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Jefferson’s bedroom and breakfast room; James Monroe used it as a card parlor, and Abraham Lincoln’s beloved eleven-year-old son, Willie, was embalmed there, candles illuminating his face as camellias were placed in his hands. The small Victorian-style Lincoln Sitting Room on the second floor was used as a telegraph room in the late nineteenth century; during the darkest days of Watergate, Richard Nixon sought refuge amid its heavy drapes and dark furnishings, spending hours there with music blasting, a fire blazing in the fireplace, air-conditioning cranked up as high as it would go.
    On the third floor there’s a sanctuary hidden from view on the roof of the South Portico with 180-degree views of the Mall and the Washington Monument. It was designed by First Lady Grace Coolidge as her “Sky Parlor.” Now known as the Solarium, the airy hideaway serves as the first family’s family room. It’s here where young Caroline Kennedy attended kindergarten, where PresidentReagan went to recuperate after being shot in an assassination attempt, and where Sasha and Malia Obama giggle with friends during sleepovers.

    N ONE OF THE residence workers I interviewed minded being called a “domestic.” There’s nothing demeaning about working in the White House, in any capacity. “When you can’t afford it yourself and you’re surrounded by the finest pieces of furniture and Americana in the entire country every single day, that’s kind of cool,” says Florist Ronn Payne.
    To Executive Pastry Chef Roland Mesnier, preparing elaborate desserts for five presidents was the pinnacle of his career. “The White House is the top of the top. If it’s not the top at the White House, when is it going to be the top?”
    It is this distinct commitment to service, and pride in their role, that allow America’s first families to work and live in the White House complex with confidence and security, and to enjoy precious moments of peace. The stories of these residence workers offer a glimpse at our presidents and their families as they live within the confines of the office, literally and symbolically. Their incredible stories—some heartwarming, some hilarious, some tragic—deserve a place in American history.

CHAPTER I
    Controlled Chaos
    The transformation in the household from one Administration to another is as sudden as death. By that I mean it leaves you with a mysterious emptiness. In the morning you serve breakfast to a family with whom you have spent years. At noon that family is gone out of your life and here are new faces, new dispositions, and new likes and dislikes.
    —ALONZO FIELDS, BUTLER AND MAÎTRE D’, 1931–1953,
MY 21 YEARS IN THE WHITE HOUSE
    It’s the only time I ever had a job quit me.
    —WALTER SCHEIB, EXECUTIVE CHEF, 1994–2005
    O nce or twice a decade, on an often bone-chillingly cold day in January, Americans are riveted by the public transfer of power from one president to the next. Hundreds of thousands of people flood the National Mall to watch the president-elect take the oath of office, in a serene and carefully choreographed ceremony that Lady Bird Johnson called “the great quadrennial American pageant.”
    Behind the scenes, however, this peaceful ceremony is accompanied by an astounding number of complex logistics. Laura Bushcalls the “transfer of families” a “choreographic masterpiece, done with exceptional speed,” and its successful execution depends on the institutional knowledge and the flexibility of the residence staff. The hum of White House activity starts even earlier than usual on Inauguration Day, with workers coming in before the break of dawn. By the time their day has come to an end, a new era in American history has begun.
    The White House belongs to the outgoing family until noon, when the new president’s term begins. On the morning of the inauguration, the president hosts a small coffee reception for the new first family. Just before the first family departs, the