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The President's Daughter

By Mariah Stewart

IVY BOOKS

Copyright © 2002 Marti Robb.
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 0-345-44739-5

* The money paid had been money well spent.

The figure paused in the doorway, backlit by the dim glow from the hall, eyes flickering from one still form to the other. The patients were scattered about the room, here and there in their chairs, each wrapped in his or her gauzy haze, somewhere between the memories of the past and the vagueness of today. The object of the visitor's attention was in his usual place by the window that overlooked the wide expanse of lawn, where he could catch the changing of the seasons, year after year, for as many years as his advancing age and the whims of fate would permit.

And fate could be fickle, as everyone knew. Everything could change in a heartbeat. One moment of clarity, one memory recovered, and even the old man's now-simple life could so easily become nothing more than someone else's memory.

Crossing the room in a long-legged stride, the visitor took a seat in front of the old man's chair.

"Hello, Miles."

"Hello." The old man nodded.

"How are you?"

"I'm fine," was the automatic response.

"Did you have a good day?"

"Yes." A nod of the head.

"What did you do today?"

"I took the train to Chicago." The old man smiled. "With Dorothy."

"Did you?"

"I did." His smile broadened.

"And who is Dorothy?"

"Dorothy is ..." The old man frowned. "Dorothy is ... someone."

His face foldedinto lines as his brows knit together, as he tried to recall. Tried so hard to bring it back. He'd just had it, if only for a second. Now it was gone.

"Dorothy was your sister," he was reminded. "She died a long time ago."

"I see," the old man mumbled as he picked at a thread on his expensive sweater.

"Do you remember when Dorothy died?"

"No." The old man shook his head. "But I remember when she was in Chicago."

"What else do you remember, Miles?"

The old man looked out the window, as if perhaps something there might be familiar.

"Do you remember when you lived in Washington?"

"No."

"Do you remember when you worked in the White House?"

"We lived in a white house, once. It was near Newport. There was a pond out back. Teddy drowned in the pond. He was very small...." The old man's gaze drifted back to the window, where the setting sun was beginning to send streaks of orange across a pale lavender sky.

"Yes, that was your little brother." A touch to the old man's face to get his attention. "I don't mean that white house. I mean the White House. In Washington, D.C. Where the President lives. Do you remember when you worked there?"

The old man's vague look was his only response.

"Do you remember Graham Hayward? President Hayward?" A studied pause. "Do you remember President Hayward? He was your friend. Your very best friend. You worked together in Washington."

"Am I supposed to remember?" the old man mumbled. "I can't remember."

"It's okay." A forgiving pat on the old man's hands reassured that all was well. "It's all right. It's okay that you can't remember." Another pause to reflect before adding, "Better for your sake, actually, that you don't."

The visitor sat with the old man for a few more moments, grateful that no memories had surfaced, that there would be nothing this day to be dealt with.

Finally, "Do you remember me?"

"No." The old man searched the face that was now so close to his own. A sharp but fleeting image flashed from somewhere in the past but disappeared before he could name it.

"No," he repeated warily, denying recognition even to himself.

His companion smiled for the first time since walking into the assisted living home, then stood and returned the chair to its place by the wall. In that brief time, the old man's gaze had drifted back to the window and the world beyond.

"Good-bye, Miles. I'll see you again soon." The parting remarks went unnoticed.

A pause in the hall only long enough to press a folded envelope into the hands of the white-jacketed orderly who awaited.

"How did you find your ... old friend?" the orderly asked.

"Same as always."

The orderly nodded and served as an escort down the hall toward the now-darkened dayroom and the back door he'd unlocked earlier. In his pocket his fingers toyed with a corner of the envelope in which there was cash in an amount equivalent to his monthly salary. All for watching one old man and listening to his ramblings. The rich sure were different.

But why should he care, he shrugged, as long as that fat envelope came every month like clockwork? And it wasn't as if he were doing anything illegal or immoral. Hell, he wasn't hardly doing anything at all.

"Call me if there's a change." The figure paused in the open doorway.

"Of course."

"Any change." The emphasis was unnecessary. The orderly understood perfectly.

"Take it easy out there in the parking lot!" the orderly called through the double doors. "It's still a little icy there...."

"Thanks." Hands tucked into pockets, the visitor headed out into the cold of the winter evening. Large, soft flakes were just beginning to fall, and they covered the brick walk and the parked cars like lacy leaves.

Humming, the figure walked through the pale shadows cast by the overhead lights to the car that waited at the back of the far lot, between a rusty Dumpster and a new red pickup truck.

The money had bought peace of mind. At least for tonight.

The old man's memories were buried and locked away in a place where, hopefully, they would remain for the rest of his natural life.

Which was a very good thing. As long as they remained so, the secret was safe.

And Miles Kendall—who once long ago had moved among the powerful, among Kings and Princes and senators, who had kept the confidence, and the secrets, of a President—would live to see another day. * Simon Keller handed over the keys to his vintage Ford Mustang to the valet, then climbed the steps to the trendy restaurant that overlooked Baltimore's Inner Harbor. His curiosity piqued by an invitation to lunch with his favorite former college professor, Simon had been more than happy to make the drive across the Chesapeake to meet with Dr. Philip Norton. One-time head of the journalism department at Georgetown University. Onetime White House press secretary.

It had been an unexpected pleasure, Simon reflected, running into his old journalism professor three weeks ago at the wedding of a classmate, after having lost touch for the last year or so. Time in which Simon's life had changed as surely as had Philip Norton's.

The maître d' led Simon to the table where Norton sat admiring the sweeping view of the harbor where water the color of dull pewter crested in whitecapped waves and a few hearty souls braved the winter winds for an afternoon sail.

"Philip." Simon smiled at the aging but still handsome slightly balding man who turned and leaned his tall frame half out of his seat to extend a hand in greeting. "I hope you haven't been waiting long,"

(Continues...)

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Excerpted from The President's Daughter by Mariah Stewart. Copyright © 2002 by Marti Robb. Excerpted by permission. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.

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