VOLUME | ONC 2023

12. Past & Present

Harriet...

I sat like a petulant child awaiting my punishment.

Bobby had offered me lunch I declined; I was too nervous to eat. I was quietly grateful, though, when he sat a mug of tea in front of me despite my earlier refusal of refreshments.

The escort to my chaos, he guided me to a private dining room, the walls equipped with rustic wine storage. Stacked between sweeping views of the valley were carefully curated wine bottles of varying varietal classification. The room was intimate, with a long and elegantly bucolic banquet table stretching the length of it; there was ample space and an abundance of privacy.

Bobby had kept me company for a few minutes before he left, citing some work discrepancy. I was too preoccupied to tell if he was being genuine or if he simply wanted an out.

I didn't blame him. It was probably better that way anyways.

I was twirling the string of the peppermint tea bag when the door opened.

Roosevelt walked in, still wearing a sandy-colored half-zip sweater and cream golf pants. He still looked astute but approachable, charming even. His hair, still full despite his age, waved away from his face. He looked like he'd woken up with perfectly coiffed hair.

The imposing man sat across from me.

Christian and the two other agents entered the room, performing what I assumed was a sweep before they returned to the entrance they'd come from.

"Sir, we'll be right outside. Connors will post just outside the external entryway."

He nodded, "Thank you, Christian. I appreciate you."

The man nodded, "Sir."

I waited for a beat before the door closed to speak, "How do you know I'm not a threat?"

He watched me, looking me over before his response came, "Are you a threat?"

I shook my head, "No, sir."

His expression livened for a moment before returning to calm and collected, "That's how I know."

I fiddled with the square on the end of the string, feeling hopelessly saturated with emotion.

He laced his fingers together on the table, "How'd you manage to track me down?"

"It wasn't without great effort, but a little research and a little elbow grease will do the trick," when he didn't speak, I offered more, "Anger was also an excellent catalyst."

I observed him carefully, determining to know if he knew about the agents that had followed me.

His eyes were piercing, "Anger at whom?"

"I was visiting Charlotte Sparangis when two Secret Service agents approached me. They'd been following me... tracking me, somehow," instinctively my eyes flitted to the entrance that let outdoors. On the other side of the window, the agent stood with a certain stoicism.

His brow furrows as he leaned forward, "What do you mean tracking you?"

"They came bustling into the restaurant I was dining at. Imagine my surprise when they threatened me, telling me to mind my own business – I thought I was minding my own business. Hence the anger," I wrapped my fingers around the still-steaming liquid, taking a sip.

I watched the gears in his head rotate in a transmission.

"Did you know they threatened her into hiding, Mr. President?"

He looked at me, looking almost flummoxed, "What are you implying?"

The litigator in me purred, "I'm not implying anything. I'm asserting that someone – someone you likely know – scared my grandmother so much so, that she fled across the country with barely enough to survive."