Chapter Text
Most people, when they think of weddings, conjure up images of some super-expensive soiree complete with the bride (in some frothy confection of white tulle) and the groom (in a crisp black tuxedo, of course) exchanging shiny gold rings in front of a dour man of the cloth and 700 or so of their closest friends.
Not my idea of a good time. Luckily, it's not Donna's fantasy wedding either.
We went decidedly low-key, just us, a Justice of the Peace, and the required witnesses in a tiny town up in Maine. Of course, we had to revise the Lyman-Moss Defense (and, yes, I realize that she prefers to call it the "Moss-Lyman Defense," but that is completely inaccurate) to overcome new complications from the Cregg-McGarry team.
We're talking precautions worthy of the paranoid fringe here.
But as it turns out, planning the wedding wasn't nearly as hard as convincing Donnatella Moss to marry me in the first place.
***
"We're getting married," Josh says.
God help us, Josh the politician has returned. Josh the brilliant strategist. Yes, the man responsible for the president's secret plan to fight inflation has decided to take control of my future.
I'm doomed.
"Married?" I echo. "You and me? Till death us do part and all that?"
"Brilliant, huh?" He's too damn happy. This is the happiest I've seen him since before the shooting. He starts to jump out of bed -- he plots better when he paces -- when apparently every bone in his body screams, "Fourteen hours of surgery!" and he falls back against the headboard. I'd rush to help him, but I've just remembered how much I'm capable of wanting to strangle him.
And that would hardly avoid the scandal we're supposed to be plotting against.
"Josh, this is the worst idea I've ever heard."
"Why?" he asks. His face sort of falls, and I have a momentary pang of guilt.
Momentary.
"It's marriage, Joshua. It's serious. People plan marriage."
"We're in the planning stages right now."
I miss those glorious days in ICU when he couldn't talk.
"They plan for years, Josh. They get to know each other."
"How could we possibly know each other better?"
Good question.
"Sex," I say.
Good answer.
"We're compatible," he says with a grin.
"We do not know that for a fact."
"Yes, we do."
Now here's the weird thing: Yes, we do. The way we walk together, the way we look at each other, the rhythm we have when we're talking -- all that's missing is a flashing neon sign saying, "You were meant to have mind-blowing sex with this man."
"Even so," I say, cause there's no use arguing this particular issue, "marriage is a life-long commitment. I'm not getting married so I can have a fling with my boss and then get a divorce when it's over."
"Well, I'm not getting married so I can have a quickie with my assistant in between meetings, so we're even."
"No, you're getting married so you can head off a PR disaster. It hardly makes a woman feel cherished, Josh."
"I'd do the whole down-on-one-knee thing, but that's a little difficult at the moment."
"No, you wouldn't. And if you're playing the near-death experience card, that's just not fair."
"So you're saying yes?"
"I'm not saying no. Yet."
"You mean I win?"
"Not that easily. I have demands."
"Just listen to her," Josh says. "She's already talking like a politician's wife."
"First condition: I keep my name."
"Donnatella's a nice name. I've always been fond of it."
"I was referring to Moss."
"Are you open to compromise on this issue?"
"Possibly. What's your offer?"
"Moss-Lyman. With a hyphen."
"Just Moss at work."
"Agreed. Then it's settled."
"Not so fast, Josh. I have another condition."
"You would."
"You have to say it, Josh."
"Oh, Donna, no. Things have never gone well when I've tried to say it. Ask Mandy."
"Just this once, Josh. Just in private. You're off the hook for the next fifty years, but I'm hearing it once or I walk."
"This is a deal breaker. That's what you're saying?"
"Yes."
"Well, if I have to." He looks like a kid who's just been ordered to eat his spinach. He scrunches up his face like he's figuring how to pronounce the dreaded words. Then he says, "Okay, here it is. Donnatella Moss, I am not indifferent toward you. In fact, I am remarkably fond of you. One might even say I have a deep, abiding affection for you that some people, myself included, might refer to as love. Nothing personal, of course."
Somewhere in there I think he said it. I go over the words once more just to make sure. I mean, this is the deal breaker, after all.
"Well, all right then. We have a deal."
***
"Not so fast," I say. "I have a few conditions of my own."
Donna gives me her skeptical face. "You do?"
I think I may be on shaky ground. "Yes," I say anyway.
"This is your idea."
"So?"
"So you asked me."
"Again: So?"
"So you can't then impose conditions."
"Why not?"
"Because..." She shrugs. "Because you can't."
"Don't you want a marriage based on equality?"
"You're my boss, Josh."
"Ooh, I get to order you around at home, too?"
"I wouldn't count on it."
"Okay," I nod, victorious. "Then I get to negotiate some conditions, too."
She crosses her arms. "And what conditions do you have?"
"To start, I think there should be some sort of coffee agreement."
"Coffee agreement?"
"Yes. Something like 'both parties agree that you, Donnatella Moss, will bring me, Josh Lyman, coffee every morning--'"
"I don't bring you coffee, Josh."
"I know," I say. "And you see that I have to stop at Starbucks every morning."
"This affects me how?"
"Aren't you responsible for me getting to work on time?"
"As your assistant, or as your wife?"
I am momentarily struck dumb by the sound of Donnatella Moss saying "as your wife" to me.
"Either," I manage. "Both."
"No," she says. "I'm responsible for beating you to the office if that's at all possible. Two entirely different things."
"Okay," I say. "Could we add an amendment that you'll at least wake me up when you roll out of bed?"
Donna in my bed.
Wow.
She looks as dazed as I feel. "Okay," she nods. "Is that it?"
"No," I say. "We need to resolve the coffee issue."
"There is no coffee issue, Josh, because I am not bringing you coffee."
I refuse to lose the possibility of All Donna Moss, All the Time over coffee.
"Fine," I say. "Can you at least program my coffeemaker?"
Donna grins at me. "You can't program your coffeemaker?"
"It's a complicated piece of machinery."
"It's a coffeemaker."
"Are you going to stand here and argue with me, or agree to my terms?"
"Can't I do both?"
"Donna!"
"Yes."
"Yes what?"
"Yes, I'll program the coffeemaker."
***
"So when are we going to tell everyone?" I ask.
"Tell everyone what?" Josh replies.
"That we're getting married. When are we breaking the news?"
"Oh that," Josh says. "We're not."
"Excuse me?"
"The moral high ground, remember, Donna? That's the strategy."
"Which is why we're getting married. Or so I thought."
"But, see," Josh says, "that's the best part. We don't tell them. We act single at work. As far as everyone knows, nothing's changed."
"As usual, Joshua, I fail to understand your logic."
"It's simple really. We go on like always, the model of professionalism and efficiency."
"That's what we are?"
"That's what we've always been."
"'Cause I thought we were quirky yet lovable."
"And then," Josh says, ignoring me in a quirky yet lovable manner, "after a suitable length of time, we make our announcement. We tell them we've been married. We wave the marriage license in their faces. They can't break us up because we've proved that our personal relationship does not have a negative impact on our professional relationship."
"There's a flaw in your reasoning."
"Where?"
"I'm not sure. But there is always a flaw in your reasoning."
"Okay, here's the thing: the smart-mouthed assistant attitude? It's been very cute. In a wife, however, a man expects a more supportive attitude."
"Not if he's marrying me."
"Fair point. But this will work. I'm sure."
"That's what you said about--"
"Not the Ohio primary again, Donna! And I still say Toby was responsible for that."
"Whatever. And for future reference?"
"Yes?"
"This is my supportive wife face."
"It looks remarkably like your smart-mouthed assistant face."
"I'm a subtle woman, Josh. How long do we have to keep up this charade?"
"That's the part I haven't quite worked out. Six or seven months maybe?"
"Six or seven months?"
"Well, I figure that takes us to the holidays. Somehow making this announcement on Christmas Eve appeals to me, you know?"
I grin. I can't help it. I'm just incredibly amused. Josh amuses me.
My husband-to-be amuses me.
"Josh Lyman, you're a romantic!"
He looks offended. "I am not."
"Josh?"
"Yes?"
"Agree that you're a romantic. I guarantee you won't regret it."
The light dawns. "Oh well, sure then. Joshua Lyman, king of rom--"
I have finally found an effective way of shutting him up.
***
"Okay," says Sam. "This has progressed beyond subtext to, like... actual text."
I am loathe to stop kissing Donna -- which is by far my new favorite thing -- long enough to point out how stupid Sam's sentence is.
"Go away," I mumble.
Donna pulls back. "Hello, Sam."
Sam is standing there, grinning fatuously. "This is really just too cute."
"It's really not," I say. I'm a bit grouchy. "What are you doing here?"
"CJ's on her way."
Donna is back in the visitor's chair, her suit straightened, before I can even process Sam's words.
"How nice," Donna says.
"Yeah." I am glaring at Sam. It's not his fault, but I'm glaring at him anyway.
"Hey," he protests. "I gave you two hours and sufficient warning. You know how lucky you are I walked in on -- on that and not CJ?"
"What," says a familiar voice, "exactly did you walk in on?"
Uh-oh.
Donna and I exchange a look.
"CJ," Sam says. "We didn't hear you come in."
"I'm very quiet," she says. "What were Josh and Donna doing that was so shocking?"
"Nothing," Sam answers too quickly.
"CJ," Donna says. "Josh was just..." She hesitates and flicks a glance my way. "Well, he had to use the bed pan."
"Donna!"
I am horrified. This is how she chooses to throw CJ off the scent? Which, I should note, is a regrettable metaphor to employ here.
CJ still looks skeptical. Sam, on the other hand, is grinning again.
"Really?" CJ asks.
"Yup," Sam chimes in. I am suddenly apprehensive. He looks way too amused with himself. "And the reason I said they should be glad it was me and not you is that--"
"Josh accidentally flashed us," Donna interrupts.
"DONNA!"
"Really?" CJ is finding this very funny.
"No," I say. "Not really."
I am so not amused.
Donna pats my hand. "Josh is just a little embarrassed."
"I am not embarrassed." I'm yelling now. "Because I did not flash anyone!"
Sam elbows CJ and speaks in a low tone. "He made us promise not to tell anyone, but since you overheard..."
"Sam!"
I cannot believe these people. And they claim to be my friends?
CJ is snickering behind her hand.
"It's okay, Josh," Sam tells me. "There's no reason to be embarrassed."
"I'm not embarrassed!" Still yelling.
Donna and Sam are grinning at each other.
"This is absurd," I say. "CJ, they're lying!"
"Sure, Josh."
She doesn't believe me.
"Well," Sam says, "my work here is done."
CJ glances at Donna. "Margaret said to tell you the blue folder is missing. She said you'd know what that means?"
"Yes," Donna nods.
"What does that mean?" I ask.
"I've got to go find it," she answers with a look of regret.
"Why do you have to go find it?" I think I may sound a bit pitiful. But, dammit, this woman just agreed to marry me, and now she's leaving. I am pitiful.
"I'll be back in a little bit, Josh," she says with a small smile. "If I don't go now, Margaret or Leo will be here within the hour, panicking."
"Panicking over a missing blue folder?" Sam asks from the doorway.
"Yes," Donna nods solemnly. She grabs her keys and heads for the hall.
"What's in the blue folder?" CJ asks.
"Take-out menus," Donna tosses over her shoulder.
God, I love this woman.
***
I'm getting married.
I'm getting married to Josh.
I have agreed to marry Josh Lyman.
What the hell was I thinking?
I mean, Josh is on a lot of painkillers and he has a delicate system to begin with. He can always claim he was drugged when he suggested it. What's my excuse?
Married. To Josh.
Sex. With Josh.
Sex for the rest of my life with Joshua.
I need to sit down and catch my breath.
I need to plan.
There's so much to plan.
For one thing, where are we going to live? With this whole secrecy thing, we can't live together, can we? What are we going to do about that?
Children. We have not even discussed children. Does he want children? Do I?
'Cause I'm thinking it could be a problem. If I go into labor in the White House, the secret's pretty much going to be over.
And what about filing taxes? Will we have to file jointly? Then comes the annual financial disclosure, and the secret's out.
Sex with Josh.
For the rest of my life.
Josh in love with me.
For the rest of my life.
Donnatella Moss-Lyman. With a hyphen.
I need to buy stationary.
***
Donnatella Moss has agreed to marry me.
I think I may be in shock.
I'm sitting in my hospital bed wracking my brain for the perfect place to get married.
To get married. That sounds strange.
Kind of daunting, actually.
So, okay, I'm getting married.
Really, this was my idea; I should not be quite so nervous.
But anyway, my current problem is where to get married. Since I won the news cycle (and how annoying is it that I get the cover of Time, Newsweek, and U.S. News and World Report simultaneously, not for my many political accomplishments, but for stepping into a hail of a bullets?), I'm guessing taking Donna to my local temple isn't in the cards.
So it's a clandestine wedding. Which sounds kind of sexy, actually.
Clandestine. Secretive. Undercover.
I'm thinking I spent too many hours as a child watching The Avengers. Hmmm, Donnatella Moss in head-to-toe black leather. There's a happy image.
I'm also thinking out-of-state wedding. Somewhere along the coast -- maybe up in northern New England. An obscure bed-and-breakfast somewhere near Ogunquit, Maine.
A cliffside wedding.
Holy shit, I'm planning my wedding.
I can do this.
Luckily, Donna arrives at the hospital to pick me up -- I'm finally being released today -- before I can give in to sheer panic.
"You ready?" she asks.
"Yes," I say.
I must look strange, because she glares at me. "You're panicking."
"No, I'm planning."
"What are you planning?"
I take a deep breath. "Our wedding."
Our wedding. How surreal is that?
She smiles at me. "Oh."
"Oh?"
"I'm just surprised, Josh."
"Why are you surprised?"
"I thought your mind would be more on your recovery than the--" She stops for a moment. "--than our wedding."
I grin at her. I can't believe she's going to marry me.
"I've been thinking that since we can't do the big church, white-dress thing -- although I've got to say I'm looking forward to peeling a white dress off of you." She's blushing. I am the man. "Maybe we should go somewhere totally out of the way."
"Okay," she says. "What do you have in mind?"
"For the wedding, or for just after?"
She barely moves, just shifts her weight slightly to one side; but suddenly, she is walking seduction. I may be salivating.
"Either one," she says, her big eyes blinking lazily at me.
It takes me a moment to frame a response. "Wedding," I say. "Coast."
"Coast?" she asks, straightening up. Back to business. Which is good, though, because I was just about to jump her.
"How does Maine strike you?" I am giving her my patently irresistible face.
"Maine?" she repeats, with a dubious look.
"What's wrong with Maine?"
"There's nothing wrong with Maine. I'm sure Maine is a perfectly nice state."
"Well?"
"Well, what?" she asks.
"Well, then, why can't we get married there?"
"Because, Josh, I know what you're thinking."
"Oh, you do?"
"Yes."
"What am I thinking?"
"You're thinking that I'm going to be sad that I can't invite 700 people to some big, crazy church wedding, so you'll make it up to me by having some candlelit, cliffside wedding."
Okay, so she does know what I'm thinking. I am slightly fearful.
"No, I'm not," I lie.
"Josh."
"Okay, yes," I admit. "Is that so horrible of me?"
"No, Josh, but I don't care that much about the actual wedding." She puts a hand on my arm and drops her voice a few octaves. "I don't want you wasting your strength climbing up some stupid cliff. You're going to need your energy." She raises one eyebrow. "You know, for just after."
I cannot wait to get married.
***
Ocean cliffs. Candlelight. What a time for sweet-guy Josh to make an appearance!
Unfortunately, there is no such person as common-sense-guy Josh.
Does he want to kill himself before we even get to the wedding night? He was just operated on for a collapsed lung and a damaged artery, but does he let that stop him? Does he take that into account?
Has he even talked to his doctors about whether he should -- whether we should--
Dammit, do I have to remind him of everything?
Of course I do.
"Josh," I say. I'm trying to be as nonchalant as possible. I congratulate myself for not blushing. "Have your doctors told you anything about sex?"
"No," he says, and he stretches out that one syllable as though he finds my sensible question just too damn amusing. "But then I had that talk with my dad when I was twelve."
"You know what I mean."
"I'm actually pretty sure I don't." He's not looking at me. The big liar.
"Because, you know, you're not exactly a young man anymore, and maybe you shouldn't be putting a strain on your heart."
"Don't worry about it," he says.
"I wouldn't want anything to happen to you. Not until you've changed your will in my favor."
"Hey, I can take it."
"I've no doubt. And while I am used to doing all your work for you, Joshua, just on this one occasion I'd like some reassurance that you can dish it out. So to speak."
"You're going to make a big deal out of this, aren't you?"
"No," I answer. "I'm just going to find a doctor and ask some very direct questions if you don't give me an answer."
***
I am stuck in the midst of what promises to be the most humiliating conversation of my life.
"You are not asking my doctor about my sexual fitness," I say. Donna opens her mouth to respond, but I just talk louder. "Which," I add defensively, "I assure you, is top notch."
Donna looks like she's fighting a grin. I am not amused.
"I'm sure it is, Josh."
That sounded rather indulgent.
"It is," I insist.
"Josh, you were in surgery for fourteen hours."
"So?"
"So you're still healing. It wouldn't be surprising if you weren't quite..." she shrugs, "up to par."
"I am up to par," I say. "I'm above par."
"I thought the thing was to be under par."
"Donna."
"You know, like in golf--"
"Donna!"
"Okay, Josh."
"Seriously, everything's in working order."
"That's not what I was asking."
Could I just go ahead and die now? Please.
"What were you asking?"
"I was asking if..." She looks a bit embarrassed herself. "If, on our wedding night, I'm going to have to do most of the work."
A stray bolt of lightning would be great right about now.
"Donna--"
"Josh," she interrupts. "I have no problems with that."
"Well," I say sarcastically. "That's good to know."
"Really, Josh, the female-dominant position--"
"I beg you to stop talking," I say. Shout, really.
Donna looks startled. "What's wrong?"
"All the doctor said is that I should be careful not to overdo it."
"That's it?"
"Yes." My face feels hot. "That's it."
"But--"
"He said I'm the best judge of, you know, how much I can do at any given time."
She's blushing. "At any given time?"
"Please, Donna, just trust me on this."
***
I consider myself a feminist.
I was not raised that way. My family tends to have very conservative opinions on social issues. Which is why, these days, they tend to be alternately proud that my career is going so well and horrified that I'm part of the Bartlet administration.
No, I have come to my feminism the hard way -- by making one colossally stupid blunder and living with the consequences.
Take my advice on this: If a man suggests that you drop out of college and pay his way through med school, don't do it.
I like to think that I learned from that experience. I like to think that no man -- not even Josh, thank you very much -- could convince me to do anything that stupid again.
Oh sure, some of you are snickering right now. You're thinking, "She loves Josh. She's about to make a complete ass of herself over him too."
Don't count on it.
Yes, I will admit that I'm in what one might call a blissful frame of mind. I am not, however, mindless. Note the difference: When I was twenty and stupid, I thought the guy I loved was perfect. Now? Perfect? Josh? You must be kidding.
I am in love with a complicated man. A man who can be thoughtful and sweet but who is more often inconsiderate and self-centered. A man who is decent, (too) hardworking and caring. A man who will not hesitate to fight dirty when he has to. A man whose ego requires its own zip code and whose wit should be registered as a lethal weapon. I am in love with Joshua Lyman, Master Politician and Legend In His Own Mind.
See? Basically, I still have my wits about me.
At twenty, I'll admit, I had this image of The Wedding. You know the one -- the long white gown with the veil and the train, the hundreds of guests, all eyes turning toward you as you walk down the aisle, the traditional vows.
What the hell was I thinking?
If I hadn't had my mind on The Big Day, maybe I would have realized earlier that the prospective groom was no prize and that a lifetime of the relationship I had then was too high a price to pay for one moment of glory.
So now I'm a much smarter woman. A grown up. In love with another complicated, flawed yet strangely lovable grownup. What kind of wedding would I want, you might ask?
One with Josh.
In fact, the more I think about it, the more I realize that this is exactly the kind of wedding I want: one that is private, one that is simply Josh and me saying the things we need to say to each other. I don't want long white gowns, bridesmaids, flowers and all that other nonsense. This is not Barbie and Ken Play House in DC.
This is Josh and me.
This is private.
This is sacred.
***
It doesn't take me long to locate the ring.
My grandmother--
I should clarify something. My mother's parents, Eleora and Mateusz Gabrielski, died before I was born. My grandfather was not a rich man, but he managed to get his wife and child -- my mother -- out of Poland in time. My grandmother died not long after, and my mother was raised by her aunts in New York City. My grandfather fared worse; he died at Treblinka.
My father's parents, Nagida and Gavril Lyman, both survived Birkenau. So when I say 'my grandmother,' I'm talking about the only grandparents I knew -- my paternal grandparents.
My grandmother had this amazing jewelry box. My grandfather made it out of this dark wood, and he carved her favorite flowers into the front of it. When I was little, I loved to open all of the secret compartments he'd built into it.
When my grandmother died, my grandfather put the ring he'd given her back in its small "Klein and Sons Jewelers" box, nestled the box into one of the secret compartments, and reverently placed the jewelry box on the mantle. It was out of my reach, and by the time I was tall enough to touch the jewelry box, I was more interested in Mary Eleanor O'Shaughnessy than in some old jewelry. Or our family's history.
I was 23 and working on my J.D. at Yale when my grandfather died. I attended the funeral and sat Shiva with my parents, but I couldn't really comprehend his death until my father handed that jewelry box to me.
Apparently, my grandmother had instructed my grandfather that I was to be the recipient because she knew how much I loved it.
I waited to open the jewelry box until I got back to school. Inside it were some beaded necklaces I vaguely remember my grandmother wearing, a few old Polish coins, and that Klein box.
I didn't open the Klein box.
The wooden jewelry box has moved to each apartment with me, taking its place on the mantle or bookshelf -- once even relegated to the kitchen counter -- but it was always by far the nicest of my possessions. And I have never once opened the Klein box to see my grandmother's ring. I have never had a reason.
Now I do.
My hands are trembling, and I have a bit of trouble with the Klein box. I take a deep breath, then open it. The ring sparkles up at me, still surprisingly shiny against the matte black.
It is a gold ring -- antique gold strands woven together to create the band, then fanning into a lacy design to hold the modest diamond.
It is beautiful.
I am six again, my grandmother rubbing a bump on my knee and speaking to me in Polish, her ring winking up at me.
"Josh," Donna says, poking her head into the living room. "I unpacked some of your stuff and ordered -- Are you all right?"
I look up at her. "What?"
"Are you okay, Josh?" She takes a step into the room.
"Yeah," I say. "I'm fine."
"'Cause you look a little--"
"I'm fine."
"Okay." She turns to leave. "I'm going to--"
"Donna."
She stops and looks back at me. "Yes?"
"Come here."
"Josh, I just ordered food--"
"Donna." I lift my hand towards her, drawing her attention to the ring.
She is suddenly very still. "Josh?"
I give her a reassuring smile. "Don't you want your ring?"
She stares at me. "Josh?"
I'm grinning. "I think we've established my name, Donnatella."
"Joshua," she admonishes, finally moving towards me. "A ring?"
"Traditionally, the groom presents the bride with--"
"Josh."
"Yes," I nod. "A ring."
I extend my hand towards her.
She reaches my side and gazes down at the box in my palm.
"It's beautiful," she breathes.
"It was my grandmother's," I answer softly.
Her hand flutters to her mouth; and when she looks up at me, her eyes are wet. "Josh, I don't know what to say."
There's a first.
"Try it on," I suggest.
She stares at me for a moment, then nods.
I watch her fumble slightly, then pull the ring from its box. She glances up at me again.
I smile at her. This is the ring I want to give to Donnatella Moss.
Donna takes a deep, shuddering breath and slips it onto her ring finger.
This is the ring I want my wife to wear.
***
END PART I