by Julie Hyzy
Instinctively, I glanced up at the clock, even though I’d done so moments earlier. “Should we bring the Saardiscan chefs back in here?” I asked.
“I was told to alert you,” he said. “Nothing more.”
“Thank you. How long before she gets here?”
I heard the elevator open. “They’re here.” He motioned toward an unseen person. “This way,” he said. He held his other hand out toward me.
Kerry Freiberg came around the corner, peering into the kitchen, a wide smile on her face. She was accompanied by President Hyden, who followed with his hands in his pockets, his voice booming. “And this is the kitchen where our wonderful chefs keep us happy and healthy, and oftentimes safe.” He winked at me. “Hello, Ollie.”
“Good afternoon, Mr. President.”
“Kerry,” he said to his guest, “I would like you to meet our incomparable executive chef, Olivia Paras, and her outstanding assistant, Buckminster Reed.”
“How do you do?” I said, reaching to shake the candidate’s hand.
After we greeted our guests, Bucky whispered that he would let the Saardiscans know that she was here.
Kerry Freiberg was even more lovely in person than her newspaper photos had led me to believe. Her blonde hair, worn loose and long, curled into perfect waves around her shoulders. She had an inquisitive, authoritative quality, yet looked to be a person accustomed to smiling, and who enjoyed doing so.
If that astonished me—and it did, considering that her fellow Saardiscans rarely smiled at all—that surprise was eclipsed by the fact that she wasn’t alone. In her arms, Kerry Freiberg carried a fluffy white dog with perky ears and bright brown eyes.
“And who is this?” I asked.
“Her name is Frosty,” she said, with a light roll to her r.
“She’s adorable,” Reaching my hand toward the little pet, I asked, “May I?”
“Of course.” As I scratched Frosty’s neck, the dog nosed my hand. “She is a West Highland white terrier,” Ms. Freiberg said.
“A Westie.”
“You know them?” She seemed delighted by this.
“A good friend of mine back in the Midwest has a sweetheart about this same size named Duncan Tryon.” I gave Frosty a final pat on the head. “They are wonderful dogs, aren’t they?”
Ms. Freiberg nuzzled the top of Frosty’s head. “She accompanies me everywhere. Her presence is a calming influence in a rapidly changing world.”
I wondered how our chef guests would react to Frosty, and why Sargeant had neglected to mention the four-legged visitor.
President Hyden had remained quiet during our interchange. Now, he said, “Ms. Freiberg was interested to see how her countrymen were getting along here in the kitchen with you.” He made a show of scanning the area. “Don’t tell me you sent them home early today?”
“Not at all,” I said. “Bucky went to let them know that you’re here. Marcel is in the middle of showing them the chocolate shop. You know how much enjoyment he gets out of showing off his handiwork.”
President Hyden nodded. “Yes, I do know.”
“Chocolate shop?” Ms. Freiberg said. “Inside your home? Amazing.”
“I’m sure Marcel will be delighted to show it to you after you meet with your countrymen.” The chocolate shop comfortably fit two, maybe three people. At the moment, there were five full-grown adults in there. I had an image of what would happen if we added two more, plus Secret Service, plus a dog. “How about if we wait for them here?” I suggested. “There’s not a lot of elbow room in there.”
“Good thinking,” the president said.
“I’m sure you’ll have the opportunity to sample some of the chocolate, if you wish,” I said. “I wouldn’t want you to miss out.”
She smiled. “You are most kind.”
I turned at the sound of fast footsteps to see Bucky rounding the far doorway. His eyes were wide. “Ollie,” he said. A half-beat later, he added, “Mr. President.”
“What is it?” I asked.
He was breathless. “It’s Marcel. He collapsed.”
CHAPTER 12
My brain took precious seconds to process Bucky’s words.
All I could think was, again?
The Secret Service agents immediately began to shepherd President Hyden and Ms. Freiberg from the kitchen. The president touched my arm as he was led away. “Keep me updated.”
“Yes, sir.”
Bucky and I hurried out of the kitchen, where we encountered another Secret Service agent. “We need you to take the visitors out of here,” the agent said to me. “There’s too much commotion and the doctor needs room.”
He didn’t need to explain. But what was wrong with Marcel? Had he taken the wrong dosage of his blood pressure medication again?
“Follow me,” the agent said as he led us to the chocolate shop. Like we didn’t know the way.
The Saardiscans were stumbling out of the little room as we arrived. I peered in through the door. Two things I noticed at once. The room was heavy with stale body heat, and there was blood on the floor.
“What happened?”
The White House doctor knelt next to Marcel, barking orders to his assistant. At my question, he glanced over his shoulder. “Get all these people out of here.”
“Kilian,” I called. “Let’s go.”
I didn’t like the idea of leaving Marcel, but there was little I could do, and I took comfort in knowing that the doctor was there. We trooped back to the kitchen, the Saardiscans chattering among themselves in their native language. I wanted to know what they were saying. Darn this sequester and Tom’s refusal to approve a translator to help us out.
“What happened?” I asked.
Tibor was as pale as I’d ever seen him. He set his lips in a thin line and didn’t make eye contact with any of us. Instead he made his way to a stool we kept at one end of the kitchen. He didn’t sit on it, exactly. More like leaned on it for support.
Kilian noticed and sidled up to me. “When Marcel collapsed, he grabbed at Tibor before he fell. Tibor tried to help, but Marcel hit his head and . . .” He let the words hang.
“Is Marcel okay?” I asked.
Kilian shrugged. “I do not know.”
Of course he didn’t. How could he?
“Did he wake up before you left?” I knew I was grasping at straws, but I was desperate for hope. “Was he able to talk?”
Bucky stood behind our guests facing me. They couldn’t see the fear for our friend in his eyes. I could practically read his thoughts across the room.
“What happened?” I asked again. Even as I forced myself to speak calmly, I realized my heart was racing and I could tell my face was flushed. “What was he doing when he lost consciousness?”
Kilian tightened his face as though working to remember clearly. “He wanted to show us how he made small rabbits and ducks for an Easter centerpiece,” he said. Holding a hand out to Hector, he asked, “Marcel seemed fine, didn’t he? There was nothing amiss.”
I desperately wanted whatever was afflicting Marcel to be a temporary problem, not a life-threatening illness. I hoped it was as simple as him having taken that extra dosage again, but my gut told me otherwise. For Marcel to have made that mistake even once was unheard of. To have done it twice—nearly impossible. I considered other possibilities: an allergic reaction, a momentary sugar spike. “Did any of you notice him eat anything?”
The men exchanged uneasy glances. Kilian said, “Marcel offered us samples. Nate had some. And Hector did.” He pointed to Tibor. “He did, too.”
“What about you?”
“No, nothing. I don’t care for sweets all that much.”
And yet he was the master of desserts in his country? I’d think about that later. “How are you feeling, Tibor?”
He didn’t answer. Still leaning on the stool, he waved my question away.
“Hector?” I asked.
He gave me a confident grin, pounded on his chest with both
fists, and said, “I am fine.”
Nate nodded. “I am well.”
“What was it that Marcel ate?” I asked.
Tibor was the one who answered. “Not ate. Drank. A chocolate drink he was very proud of.”
I knew exactly what Tibor was talking about. One of Marcel’s specialties was a warm chocolate drink. Richer and thicker than traditional hot chocolate, it went down like liquid silk and left a whisper of spice in its wake. “Did he add anything to it?”
Tibor shrugged and looked to his colleagues.
Hector nodded. “Schnapps.”
“And he drank some?” I asked to confirm. “Several of you did?”
“Yes,” Tibor said. He pointed as he spoke. “Marcel, Hector, Nate, me. We all drank it.”
“And you all feel fine?” I asked.
Tibor didn’t look fine. He rubbed his forehead. “I am sorry I could not stop him from injuring himself again,” he said when he noticed my scrutiny. “I hope he will recover quickly.”
“I don’t know what’s going on,” I said. “The doctors put Marcel through a battery of tests and found nothing amiss.”
“Doctors are not always right,” Tibor said.
* * *
Bucky and I were back in charge of the kitchen, again without Marcel. We’d gotten word later that afternoon that he’d been hospitalized, but this time they intended to administer more tests than they had the time before. The Secret Service agent who delivered the news tried to reassure me, “They’ll figure it out. You’ll see.”
I hoped so. For all our sakes.
“Well, then,” I said, my brain scrambling for order in what was becoming yet another chaotic day, “let’s regroup. Until we know more about Marcel’s prognosis, let’s focus on some traditional Saardiscan food. Do any of you have a specific dish in mind you’d be willing to teach us how to make?”
Kilian said that he did.
“Would you be so kind as to write down the ingredients?” I asked, “I’ll have the agents pick them up for us. It may take a day or two until the order comes in, though,” I added, belatedly remembering that the sequester might cause a delay, “but Bucky and I would very much enjoy learning from you.”
While Kilian did as I asked, Bucky got the other men started on planning for the dinner at Blair House.
I was about to pick up the phone, intending to contact Sargeant to ask if Kerry Freiberg and the president were willing to return to the kitchen for the visit they’d missed, but before I could lift the receiver, the phone rang.
“What in the world is going on in your kitchen, Ms. Paras?”
“Peter,” I said, “I was about to call you. If Ms. Freiberg is still available, we have returned to the kitchen and I know that Kilian and his team would very much like to meet with her.”
“Is everything under control there?”
I took a brief look around. “Seems to be.”
He sniffed. “The president and Ms. Freiberg are touring the state rooms as we speak. I do not believe there will be time for them to return downstairs. If that changes, I’ll let you know.”
He hung up before I could reply.
“Kilian,” I said when I returned to the group, “you and I need to chat about the pastry kitchen. If you’re to be in charge of desserts again, Bucky and I can take turns joining you there to serve as your assistant.”
He got a peculiar look in his eyes. “Why would you or Bucky join me, when it would be more efficient to have Tibor? He has much experience with desserts. You have stated that for you and your assistant, this would be more difficult.”
It was a valid question. “The whole purpose for your team’s visit here is to share knowledge and experience. We can’t share very much if we don’t work together.”
“I had not thought of it in those terms.” Satisfied, he nodded. “Yes, you’re right.”
He and I hashed out a plan of how we might divvy up time, resources, and responsibilities between our two kitchens. Even as we talked and he became more animated—I could tell that the idea of being able to run his own section of the kitchen energized him—I couldn’t help but worry for Marcel.
Bucky took the other three out of the kitchen to visit one of the other departments.
As Kilian and I put the finishing touches on our plan for the next several days, I decided to do a little fishing. My vow to not get involved danced in my brain, but after this last episode with Marcel, I couldn’t help myself. “It’s a shame you didn’t have a chance to meet with Ms. Freiberg today.”
Kilian nodded. “I would have enjoyed the chance to speak with her.”
“With any luck, she and the president will have time to try again.”
Kilian’s pink cheeks flushed. “Perhaps.”
I kept my voice low. “Tell me more about Saardisca.”
He glanced around the room. “What do you want to know?”
I answered him truthfully. “What do the four of you talk about when you speak Saardiscan here?”
“Nothing so terrible,” he said with a smile that brightened his entire face. “Tibor and Nate have a tendency to discuss politics and religion. Hector and I know better than to join in.”
“Why? Do Tibor and Nate get into arguments?”
“Not at all. They are both loyal Saardiscans.”
I found his phrasing interesting. “And you and Hector are not?”
“I cannot speak for Hector. I know little of the young man. But I am not a fervent believer in our system, and far less vocal.” He was quick to add, “This does not make me a bad person. I am not a rebel. But I am not so sure that what we are told is good for us, is really what’s best. I have begun to see that there is more to the world than what has been taught to us.”
“Your visit here has something to do with that?”
“I had been having doubts for a long time before this trip was even announced.” Kilian’s gaze jumped in the furtive way it tended to do when he wanted to ensure no one was listening in. “I am not as loyal as the government believes I am. The government knows not what is in my heart.” He patted his chest with his fist. “If they did, I would never have been allowed to leave.”
“Surely, you’re not the only one,” I said. “I mean, there have to be others who share your doubts.”
He smiled. “There are. Yet, it is difficult for us to find places and times to discuss questions or seek answers. We all know of insurgents who have suffered greatly because they dared to doubt what the government decreed.”
“That must be difficult.”
He shrugged. “You get used to it.”
“And here? In such close quarters with the other three men? Do you find it easier or more difficult?”
His brow furrowed. “I would never let any of these men know of my doubts. In an instant they would turn on me and have me sent back.”
“Wouldn’t they believe the same of you? That you would turn on them if they expressed doubts?”
“Yes.”
“Then how do you know that none of them are simply being as clever and careful as you are?”
He blinked at me. Took a deep breath. “I had not considered such a thing. I believe what I believe, though. I think I am right.” With a wry grin, he said, “We are getting to know one another better each day. Time will tell.”
“That’s good.”
He made a face—one I couldn’t parse.
“What’s wrong?”
“If I get to know them, then perhaps they will get to know me. I do my best to keep my opinions secret, but if my guard comes down . . .” He let the thought hang. “I must be careful never to let that happen.”
I held a finger to my lips. “I won’t say a word.”
CHAPTER 13
I waited to eat dinner until Gav got home that night. After years of dining alone at my kitchen table, the prospect of cooking for someone I loved seemed like a great gift. I looked forward to the time we spent together, no matter what was on the menu and no matter what we had
planned.
Tonight was one of our leftover nights. He showered when he first came in and returned to the kitchen just as I was setting out our plates. It wasn’t all that late, but the shower had given him the opportunity to switch clothes; he’d opted for his striped pajama pants and gray T-shirt. His hair was wet and his eyes tired, but his smile was warm.
“Hey,” he said, placing an arm around me. “What can I do?”
My kitchen was small and everything was almost done. “Sit,” I said with a smile. “Relax for a few minutes. Talk to me.”
“Everything smells wonderful.”
“Good. After today’s craziness at work, I didn’t have it in me to concoct anything new. Hope you don’t mind.”
He sat at the kitchen table, one corner of his mouth turned upward. “Am I here with you?”
“Yes, you’re here with me.”
“Then I’m very happy.”
I brought a bowl of vegetables to the table, and as I turned back toward the stove, he put his hands around my waist and pulled me to him.
I laughed. “What are you doing?”
He sat me on one of his knees. “It was tough, being out there with Erma and Bill.”
I’d expected that we’d talk about his visit with them, and that he’d update me on Bill’s prognosis, but just as he’d hesitated when we’d talked on the phone, he hedged again now. The look in Gav’s eyes told me there was more to the story than I expected.
“What happened?” I asked.
“Not much more than what I’ve already told you.”
“Then what’s bothering you?”
He rubbed my back. “They have no one else.”
I put an arm around his neck. “I know. This has got to be tough on you.”
“Tough on them. They already feel alone.”
I tried to guess what was going on here. “Does it bother them that you and I are married?”
He looked away, but shook his head. “Not in the way you’re asking. No. They’ve come to terms with their loss, and I believe that they’re both truly happy for me. For us.”
