Chapter 2: Ghosts at the White House Table

As expected, the First Lady didn’t recognize me.

She greeted us in a high-ceilinged parlor filled with portraits and the faint tick of a grandfather clock. Her posture was graceful, her movements slow, as if she were carrying the weight of every year she'd spent in these rooms.

She was as gentle and melancholic as ever, turning a rosary in her palm, the faint scent of lavender drifting from her sleeves.

I noticed the rosary beads glinting between her fingers—handmade, delicate, with little wooden crosses. Lavender followed her like a memory, calming and a little sad.

“There’s no need for such formality among family. Come, let me take a look at you.”

She reached out, her hands cool and steady. Her eyes flickered with something unspoken as she drew me closer, like she was searching my face for a ghost she couldn’t quite name.

She helped me up, leaning in to examine me closely.

Her gaze was soft but sharp, as if she could see straight through the new me. I forced myself to meet her eyes.

After all, we had once known each other.

A thousand memories crowded my mind—late-night talks in cramped kitchens, shared secrets, the kind of bond that's supposed to last forever. But she looked at me now with polite curiosity, not recognition.

A cold sweat broke out on my back.

I felt a bead of sweat trickle down between my shoulder blades. My heart hammered so hard I was sure she could hear it.

After a long while, she smiled and let go of my hand.

She gave the smallest nod, as if satisfied by some hidden test, and finally released me.

“Such a good girl. No wonder Savvy, who always keeps her distance from women and is so stiff, has been thinking of you for two years.”

She squeezed my hand once, her words gentle but probing, as if asking a question she wasn’t quite ready to voice.

Afraid of saying too much and making a mistake, I pretended to be shy, lowered my head, and stood behind Savannah, biting my lip.

I ducked behind Savannah's shoulder, staring at my shoes, feigning bashfulness to mask the dread coiling in my gut.

Savannah looked at me with affection and saluted the First Lady. “Abby is shy, ma’am, please don’t mind.”

Savannah squeezed my hand, covering for me with an easy charm. She used "ma’am" the way kids from her town used it with the church secretary—half-respect, half-familiarity.

The First Lady chuckled. “You know how to cherish the one you love—very good.”

Her laugh was low and genuine. She patted Savannah's shoulder, pride and sadness mingling in her eyes.

Then she sighed.

The exhale seemed to pull years from her frame, her shoulders slumping a little under invisible weight.

“In this respect, you’re a bit like your adoptive father used to be.”

For a second, the room went silent. Even the ticking clock seemed to pause.

Everyone was taken aback.

Savannah's jaw dropped, but she stayed silent. I stiffened, feeling the tension ripple through the air.

I looked up and saw a faint sadness in her eyes, and only then noticed the gray streaks at her temples.

She looked tired in the way people do after years of fighting battles no one else sees. The silver in her hair glinted beneath the chandelier.

Incense curled up from the candle warmer; the First Lady seemed lost in memories, murmuring to herself:

The room smelled faintly of beeswax and lavender, and for a moment, the First Lady seemed to disappear into her own world, her voice barely above a whisper.

“You don’t know… when he loved someone, he was more attentive than anyone. He’d put on her shoes and brush her hair himself, and even when stationed far away, he’d fly back just to spend her birthday night together.”

The words tumbled out soft and wistful. I pictured Daniel Harris as a young man—less armor, more tenderness—an image that felt impossible now.

“At that time, I finally thought he was truly human…”

She trailed off, lost in the memory. For a moment, we all glimpsed the ache she carried, the old love and disappointment mixed together.

No one dared respond.

Savannah shifted awkwardly, lips pressed tight, while I stood frozen, afraid to breathe.

In the heavy silence, I gripped my sleeve tightly and lowered my eyes, trying to remain calm.

I counted heartbeats, focusing on the feel of linen under my fingers, praying the moment would pass without anyone noticing my nerves.

At that moment, a staffer entered and respectfully announced, “The President has returned from Arlington and has arranged a state dinner, saying he wishes to announce a marriage personally.”

The staffer wore a crisp suit, all business. The words landed in the room like thunder. State dinner. Marriage announcement. My stomach dropped.

What?

The single word echoed in my head, louder than any siren.

Wasn’t Savannah supposed to be unimportant?

The narrative I'd been told didn't match the script unfolding. I felt the ground shift beneath my feet.

I looked at Savannah. She appeared both flattered and shocked.

Her eyes widened, mouth open in a stunned half-smile. Even she hadn't seen this coming.