by Julie Hyzy
Mrs. Campbell shook her head. “Helen Hendrickson isn’t married. She’s bringing a guest.”
“Her attorney,” Sean said to me. Shaking his head, he again addressed his aunt. “Don’t you see? They’re planning to surround you with their arguments to convince you to sell your stake in Zendy Industries. Why else would Helen bring Fitzgerald along? I’ll bet he’s already drawn up all the papers. They’ll be pressuring you to sign before the gravy congeals.”
She laughed. “Don’t be silly. Thanksgiving is a time for being grateful for all our blessings this past year. No one will be talking business.”
“I changed my mind,” he said. “I’m coming to dinner after all.”
“Good.”
“Somebody needs to look out for your interests.”
As they talked, I realized I was in a peculiar position-although I was most certainly present, I was not part of the conversation. Feeling like the eavesdropping elephant in the room, I desperately wanted to extricate myself.
Although I kept my seat, my right knee twitched with the beat of anxiety. I wanted to be busy in the kitchen. My real kitchen.
Questions raced through my brain. And although I tried to maintain a neutral, disinterested demeanor, an errant thought must have skittered across my face because Sean turned to me, explaining the one thing I’d wondered about-why Mrs. Campbell wouldn’t have a champion in her husband. “Uncle Harrison-that is, President Campbell-makes it a point to stay as far from decisions like this as possible. At least publicly.” Turning to the First Lady, he continued. “He’s against you selling the business, Aunt Elaine. We both know that. I also realize that he can’t make a big deal out of it. His influence on your decision-if made public-could cause economic repercussions. It’s a tough position to be in.”
“Which is why Sean is my personal financial consultant,” she said with obvious pride. “Other than my husband, Sean is the most trustworthy person I know.”
Sean’s cheeks flushed pink. Though obviously pleased, he waved off her praise. “I’ll be there for Thanksgiving dinner. You two talked me into it.”
“Great,” I said, and then with over-the-top peppiness, I asked, “Will you bring a guest?”
Their twin looks of incredulity cemented my earlier matchmaking assumptions. “No,” Sean said, meaningfully. “I’m not seeing anyone right now.”
“Well, then,” I said, suddenly at a loss for words, “I’ll let the staff know to set a place for you.”
Whether it was the close quarters, the long wait for an all-clear signal, or the fact that I was being double-teamed in my love-life department, I didn’t know. I just suddenly needed to break free. I stood. “Let me clean up,” I said, reaching for Mrs. Campbell’s plate.
Sean stood, too. “I’ll help.”
“No.” I whisked his plate away before he could touch it. “You visit with your aunt. I’ve got this.”
“But-”
“It sounds as though you have a lot to talk about,” I said, effectively cutting off his path to the sink area. To my surprise, he sat back down. In an attempt to guide the conversation back to safe territory, I then turned to Mrs. Campbell. “I didn’t realize you were part of Zendy Industries. They’re huge.”
“They are,” she said. “My father started the company with three friends-years ago when I was young and his friends’ children weren’t even born yet. That’s why Nick, Treyton, and Helen are invited for dinner Thursday. We grew up together. Now, they’re all my business associates. I guess you could say I inherited the business and I inherited them, too.”
The sudden sadness in her eyes reminded me of her recent loss. Mrs. Campbell’s father, Joseph Sinclair, had been killed in a horrific car accident about two months earlier.
“You also inherited your father’s good business sense,” Sean said. “All I’m suggesting is that you rely on your own instincts now, and not defer to your colleagues’ demands. No matter how convincing Volkov and the others might be.”
“You’re a good boy, Sean,” Mrs. Campbell said, patting his arm.
By the time I had the bunker room’s kitchen back in order, I’d overheard enough about the Zendy Industries situation to understand why Thursday’s dinner had the potential to get ugly. I made a mental note to talk to Jackson, the new head butler, to keep his eye on the alcohol intake. Mrs. Campbell was a social drinker-limiting herself to an occasional glass of wine-but the Blanchards, the Volkovs, and Helen Hendrickson had been our guests only a couple of times in the recent past. I couldn’t remember if they’d achieved status on our “Do not serve” list. I made another mental note to check.
While the White House is first and foremost a gracious host, it is also a wise one. Over time, certain guests have proved to be unable to handle liquor in a responsible manner. We would never deign to refuse anyone a drink-but one must not dance on White House tables, literally or figuratively. If someone does, he or she earns an immediate place on our “Do not invite” list. If, to our great disappointment, we find that this person must be invited in the future, our sophisticated staff manages to keep the inhibition-loosening beverages just out of the ersatz performer’s reach.
With nine diners-including Sean-for dinner on Thursday, Jackson would have a relatively easy time of keeping tabs on the intake.
I continued to listen in, even as I puttered around, trying to tidy up an already Spartan room.
The First Lady stood up and walked over to the fake window. “All discussion about this Zendy situation should be tabled until after the holidays,” she said. “How I wish we could get out of here. I have so much to do.”
“The deadline for a decision is December fifteenth,” Sean said. “That’s why I think they’ll be pressuring you to agree to the sale of the company.”
She turned. “I thought we had until March fifteenth.”
Sean shook his head. “The trust was very clear: Ninety days after the death of the final founder-your father-the four of you are required to file a decision as to whether you intend to sell the company or not.”
“And if we don’t, we have to wait ten years to decide again.” Mrs. Campbell sighed. “Such a peculiar requirement.”
Sean gave a wry shrug. “Not so peculiar when you think about what the founders intended. They envisioned this company as they would one of their kids. One that they all fathered. The four men who brought Zendy Industries to life were wealthy, successful businessmen in other ventures. They didn’t need Zendy’s income. They needed to believe they’d made a mark on this world.”
The bunker door opened, cutting Sean off. Special Agent Martin gestured us out. “Follow me,” he said.
CHAPTER 3
“ALL CLEAR?” MRS. CAMPBELL ASKED. “WHAT A relief. Was it actually a bomb? Or was this all just precaution?”
Kevin Martin licked his lips. “We are confident that the White House is currently safe from any explosive or incendiary device.”
We’d made our way into the Center Hall. Mrs. Campbell turned to face Martin. “But earlier you said that a bomb was located on the property,” she said. “Is that true? Was it really a bomb?”
He flicked a wary glance at Sean, who clearly understood his cue. “I have to be going anyway,” he said. “See you both on Thursday. Take care, Ollie.”
Another agent stepped up to escort Sean out, but before I could make my own hasty exit, Kevin Martin answered the First Lady’s question. Incurable snoop that I am, I stayed to listen.
“The device we found was not a bomb.”
“Thank goodness,” the First Lady said. She closed her eyes for a long moment, and I felt as though I could almost read her mind. And, I could totally empathize. The relief washing over me was as powerful as it was sudden. This was Mrs. Campbell’s home, and the president’s. But in many ways, it was my home, too. A bomb had threatened to destroy the world’s symbol of freedom. I’d compartmentalized my fear while we were sequestered-I’d pushed it aside to deal with matters at hand. But now that we were ba
ck in the residence, and safe, I felt the full weight of the ordeal we’d been through.
Kevin continued. “The fact that there was never an actual bomb on the premises, coupled with the time crunch the staff is under to prepare for Thanksgiving and Christmas”-he acknowledged me with a look-“has convinced us to allow everyone back into the residence for now. However,” he added, arching his brows, “we are at a state of heightened alert. And we are asking the entire staff to be our eyes and ears wherever possible. We’ll call a meeting later with further instructions.”
“If it wasn’t a bomb you found,” I asked, “what was it?”
Kevin hated when I poked my nose where it didn’t belong-a habit I’d gotten into quite often recently, and one he repeatedly tried to quash.
Before he could tell me to butt out this time, however, Mrs. Campbell chimed in. “Yes, what was it?”
“An apparent prank. We’re investigating it now.” He fixated on some middle distance with such laser intensity that I almost pitied today’s prankster. Knowing Kevin and the rest of the Presidential Protection Detail (PPD) as I did, the guilty party would be found. Very soon. “An alert will be distributed to all departments describing what was discovered, and what to look for in the future. We’re bringing in a team of experts to educate the staff.”
When the First Lady turned the conversation to the happenings at Camp David, I made a polite excuse and hurried off to the safety of my kitchen.
Marcel met me as I walked in, his dark face tight with concern. “Where ’ave you been?” he asked. His French accent was ladled on heavier than normal. “We ’ave been very worried.”
“Long story.” I gave my staff a quick rundown of the past several hours.
Bucky frowned. “That’s nice. They put you in a bunker with the First Lady, and they make us wait out on the South Lawn in the storm.” He shook his head. “And now they tell us it’s safe and we’re supposed to believe them.”
“Outside?” I said. Although we were still in the mid-fifties this late in November, it was pouring rain, and definitely too cold to remain outside for very long. “Kevin Martin told me you were safe.”
Cyan, washing dishes, turned off the water and wiped her hands as she came toward me. “We were safe, Ollie,” she said, glaring at Bucky. Although she was at least fifteen years younger, Cyan was almost as accomplished in the kitchen as our senior chef. And in the past couple of months, I’d watched her confidence grow even more. “We weren’t out on the South Lawn; we walked down to E Street, where we sat on buses until they gave the all-clear.”
“It was still storming,” Bucky said. “And cold.”
When I glanced at Marcel, he shrugged. “Eh, the temperature was tolerable. But the boredom was not. We have much to do and this incident has thrown a… flanquer la pagaille… into my plans for the day.”
“If Henry was still here, he would’ve been out in the buses with us. Not cozying up with the First Lady in the bunker.”
Arguing with Bucky over this matter served no purpose, so I changed the subject.
“There will be another guest at Thanksgiving dinner,” I said. “Sean Baxter is coming after all.”
Bucky snorted and headed back to his station, where I could see tonight’s dinner preparations were already under way. “That SBA chef was due here over an hour ago. I’ll bet she gave up when she couldn’t get in.”
“I’m sure the bomb scare changed a lot of plans,” I said evenly. “But I do hope she shows up. We need another pair of hands here by tomorrow at the latest.” The chef in question, Agda, was the first new recruit sent to join our staff. Service-by-Agreement chefs, or SBAs, worked in the White House on a temporary, contractual basis, until a hiring decision was made, or until the SBA chef found another job elsewhere. I’d been an SBA before I accepted a position here. In my opinion, there was no better opportunity anywhere. I hoped this particular chef agreed-after all, we needed the help.
“We’re already behind schedule,” Bucky said.
I bit back the urge to snarl. Hurling sarcastic retorts at those who reported to me was petty. Worse, it was unprofessional. I was beginning to see why Henry never stooped to fight meaningless battles. It wasn’t worth the effort, and it only accomplished the lessening of oneself.
I forced a placid smile. “You’re right, Bucky. That means that we need to work faster if we hope to get tonight’s dinner together on time. Not to mention all the prep work we need to do for tomorrow and Thursday.”
“And Friday,” Cyan added.
I sucked in a deep breath. Friday promised to be a media circus day. Not only was it the last day the White House would be open to the public before the official holiday season began, it was the date of a long-awaited luncheon. Preparations for Thursday’s intimate Thanksgiving meal paled in comparison to those for Friday’s buffet.
On Friday, Mrs. Campbell would open the White House doors to mothers from all over the country. Her goal was to find commonality among all mothers, whether they be working, single, stay-at-home, or sharing child-care duties with a partner. Almost every state would be represented, and every mom was bringing kids, along with homemade decorations for Christmas, Hanukkah, and Kwanzaa. Each invited child had been sent a template of a gingerbread person on which to base his or her artwork. Continuing the theme of how we are all different, yet we celebrate together, the kids were encouraged to create masterpieces within the template’s parameters. Each hand-crafted gingerbread man-or person, in these politically correct times-brought to Friday’s celebration would be added to the hundreds we received by mail per an open call for participation. I could only imagine how tough this security nightmare would be for our Secret Service personnel.
“And Friday,” I finally echoed.
We weren’t quite sure what to expect. We only knew it would be fun for the attendees, and that the news folks would be all over this one like ants on spilled sugar. Not that you would ever find ants in my kitchen.
“Ollie!”
I looked up. Gene Sculka, our chief electrician, stood in the kitchen’s doorway.
“You heading down?” he asked.
I caught myself before asking, “Down where?” Darn. He was talking about today’s staff meeting. In all the excitement, I’d lost track of time.
“Hang on,” I said, grabbing my notebook and pen. “I’ll go with you.” To Bucky, I said, “If Agda shows up, put her to work.”
“Henry would have insisted on a formal interview first.”
I swallowed my frustration. If Bucky planned to challenge my every move, we were in for a long holiday season. “She’s coming from the Greenbriar, so she’s no slouch. She’s been screened and cleared.” Keeping my tone as nonthreatening as possible, I added, “I’ll risk putting her to work right away. We’ll worry about the interview later.”
He turned his back to me. “Whatever you say.”
“That’s the spirit, Bucky.” Without waiting for a reply, I hurried to catch up as Gene headed toward the elevator.
I would have preferred taking the stairs, but that wasn’t an option for our master electrician any longer. Gray-haired and big-boned, he wore his double chin and spare tire with comfort-as though he’d been born with them. He’d joined the White House staff during the Carter administration, and had worked his way up to the top position with his know-how and can-do attitude. “Can’t believe they’re still holding this meeting, what with all the hullabaloo this morning.”
“There’s a lot to be coordinated, especially over the next couple of days. This meeting is probably just to make sure we’re all on track. I’m sure it’ll be quick.”
“It better be,” he said.
“How’s the knee?” I asked, as we rode one floor down to the basement-mezzanine, often referred to as the BM level.
He slapped his right leg. “Good as new,” he said. “I told those doctors they had to get me back to work here by Thanksgiving. And they did.” With a nod to no one, he added, “Nothing was going to keep m
e from working on the Christmas decorations. I’ve been running the electric here for who knows how long and I’m not about to let anybody take over during my favorite time of the year. No way.”
“We’re all really glad you’re back.” It was true. During Gene’s knee-replacement recuperation, I’d had the misfortune of having to deal with Curly, Gene’s second-in-command. Although the two men were close in age, Curly was as unpleasant as Gene was friendly. I only hoped that when Gene retired, Surly Curly did, too.
We were the last two to arrive for the meeting of the dozen or so department heads. I couldn’t help but think about how much time I was spending away from the kitchen today-in the bunker this morning, and now here in the lower-level cafeteria, where a few staff members were taking lunch breaks.
Our florist, Kendra, leaned forward to talk to me around Gene’s massive form. “No samples for us today?”
I knew what she meant. Today’s cafeteria offerings were pretty basic. For our standard staff meetings, I usually made sure to have a new creation available for my colleagues to sample. Not today. “Limited facilities in the bunker,” I said as I took my seat. “Unless you’d be interested in a hermetically sealed brownie topped with freeze-dried ice cream.” Not an entirely accurate description of MREs, but it garnered a laugh.
“What kind of floral arrangement do you think I should come up with for that little delicacy?” she asked. “Maybe we ought to consider installing silk flowers in the bunker, huh?”
When we both laughed, I started to relax. Sure, this was our busiest time of the year, but now that the morning’s excitement was over, we could finally get to the work at hand.
Up at the front of the room, Bradley Clarke took a few minutes to get himself organized. I seized the opportunity to talk a bit more with Kendra. “Great theme this year,” I said.
“Do you like it?” Kendra asked, clearly not expecting me to answer. “We’ve been working on this since early summer. I think it’s a good one, given the nation’s climate of fear these days.” She shuddered, then went on. “And I like the way it dovetails with President Campbell’s peace platform.”
