"I spoke to you in cautious tones
Part 2Saturday, October 19, 2002
"--So, if they take the trade, we're looking at Frerotte moving over the Patriots and the Broncos picking up either Eskridge or Calhoun, depending on if they decide to build up their offense or their defense." Dan tapped his pen against his notes and looked up at Casey for confirmation.
Casey thought about it, then nodded. "That's what I'd bet, if I was betting on this. Which I'm not," he tacked on with a pointed stare towards the end of the table.
Dana grinned broadly at him, lounging in her chair. "That's because you know you always lose to me, Casey."
"Even when I'm right, I lose," Casey pointed out. "You welsh on bets."
Dana looked offended. "I beg to differ; I don't welsh on bets."
"The hell you don't. Ever since we got married, you're welshing on bets."
"I do not welsh on bets. I just never lose."
Dan broke in before Casey could retaliate to that. "As amusing as this is, can we save the marital squabbles for after the meeting?"
They both looked at him. "Got someplace you'd rather be, Dan?" Dana asked archly.
"No, I just want the noncombatants out of firing range when this gets ugly," Dan said, leaning back in his chair pointedly. "As, I might point out, it always does."
"I'm with Dan," Natalie agreed without looking up from her notes, and other heads nodded around the table. "You guys keep forgetting the whole collateral damage thing. Dana, the trade story fills 22 to 23, but we're still 2 minutes short on the back 30."
Dana gave Natalie a mock-glare which promised punishment in her future, Casey leveled a pencil threateningly at Dan, and they got back down to business. Dan listened with half of his attention -- he loved his job so much; how many people got paid for watching and writing about sports? -- and let the other half drift to the night before.
He'd met the President of the United States. The President of the United States had asked to meet him. They'd traded football stats and gotten into a polite argument over Notre Dame's bowl prospects this year. How cool was that? The First Lady had been gracious and gorgeous, the Press Secretary, CJ Cregg, was even more beautiful in person, and he'd gotten two more smiles out of Donna Moss before she'd traded places with CJ, standing with some balding guy with a beard who'd spent the whole night being intense. Not a bad party at all.
His satisfied replay of the Notre Dame debate (and Donna's smiles) ended abruptly as he realized the room was silent and Dana was looking at him expectantly. "Dan?" she asked with exaggerated patience. "USC/UCLA and Florida/Florida State? Pre-game features?"
"I'm on it," he said hastily, concentrating on his job before Dana kicked his ass. "Kelly's flying out to do interviews with the coaches and we're using the rivalry stats from last year...."
The rundown meeting broke up ten minutes later, and Natalie caught up with Dan as he was leaving the conference room. "I found out about her," she said with no lead-in, trailing after him toward the office he shared with Casey.
Dan closed the door behind him and flopped down on the couch, patting the cushion next to him. "As smart as you are beautiful. By all means, give me what you've got."
Natalie ignored the flattery and took the invitation, opening a manila folder as she sat. "Okay, the reason Donna Moss's name sounded familiar is because she's been with the Bartlett administration for a couple years. You know, during The Shooting."
Dan winced. "Ouch." They'd been in the office that night, ostensibly fine-tuning the script and waiting for late scores, in actuality playing keep-away in the bullpen with a Nerf basketball before the last rundown meeting started. They hadn't known anything was wrong until Kim had shouted for everyone to shut up, and they'd heard the gunfire from the televisions -- all of them.
The show that night had been... surreal.
"Was she there? In Rosslyn?"
Thankfully, Natalie shook her head. "No. But her boss was. Dan, Donna Moss worked for Joshua Lyman; she was his personal assistant."
"Oh." Dan took that in. "God. No wonder...." 'We used to hang out in his office when we stayed late, which was usually, and he'd turn on the TV....' "He was the, what? The Chief of Staff?"
"Deputy Chief of Staff, yes." She shuffled through her folder and extracted a picture -- a printout of an old cover of Newsweek. It showed a head shot of a man with receding, slightly wild brown hair, brown eyes, and an expression that radiated barely leashed energy. There was also an inset of the site of the shooting -- the trampled barricades, the Secret service agents, the crowd milling around hopelessly.
This guy had died there.
Natalie passed him another picture, this one of a graveside funeral service. "This is Josh Lyman's funeral, about two days after the shooting." Dan recognized faces in this one -- CJ Cregg, her flashing smile nowhere in evidence; Sam Seaborn, rumpled, sleepless and completely non-GQ; and a tall, slender form dressed in black, her face pale and still and her blond hair uncovered. Donna was clinging tightly to Seaborn's hand while another woman, an older brunette, flanked her on the other side. The President of the United States stood a few feet away next to the First Lady and another man, all of their faces sober and very old.
"The woman next to her," Natalie pointed at the brunette, "is Adira Lyman, his mother. Apparently your friend Donna took his death really hard; there were a couple of articles about her right after the shooting."
She shuffled through and found a few more printouts. "Um, she sat shiva for him -- which is significant?" Dan nodded, and she went on, "--and one guy from the, um, Washington Post, did a column on Lyman that mentions her. There's a copy of it in here."
Dan took the folder. "Thanks, Natalie," he said absently, still staring at the graveside picture. "You're the queen of research."
"Yes, I am," she agreed cheerfully. "And you guys don't appreciate me nearly enough."
"No, we don't." His response was sincere, but automatic.
"Dan?" He looked up, and found Natalie studying him soberly. "Are you... This might not be a.... I mean...."
"I just met her last night, Natalie," Dan told her, giving her a grin that was almost real. "I'm not starting any deathless romances here. But she seemed like a nice person, and she looked like she could use a friend. Okay?"
Natalie didn't look like it was okay, but she didn't push him. "Okay," she sighed. "You going to come watch the Penn State/Northwestern game with us?"
"No, I've... got some script to write. I'm gonna work." The fact that he was already flipping through the file on Donna Moss made that a pretty obvious lie, but they both ignored it. "Hey, Nat?"
She stopped halfway through the door. "Yeah?"
"I sent her flowers. You know, a 'nice talking to you' kind of thing. That was good, right?"
Natalie looked less than enthusiastic, but only asked, "Roses?"
"Please, like I'd go for the cliche? Fall arrangement, mums and stuff. I think."
Natalie sighed again, then gave him one of those 'poor, sweet, deluded boy' smiles that she specialized in. "Yeah, Dan, that was probably good."
"Cool." Reassured, he went back to his reading as Natalie left.
It was kind of nice to be involved in an election with no personal stake, Donna reflected, looking around the Vanderbilt Suite of the Plaza Hotel. Of course she wanted Vice President Hoynes to win -- he'd improved some over the last two years, enough to be considerably closer to "the real thing" than Henry Shallick -- but his win or loss would have very little direct effect on her life, outside of the 'running her government' aspect. The whole lack of pressure was having a good effect on everyone; they all looked more relaxed and cheerful than she'd ever seen them. Well, except for Toby, but he was never relaxed anymore.
She was sitting curled up in an armchair, taking notes for CJ as they ran through the itinerary for the rest of the New York trip. Sam sat on the carpet at her feet, working on a speech on his laptop and ignoring the conversations around him, as CJ argued with the President about whether he actually had to give a speech at NYU that afternoon (CJ's stance being an emphatic 'yes', with the President considerably less enthusiastic). Toby muttered under his breath as he refined the NYU speech, scribbling and erasing on his printout and occasionally bellowing for Bonnie to bring him notes.
They were busy and working, but the clock was ticking. In less than a month, they'd be a lame duck administration; two months after that, the White House would be someone else's responsibility. Someone else would give CJ's briefings, someone else would write the speeches for another President, someone else would sit at Kathy's desk outside the Deputy Chief of Staff's office....
"Donna?" She hadn't been aware that she'd sighed out loud, but she must have, judging from Sam's concerned expression. She patted his shoulder reassuringly and tried to focus again on the press schedule.
It wasn't like she was going to regret leaving the White House. There were too many memories there, lurking around every corner, so that some days she could almost collapse under the weight of them. It had gotten better, of course; everything got better. She could go months without a bout of desperate weeping, entire weeks could pass between the dreams. But then she'd walk down a hall and look up to see if Josh was beside her, find a file covered with scribbled notes in Josh's handwriting, turn automatically and wind up next to Kathy's desk, which had been hers, but wasn't anymore....
No, she wasn't sorry to leave the White House and the constant reminders of everything she'd lost. But she wasn't sure how she was going to live without those reminders, either.
Everyone except Sam and Toby, who were intent on their speeches, looked up at the gentle knock on the door of the suite; Charlie Young stuck his head inside the room. "Special delivery," the President's bodyman and soon-to-be son-in-law announced cheerfully, coming the rest of the way into the room at the President's gesture and revealing an enormous bouquet of flowers. Donna sniffed appreciatively at the mums, sunflowers and white rosebuds in the arrangement.
"Well, someone seems to have had a good time last night," the President smiled broadly, rubbing his hands together as he looked sideways at CJ. "What poor fellow has fallen under your spell this time, Ms. Cregg?"
CJ laughed and shook her head, holding up her hands in ignorance.
"Actually, sir, these are for the lovely Ms. Moss," Charlie said, pulling the card from the flowers with a flourish.
Sam's head shot up, and Donna sat up straight in the armchair. "Excuse me?"
"They're for you," Charlie repeated, handing her the card and putting the flowers on the coffee table in front of her. "Looks like you're the one who had a good night."
"Not so you'd notice," Donna said under her breath, but she took the card from Charlie and slipped it out of the small envelope. The signature at the bottom didn't surprise her; what did was the almost shocking spurt of warmth that ran through her chest. She hadn't felt that in... a long time.
"Well?" CJ demanded after a minute, leaning forward in her chair and jolting Donna out of her daze. "Who are they from?"
"Yeah, give," Bonnie echoed, leaning over the back of Donna's chair to try to get a glimpse.
Donna could feel her cheeks getting red. "They're, um.... They're from Dan Rydell."
Toby looked up at that. "Dan Rydell?" he asked. "Dan Rydell from Sports Night, Dan Rydell?"
Her blush deepened. "Yes."
"He was at the thing last night?"
"Yes, Toby. You met him."
Toby's eyebrows went up and CJ sighed. "You had a conversation with the man, Toby. Admittedly, your end of the conversation was mostly grunting and looking around for someone else to assault, but a conversation did, in fact, occur."
Toby considered, then shrugged. "I assaulted no one," he said mildly as he went back to his speech, ignoring the President, CJ and Sam's combined snorts.
Donna barely noticed the by-play, leaning forward to breathe in the spicy scent of the flowers. She also didn't notice Bonnie until the other woman had leaned forward and snagged the card from her hand.
She yelped in protest, but Bonnie had already danced out of range, leaning against the arm of CJ's chair as she read out loud: "'Donna, thanks for the company skyline gazing; I'd like to do it again sometime. I'll even bring the coats. Dan Rydell.' And there's a phone number!" She and CJ made extremely juvenile ooo-ing noises while the President beamed, Sam glared, and Donna gave serious consideration to hiding under the cushions of her chair. Toby ignored them all.
"That's what I like to see, a polite young man," the President said approvingly, reading the card, then looking at Donna over his glasses. "Even if he is woefully deluded about the greatness of Notre Dame."
"Good taste in flowers, too," Bonnie teased. "But what's this about coats?"
"Dan loaned me his jacket." It probably wasn't possible to actually get burns from a blush, but Donna suspected she was about to do just that. "It was cold outside. He was being nice."
"That's one word for it," Sam muttered.
CJ ignored him, giving the flowers an assessing look. "This is a little more than 'nice'. I think this goes all the way to 'thoughtful'. And he's cute, too."
"Oh, yeah," Bonnie agreed. "I've seen him on that show -- he's definitely a cutie. So when are you going to call him?"
"Call him?" Donna echoed uncertainly.
"Call him?" Sam echoed with no uncertainty at all. "I don't think--"
"Yes." CJ's tone effectively shut Sam up, but didn't make him look any happier. She refocused her attention on Donna. "Call him. At the very least, you need to thank him for the gorgeous flowers."
"Oh. Right." Donna frowned at the card as CJ handed it back to her. "I should do that?" She hadn't meant it to come out as a question; she just... it had been a long time.
"Yes," CJ repeated firmly.
Bonnie nodded in emphatic agreement. "Call the man, honey."
"You should definitely call him," Charlie contributed.
Donna bit her lip and studied the phone number. She wished everyone would spend a little less time being concerned with her life. "He's probably not at home. I'd just have to leave a message."
"That's the studio number," CJ said. Everyone looked at her and she shrugged. "Dana Whitaker gave me her work number, since she's never home. We're doing lunch. Call."
Donna looked up at the other woman, but CJ wasn't going to back down, and even the President had that stern 'don't make me make it an order' look. Sam still looked deeply disapproving of the whole thing, but that wasn't going to help her against CJ.
"Okay." She gave in quietly, rummaging in her purse/tote bag/briefcase for her cell phone and trying to ignore the sick nerves in her stomach. "I guess I can call him."
"10 minutes to rundown, guys."
Casey and Dan both waved acknowledgment at Natalie and she pulled her head back out of their office to go harass someone else.
"So," Casey said, tossing a softball into the air and catching it. He was tilted so far back in his chair that he was likely to fall over any second. Dan was looking forward to it. "You sent flowers to the White House, huh?"
"More like to the New York branch, but yes, I did," Dan replied, without looking up from his computer. He had to rummage on his desk for a minute to find the soccer scores, and then had to fight his sarcastic instincts to start a serious write-up of them.
Casey waited patiently, tossing and catching. "And she hasn't called yet?"
Dan turned his chair around to go in search of another set of scores. "Not yet."
The scores had disappeared; he could get them off the 'net himself, which would take time that he really needed to be putting into his script to make up for all of the daydreaming, or he could suck it up and ask Kim for another copy. Kim would not be happy. Kim would make him pay. He started hunting through the papers on his desk again.
"So, are you going to call her?"
Dan stopped shuffling and looked across the office at his co-anchor, who gazed back innocently. "I never should have let you and Dana get married."
Casey had the nerve to look amused, but at least stopped tossing the damn softball. "Okay, number one, there was no way you could have stopped us, and--"
"Oh, I could've found a way," Dan muttered. "Eighteen years you two had been screwing it up, I could've found a way."
"--and number two," Casey continued, raising his voice to drown out his partner's, "what was that supposed to mean, anyway? What does my marriage have to do with you calling this woman?"
"Everything!" Dan picked up a pencil and pointed it at Casey. "It's the whole 'we're disgustingly happy, now we have to make sure everyone else is' matchmaking thing. I had a conversation with the woman, I sent her flowers, and I am very interested in seeing her again in the near future, mostly because I'm enjoying the challenge of getting her to smile, which is, I admit, a fairly incredible sight. That does not mean I'm in love, that does not mean you get to return the favor and be my best man any time in the near future. What that does mean is that you need to stop looking smug before I come over there and stuff that softball down your throat."
Casey spread his hands wide, the softball still clutched in one of them. "Okay, okay. I didn't know you felt so strongly about it."
"I don't feel so strongly about it, which is what I believe I just finished saying. So if you could lay off and let me get some work--" The phone rang suddenly and Dan lunged for it. "Dan Rydell."
"Dan? Hi, this is Donna. Donna Moss. From last night?"
"Donna, hi, it's good to hear from you." He smiled broadly and leaned back in his chair, then caught sight of Casey across the room. The man's face could only be described as smug. Dan balled up a sheet of paper and threw it at him, then gestured violently at the door. Casey's expression didn't change, but he spread his arms open wide in a 'peace' gesture again and left the office. At least he didn't start snickering until he was (almost) out of earshot.
Dan waited for the Irritating One to be gone, then returned his attention to the phone. "So, how are you this morning?"
"Actually, it's afternoon," Donna pointed out.
"Right, for normal people. But I got to work about three hours ago, so it's kind of still morning for me." He grinned into the phone. "Since you've obviously been functional for a lot longer than I have, have you done anything to change the world today?"
"Yes. If you count convincing the President that talking to college students about taxation and inflation in words of fewer than five syllables is a good thing."
"Which it is?"
"Unless we want them to sleep through his speech. You haven't lived until you've heard the President go on about economics for two hours. It can get brutal."
"I heard that," a faint, scarily familiar voice said in the background.
"Sorry, sir," Donna called back.
"You say things like about the President of the United States?" Dan stared at the phone in bemused horror. "Where he can hear you?"
"Yes. Well, sometimes. Because he's a good, kind, compassionate man who loves us, and would never fire us for making a joke, however disrespectful and untrue."
"Better," the voice came again.
Dan started laughing in spite of himself. "God, it's like finding out Isaac is running the country."
"My boss, our managing editor. He's, ah.... well, you'd have to meet him."
"Oh." There was a long, awkward silence.
"So, I was calling to thank you for the flowers," Donna said finally, and Dan heard the nerves in her voice with sympathy. A lot of things made more sense now, after reading about Rosslyn and Josh Lyman, then they had last night. "They're really beautiful."
"Tell him he's got great taste." CJ Cregg's voice was the one floating in this time.
"Tell CJ I said thank you," Dan said, amused. "How many people are in that room?"
"Dan says thank you," she said away from the phone, then, to Dan, "And, um, seven. We're supposed to be leaving for a speech soon."
"Oh." His good mood started deflating. "Yeah, I guess you're all pretty busy over there. When are you heading back to D.C.?"
"Tomorrow morning. We're supposed to be on Air Force One by 5."
"Air Force One is definitely the way to travel," Dan approved. "But 5 in the morning? That's inhuman."
"Tell me about it. So much for the glamour of the White House, huh?"
"All of my illusions are shattered." Dan chuckled for a second, then took a deep breath and went for it. "So, in your incredibly important and busy schedule, would you happen to have time to have dinner with a fairly unimportant sports anchor?"
There was a long pause. Really long. It was, actually, incredibly long for a pause, pretty much all the way into dead silence. "That's... that sounds nice, Dan, but I don't..."
"See, here's the thing," he broke in, before she could finish turning him down. "I work these really screwy hours and dinner for me happens at, like, 9 o'clock, a couple hours before we go on the air. But that's also when the last of the scores come in, so I can't stay away for very long. So what I was thinking was that you could meet me downstairs after whatever thing you have -- I work in Rockefeller Center and there's a really nice little restaurant just across the street -- and we can talk for a while. Then we can race back off to our respective jobs after reminding ourselves that yes, we do in fact have lives. So how about it?"
He had to stop babbling to breathe, then held his breath. This was the part where either she said yes, or she took out a restraining order.
He heard her take a deep breath of her own, and braced himself for the process server's knock. "I.... Okay. Yes. That's... yes."
He held the phone away from his ear for a second and blinked at it. "You said yes? I mean," he rushed on, "okay, yes, that's great. What time is good for you?"
"Well, the thing is, we've got another speech at 7, and we might not get out of there until 9:30, later if the President works the rope lines-- What?" More voices from the background; Dan couldn't make them out this time. "CJ, are you sure...? Oh. Okay."
She came back to the phone. "Um, I was just ordered to leave the speech early, so I guess I can meet you whenever."
"Great. That's great." Dan caught himself pumping his fist in the air, stopped, and tried to keep his voice cool. He didn't think he was succeeding, but there was always hope. "I've got the 8 o'clock rundown meeting, but Dana and Nat'll let me bail right after if I promise to be back in time for the 10 o'clock. So, how about I meet you downstairs -- it's 30 Rockefeller Plaza -- at 8:45 and we can, you know, eat. Talk. Watch the skaters. Interact as human beings do."
"Sure." He was almost sure she was smiling, and really wished he was there to see it. "That sounds good. 8:45."
"Great, I'll see you then."
He hung the phone up carefully and stared at it for a long moment. Then his whoop of triumph echoed through the office. Elliot and two other production assistants came racing in, and were treated to the sight of Dan Rydell leaning perilously far back in his chair and carrying on a vigorous boxing match with the air.
Donna searched her suitcase, concluded that none of the shirts she absolutely needed had miraculously appeared there, and collapsed on the edge of the bed in skirt and bra, seriously considering calling the whole thing off on account of wardrobe failure.
Everything she'd packed was quiet and suitable, business-like "fade into the background, I'm not really here" kind of clothes -- perfect for following the President and the Press Secretary around, but not even remotely appropriate for dinner at Rockefeller Center with Dan Rydell.
On second thought, maybe they were completely appropriate. It wasn't like this was a Big Date (CJ, Zoey and Bonnie's opinions to the contrary). It was just dinner with a nice man whom she would probably never seen again after tonight except on TV, because they lived in different cities and, let's face it, a man that cute and funny and relatively famous probably had women lined up around the block and couldn't possibly be interested in the emotionally unstable interactions of one Donnatella Moss. No. No big deal.
She brushed her hands together briskly, got up and started dressing. Dark blouse, dark jacket, ready to go.
She sat back down and started hyperventilating.
The knock at the door came just before she managed to descend into a full-blown panic attack. "Just a second," she called back shakily, willing her breathing to even out and the tears to go away.
Naturally, the door opened before she'd accomplished either of these things. "Donna, do you know where Carol left...?" CJ took one look at her, came in, and closed the door behind her. "Oh, Donna."
"I'm fine," Donna lied, not caring if CJ believed her as long as CJ left her alone. "I'm just finishing getting ready, the extra copies of the speech are in your briefcase, and Danny was fine about rescheduling the interview for the trip home. Anything else?"
CJ crossed her arms and stared down at her. "You're wearing that on a date?" she asked, completely ignoring the rest of the babble, as well she should since she knew all of that already since Donna had told her half an hour ago.
Donna looked down at her remarkably boring and not particularly flattering outfit, then looked back up at CJ defiantly. "Yes, I am."
"No, you're not." CJ shook her head and sat down on the bed next to Donna, rummaging in the shopping bag she was carrying. "Honestly, Donna, this is a date, not a press conference. You can't have forgotten everything about the procedure."
"No, CJ," Donna said through her teeth. "I know how to date. I've gone on dates before. Many of them, in fact."
"Two dates in the last 2-1/2 years," CJ pointed out, not unkindly. "Unless you count that... whatever that thing was you and Sam were doing during the period of time in which both of you were in dire need of therapy which, frankly, most of us are doing a damn fine job of pretending never happened.
"Lucky for you," she continued before Donna could respond, pulling something silky and red out of her shopping bag, "your good friend and extremely understanding boss CJ made time to hit Fifth Avenue this afternoon, and has the answer to all of your problems." She waved the something red in front of Donna's face triumphantly.
Donna pushed it aside. "I don't have any problems, CJ. I have a date. It's not a problem."
CJ let the shirt and the cheerful attitude drop. "It's so 'not a problem' that you were about to have a panic attack when I walked in?"
"Donna, this is me, remember? I know your panic attacks when I see them. You haven't had one in almost a year that I'm aware of, which means that yes, we do in fact have a problem."
Donna stared down at her hands, clasped tightly in her lap, her knuckles white, and gave up. "We don't. I do. Oh god, CJ, why did I say yes? I was all set to say no, I started to say no, and then he just.... and I said yes instead."
CJ patted Donna's shoulder, and reached across her to pull a Kleenex out of the box on the nightstand. Donna sniffled into it miserably. "Donna, it's just a date. You'll go out, you'll have dinner with what seems to be a very nice man, you'll enjoy yourself. I promise you that the world will not end."
"No, it already did that." Donna didn't realize she'd said the words aloud until she felt CJ's hand freeze on her shoulder. "I meant--"
"I know." CJ forced a smile, and resumed patting. "I know how hard these past couple of years have been for you, Donna. I miss Josh, too. But you have to start doing things like this again. Dating, smiling, getting flowers... normal things." She smoothed Donna's hair out of her face, waited until Donna met her eyes. "Alive things."
Donna swallowed hard and nodded. "I know. I'm trying."
"I know." CJ gave her a hard, one-armed hug, then let her go and picked the shirt up again. She pulled a small penknife from her purse and cut the tags off. "Okay, amateur therapy session over, wardrobe consultation about to begin. Put this on, then we'll worry about your makeup."
"Oh god," Donna groaned, but obediently stood up and shed her jacket and blouse in favor of CJ's latest acquisition. It was a gorgeous shirt; red silk that was cut just low enough to be attractive without being inappropriate, and that made her skin glow like, well, alabaster. With the dark jacket and knee-length skirt, she could easily go from the speech to dinner.
"Better," CJ approved. "You look much less like the walking dead."
They flinched simultaneously and CJ waved one hand, covering her eyes with the other. "Sorry. Sorry. Forget I said that. Makeup?"
"Bathroom." Donna bit her lip. "CJ, please don't tell Sam or the President. About, you know, the panic attack. They'll worry."
"Like Sam needs an excuse to worry about you dating," CJ sighed. "And I have absolutely no idea what panic attack you're referring to."
"Thank you." Donna started off, but stopped in the doorway to look back at CJ. "I really don't know why I said yes," she admitted quietly.
CJ looked back at her, her eyes warm and sympathetic. "I have faith in you, Donna. You'll figure it out. Makeup."
"Makeup." Donna took a deep, steadying breath and went to retrieve her makeup bag.