Page 7 of The First Gentleman

I gasp. “My God. That’s beautiful.”

Sammy nudges the guitar across the counter. “Go ahead,” he tells Garrett. “I’ve got your credit card on file. She’s all yours.”

Garrett picks up the guitar and sits on a stool near the counter. He runs his hands over the curve of the body and lets it nestle on his knee.

Sammy winks at me. “I always say you should hold a guitar like you hold a woman—gently, but like you mean it.”

Garrett places his left hand on the neck. His right hand brushes the strings over the sound hole. I’m waiting with anticipation, wanting to hear him bring this gorgeous instrument to life.

He strums down hard, filling the shop with sound.

Horrible! The ugliest chord I’ve ever heard—so harsh it hurts my ears.

Everybody is staring. Especially Sammy.

Garrett looks up and smiles. “Just kidding.”

Then, seamlessly, smoothly, he launches into the delicate intro of Mason Williams’s “Classical Gas.” His left hand dances up and down the neck while his fingers pluck the complicated pattern. Customers crowd in to listen. The melody takes off. The music builds. Garrett closes his eyes—he looks transported. Sammy leans on the counter and nods at me. He can see how impressed and proud I am. I don’t want the song to end.

Garrett rolls his fingers over the strings for the final chord to a round of applause. I reach over and hug him. “That was beautiful,” I whisper.

A woman calls out, “Encore!” More clapping.

Garrett waves a hand as he gives the guitar back to Sammy, who lowers it into a sturdy black case. “Sorry, everybody,” says Garrett. “My love and I need to be going.”

“I hope you’re referring to me,” I say. But he looks so happy that right now, I don’t mind playing second fiddle to a guitar.

Out on the street, Garrett waves down a cab, holding the case’s handle tight in his left hand. With his free hand, he gives me a strong hug and I kiss him.

“They would have listened to you for hours,” I tell him.

“Always leave them wanting more,” he says. “Always.”

CHAPTER

4

The White House

Burton Pearce, chief of staff to President Madeline Wright, stands behind the desk in his West Wing office.What goddamn lousy timing!he thinks as he slowly puts down the receiver.

His earlier call with one of the fifty-two congressional representatives from the state of California had been productive. The topic was confidential—a complicated piece of legislation that Pearce and the president semi-jokingly call the Grand Bargain. But now the day has gone south in a big way.

Pearce glances down at his wide, neatly kept desk to check President Wright’s daily schedule. He looks up at the wall clock, then picks up the phone and presses a single key.

This can’t wait.

The call is immediately answered by Dana Cox, the president’s efficient, hard-as-nails private secretary, seated right outside the Oval Office. It’s “Mrs. Cox,” not “Dana,” to everybody. Including the president herself.

“Yes, Mr. Pearce, how can I help you?”

“I see the president is meeting with a Sierra Club delegation. Can you get them out now, five minutes early? I need to get in there.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” says Mrs. Cox.

And, apparently, she does it.

The last members of the delegation are walking out as Pearce enters. He closes the door behind them. President Wright looks impatient. “You’re not on my schedule, Burton. What’s on your mind?”

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