He shot her a sour look, then tucked Button under his arm like a potato sack. “Nobody’s going anywhere if I don’t find the keys.”

“I’m driving,” Nealy said brightly. “You had a hard day yesterday.”

“You’ve got them?”

She’d had years of practice avoiding answering direct questions. “I just hope it doesn’t rain today. Grab the diaper bag, Lucy. We’re off!”

She snatched up her own purse, along with the satchel that held her things, clutched them in front of her flat stomach, and charged into the hall. The doors of the elevator were starting to close, but she managed to slip inside, leaving the rest of them behind. When she reached the lobby, she didn’t glance either right or left, just kept her stomach covered and headed for the parking lot.

As she settled into the antique Oldsmobile, she reached for her satchel, then had second thoughts about putting the padding back on. Mat clearly detested it, and he was perfectly capable of making a public scene. With her short hair and cheap clothes, she was a far cry from America’s stylish First Lady. Would it be riskier to test Mat or go without and hope that she could pull it off?

As she debated, Mat came out of the lobby door with a scowl on his face, while Lucy trailed behind carrying Button.

Nealy stared at the Fed Ex envelope he was holding and realized she’d once again let the business of daily living get away from her. Three years of enjoying the efficiency of the White House mail room had made her lose touch. But this package had been too important for her to forget, and she needed to remember she no longer had an army of secretaries ready to hand over her private mail.

The system the White House used to separate personal correspondence from the thousands of pieces of public mail the first family received every day was simple and effective. Intimates of the President and his family were given a numerical code to include with the address—she and Dennis had chosen 1776—which shot private mail straight to their desks.

Mat braced one hand on the roof of the truck and stared through the open window at her. “The desk clerk stopped me. You didn’t tell me you were expecting a package.”

“And your point is?” She held out her hand, but he didn’t pass over the envelope.

Lucy disengaged Button’s fingers from her hair. “He’s pissed because the desk clerk made this big deal about was he sure this was for his wife because her last name wasn’t the same as his.”

She eyed the envelope. “I guess I should have used your last name like everybody else.”

His expression grew ominous. “What do you mean, like everybody else?”