When the First Lady and the senator were finished eating, I cleared the table one final time, but since they were deep in conversation, I didn’t interrupt. As I washed the remaining dishes and put everything away, Bindy and I discussed the gingerbread men. “They’re incredible,” I said.

“Thanks. We worked hard on them,” she said.

“You and the Blanchards’ chef?” I asked with a tilt to my head and a tone in my voice that asked if she and the chef were romantically involved. She turned away without answering and tried to listen in to the dining room conversation again. Mrs. Campbell and the senator had gone so quiet that there was no hearing them at this point.

“Oh, I almost forgot,” she said, pulling her package onto the tabletop. She gave the top of the diplomatic pouch a little pat. “This is for you.”

I was confused.

Bindy explained. “Treyton is so grateful you agreed to handle the gingerbread men that he asked me to give you this.” She pushed it toward me. “Just to say thank you.”

“I can’t accept…”

“I know, but it really isn’t for you exactly. It’s for the kitchen. He figured that’d be okay.”

As I opened it the weighty bundle, Bindy bit her lip. I wondered if she’d picked it out.

“Thank you,” I said, as the object came free of its packaging. “It’s lovely.”

It was a clock. A bit large for a desk clock-about the size of a hardcover novel-it would have looked more at home in a French Provincial sitting room than in the White House kitchen. The clock face was small, but it was surrounded by a wide border of gold-colored heavy metal. Had it been real gold, I probably could have retired. As it was, the garish thing looked as though someone had picked it out as a joke, or for a white elephant gift exchange. “Thank you,” I said.

Bindy breathed a sigh of relief. “You like it?”

“Sure!” I said. “I’ll keep it in the kitchen right where we all can see it.” To myself, I added that we’d keep it there long enough for Bindy to see it a couple of times. Then off to the warehouse with this clunker. “You really shouldn’t have,” I said, wishing she hadn’t, “but thank you.”

I offered coffee on my last foray into the dining room, but Blanchard declined. He stood. “Has Bindy been good company?” he asked me. “I’m so sorry we had a misunderstanding, but she said she hoped she might be of help back there.”

She must have heard her name because before he finished asking, she was at my side. “I enjoyed reconnecting with Ollie,” she said, with a little lilt to her voice that be-lied her words.

“That’s great,” Blanchard said. To Mrs. Campbell, he smiled and nodded. “It’s been a pleasure, as always, Elaine. I hope you’ll give some serious thought to the matters we discussed.”

“Of course,” she said.

“The clock’s ticking,” he said, tapping his watch. “I don’t want you to forget.”

With a smile that took the sting out of her words, Mrs. Campbell said, “How can I, when you’re so eager to remind me?”

BY THE TIME I GOT BACK TO THE KITCHEN-my kitchen on the ground floor, that is-everyone had left for the day with the exception of Cyan and Bucky. They looked as exhausted as I felt. “Go home,” I said.

Cyan tried to argue, but I shook my head.

“We’ll start fresh in the morning,” I said. “It’s been a tough few days, but I think we made good headway. Tomorrow we’ll turn the corner.”

The relief in their eyes made me glad I’d insisted. “What time tomorrow?” Cyan asked.

With the president in residence, we’d be preparing full meals all day. As Cyan and Bucky traded information and agreed on plans for the next morning, I had a happy thought: The president back in town meant that Tom was back in town, too. Our schedules had kept us apart for too many days in a row. I needed to talk with him. Heck, I just needed to be with him.

Fifteen minutes after Cyan and Bucky left, I was headed to the McPherson Square Metro station for my ride home.

A train pulled into the station just as I made it to the platform. Perfect timing. I claimed a seat near the door and rested my head against the side window, allowing myself to relax just a little bit. I decided to wait to try calling Tom until I was walking to my apartment building. Less chance of losing our connection than if I tried to call while racing underground.

When I emerged outside again, it seemed the temperature had dropped ten degrees. We’d been in the mid-fifties lately, but tonight’s raw air and sharp wind caused my eyes to tear. I shivered, pulling my jacket close, trying to fight the trembling chill.

I loved my jacket. Filled with down, I’d brought it with me from Chicago, where it very effectively blocked the wicked wind. January in Chicago always meant bundling up with a hat, a sweatshirt hood covering that, and big, insulated mittens. Today, here in D.C., I took no such precautions. It was just me and my jacket against this peculiarly icy wind.

With my head ducked deep into my turned-up collar and wisps of hair dancing around my face, I couldn’t see much more than my feet beating a quick pace to my apartment building. I gave up the idea of calling Tom. My right hand pressed deep into my pocket, hiding from the cold, while my brave left hand pulled the collar close to my face so only my eyes and nose poked above it.

When the clouds above me opened and the rain came, I squinted against the sharp prickles of ice that stung my face. My quick walk became a hurried trot. It was then I noticed the accompanying trot behind me. Someone else was hurrying to get wherever he needed to go. Despite the fact that I was moving pretty fast, the person behind me was moving faster.

I glanced back. A man in a black Windbreaker was closing. With it being so dark, and with the icy rain blurring the street and my vision, I couldn’t tell the guy’s age, but he had to be fairly young-or in very good shape-to be moving at such a quick clip. Wearing blue jeans and shoes that made a unique double-clicking sound as he walked-almost as though he wore tap shoes-the man kept his head down. He wore a baseball cap with a dark hooded sweatshirt pulled tight around his face. Both hands were stuffed in his pockets.

Maintaining my own hurried pace, I eased to the right of the sidewalk to let the runner go by, peering over the edge of my collar as he got close enough to pass. He was tall-maybe six foot-and if the tight jacket was any indication, he weighed more than two hundred pounds.

There was a tree in my path. I could scoot left and possibly bump this guy, or go way off to the right, near the curb.

I veered right, hoping to reclaim my wide sidewalk berth once the guy passed me.

But he didn’t.

Coming around the tree, I was forced to either speed up or slow down. He’d slowed his own pace and was now blocking my way. This was like a bad merge on an expressway.

I wrinkled my nose against the cold and eased in behind him. My apartment was just another couple of blocks away, and I rationalized that this big, bulky guy would block the wind for me.

But when I got behind him, he slowed down again. The trot lessened to a brisk walk, then lessened again to what could only generously be called a stroll.

Was this guy playing games with me? Did he not know I was behind him?

Whatever was going on, it was giving me the creeps. My building wasn’t much farther, and I’d planned to cross the street at the light, but common sense told me to change my course right now.

I shot over to the curb and waited for a pair of shiny headlights to pass before racing across the street. My heart pounded as I skipped up the far curb. I chastised myself for my anxiety. Just my imagination working overtime again. I knew I had a paranoid streak, but the truth was, that paranoia had come in handy more times than I cared to count.

I pulled my collar close again, and tried to make out where the guy across the street had gone. The sleet was heavier and the cold seemed to worsen with every slash of rain against the dark cement. I couldn’t wait to climb into my flannels and pull a cover over my chilled limbs. I couldn’t see the opposite side of the street, but I took comfort in the fact that it meant he couldn’t see me either.