapped her thin arms around Leo’s shoulders and pressed a light kiss on top of his head.

"What the hell’s all this for?" Leo grumped, fighting a blush.

"For being a good friend," Margaret answered, swallowing hard as she waited for the lump in her throat to dissipate.

"Tell me again why we’re meeting in here?" Ginger asked as she squeezed into the Press Secretary’s already crowded office. Selecting a spot on the floor, she sank down and drew her gray wool-clad legs toward her chest, balancing a steno pad on her knees.

"Because the Roosevelt Room is too obvious and the Mural Room is too close to the Oval," Carol replied looking around the room to determine who was missing. "Where’s . . ." the sentence went unfinished as someone knocked softly on the door. Carol opened the door a fraction, checked out the newcomer and allowed Donna to slip into the room.

"Sorry I’m late. Josh lost his copy of the debate proposal," Donna huffed, perching on the arm of the sofa.

CJ grinned. "I love that man dearly, but I swear he’s so disorganized he couldn’t find his ass with both hands, a road map, and a flashlight." Looking down at her calendar she removed her glasses, setting them on the desk blotter. "Lets get started. As we all know, Margaret’s checkup is this Friday. And while we’re certainly hopeful the radiation was successful, we need to be prepared if it isn’t. Also, we need to do whatever I necessary to keep her from worrying while she’s waiting for the results."

"Margaret’s a born worrier, it’s what she does. She worries over and about everything." Nancy explained.

Donna cut in. "Actually, I’m not certain it’s random worry. Sure, Margaret can go on a tear with the best of them, and when it’s related to the President or Leo then watch out. But I think Margaret’s worrying is more a case of her being hypervigilant and trying to make sure nothing goes wrong."

"We’re not here to debate whether Margaret’s a chronic worrier, is overly dedicated, or just plain quirky," CJ interrupted. "She’s all of those things and it’s all of those traits combined with others that make her our friend and one of the people the West Wing cannot function without. She’s entitled to worry about her test results, it’s to be expected. It’s our job to try and prevent that from happening. Because, let’s face it, we’d want her doing the same thing for us."

"What do you suggest?" Bonnie inquired from her place on the sofa.

"For starters, you’ll need to cover for her on Friday."

"Same thing we did when she was on treatments?" Ginger suggested as everyone in the room nodded their agreement.

"Saturday night," CJ continued, "we’re going to invade Margaret’s place. Well, she knows I’m showing up. The rest of you are the invasion."

"What time?" Donna asked.

"Around eight."

"What do we bring?" Nancy inquired, preparing to take notes.

Carol took over, consulting a list she’d placed on top of CJ’s bookshelf. "Food, beverages but no alcohol as Margaret’s probably still not allowed to drink, CD’s blankets and pillows and your jammies."

"Slumber party!" Bonnie and Ginger cried out in unison.

"Excuse me?" a previously silent party near the door spoke up. "I think this is a great idea and all, and I certainly plan to do my part to help handle her work load. But a slumber party?"

"Whassamatter Chuckster? Don’t want all us girls to know you wear Kermit the Frog pjs?" CJ teased as Charlie shook his head and the women shrieked with laughter.

"CJ, ladies," Charlie pleaded. "You really don’t want me there. Besides, I have to work."

"The President always knocks off early on Saturdays, barring a national emergency. Not only do *we* want you there, Margaret would be terribly disappointed if you did not show up." CJ played her trump card.

Charlie groaned, "I knew there was gonna be trouble when you made me an honorary member of the Sisterhood."

Margaret hurried down the hallway, a stack of briefing books balanced in her arms. Making the turn into the Communications Bullpen, she looked over her right shoulder, alerted by the sound of a small stampede of highly polished black shoes. Leo had called from the limo and informed her they were on their way back from the DNC fundraiser.

Placing the binders into Bonnie’s waiting arms, the tall red head turned on her heel and rushed through the Roosevelt Room, certain Leo would have a laundry list of things that needed to be done before they could put paid to this work day. Rounding the far end of the conference table, she barked her kneecap on the corner of the glass-enclosed curio.

"Shit!" Margaret hissed, clutching her knee. Involuntary tears sprang to her eyes as she walked, as fast as humanly possible with a throbbing knee and leg, into her office. Through the open doorway she could hear Leo on the phone. After checking to make sure her run in with the cabinet hadn’t laddered her stockings, Margaret picked up a steno pad and pen. She knocked softly on the open door.

Leo looked up from the notes he was making and motioned her into the room. "Thanks Toby, we’ll see you in the morning." Leo disconnected the call and sat back in his chair, one hand massaging the bridge of his nose.

"How goes the West Wing production of ‘Planes, Trains, and Automobiles’?" Margaret inquired, sitting down in one of the guest chairs in order to take the weight off her still aching knee.

"Huh?"

Margaret realized Leo’s pop culture references did not extend to Chevy Chase films and revised her approach. "Have the Three Stooges, well the Two Stooges and Donna gotten any closer to DC?"

"Yes and no. They’ve got a late night flight and should be back by sunup."

"How did the fundraiser go?" Margaret asked, changing the topic of conversation.

"Fine, it was a good speech, Sam did . . ." Leo’s voice trailed off as Bruno walked into the office from the hall.

"Leo, I need five minutes," Bruno stated, nodding and smiling at Margaret.

Margaret stood up and smiled at Bruno as she exited Leo’s office.

Margaret walked into the bullpen, a long flat wicker basket over her right forearm. A dark green cloth napkin covered the top of the basket, but did nothing to contain the smells emanating from the contents. Turning the corner, she ducked into Donna’s cubicle and cleared her throat.

Donna turned from her computer and smiled at her friend. "Margaret, you are a sight for sore eyes! What’s in the basket?"

"After the adventure you endured yesterday, I decided you might need a little TLC." Margaret placed the basket on Donna’s desk.

"Is it a basket full of large unmarked bills?" Donna inquired, a wry grin on her face. "Because, you know, nothin’ says love like cold hard cash." Donna peeled back the corner of the linen napkin and peered inside. "Cookies!" she exclaimed, pulling her hair back and bending over to inhale the rich fragrance.

"Bon appetit," Margaret said as Josh walked out of his office.

"Did I hear someone mention cookies?" Josh looked over his assistant’s shoulder. "Wow, who sent us those?"

"Margaret brought them to me as a consolation prize for yesterday’s misadventures."

"Hey, my day was just as bad!" Josh gazed longingly at the basket.

"Help yourself Josh," Donna replied. "There are enough here to feed the entire staff."

Josh selected and took a bite of an oatmeal raisin cookie. His eyes widened as he chewed and swallowed the morsel. "Did you bake these?" Margaret nodded. "These are damn good cookies. You should go into business. People would beat a path to your door for these."

"Thank you. I’ll keep that in mind for my next career move," Margaret smiled and turned to go. "I’d better be going before Leo returns from the Sit Room."

The overhead fixture cast pools of light on top of the highly polished desk. The same light accented the highlights in Margaret’s red hair as she bent over her task. Satisfied everything was in place, she arranged the color-coded files in her top right desk drawer and placed an identical set on top of Leo’s in-box.

Turning out the lights in Leo’s office and her own, Margaret picked up her handbag and briefcase and left the office. Walking toward the staff entrance, she encountered Ginger headed in the opposite direction.

"Everything for tomorrow is stored in my top right desk drawer," Margaret said as Ginger stopped beside her.

"Color coded?"

"Just like before," Margaret nodded. "I really appreciate you all stepping in and covering for me again."

"Glad to do it. You just take good care of yourself and leave the political minutiae to us." Ginger drew the older woman into a hug and kissed her right cheek.

"I’ll see you first thing Monday morning," Margaret called as she walked off.

Ginger stared after her, knowing they’d be spending quality time together well before that.

"Well, this ought to be *loads* of fun," Margaret muttered to herself as she stood in front of the mirror. "I wonder if it’s too late to back out." Brushing her hair away from her face she leaned closer to the mirror. "Probably."

Exiting the bathroom, Margaret walked into her living room and pulled her gray wool jacket from its resting place on the back of the sofa. Slipping her long arms into the soft fabric she mentally calculated how long each part of her day would last. ‘Blood work, 30 minutes. Mammogram, 45 minutes. CT scan, at least an hour.’ Adding in the amount of hurry-up and wait, the tall red head knew she’d be spending all morning and part of the afternoon at the hospital.

Margaret picked up her handbag and came close to adding her briefcase before remembering that she wasn’t going into the West Wing after her appointment. Everyone, from her oncologist to Toby had told her she wouldn’t feel much like being upright after completing the battery of medical tests. Locking the door behind her, Margaret made her way down the flight of stairs and through the glass-fronted double doors.

The morning held no promise of sun as rain clouds blanketed the sky and the occasional raindrop spattered onto the pavement. The black government sedan was waiting at the curb, engine idling. Eddie had been watching for her and now left the comfort of the car, jogging up the front stairs, an oversized black umbrella high above his head.

Margaret shook her head and grinned at the young man’s chivalry. "Good morning Eddie. Really, an umbrella’s not necessary, it’s barely sprinkling."

"Good morning Margaret. If I let you get wet and catch cold, Mr. McGarry will have my job, to say nothing of my head."

"Well then, let’s not give Mr. McGarry cause to lose his temper this early in the morning," Margaret replied, taking the younger man’s arm and allowing him to lead her to the car.

"Morning, Margaret," Leo said, looking over the top of his newspaper as his assistant entered the car.

"Good morning, Leo." Margaret slid into the seat and rested her head against the black leather upholstery.

"Are you ready?"

"No," Margaret answered honestly.

Leo chuckled. "Well, I’m not certain I would be either. Look at it this way, at least it’s not a radiation treatment."

"Not helping, Leo."

"I don’t suppose so." Leo turned his attention back to the op-ed page of the Post.

"I’m sorry. The tests by themselves don’t bother me. I am, however, horrifically nervous about what they will, or will not, indicate."

Leo folded his newspaper and placed it in the outer pocket of his brown leather briefcase. "Remember what I told you. You’re not going through any of this alone. Every one of us, from the President on down, are with you on this. If the test results are anything less than full remission, we will support you in whatever treatment plan you decide is best. We don’t scare easy."

Margaret laughed. "How well I know. If this group spooked easily we would never have made it to 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue."

Margaret and Leo waited in the phlebotomy unit as a technician double-checked the chart with the computer.

"May I see your bracelet?" the young man asked.

The tall red head proffered her left arm and the technician pushed the sleeve of her jacket out of the way, confirming Margaret’s identity on the blue plastic band.

"If you’ll have take off your jacket and have a seat please." The technician turned his back to the pair as he prepared the syringe.

Leo watched Margaret, rooted to the spot she’d been standing in since they entered the unit, her gaze focused on a point at the other end of the hall. "Margaret, you with us?" Leo inquired, tapping her lightly on the right shoulder.

The tall red head flinched slightly and favored her boss with a weak smile. "Yeah . . . yeah, I’m here." Slipping out of her suit jacket, Margaret sat down on the maroon molded plastic chair, and laid the garment across her lap.

The blood work was completed in good order and the technician directed the pair upstairs to the radiation and mammography suites. Exiting the elevator, Margaret and Leo were greeted by the smiling face of Esther, Margaret’s primary nurse during her radiation treatments.

"Good morning," Esther said, reaching out to hug her patient.

Margaret returned the embrace, leaving one arm around the older woman’s shoulders. "Esther, you have no idea how glad I am to see you!"

"It appears our patient’s having an attack of nerves." Esther said, reaching out with her right arm. "Come here, Mr. Chief of Staff, everybody needs a hug on check-up day."

Leo rolled his eyes in mock frustration, stepping forward willingly to hug Esther. "I think Margaret passed nervous and hit the panic stage while we were downstairs," he mock stage whispered to the nurse.

"Panic hell, I’m petrified," Margaret muttered as they walked toward the exam room.

"Of the tests?" Esther asked.

"Of the results."

Esther nodded her head. "That’s what I thought. You know what Dr. Matthews would say about that?"

"Don’t go borrowing trouble."

"She’d also tell you that you’ve been a cooperative patient, you’ve followed your protocol to the letter, and she’d remind you of the excellent cure rate of this treatment option." Esther consulted the chart as she handed Margaret a cotton robe.

"Yeah," Margaret answered, neither more convinced nor calmed than she was an hour ago. She stepped out of her shoes and took off her jacket in preparation for changing into the requisite attire.

Leo and Esther left the room and walked back toward the elevators. "Can I ask you a question?" Leo turned toward the nurse.

"Certainly."

"How long will it take to get the results back?"

"Hard to say. Could be a week, could be longer, could be less. Since she’s not scheduled for a biopsy, that may cut down on the time by a day or two, but I wouldn’t bank on it."

Leo turned and looked back at the exam room. "She’s going to be wound extra tight until she knows."

"She’s not the only one." Esther tipped her head to the right and stared, unblinking, at her companion.

"There are several people counting on a miracle of modern medicine," Leo replied.

"But none more than the two of you, I think," Esther said, leading the way back.

Returning to the exam room, the pair discovered Margaret had company in the form of her radiological oncologists. Brian Lewis and Sasha Reynolds stood on either side of Margaret, discussing the reelection campaign.

"Good morning, Leo." Brian stepped forward to shake the older man’s hand.

"Brian, good to see you again," Leo replied, turning to hug Sasha. "Good morning, Sasha."

"Hey, I didn’t get a hug!" Brian mock-pouted, his lower lip protruding like a petulant toddler. "It’s an unwritten law, everyone gets hugged on check-up day."

"No offense, but I’d need a step-ladder to reach you," Leo laughed at the young man who was at least nine inches taller that him.

"Problem easily solved," Brian responded, bending at the waist and hugging the Chief of Staff, who resisted for all of three seconds before returning the embrace.

"Feel better, big fella?" Sasha teased, herding her troupe toward the mammography suite.

"Absolutely," Brian replied, his arm wound around Margaret’s waist.

"First the mammogram, then the CT scan," Sasha announced. "Leo you can wait here. The mammogram will only take a few moments and then we’ll all head around the corner for the scan."

Sasha and Esther stayed with Margaret during the x-ray while Brian waited with Leo in the hall.

Within half an hour, they moved on to the last phase of Margaret’s check-up.

"Leo would you like to stay in the booth while we run the test?" Sasha asked.

Leo looked at Margaret who nodded her approval and added a quiet, "Please".

"If you’re certain it’s all right," Leo said.

"It’s fine, you can actually talk to Margaret over the intercom, while we’re running the scan." Brian opened the door and ushered the Chief of Staff into a well-lit control room, while Sasha and Esther took Margaret into the main room and introduced her to the technician who would be starting an IV line and administering the contrast necessary for the procedure.

"How’s she been feeling?" Brian asked, turning away from the computer monitors and steering Leo toward the back of the room. The young physician had learned from experience that patients often got weepy by this point in an oncology check-up and he wanted to minimize Leo’s anxiety.

"Pretty good, all things considered. Typical Margaret; thinks she can go back to working eighteen hour days and skipping meals; chafing at the restrictions everyone at the White House tries to impose on her."

"I gathered she was a bit of a workaholic."

"That’s the understatement of the year," Leo chuckled.

"And you, how have *you* been?"

"Great."

"Liar."

"Am not."

"Are too." Brian punctuated his statement with an elbow to Leo’s right pectoral muscle.

"I am *not* in the habit of lying," Leo countered.

"Only when it comes to preserving your dignity and preventing anyone from knowing you’re half sick over whether or not your *assistant* is going to be all right."

"Margaret is not just my assistant, she’s . . ."

"Yeeeeeeees?" Brian countered.

"She’s an important part of the administration, she helped fill a big gap when the President’s assistant was killed by a drunk driver last year."

"And she’s important to you," Brian filled in the unspoken blank.

"And she’s important to me," Leo repeated. "I’d be lost without her."

"And she you."

"You don’t know Margaret. She’s the original independent woman, she doesn’t need anyone, certainly not her boss," Leo countered.

"She needs her friends, Leo. You’re her friend and she depends on you. She may talk tough, but she counts on you when things get rough. She trusts you to make things right."

"If . . ." Leo’s breath hitched as he stared at the ceiling. "If this isn’t . . . I’m not sure I can make this right."

"Let’s wait and see what the results show." Brian stood in front of Leo with his hands on the older man’s shoulders. "If need be, we’ll figure out how to make things right from there."

Sasha picked that moment to enter room. Assessing the situation, she backed out quietly and decided to make sure her patient was as comfortable as possible before starting the test.

Once again, Leo waited in the hall with Brian as Margaret got dressed. "No offense Brian, but I’ll be glad to get out of here," Leo sighed.

"Feeling a little claustrophobic?"

"West Wing deprivation," Margaret supplied, coming toward them. "If he doesn’t get to work in the next half hour it’s likely he’ll spontaneously combust."

"Entertaining as that might be, I think we’d better let the two of you out of our lair," Sasha said, making notes on her patient’s chart. "Margaret I want you to go home and get some rest. You’ve already put in a full day, and deserve a nap. If the contrast makes you unduly ill, as in more than twice, try a Phenergan suppository. If that doesn’t work, call Dr. Matthews’ office.

"Got it," Margaret replied, walking slowly down the hall, leaning on Leo’s right arm.

It took both Eddie and Leo to guide a tired and queasy Margaret up the stairs. At her apartment, Eddie took the keys Leo handed him and opened the door. The two men helped Margaret into the living room and steered her toward the couch.

"Leo?"

"Yeah, Margaret?"

"Bathroom, now."

"Are you feeling sick?" Eddie asked. Taking one look at Margaret as she nodded, the young man noticed how pale and clammy she’d gotten in the last few seconds. "I’ve got her, Leo." Reaching around Margaret’s shoulders he swung her up into his arms and walked quickly toward the bathroom.

Leo followed, stopping to get clean towels from the linen closet. He turned and ran into the bathroom just as Margaret started heaving. Eddie was crouched on the floor next to Margaret, holding her head over the toilet and keeping her hair out of the way.

After a few moments, Margaret leaned her head against the bowl and sighed deeply. "Now I remember why I hated chemo so much." Turning her head to the left she looked up into two very worried pairs of eyes. "I’m fine, really."

"Sure you are, Margaret," Eddie replied. "How about you get up from there and we’ll all go on into work now?"

"You’re a riot, Edward," Margaret moaned. "How about you help me up off the floor so I can brush my teeth and wash my face?"

Eddie and Leo lifted Margaret from the floor and helped her stand. Leaning against the sink, she reached for her toothbrush. "Eddie, if you don’t mind staying in here with me while I get my teeth and face clean, Leo can get my pajamas."

"Done deal." Eddie took the toothbrush, wetting it and applying toothpaste, as Leo walked into Margaret’s bedroom and set about turning down the bed. Locating a small wastebasket, he put it by the right side of the bed. Looking at her dresser, he realized he had no idea where she kept her pajamas. Leo began opening drawers, the third one yielded a variety of nightclothes. Leo removed a thin yellow cotton nightshirt and closed the drawer.

Returning to the bathroom, he found Margaret drying her face, as Eddie leaned against the vanity, watching her. "Is this okay?" Leo unfolded the garment and held it up.

"Perfect," Margaret replied.

"You okay or do you want some help?"

"I think I can manage. I’ll be out in a minute."

Leo and Eddie took their cue and waited in the living room.

"That was just a little scary," Eddie said, nodding toward the back of the apartment.

"Yes it was."

"Is she going to be all right? Because if not, I can drop you off at work, come back here and sit with her for a couple of hours."

"From what the doctor said, the contrast they used in the CT Scan usually makes Margaret ill. I think she’ll be fine now that she’s emptied her stomach."

Margaret walked out of the bathroom and looked at the two men standing at the other end of the hall. "I hate to be rude, but I’m going to bed."

"Margaret, do you want me to come back after I take Mr. McGarry to the White House?"

"Eddie you’re sweet to offer but I’ll be fine. If I’m not, I promise to call."

"You’re sure?"

"Positive, Eddie," Margaret smiled slightly. "Get out of here and leave me to collapse in peace."

"I’ll meet you at the car," Eddie said to Leo, as he exited the apartment.

Leo followed Margaret down the hall and held the covers back as she sat down and slowly slid between the white sheets.

"Thanks, Leo." Margaret leaned back and rested her head on the pillow.

"You need anything? Tylenol, ginger ale?"

"I’m good. Get to work before the President lists you as MIA."

"Yes, ma’am. I’ll call you after I finish the budget meetings."

Margaret mumbled something incoherent as she drifted into sleep.

Margaret perched on the edge of the kitchen counter, swinging her feet in lazy arcs, a cordless phone cradled between her left ear and shoulder. "I’m fine Phillip, it was only the one time." Nodding her head, she bit her lip to keep from laughing out loud. "I always throw up after a scan, you know that. What can I say, I inherited our mother’s weak stomach and you know . . ."

The buzz of the intercom interrupted the conversational ebb and flow. Margaret slid from the counter to the floor and walked over to the door. Leaning close to the speaker she depressed the "talk" button. "Yes?"

"It’s me," CJ called, juggling an assortment of bags.

"It’s open," the tall red head replied, punching the button to unlock the front door.

"Who was that?" her brother asked.

"That was CJ, she’s come to spend the night and mother hen me, no doubt." Margaret opened the door and stepped into the hall, leaning over the banister as she watched CJ make her way from the vestibule, all the while listening to her brother

Stopping on the landing to set down some of her parcels, lest they tumble back down the stairs, CJ cocked her head and gazed at her friend.

"Phillip, by the time Monday arrives, I’ll have been confined to quarters for three days. I think I know my own body well enough to tell when I can return to work."

"That your brother?" CJ asked, nodding toward the phone.

Margaret grinned and nodded in assent.

"Gimme." The older woman lunged forward and neatly snatched the phone out of her friend’s grasp. "Phil, CJ Cregg. I’m good, thanks. Now listen carefully, because I’m not fond of having to repeat myself. Your sister has done everything the doctors, her boss, the staff of the West Wing, and the President and his wife have badgered her to do with regard to taking care of herself. She’s been off treatments for longer than a month with no ill effects. Phil, would you please stick a sock in it! She’s not going to take up sky diving, she’s only going back to work on Monday. She will continue to follow doctor’s orders or she’ll be the recipient of an ass kicking from no less than the President and half of Congress. Get it? Got it? Gooooooood." CJ disconnected the call and handed the phone back to Margaret.

"My brother’s gonna be so pissed at you for that," Margaret said, shaking her head.

"He can get in line." CJ walked toward the open apartment door as Margaret bent down to retrieve the three small bags she’d left on the landing.

"Did you buy out the market again?" Margaret asked, surveying the wide variety of food CJ was storing in her refrigerator.

"Not nearly as much as last time."

"So you left some for the other poor starving souls of DC?"

"A few crusts and crumbs."

"You’re a generous woman."

"And don’t you forget it!" CJ and Margaret both laughed as Margaret took up her post on top of the counter.

"What’s for dinner?" Margaret asked.

"Whatever you like."

"I’m really not that hungry. Want to wait a while before we decide?"

"Works for me," CJ smiled knowingly and reached for a bottle of water. "Have you taken your evening meds yet?"

"No mother," Margaret replied in a singsong voice.

"Can the sarcasm, get your ass off the counter and take your drugs!"

"Meanie."

"And your point?" CJ asked as she poured water into a small tumbler and handed it to Margaret.

"First of all, you’re not my mother; secondly I seldom if ever miss a dose of these supposedly life-saving . . . excuse me life-prolonging drugs, and third oh yeah, I’ve got Leo and the First Lady on my ass constantly about my daily pill swallowing habits so take a number!" Margaret popped an assortment of pills into her mouth, chasing them with a large swig of water. "I really should consider buying stock in Zeneca and Eli Lilly."

The intercom sounded, causing both women to turn toward the living room. "You expecting company?" CJ asked with a grin.

"No," Margaret answered, walking across the room and engaging the intercom for the second time in an hour. "Yes?"

"Hi Margaret, it’s Donna. I have some campaign files Leo wanted me to drop off for you."

"Come on up Donna." Margaret pressed the button that unlocked the door and turned to face CJ. "I knew he couldn’t get through the weekend without sending me stuff to read before Monday."

"The man can’t live without you."

"Occupationally, yes. Romantically, not so much."

"Remember what I said . . ."

"Yeah, yeah, he loves me too. And pigs have wings and the Republicans are gonna concede the election by 7 p.m.," Margaret replied rolling her eyes. Turning her head toward the door she continued, "What on earth? It sounds like Donna’s dragging a dead body up the stairs."

Margaret grasped the ornate brass knob and turned. The door swung open to reveal Donna, Bonnie, Carol, Nancy, and Ginger. Each woman carried an overnight bag, a pillow, and at least two tote bags.

"Which one of us were you referring to as a dead body?" Carol cracked.

"What the hell . . .?"

"Surprise." CJ slung her right arm over Margaret’s shoulders. "We thought you could use a little fun."

"You people really have to stop with the surprise parties," Margaret giggled. "I’m way too old for them."

"You’re never too old for a party," Donna replied, leading the way into Margaret’s living room.

Everyone dropped their overnight bags by the door and made a beeline for the kitchen.

"More food?" Margaret shook her head as her colleagues proceeded to fill every available inch of counter space with bags and boxes.

Bonnie removed a round plastic storage container from a red canvas bag and set it on the counter.

"Bonnie, correct me if I’m wrong, but that looks suspiciously like chocolate chip cookie dough," CJ stated.

"My grandmother’s recipe." Bonnie’s response elicited moans and sighs of approval. Her maternal grandmother’s chocolate chip cookies were the stuff of legend; the first tins had arrived from Indiana during the 1998 campaign and were delivered sporadically thereafter, on special occasions. After the assassination attempt, Bonnie’s grandmother had sent a half dozen tins to the White House, along with the recipe her granddaughter had attempted to wheedle out of her for the last decade.

"Well, this *is* a special occasion." Nancy said as the other women nodded their agreement.

CJ clapped her hands to get everyone’s attention. "Since this is a sleepover, I think we should all change into our pajamas and then decide which take-out restaurant we’re going to terrorize."

The women shouldered their overnight bags and spread out between the bathroom, Margaret’s bedroom, and the spare room to change. Soon, everyone reconvened in the living room. It took a couple of moments for everyone to realize what Bonnie and Ginger were using for pajamas. Both women wore leggings with oversized navy blue t-shirts that bore the logo "Sold my soul to rock and roll and my ass to the White House Communications Department."

"Where on earth did those come from?" Carol asked, nodding at the pair.

"You know how Sam and Toby trade years of being responsible for our Secretary’s Week gift?" Bonnie asked. The other women nodded their heads. "These were in the gift baskets Sam put together for us a couple of years ago."

"Better not let Toby see those," CJ joined in.

"The unofficial rumor is that he’s the responsible party." Ginger shook her head.

Margaret leaned over the back of the sofa, her left hand full of take out menus. "Why don’t we order pizza? I’m almost certain we’ve got anything else you could possibly want in the kitchen."

Bonnie stood up and moved toward the kitchen. "I’m going to put some cookies in the oven, all I ask is that you leave the anchovies and mushrooms off at least half of one of the pizzas. Margaret, lead me to your cookie sheets."

Margaret followed Bonnie, calling over her shoulder, "Anything but hot peppers is fine with me."

Less than hour later, the front door buzzed. "I’m closest, I’ll get it," Donna called, standing up and striding toward the door. "Pizza delivery for Rigby?" she asked.

"Yes," came the disjointed voice from below.

"Door’s open, top of the steps and to your left," Donna replied as she buzzed the delivery guy in.

Nancy, Ginger, and CJ brought soft drinks, water, and chips into the living room, while Bonnie and Margaret put the freshly baked cookies into a basket.

A sharp knock at the door diverted everyone’s attention. "Me again!" called Donna, who was still standing next to the door. She flipped back the dead bolt and turned the knob. "What the hell is this?" she demanded, hands on her hips and eyes blazing.

"Your pizza delivery, ma’am," Charlie replied with a smile, holding four large pizza boxes to eye level. "I met your delivery girl in the lobby and took care of the bill."

"Not the pizzas Charlie, *this*!" Donna waved her left arm toward the hallway.

"Oh, I brought reinforcements." Charlie led the way into the living room. Behind him trailed Sam, Toby, and Josh, each with the requisite assortment of bags and boxes. Donna brought up the rear, too stunned to close the door properly.

The apartment became overwhelmed with both people and food. For their part, the women stood in the middle of living room staring at their bosses and colleagues.

Donna found her voice first. "Joshua, I know this is your doing. You’re only here because there’s food."

"We’re here because Charlie invited us," Josh spoke up from where he was stationed in the kitchen, helping Charlie with the pizza. "And we’re here because we want Margaret to know we’re with her on this. We even brought food, and drinks, and ice cream. So give it a rest Donnatella."

"This is a pajama party, boys," Ginger said with a grin. "You didn’t just casually forget to mention that, did you Charlie?"

"We’re well aware what kind of party it is," Toby put in. "Margaret, if you’ll allow us to monopolize your bathroom and spare room for a few minutes, we’ll prove to my doubting assistant that we did, in fact, come prepared to party."

"This ought to be rich," Margaret said with a smile. "By all means, mi casa es su

casa."

The four men made their way toward the back of the apartment. "Nice shirt," Sam stage whispered to Bonnie as he passed her on his way toward the bathroom.

Josh was the first one to emerge from the spare bedroom. "Still haven’t grown into those pjs I see," CJ catcalled from her place on the sofa.

"I like ‘em big," Josh replied, settling down on the arm of the chair Donna was occupying. "And I’d like to compliment your choice of nightwear as well." CJ was attired in a pair of hot pink leggings, a white camisole and a pink chenille robe that had obviously seen better days.

Donna swatted the back of Josh’s head. "Play nice for a change."

"I’m always nice."

"You really aren’t."

"Stop arguing children or we’ll be forced to separate you," Toby called as he walked down the hallway. All the women turned as one to see what passed for nightwear in Toby’s universe. There was an underground bet, active since the first term, that Toby slept in his business attire. This accounted for his excessively rumpled appearance on more than one occasion.

"I never thought I’d see the day," Ginger commented as Toby sat down on the sofa between her and CJ.

"And yet you did," Toby replied reaching out to wrap his arms around the two women’s shoulders.

"I want to know who you bribed to get that shirt," Carol commented. Toby and Carol wore matching 2002 National Race for the Cure t-shirts.

"I got mine just like you did," Toby commented.

"You raced?" this from Bonnie

"I walked."

Carol smiled, "I didn’t see you there."

"Carol, there were over 50,000 people in attendance. It’s statistically improbable that we’d bump into one another."

Carol still looked doubtful. "Oh, he did it all right," CJ said, taking up for her longtime friend. "His sister Rachel had breast cancer."

"Toby, I’m sorry, I didn’t know."

"It’s okay, there’s no way you could have," Toby replied, smiling at Carol.

"Is your sister okay?"

"Yes, she’s been in remission for a long time."

Suddenly CJ made a dive across the sofa, launching herself at Toby’s side, "Cedric!" she cried

"Huh?" Margaret and Bonnie chorused, staring at the scene playing out before them.

CJ straightened up, a small, and rather bedraggled stuffed pig clutched tight in her arms. "Cedric," she answered with a small grin. "Has been with Toby for years."

"Ooh, I want the story on this," Donna grinned.

"Back when I first met Toby, I didn’t like him very much," CJ began her tale. "One night, when we were both less than sober and arguing ratification of the ERA, I called Toby a Male Chauvinist Pig."

Toby took up the story. "The next morning she delivered Cedric here to my apartment."

"And he’s been around ever since. When things get bad, Toby even sleeps with Cedric." CJ turned the stuffed toy over so his head was facing the group. "You’ll notice he’s worn a bald spot on the top of Cedric’s right ear. That’s the part he holds onto while he falls asleep." CJ leaned over and placed the pig on Toby’s lap. Toby for his part blushed furiously.

"How bad do things have to get before you resort to sleeping with a stuffed toy?" Josh called from the other side of a room, a wide grin on his face.

Toby mumbled something unintelligible.

"What was that?"

Toby looked Josh in the eye and enunciated clearly. "You have to get shot."

The group lapsed into silence, everyone instantly on a mental and emotional journey to that night.

Seeking to alleviate the tension in the room, Margaret looked down the hall and let out a long wolf whistle, "Hey ladies, get a load of Sam!"

Sam blushed furiously as he walked into the living room. He had on a long black silk robe, black silk pajama pants and a black t-shirt with the Superman logo on it. "What? I wear black all the time."

"There’s black, and then there’s that," Nancy commented, shaking her head. "Black silk, or black tie that is the question. Whether Sam looks hotter in his tuxedo or his jammies."

"His tuxedo," Bonnie supplied without hesitation, looking around the room. "Oh come on, you know you all agree with me."

"Not going there!" Josh squeaked as everyone else in the room laughed.

"Ready or not here I come," Charlie called from behind the partially closed guest room door.

"Come on out Charlie – it can’t be any worse than what we’ve been treated to so far," CJ leaned back on the couch and yelled.

Charlie came shuffling into the room. "Okay, get the smart ass remarks out of your systems, right now. Especially you, CJ."

"Well, Charlie, no one can say you don’t get into the spirit of things," Donna commented.

"You certainly look ready for a pajama party," Bonnie said, biting her lip to prevent the belly laugh she could feel building.

Charlie shrugged his shoulders and looked at CJ who appeared to be considering him thoughtfully. "Out with it, Tiny, I know you’ve got something to say."

"Well, Chuckles, I’ve gotta say, when you try to live up to my expectations you succeed beyond my wildest dreams."

Charlie grinned and looked down at his ensemble. He was wearing a navy blue t-shirt with Kermit the Frog standing in front of an American flag, a pair of dark green sweat shorts with a Muppet logo on the right hem, white crew socks and a pair of swamp thing green fuzzy Kermit the Frog slippers.

"You’re a mess, Charlie," Ginger replied affectionately.

"I think he looks sweet," Nancy countered, grinning at her colleague.

"Thank you," Charlie answered, executing a low bow in her direction.

By the time 10:00 p.m. rolled around, the eleven friends had feasted on pizza and the Vietnamese food Toby and Sam had supplied. "I don’t care if I never see food again," Charlie moaned leaning back into one of the chairs that sat by the front windows.

"Not even for one of Bonnie’s grandmother’s chocolate chip cookies?" Ginger wheedled, waving the basket under his nose.

"Suddenly I feel a little hungry," Charlie replied, grinning at Ginger and taking a cookie.

"So tell me," Sam said from his place on the floor at the foot of the chair Bonnie was seated Indian-style in, "How are you holding up, Margaret?"

"This hurry up and wait process is never pleasant, but at least it’s familiar."

"Have they given you a date when your results will be back?" Donna asked.

"No, it usually takes between five and ten days. They may come back faster since I did not have a biopsy done."

"Folks, this is party, not a dissection of Margaret’s prognosis. Let’s change the topic of conversation please," Toby requested.

Margaret shot her friend a grateful glance and she headed for the kitchen to start a pot of coffee.

Margaret sat up slowly and eased her left leg out from between the covers. Careful not to disturb Ginger and Nancy, she tiptoed around the foot of bed, her bare toes tingling on the chilly wooden floor. Margaret stepped into the hall, pushing the door nearly closed. There was no need to wake her guests on account of her insomnia.

The pajama party had continued well into the night with a great deal of laughter, music, some dancing and of course more food. Stepping over Josh, Donna, Sam and Bonnie, she walked into the kitchen, opened the refrigerator and removed a carton of milk.

Having secured a glass of milk and a bagel, Margaret removed her keys from the basket on top of her desk and let herself into the hall. Walking quickly down the stairs and through the front door, she was surprised to find Toby sitting on the front stoop.

"Couldn’t sleep?" Margaret asked, settling next to Toby on the concrete.

"CJ snores like a freight train."

"You’re just now figuring this out?"

"Oh, I’ve heard her snore before, but never at such close proximity."

"That’s what you get for sharing a twin bed with her," Margaret grinned.

"You could have given us *your* bed."

"Of course, because I want to share a twin bed with either Bonnie or Nancy." Margaret dug her elbow gently into Toby’s right side.

"What about you?"

"Hmmm?" Margaret replied.

"We didn’t crash until after 3. What are you doing up?"

"Insomnia seems to be a regular guest at my house these days."

"Worried?" Toby only needed on word to convey his question.

"More than you know."

"Oh, I think I’ve got a pretty good idea." Toby began rubbing small circles on Margaret’s back.

"Yeah."

The two sat in silence for a time, sharing the glass of milk and the bagel, watching the sun begin its daily journey.

"Leo McGarry’s office," Margaret said, answering the phone for the umpteenth time that day.

"Good afternoon, Margaret, its Lucy McCafferty at Oncological Services."

Margaret smiled warmly and propped her right elbow on the desk. "Lucy, how’s my favorite mama to be?"

"Feeling more like Shamu’s ugly stepsister every day. I swear this child is a boy and he’ll grow up to be a place kicker for the Fighting Irish."

Margaret recalled that Lucy’s husband was a recent graduate of Notre Dame. "There’s a baby after President Bartlet’s heart," she laughed. "But what are you going to do if it’s a girl?"

"Um, kick boxing lessons?" Lucy suggested then segued into her true reason for calling. "Dr. Matthews asked me to call you . . ."

"Already?" Margaret interrupted, sweat coating her palms, making it difficult to hold onto the phone receiver.

"Yes, she would like to see you."

"When?"

"Sometime today. She’s free from two o’clock on."

"I’m on my way; should be there in half an hour at the latest." Margaret hung up the phone and clutched the desk. Taking several deep breaths, the better to calm her racing heart, Margaret picked up the phone again, rapidly dialing a string of numbers.

"Hi Ginger, it’s me. I’ve got to be out of the office, and Leo is in the Situation Room. Is it all right if I forward the phones to you for a couple of hours?"

"Absolutely," Ginger replied, making a notation on a small pad.

"Thanks, I appreciate it. I’ll call you when I get back."

"Glad to do it. Talk to you later." Ginger disconnected the call and placed a note on Bonnie’s desk, letting her know that the Chief of Staff’s calls were being directed to their bullpen.

"Hi Charlie," Margaret said, entering the office from the hall, her handbag over her shoulder, car keys dangling from her left hand. Nodding at the President’s new Executive Assistant, she continued, "Good afternoon Debbie, you getting settled in?"

"I’m just here for a preliminary run-through." Debbie Fiderer announced, grinning at Margaret. "My first day isn’t for a couple of weeks yet."

Margaret looked at the President’s body man. "Charlie I have to be out of the office for a while. I’ve forwarded the phones over to the Communications Bullpen."

Charlie nodded, as Debbie looked up from the policy manual she was reviewing. "Where are you off to?"

"My oncologist’s office."

"Results back?" Charlie asked.

Margaret nodded her head vigorously.

"I thought Leo was going with you."

Margaret rolled her eyes. "Yeah, well he’s a little busy at the moment."

"Doing what?" Charlie continued to question her.

"He’s in the Sit Room, blowing up Nebraska in a bid to impress his girlfriend."

"Leo has a girlfriend?" Debbie asked, shock registering on her face. "How did I get bumped out of the gossip loop this fast?"

"You’re not out of the loop," Charlie replied. "Leo does not have a girlfriend."

"What would you call Jordan Kendall?" Margaret asked, folding her arms across her chest.

"His lawyer" Charlie’s tone of voice indicated the subject was closed.

"You say potato," Margaret deadpanned. "Irregardless, I am out of here. If Leo gets finished before I return, tell him I’m over at the OEOB."

"Ah, the noble lie?" Debbie grinned.

"The necessary lie," Charlie responded nodding at Margaret. "Go, we’ll keep your secret."

Margaret sat in the waiting room, endlessly twisting her University ring around on the fourth finger of her right hand, in a bid to keep from chewing on her fingernails. She hadn’t bit her nails in eons, and this was no time to start.

Debbie opened the door leading from the office area and smiled at Margaret. "Dr. Matthews will see you now."

Standing up, Margaret wished again that Leo were with her. Good news or bad, she wasn’t certain she’d be able to handle this alone. If nothing else, he’d been a calming presence throughout the protocol. "Damn him," she muttered, brushing past Debbie and beginning to stalk down the hall toward Corrine’s office.

"Not so fast, cowgirl," Debbie said, her right arm whipping out and catching Margaret’s left elbow. "First the weighing and blood work, *then* you can see the doctor."

"I just had my blood drawn last week." The tall red head removed her suit jacket and made a fist with her right hand, as Debbie placed a tourniquet around the upper part of her arm.

"Yes, and now you’re getting it done again," Debbie replied "Where’s Mr. McGarry?"

"He’s in a security meeting of some sort," Margaret answered, willing her voice to remain neutral.

Debbie patted her on the back and ushered her toward the scales. After recording her weight, she handed Margaret her black leather shoulder bag and nodded toward the opposite end of the hall. "Go on with you."

Margaret allowed her purse to dangle from her left hand and walked quickly toward the back of the office suite. Seconds later she was knocking on her oncologist’s office door.

"It’s open."

"Good afternoon," Margaret said, pushing open the door and stepping just inside the physician’s private office.

"Come on in and have a seat, Margaret. I promise not to bite you!" Corrine chuckled lightly at the look of abject horror pasted on her patient’s face. Guiding Margaret to an upholstered chair, Corrine sat on the edge of her desk, reaching behind her for Margaret’s medical chart.

"C’mon Corrine, I know you didn’t call me in here just to chat. What’s the word?"

"Where’s Leo?" Corrine asked, noting Margaret’s jumpiness and barely contained cranky mood.

"At the White House."

"I thought for sure he’d be with you."

"You thought wrong," Margaret replied in clipped tones.

"So, Leo’s at the top of your personal shit list, huh?" Corrine smiled knowingly.

"You know it. Now are you going to share my results with me or are we going to continue this little Q and A period about my boss?"

"Ooh, you’re pissed."

"I’m really not."

"Why didn’t Leo come with you?" Corrine persisted.

"He’s in the Situation Room with Jordan Kendall."

"Who is he?"

Margaret’s voice got very quiet. "*She* is a lawyer with expertise in international relations."

"Doesn’t sound good."

"I have no idea what it’s about. This is sort of thing we assistants are kept in the dark about until we absolutely need to know."

"So, Leo’s taking a meeting with another woman and *you* are in a snit," Corrine concluded.

"I’m about to move from snit to full-on witch if you don’t drop the West Wing Inquisition," Margaret said, leaning back in her chair.

"It’s really too bad Leo isn’t with you," the older woman barely hid her amusement at the irritation crossing her patient’s countenance.

"It really is not."

"Of course it is," Corrine countered.

"Why on earth is it so important that Leo be here," Margaret said. A look of fear skittered across her face like a squirrel chasing down the last acorn of the season. "Please tell me the results weren’t . . ."

Corrine interrupted her patient, waving her hands in front of her for emphasis. "It’s too damn bad Leo’s not here because the radiation worked." Corrine giggled at the sight of her normally composed patient’s mouth hanging open. "Close your mouth Margaret, you’ll draw flies."

"The radiation worked," Margaret repeated, trying the words on for size.

"You’re in remission," Corrine replied consulting a series on notes on that chart. "There are a variety of oral medications you’ll need to take to maintain you remission and, of course, I’ll want to see you every . . .oof!" The older woman’s recitation was stopped by the crush of her patient’s arms around her in a vice-like grip.

"I’m in remission!" Margaret screamed at the top of her lungs, causing Corrine to clap her hands over her ears and bringing Debbie and Lucy into the office to congratulate her.

"As I was saying," the oncologist continued, straightening her wire rimmed glasses on her nose. "You have a pretty strict medical regimen to follow, oral meds, regular check-ups, and you can’t start skipping meals or giving short shrift to a good nights sleep. You *have* to take care of yourself, Margaret."

"Yes ma’am, whatever you say ma’am. Write my orders and I’ll be out of your hair."

"In a hurry, Margaret?" Debbie teased.

"She wants to express her appreciation to that cutie-pie Dr. Lewis," Corrine replied, nudging her nurse with her shoulder.

"Actually, I have to get back to work, there’s a small mountain of reports and campaign work that has to be done before the end of the day or it’ll be me on top of Leo McGarry’s shit list. Although . . . Brian was *so* helpful." Margaret winked at Lucy, who blushed and dissolved into giggles.

Dr. Matthews handed Margaret a small stack of prescriptions and a folder full of articles. "Get those scrips filled ASAP and read this information. I’ll see you in a month."

"Thanks so much, Corrine," Margaret said, taking the proffered material. "I’d love nothing more than to stay and continue this little party but I have to get back to the West Wing."

"I understand. Make sure that hunky boss of yours knows he can call if he has any questions."

"I’ll be sure the President knows that, Corrine. Does the same thing go for Leo?" Margaret laughed.

"Out of my office, you nut case!" Corrine made shooing motions at one of her favorite patients.

"Going!" Margaret called, ducking out of the door and running down the hall as fast as she could in high heels.

Margaret completed the latest revisions to the campaign contribution list and sent it to the print cue. Neatly stacking folders with all of the information for tomorrow’s meetings, she pulled the report from the printer, stapled it and slid it into the blue campaign folder, placing it on top so it was the first thing Leo saw when he got back from his meetings. Margaret saved the spreadsheet document and began to close all the electronic files she’d been working on over the last three hours.

Margaret thought back over the afternoon. In remission, she could scarcely believe it. This was what she had dared not hope for; she had dodged the proverbial bullet. Of course, she wasn’t exactly out of danger yet. Corrine had made certain to inform her that existing protocols regarding diet and rest would continue. She also had to swallow even more pills each day. ‘Fine by me,’ Margaret thought. ‘I’ll swallow pills ten times a day if it keeps me healthy.’

Looking at the small case clock on her credenza, the tall red head determined there was no time like the present to follow her oncologist’s directive. Margaret opened the word processing program on her desktop again and printed out a draft copy of Leo’s schedule for the next week. The resulting document was secured to the top of the campaign contribution list with a paperclip. Margaret shut down her computer, placed the necessary files in Leo’s in-basket, checked the voice mail system one last time, and headed for home.

Signing out of the White House, she ran into Charlie and Debbie, who were obviously coming back from a late dinner. "Been out for real food?" Margaret asked with a wry grin.

"I decided it wasn’t fair to subject Debbie to Mess food all three meals on her first day in the White House," Charlie replied with a smile.

"Time enough for that thrill later," Debbie claimed.

"I’ll see you tomorrow." Margaret pulled her trench coat on and began doing up the buttons.

Charlie looked at his watch. "Cutting out early?"

"Still following doctor’s orders."

Charlie slapped his forehead with the heel of his right hand. "That’s right! What’d the doctor say?"

"Not telling."

"Don’t do that to me, Margaret."

"You know the deal, Charlie. The boss finds out first."

"You know, if you wanted to give us a nonverbal hint, we’d never tell anyone," Debbie whispered, leaning in close to the pair of staffers.

"Hmm," Margaret considered. "Well, you *were* nice enough to keep my secret earlier today." Stepping closer to Charlie, she grabbed him by the lapels of his jacket, pressing a quick kiss on his forehead.

The tall red head was halfway to the staff entrance when she swore heard the proverbial dime drop. Charlie spoke up, "Margaret?"

"Yes, Charlie?" Margaret turned and nodded at the pair.

"Did that," the young aide waved his hands between the two of them, "mean what I think it meant? Don’t play with me woman, my heart can’t take it." Charlie pretended to stagger back and clutch at his chest.

"Would I do that to you?"

"Probably not."

"Well then."

"Serious?"

"Does Toby have a temper?"

Charlie stepped closer, "You’re in remission?"

"That’s what the paperwork says."

"Wow."

"Couldn’t have put it better myself," Margaret grinned.

"That’s just so . . ."

"Isn’t it?" Margaret’s grin blossomed into a full-fledged smile.

"When are you planning on telling Leo?"

"Probably sometime tomorrow."

"Oh to be a fly on that wall. I could always tell him you need to talk to him tonight. I could suggest he drop by your apartment on his way home."

"I could beat you senseless with my purse," Margaret replied, eyes narrowing.

"I could shut up now and go back to my office."

"Capital idea," Margaret agreed. "Good night Debbie."

"Good night Margaret. Congratulations," the President’s new assistant replied.

Leo entered his office from the hallway connecting his workspace with the Oval. The last staff meeting of the day had run long, with talk about the election campaign. This was followed by a private meeting with the President as the two old friends dissected possible fall-out from the Qumar situation seven ways from Sunday.

Standing over his desk, he noticed Margaret had left a hefty stack of files for him to review. Pulling his glasses from the inside breast pocket of his navy wool blazer, he tossed the jacket over the back of his chair and removed the files from the wooden in-box. Sitting down on the couch, he crossed his legs and opened the first file. Leo began reviewing the schedule, making changes as he went. He flipped through the campaign contribution report, made a couple of notations in the margins and closed the file.

Leo stacked the remaining materials on the coffee table in front of him. He stood up and began pacing from his desk to the hall door and back again. An internal argument raged within the Chief of Staff’s head. Should he or shouldn’t he? Now or later? There was never an optimal time for bad news. Still, he couldn’t go it alone any more. Not that he was alone on this, the President, Fitz, and Nancy all stood with him. And he had the legal counsel of Jordan. It wasn’t enough. Things were going to get ugly, most likely sooner instead of later. He needed her inside. Oh she’d fuss, she’d fret, she’d undoubtedly worry, but above all that she would be the soul of discretion and the sounding board he required.

Debate concluded, Leo pulled on his jacket. Opening the connecting door, he peered around the corner and noticed Margaret’s desk was dark, all indications being she’d left for the day. He’d surmised as much when she didn’t come running once he’d returned from the Oval. He exited the office and walked down the hall.

Inside the outer office, Charlie and Debbie were reviewing a series of briefing books. "Charlie, did you see Margaret this evening?" Leo asked, lingering in the doorway.

"She went home a couple of hours ago," Charlie replied, struggling to keep a grin from exploding on his face.

"Was she all right?"

"She seemed okay to me." Charlie turned back to his work. "Something about following doctor’s orders."

"Yeah, thanks." Leo turned and left, walking back toward his office, pulling his cell phone out of his pocket as he went.

Thick clouds of steam enveloped the bathroom as Margaret sank lower into the tub. A small wave of bubbles approached her chin and she blew them in the direction of her toes. ‘If this isn’t Nirvana, I don’t know what is,’ Margaret thought to herself, allowing her head to rest on the back of the white porcelain tub. ‘I swear I can feel every muscle in my spine relaxing.’

The chirp of her cell phone interrupted the tall red head’s reverie. Reaching over the side of the tub, she retrieved her phone from where it sat next to her pager, on the edge of the vanity. Glancing at the called id display she groaned. "Margaret Rigby," she answered, activating the phone and struggling to keep her voice professional.

"I hate to do this, but I need you to come in," Leo announced without preamble.

"Give me thirty minutes," Margaret replied, standing up in the tub and reaching for her towel.

"Are you washing dishes? I hear water sloshing around."

"No Leo, I was washing myself. That’s my bubble bath you hear."

Leo squelched the strangled moan building up in his throat. "I’ll send Eddie to pick you up."

"I can drive."

"It’s late and I’m pulling you back in after a long day. Eddie will be there shortly."

Knowing an argument would alter both their moods, and not for the better, Margaret acquiesced. "See you in a bit." Terminating the call, she stepped out of the tub and finished drying off.

She had just finished shimmying into a pair of tailored gray wool slacks and a sleeveless cream cotton turtleneck shell, when the front buzzer sounded. Margaret stuck her hairbrush and clips in the back pocket of her briefcase and shouldered the canvas bag and her purse. Grabbing her blazer from the back of the desk chair she pocketed her keys, turned out the light and left the apartment, racing down the stairs.

"Good evening, Margaret," Eddie said, opening the front door for her. "Sorry about this."

"Not your fault, Eddie." Margaret gave the young man a genuine smile. "Any idea what’s going on?"

"All I know is that Mr. Young called around and told me that Mr. McGarry needed you brought into the office." Eddie handed Margaret into the back seat and jogged around to the driver’s side.

Ten minutes later, the government sedan pulled to the White House gates. Eddie lowered his window and smiled at Derek, the one of the third shift guards. "I’ve got Miss Rigby for Mr. McGarry," he offered.

"Go ahead and pull up to the West Entrance," Derek said, poking his head into the open window and nodding at Margaret.

"Thanks, Derek." Eddie raised the window and pulled slowly through the gates.

Realizing her damp hair was still curling about her shoulders, Margaret hastily pulled the red locks into a tight twist, and secured it with the clips she’d stash in her case. Not a moment too soon, as Eddie opened the door and held out his hand. Placing her right hand in Eddie’s left, Margaret exited the sedan, waiting while Leo’s driver handed her handbag, briefcase, and jacket to her.

"Thank you Eddie." Margaret began striding toward the door.

"Always a pleasure," Eddie responded. "Give me a call when you’re ready to go home."

Margaret simply nodded as the Marine guard opened the door and entered the White House for the third time that day. She swiped her card and made her way through the halls. There were no outward and visible signs of a crisis, any junior staffers dashing about with their arms full of briefing books and memo, no sounds of Josh yelling for Donna or the staccato beat of CJ and Carol’s high heels as they raced for the Press Room.

A quick glance into Charlie’s office only yielded he and Debbie, hard at it with a stack of briefing books and files.

Without stopping at her office to drop of her bags, Margaret tapped at the door to Leo’s office, expelling a short puff of air that sent her bangs airborne.

"It’s open," Leo called.

Margaret pushed the door open, "You rang?" she said with a slight grin.

"Thanks for coming in. I’m sorry I interrupted you . . . you know . . . your . . . uhh . . ."

"Bubble bath," Margaret supplied

"Yeah, that. Uh listen, there’s no easy way to do this . . ."

Margaret, already in crisis mode, began jumping to conclusions, random thoughts ricocheting through her mind like so many Mexican jumping beans. ‘I’ve taken too much time off due to the treatments, he’s gonna fire me. He and Jordan are dating and she hates me, he’s gonna fire me. He and Jordan are shacking up, getting married, oh hell what if she’s pregnant? Mallory’s gonna shit kittens . . .’

"Earth to Margaret, you with me?" Leo asked, snapping his fingers in front of her face.

"Of course." Margaret stared down at her boss.

"Good, because I need to know you’re not gonna go ballistic on me here."

‘She *is* pregnant,’ Margaret thought. Verbally, she replied, "You can count on me."

"Good," Leo nodded and gestured toward the sofa. "Would you like some coffee?"

"Isn’t that supposed to be my line?"

"I just made a fresh pot. Would you like a cup?"

"Let me get it." Margaret picked up his mug and carried it to her office. Placing her bags under the desk, she slipped her arms into her blazer and pulled her mug from its resting-place next to her calculator. Walking down the hall, pouring the coffee, and returning to the office she kept reminding herself not to completely lose it when Leo announced his pending marriage.

"Here you are." Margaret placed both steaming cups on the table. Leo was seated on the couch; his jacket off and tie loosened. Margaret looked down at her boss, noting he looked ten years past his age. "Leo, are you all right?"

"I . . . I’m not sure." Leo shook his head. "Sit down, please."

Margaret sensed this was about more than his relationship with Jordan Kendall. "Do I need to take notes?"

"Not this time."

Margaret lowered herself into one of the striped side chairs. "Leo you look like you’re responsible for every problem on the planet. What’s going on?"

"Last April, we received intelligence reports that the Qumari Minister of Defense . . ."

"Shareef," Margaret cut in.

"Shareef," Leo nodded. "was behind the planning of a series of terrorist attacks on America. In May the White House, together with the Joint Chiefs, the National Security Council and . . ." Leo spent the next hour providing Margaret a detailed account of the planning, the meeting with Shareef, the ‘mechanical trouble’ the aircraft encountered, the assassination, and the fall out."

For her part, Margaret sat silently, nodding at regular intervals. Knowing a briefing book or even a concealed file folder of hand written notes could be damning, she concentrated on what Leo was telling her, committing as much as possible to memory.

"Do you understand what I’ve told you?" Leo asked, concluding his lecture.

Margaret nodded, her eyes wide.

"Questions?"

Margaret shook her head. "I suspected."

"Suspected what?"

"I knew there had to be some issue with Shareef. You kept muttering his name to yourself at odd moment last spring. The night we were in New York, I knew something was wrong by the way you and the President kept jumping up and down every five minutes."

"Margaret, a Secret Service agent was murdered that night."

"You two were choreographing your cell phone pas de deux at least an hour before Simon Donovan was killed. CNN had the story before we left the theatre Leo, I heard Carol getting questions on the flight back. It doesn’t take a nuclear physicist to figure it out."

"Do you think anyone else knows?"

"I seriously doubt it. You don’t usually go into the whole talking to yourself routine unless you’re in here."

Leo chuckled mirthlessly. "Thank heaven for small favors." Glancing at his watch he shook his head, "It’s after one, let me call Eddie and have him take you home."

"I go home when you go home."

"Margaret, please . . ."

"Leo, it’s been a long day and we have to be back here in less than eight hours. The days aren’t going to get any shorter for the foreseeable future and I’m not having you collapse a month before the election. I’ll call Eddie and we will both go home."

"You can be a real pain."

"You say that like it’s a bad thing," Margaret grinned at her boss and removed her cell phone from her pant’s pocket. Hitting a speed dial button, she waited for an answer. "Eddie, its Margaret. Leo and I are ready to leave. West Entrance in ten? Thank you so much." Margaret ended the call and stood up. "Get your things together and let’s put paid to this day."

Margaret and Leo smiled at one another as the sedan drew to a stop outside the red brick apartment building.

"Home again," Leo said. "I’m sorry about calling you in."

"No harm, no foul. Better now than later."

"Right. Let me walk you to your door." Leo started to follow Margaret out of the back seat.

Turning around, Margaret put her right hand on Leo’s lapel. "It’s not fifty feet from this car to the top of the stairs, I can make it. Besides you’re exhausted," she added as Leo covered his mouth and yawned.

"I rest my case." Margaret took two paces away from the car when she stopped and turned around.

"Problem?" Leo asked, the back door still open.

"I forgot to tell you something earlier."

"What’s that?"

"While you were in the Sit Room this afternoon I had a meeting out of the office. With my oncologist."

"Okay. See you in the morning." Leo shut the car door and nodded at Eddie to drive on.

For her part, Margaret started up the front stairs and leaned against the railing. "Five, four, three, two, one," she counted aloud.

Just after she reached the final number, the sedan pulled up to the curb, in reverse. Leo hurtled himself from the interior and sprinted across the walk.

Stopping just in front of his assistant he shook his head as she laughed. "Fine, be that way, put an old man in his grave."

Margaret gasped between bouts of laughter. "You were the one who drove off!"

"Technically, that was Eddie."

"Semantics!" Margaret cried.

"So, you wouldn’t want to share the results of your conversation with me, would you?"

"Which conversation?"

"The one you had with Dr. Matthews," Leo allowed exasperation to creep into his voice.

"Oh, *that* conversation," Margaret replied. "She thinks the President’s handsome."

"Anything else?"

"She says you’re not bad looking either."

"Remind me to send her flowers. Anything else?"

"Oh yeah, she did mention something about my being in remission."

"Remission?"

"Remission."

"Remission?"

"I think we’ve already established that fact."

"You’re in remission?"

"You want me to call Corrine and you can get it from her?"

"Get down off the step."

"What are you on about Leo?"

"You’re already taller than me. Step down here so I can hug you without standing on my toes."

"Oh. Okay." Margaret put her left her purse and briefcase on the concrete riser and stepped to the sidewalk. "Better?"

"Much," Leo replied, pulling Margaret into his arms. "I am *very* proud of you." Leo bit his lip, preventing unshed tears from spilling past his eyelids.

"Couldn’t have done it without you," Margaret replied, trying hard not to cry as well.

"This calls for a celebration."

"Please, not another surprise party."

"I can’t guarantee what the staff will and will not do about that. However, what I had in mind was that dinner I still owe you."

Margaret nodded. "How about after the election. Things will settle down a bit then."

"After the election," Leo agreed, glancing at his watch. "I’d better let you get upstairs and get some sleep."

"Good night Leo," Margaret looked down to where their hands were still clasped. Leaning forward, much as she had several months ago, Margaret kissed Leo gently on the cheek. This time, however, the surprise was hers as he returned the gesture.

Reluctantly, Margaret drew away from Leo’s embrace and started back up the stairs. Bending down, to pick up her bags, she noticed Leo was standing where she’d left him, that heart stopping grin spread across his face.

Margaret giggled and climbed the last six stairs. Placing her key in the lock, she turned and waved at Eddie, who was holding the car door open for Leo and shaking his head, doubtless at their behavior. She opened the door and stepped inside, allowing the heavy walnut and glass door to swing closed.

"I love you." Margaret said softly as Leo’s car pulled away from the curb

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