Archive: Sure, just let me know where.

Rating: PG-13

Synopsis: Josh is keeping a secret from Donna — and she’s going to find out what it is.

Series: This story is sixteenth in the 'Rocky Path' series.

Series So Far:

The Finer Things 1/4

By Lacy

The ticking of the clocks on the wall seems to get louder as eight o'clock nears. I swivel my chair around to see the old garment bag hanging on the coat rack. I'm bitter, because I hate the dress. I hate the dress because it makes me bitter. One of those vicious cycles from which you cannot escape.

Tonight is the Gala for the retiring Secretary of the Interior, Paul Patridge, which would normally be something to which I might look forward. If I were just Josh's assistant I might consider it fun. Dress up, look nice, free food and champagne, and perhaps having to answer his cell phone when it occasionally rings.

But things are different now.

Let me spell this out for you. The Gala is my first official function as Josh's girlfriend. I am his Significant Other, which implies to those in the know, and to the public that we are more than a fling -- which we are. The term also implies that we have history -- which we do -- and a future. Which I hope we do.

And if all of that weren't enough to make my knees start doing their impersonation of castanets, the involvement of the White House Press Corps would be. Reporters from every major paper in the United States, watching my every move and wondering if I will commit some breach in protocol. I've never committed a breach in protocol, why would I start now?

That, however, is not the real problem. The real problem is hanging in that garment bag on the coat rack. I've worn the dress at least three times before. I blew quite a large bundle of money on it when I purchased it for the Inaugural Ball. It's also been to a State Dinner and, most recently, last year's Congressional Christmas party.

Let me explain to those of you just joining the show already in progress. Showing up to an official White House function in a gown you've worn three times before, is like showing up at the Oscars wearing the same ensemble as Cher. It just isn't done. So, to sum up, I'll be making my first faux pas of the evening the moment I walk in the door.

It's 6:30, which means any minute now I'm going to have to drag myself out of my chair, take the dress, slink over to bathroom, and change. You know what makes me even more embittered? I'm supposed to look forward to this. This is supposed to be a night of dreams come true…and caviar. Glass slippers and all of that crap.

Instead, this has been a day of avoidance. I actually spent two hours this afternoon straightening Josh’s office, filing, and cleaning off his desk. I’ve done everything I could do to keep my mind off the disaster this party is bound to be.

The bullpen is eerily empty. It was a fairly slow weekend and this Monday didn’t turn out to be the nightmare that most Mondays do. Most of the staff, the nine-to-fivers, started filtering out of here around 5:30, so now it’s just Carol down the hall, and me.

Okay, Donnatella Moss. You have got to get it together. What do you care what they think? It's only Josh's opinion that matters, and he would think you look beautiful dressed in sackcloth and ashes...or cinders. Oh, hell. There's no Cinderella here.

Speaking of Josh....was I speaking of Josh? Anyway, I haven't seen my wonderfully supportive and oftentimes adorable, yet unavoidably clueless, boyfriend/boss in several hours. He's been in meetings all day. On the Hill, Leo's office, the Oval. You name it he's been there. And when he hasn't been there, he's been closeted in CJ's office discussing something with her -- and a tall, incredibly well-built scary looking guy I've never seen before, who's not Secret Service. What's all that about?

Not only that. He's been walking around all day with a strange smile on his face, and he refuses to divulge the reason why. What's odd is that Josh never looks happy on the days when he's supposed to attend a White House party. He hates the tux and it's all I can do to keep him from ditching the cumber bund after the first five minutes. He usually does it when I have my back turned.

So. Something is going on and I have no idea what. Does anybody else see a problem here? Josh is keeping something from me -- that much is abundantly clear. Is he really that stupid? Don’t answer that.

All of this gives me an idea of something to do that's a whole hell of a lot better than sitting here staring at a dress that makes me crazy. I am the assistant to the White House Deputy Chief of Staff, and I have skills. Skills which could be of enormous use right now. I've tracked down a freshman Congressman on vacation in Bora-Bora just so Josh could have a thirty-second conversation with him, for crying out loud. Does he think I am not capable of detecting a rat when I smell one?

The question is: where to begin? I sit for a moment and consider all of my options. Leo? He's probably too busy to take me seriously right now. Besides, if I ask him what Josh is up to, he'll think I've fallen asleep on the job. Toby? Only if I absolutely must. Sam? Oh, yeah. That's the one. I can crack him like an egg.

So, here's the plan.

One: Find out what Joshua Lyman is hiding from me.

And two: Throttle him.

I launch myself out of my chair and stride out of the bullpen, my thoughts filled with a new purpose. As luck would have it, Sam Seaborn is alone in his office, and not looking all that busy.

"Hey, Sam," I say, sweetly. I figure it would be best to start with the honey, and pull out the vinegar only if that doesn't work.

"Hey, Donna? What's up?" He whips his glasses off and smiles, almost as an afterthought.

"You don't happen to know what Josh is up to, do you?" Damn. So much for being subtle. Sometimes I have a little difficulty with subtlety, especially when patience is involved. Hey, it 6:45. I'm working against the clock, here.

"Up to?" he asks. Oh, right. Classic misdirection tactic — feign innocence. He's going to pretend he has no idea what's going on. I’m ready for that, buddy.

"Yeah," I respond. "With CJ?"

"There's a thing with CJ? Nobody told me there was a thing." He frowns deeply and his forehead creases with concern. Okay, I might be willing to concede that Sam is possibly out of the loop on this. "Why wouldn't anybody tell me if there was a thing?"

"Sam, I don't--"

"Well, I'm just going to have to do something about this," he decides.

"Sam, I really don't think that's--"

Before I can finish that sentence he brushes past me and out into the hallway. He turns to me as he walks away, "They're in CJ's office?" He takes my lack of reply as an answer to the affirmative.

Nice, Donnatella Moss. Very smooth.

I trot along behind Sam as unobtrusively as I possibly can in these big high heels, which doesn't seem to matter, since he’s so busy wallowing in his own paranoia that he's obviously forgotten about my existence. Returning to my desk, I observe as Sam bypasses a stunned Carol and raps on the door. I try to make myself invisible as Josh opens the door and exchanges a few words with Sam before doing the strangest thing. He grabs Sam by the tie and hauls him into the office, slamming the door securely behind.

Hmmm. Curiouser and curiouser.

If I had any doubts that something was going on, they've been all but eradicated now. I wait impatiently for a few minutes until CJ's office door decides to spew him forth. He tries to escape, but I manage to sneak up on him, despite my big high heels.

"Sam." He never saw me coming — no surprise there. He scans his surroundings with that look in his eye like he's trying to find an escape route, or decide whether he should swallow his cyanide capsule. "Did you find out what was going on?" I ask.

"Yes. I mean, no. That is to say, I found out that, yes, there is nothing going on." He’s such a crappy liar.

It's time to resort to scare tactics.

"Fine," I say. "I’ll just run down to the basement and have a little chat with Ainsley."

"Ainsley?" His voice goes up an octave. "What does Ainsley have to do with this?"

"Well, nothing," I chuckle. "But I was just going to hop on down there and tell her how you feel about her." I smile my evil smile, and observe as his eyes widen in genuine fear. "I see things, Sam. I notice things. Like the way your eyes follow her around a room." I can hear an audible gulp from Sam. "I’m willing to negotiate on this is issue, Sam. If that doesn’t work, I could just ask Cathy to get it out of you."

He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes as though preparing a bungee-jump from the heights of Mount Rushmore. "I'm just a guy. I don't know anything." He says this as though repeating a lesson he was forced to memorize. He's giving me the Sam Seaborn version of name, rank, and serial number.

Impressive, I must admit. I didn’t think he had it in him. I’ve just got to respect him for that.

"Good," I reply. "Then you're light years ahead of Josh."

Okay, I'll admit that breaking Sam may be a little tougher than I anticipated. The clock ticks closer to eight o'clock. Maybe I should seek alternate avenues of discovery.

I leave Sam sighing with relief in the corridor and head back to the bullpen. Not being one to sit idly by as people try to make a fool out of me, I decide to just grab the bull by the horns. Once again, I'm striding purposefully, and this time it's straight to CJ's office.

"Donna," Carol stops me before I knock. She picks up a bag on her desk and grabs me firmly by the elbow. "Just the person I wanted to see. I could really use your help with my hair for the party. I was thinking about putting it up and I could really use a hand placing the pins." She ushers me out of the alcove that separates CJ's office from the bullpen.

I glance behind me as I watch CJ's door grow smaller and smaller. "Since when do you wear your hair up when you attend functions?" I ask.

"It's a Gala for the Secretary of the Interior," she replies. "I'm hoping to meet a nice, available Park Ranger."

She pushes me into the bathroom and sets her big bag on the counter. Reaching inside she removes a curling iron and plugs it into the outlet beneath the mirrors. Then she retrieves a few hair clips and a box of bobby pins.

For the next five minutes I do very little actual helping as Carol fixes her hair for the party. I sneak a look or two at the door and then back at her, wondering if I can escape without her notice. She's eyeing me like a hawk would its first meal of the day. What the hell is going on here?

"Donna?" she asks. "Did I ever tell you that hairstyles are a hobby of mine?"

"If you ever did, I forgot," I respond, stealing another glance at the door, trying to judge the running distance.

"I have a great idea for your hair."

"My hair? Oh, I was just going to wear it down."

"C'mon, Donna," she puts on a pout and says, "It's your first official function. You're like Cinderella."

Yeah, and I've got the peasant rags to prove it.

Carol's eyes beg me, and I am unable to resist. "Fine," I relent. "But nothing too outrageous."

"Simple," she replies, "Elegant. Classic."

"Okay."

She grabs a chair from the corner and pulls it over in front of the mirror, imploring me to sit. Once I've taken a seat, she takes a hairbrush to my head, and brushes it until it shines. With a flick of her wrist, she arranges my hair into an unfinished French Twist. Her fingers, sure and confident, quickly place a dozen pins into the design. Next, she reaches for the heated iron and curls the exposed ends. She pulls a few tendrils down from my temple and brow area, and curls them as well.

"It won't stay," I tell her. "My hair's too fine."

Carol digs into her magical bag of tricks and comes up with an industrial size can of super hold hairspray. "It will stay tonight," she vows. She sprays the curls within an inch of their lives and steps back to admire her work.

"Well?" she asks.

"It's beautiful," I answer. "Thank you, Carol."

"Makeup? You'll want to do your makeup before you put on your dress." I hate to admit it, since I still want to get back to CJ's office, but Carol has a point.

"My makeup bag is in my tote bag in my desk," I say.

"I'll get it," she chirps. "Don't move a muscle."

She breezes out the door and I consider slinking back to CJ's, but before I can make a definitive decision, Carol breezes back in. Man, that was fast. She must have been breaking wind sprint records.

"Got it," she whoops.

She dumps the contents on the counter and sets to work. Base, blush, eye shadow, liner, mascara. When she begins to apply the lip liner I stop her.

"That color's way too dark," I tell her. "It won't go with my dress."

"Sure it will," she ignores.

"But--"

"Trust me. You'll be beautiful."

"Carol, what's going on in CJ's office?" I hope that my abrupt change of the topic will catch her off guard.

"Nothing," she replies, smoothly. "Just some last minute arrangements for the party."

I study her carefully, and notice no signs of prevarication.

"What last minute arrangements?"

"I'm not sure." She blinks. Aha! That one was a lie. She finishes applying the lipstick and steps back again. "You're ready," she declares. "C'mon."

She grabs me by the hand and drags me behind her in the direction of CJ’s office. At last! Exactly where I wanted to go. Before knocking on the door, Carol turns to look at me and I would swear that her eyebrows do the cha-cha. She knocks three times, waits, and then knocks twice more.

I know a secret knock when I hear one.

TBC

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