Hamburg Inn
Des Moines, Iowa
4:37 p.m.
Nestled into a small window seat in the corner of the hotel lobby, Donna enjoyed the sound of the rain falling on the window. She particularly enjoyed the fact she was no longer trapped in one of the many drab hotel conference rooms. The next 23 minutes were hers to relax. Technically. In all honesty, she had brought an hour’s worth of work down with her 37 minutes ago. Best case scenario would be she’d finish up with five minutes to spare. She’d relax in those five minutes.
She settled deeper into the worn velvet-covered cushion, enjoying the smell of fresh coffee and the muted sounds of travelers coming and going in the main lobby area. Apparently the Hamburg Inn was the place to be in Des Moines, most of the other candidates and their people were lodging there. Will insisted they arrived first. Russell’s media opportunities had, to date, been less than inspiring, so she assumed Will was working whatever angle he had.
She sighed deeply. She didn’t let herself think about this too often, but it was technically her break, so she couldn’t see herself as too treasonous. It was tough some days to get truly inspired by a candidate when your previous employer blew the competition away with a look and a word. It was tough. It was reality. The Bartlet Administration had to end, was ending, actually. It was also reality that she had to pay her bills. Sometimes inspiration wasn’t enough.
The thunking and clunking sounds of someone struggling with their luggage drew her from her reverie. Looking up from her mountain of work, she saw him. It had been raining most of the day and droplets of water ran down his coat in rivulets, puddling on the red carpet of the hotel’s foyer. His umbrella sent water flying as he shook it out. He looked tired. He stifled a yawn and rolled his head on his shoulders, loosening up his tense muscles. Taking a deep breath he refocused, scouted out the reception area and made his way toward the smiling young man behind the counter.
“Good afternoon sir. Welcome to the Hamburg Inn. Once you’ve checked in, I can have a porter take your luggage to your room for you, Mr…”
“Lyman. I’ve got a room with the Santos campaign.”
“Yes sir, I just need to see your credentials and a photo ID.” The young man smiled cordially but his tone offered no exception to his request.
Josh sighed dramatically and with a pointed look began to rifle through his backpack until he found and proffered the requested documentation. Oh Joshua, she thought, not everyone knows who you are, especially outside of DC’s political merry-go-round.
“Excellent. Thank you for your patience Mr. Lyman. We are certainly proud to host so many of the candidates here at the Hamburg and we’d be remiss not to be particularly cautious.”
The porter, whose name Donna remembered as Mitchell, arrived and carted Josh’s luggage away to his room. She watched quietly as Josh removed his overcoat, shook it gently and threw it over his arm. After shoving his paperwork and room keys in the front of his backpack he flipped open his cell phone and began discussions with someone she didn’t know.
By the look of him she surmised he’d probably worked a string of three or four nights in a row with three hours sleep, or less, per night. She knew how to read the signs. She looked at his shirt. If he was wearing the same one as the day before she knew he’d been working late at least two nights in a row. If he had that glossy look in his eye before the day actually ended was another sign, especially if it wasn’t even dinnertime yet, that he’d been pushing himself three nights in a row. If he’d missed a spot shaving, she’d know for sure, it was a dead giveaway: four nights. It took awhile for him to grow out enough of a face to miss any in an attempt to shave it off.
So here he was, across the room from her, and she could still tell he’d been working too hard. She wasn’t too concerned however. She couldn’t miss the passion and determination in his eyes. His spirit was fed by opportunities like this. He might be tired but he was nowhere near tired out. She could just tell. It was in his body language, how he stood kinetically casual and confident all at once. Most of his tells existed in his body language and she hoped she’d never lose that ability to read him.
For awhile after she left her job she struggled with lingering traces of guilt. She’d never wavered on her decision. Leaving was absolutely the thing she needed for her professional and personal growth. She knew she needed, for her own spirit and esteem, to get out and see what she could do on her own. Yet, she wasn’t so self-centered to believe her actions would not affect Josh personally. She wanted him to be okay without her, as much for his sake as her own. That’s why, looking at him now, she wasn’t worried. He was laboring for a person, a cause that truly inspired and fed his spirit. If Josh was going back to the White House, presumably as CoS, he wasn’t going to do it for Bob Russell. Josh could never work for someone he didn’t respect or find inspiring, it just wasn’t in his nature. So with every bit of ground the Santos campaign gained, she saw that glimmer shine brighter.
Watching him now, his hand on his hip, standing in the middle of the hotel lobby oblivious to people moving around and past him, he was beautiful. He was working the strings of his master plan and she felt proud of him. This was his element, his vocation. She didn’t know what the history books would say about Joshua Lyman but they’d never really get it right.
Sighing softly she tried to turn her attention back to her own work. Deep down she knew she could study him all day, he really was a compelling person. For eight years she’d been studying him, and the world in which they existed, and sticking so close to his orbit is what got her in trouble anyhow. Shaking her head a bit to focus, she tried getting back on task. She checked her watch. She had 30 minutes of break time left and at least 40 minutes of work to do.
“Donnatella Moss, as I live and breathe!” A poor rendition of a southern accent lilted across the space between them.
She grinned into her papers and without looking up cooed, “My stars! Is that Joshua Lyman? Honestly darling, seems as though you’ve been spending a tad bit too much time down south.” Her attempt at a southern accent was just as horrible as his had been.
He flopped down in an overstuffed chair across from her spot in the window, letting his backpack hit the ornate carpet with a resounding thump. He flashed her the smile, with dimples. He threw the dimples around well and he knew it. Yet, with his legs stretched out in front of her, she noticed his smile was too bright and shiny. It certainly wasn’t the intimate, soft smile he’d given her in Germany. Looking beyond the smile, she studied the look in his eyes. It took her less than a second to see the nervousness there. They hadn’t seen each other, in person anyway, for awhile.
She wasn’t sure what to say to him. Her first urge was to bring the banter, to resort to humor as a means of diffusing a potentially awkward situation. Her second urge was to tell him he looked a mess and go find him some cleaner, less wrinkled, clothes. Her third urge was to, well, something she’d never done outside of her dreams. She wasn’t about to do that in the middle of a hotel lobby.
Eight years ago she hadn’t been at a loss for words around him. Hell, a whole lot of words, spoken at a high rate of speed while walking purposefully, got her a job. She wasn’t coming to him for a job anymore. She wasn’t coming to him to be saved. She was learning to see the world from the view her own two feet afforded her. However Josh fit into her life now was new territory and that would take some time.
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Chapter 2