Vitamins, Supplements, Sport Nutrition

133

When Rachel awoke, the room was dark.

A clock glowed 10:14 P.M. The bed was not her own. For several moments, she lay motionless, wondering where she was. Slowly, it all started coming back . . . the megaplume . . . this morning at the Washington Monument . . . the President’s invitation to stay at the White House.

I’m at the White House, Rachel realized. I slept here all day.

The Coast Guard chopper, at the President’s command, had transported an exhausted Michael Tolland, Corky Marlinson, and Rachel Sexton from the Washington Monument to the White House, where they had been fed a sumptuous breakfast, been seen to by doctors, and been offered any of the building’s fourteen bedrooms in which to recuperate.

All of them had accepted.

Rachel could not believe she had slept this long. Turning on the television, she was stunned to see that President Herney had already completed his press conference. Rachel and the others had offered to stand beside him when he announced the meteorite disappointment to the world. We all made the mistake together. But Herney had insisted on shouldering the burden alone.

“Sadly,” one political analyst on TV was saying, “it seems NASA has discovered no signs of life from space after all. This marks the second time this decade that NASA has incorrectly classified a meteorite as showing signs of extraterrestrial life. This time, however, a number of highly respected civilians were also among those fooled.”

“Normally,” a second analyst chimed in, “I would have to say that a deception of the magnitude the President described this evening would be devastating for his career . . . and yet, considering the developments this morning at the Washington Monument, I would have to say Zach Herney’s chances of taking the presidency look better than ever.”

The first analyst nodded. “So, no life in space, but no life in Senator Sexton’s campaign either. And now, as new information surfaces suggesting deep financial troubles plaguing the senator‑”

A knock on the door drew Rachel’s attention.

Michael, she hoped, quickly turning off the television. She hadn’t seen him since breakfast. On their arrival at the White House, Rachel had wanted nothing more than to fall asleep in his arms. Although she could tell Michael felt the same, Corky had intervened, parking himself on Tolland’s bed and exuberantly telling and retelling his story about urinating on himself and saving the day. Finally, utterly exhausted, Rachel and Tolland had given up, heading for separate bedrooms to sleep.

Now, walking toward the door, Rachel checked herself in the mirror, amused to see how ridiculously she was dressed. All she had found to wear to bed was an old Penn State football jersey in the dresser. It draped down to her knees like a nightshirt.

The knocking continued.

Rachel opened the door, disappointed to see a female U.S. Secret Service agent. She was fit and cute, wearing a blue blazer. “Ms. Sexton, the gentleman in the Lincoln Bedroom heard your television. He asked me to tell you that as long as you’re already awake . . . “She paused, arching her eyebrows, clearly no stranger to night games on the upper floors of the White House.

Rachel blushed, her skin tingling. “Thanks.”

The agent led Rachel down the impeccably appointed hallway to a plain‑looking doorway nearby.

“The Lincoln Bedroom,” the agent said. “And as I am always supposed to say outside this door, ’sleep well, and beware of ghosts.’”

Rachel nodded. The legends of ghosts in the Lincoln Bedroom were as old as the White House itself. It was said that Winston Churchill had seen Lincoln’s ghost here, as had countless others, including Eleanor Roosevelt, Amy Carter, actor Richard Dreyfuss, and decades of maids and butlers. President Reagan’s dog was said to bark outside this door for hours at a time.

The thoughts of historical spirits suddenly made Rachel realize what a sacred place this room was. She felt suddenly embarrassed, standing there in her long football jersey, bare‑legged, like some college coed sneaking into a boy’s room. “Is this kosher?” she whispered to the agent. “I mean this is the Lincoln Bedroom.”

The agent winked. “Our policy on this floor is ’don’t ask, don’t tell.’”

Rachel smiled. “Thanks.” She reached for the door‑knob, already feeling the anticipation of what lay beyond.

“Rachel!” The nasal voice carried down the hallway like a buzz saw.

Rachel and the agent turned. Corky Marlinson was hobbling toward them on crutches, his leg now professionally bandaged. “I couldn’t sleep either!”

Rachel slumped, sensing her romantic tryst about to disintegrate.

Corky’s eyes inspected the cute Secret Service agent. He flashed her a broad smile. “I love women in uniform.”

The agent pulled aside her blazer to reveal a lethal‑looking sidearm.

Corky backed off. “Point taken.” He turned to Rachel. “Is Mike awake, too? You going in?” Corky looked eager to join the party.

Rachel groaned. “Actually, Corky . . . “

“Dr. Marlinson,” the Secret Service agent intervened, pulling a note from her blazer. “According to this note, which was given to me by Mr. Tolland, I have explicit orders to escort you down to the kitchen, have our chef make you anything you want, and ask you to explain to me in vivid detail how you saved yourself from certain death by . . . “the agent hesitated, grimacing as she read the note again. “. . . by urinating on yourself?”

Apparently, the agent had said the magic words. Corky dropped his crutches on the spot and put an arm around the woman’s shoulders for support, and said, “To the kitchen, love!”

As the indisposed agent helped Corky hobble off down the hall, Rachel had no doubt Corky Marlinson was in heaven. “The urine is the key,” she heard him saying, “because those damned telencephalon olfactory lobes can smell everything!”

The Lincoln Bedroom was dark when Rachel entered. She was surprised to see the bed empty and untouched. Michael Tolland was nowhere to be seen.

An antique oil lamp burned near the bed, and in the soft radiance, she could barely make out the Brussels carpet . . . the famous carved rosewood bed . . . the portrait of Lincoln’s wife, Mary Todd . . . even the desk where Lincoln signed the Emancipation Proclamation.

As Rachel closed the door behind her, she felt a clammy draft on her bare legs. Where is he? Across the room, a window was open, the white organza curtains billowing. She walked over to close the window, and an eerie whisper murmured from the closet.

“Maaaarrrrrrrry . . .”

Rachel wheeled.

“Maaaaaarrrrrrrry?” the voice whispered again. “Is that you? . . . Mary Todd Liiiiiincoln?”

Rachel quickly closed the window and turned back toward the closet. Her heart was racing, although she knew it was foolish. “Mike, I know that’s you.”

“Noooooo . . . “the voice continued. “I am not Mike . . . I am . . . Aaaaabe.”

Rachel put her hands on her hips. “Oh, really? Honest Abe?”

A muffled laugh. “Moderately honest Abe . . . yes.”

Rachel was laughing now too.

“Be afraaaaaaid,” the voice from the closet moaned. “Be veeeeeery afraid.”

“I’m not afraid.”

“Please be afraid . . . “the voice moaned. “In the human species, the emotions of fear and sexual arousal are closely linked.”

Rachel burst out laughing. “Is this your idea of a turn‑on?”

“Forgiiiive me . . . “the voice moaned. “It’s been yeeeeeeears since I’ve been with a woman.”

“Evidently,” Rachel said, yanking the door open.

Michael Tolland stood before her with his roguish, lopsided grin. He looked irresistible wearing a pair of navy blue satin pajamas. Rachel did a double take when she saw the presidential seal emblazoned on his chest.

“Presidential pajamas?”

He shrugged. “They were in the drawer.”

“And all I had was this football jersey?”

“You should have chosen the Lincoln Bedroom.”

“You should have offered!”

“I heard the mattress was bad. Antique horsehair.” Tolland winked, motioning to a gift‑wrapped package on a marble‑topped table. “This’ll make it up to you.”

Rachel was touched. “For me?”

“I had one of the presidential aides go out and find this for you. Just arrived. Don’t shake it.”

She carefully opened the package, extracting the heavy contents. Inside was a large crystal bowl in which were swimming two ugly orange goldfish. Rachel stared in confused disappointment. “You’re joking, right?”

“Helostoma temmincki,” Tolland said proudly.

“You bought me fish?”

“Rare Chinese kissing fish. Very romantic.”

“Fish are not romantic, Mike.”

“Tell that to these guys. They’ll kiss for hours.”

“Is this supposed to be another turn‑on?”

“I’m rusty on the romance. Can you grade me on effort?”

“For future reference, Mike, fish are definitely not a turn‑on. Try flowers.”

Tolland pulled a bouquet of white lilies from behind his back. “I tried for red roses,” he said, “but I almost got shot sneaking into the Rose Garden.”

As Tolland pulled Rachel’s body against his and inhaled the soft fragrance of her hair, he felt years of quiet isolation dissolving inside him. He kissed her deeply, feeling her body rise against him. The white lilies fell to their feet, and barriers Tolland had never known he’d built were suddenly melting away.

The ghosts are gone.

He felt Rachel inching him toward the bed now, her whisper soft in his ear. “You don’t really think fish are romantic, do you?”

“I do,” he said, kissing her again. “You should see the jellyfish mating ritual. Incredibly erotic.”

Rachel maneuvered him onto his back on the horsehair mattress, easing her slender body down on top of his.

“And seahorses . . .” Tolland said, breathless as he savored her touch through the thin satin of his pajamas. “Seahorses perform . . . an unbelievably sensual dance of love.”

“Enough fish talk,” she whispered, unbuttoning his pajamas. “What can you tell me about the mating rituals of advanced primates?”

Tolland sighed. “I’m afraid I don’t really do primates.”

Rachel shed her football jersey. “Well, nature boy, I suggest you learn fast.”