Hail to the Chef

by Julie Hyzy

  Blanchard’s next words were clear, and no longer held their customary friendly charm. “Let me be clear on this,” he said. “You may believe that selling Zendy Industries is akin to cutting off a sibling. But by not selling, you will cut us off. You know as well as I do that Nick is about to blow. Helen is quiet, but she’s unhappy with your decision. As for me, I cannot condone your decision. If you choose to keep Zendy, you thereby choose to dispose of my friendship.”

  Mrs. Campbell’s sharp intake of breath preceded her question. “What are you saying, Treyton?”

  I couldn’t help myself; I had to peer in.

  He stood, hands up. “You leave me no choice. Unless you change your mind. Unless you choose your flesh-and-blood friends over the pie-in-the-sky aspirations of our fathers’ company, I will no longer support you.” He licked his lips. “And I will no longer support your husband.”

  “That’s blackmail.”

  “No, Elaine. That’s how important this sale is to me.”

  When he glanced in my direction, I ducked away. But I’d heard enough. What pressure they were putting on the First Lady and at such a difficult time in her life. Had they no sense of honor, of decency?

  Treyton Blanchard left, informing Mrs. Campbell that he would no longer consider himself a regular guest at the White House.

  She pressed him, and I heard his parting words. “It has become apparent that my own aspirations conflict with your agenda. It no longer behooves me to keep company with you or with your husband.”

  He added: “With that in mind, my family and I will not be present at the opening ceremonies tomorrow.”

  “Treyton,” Mrs. Campbell said.

  “Good night, Elaine. I hope you sleep well believing your goals and dreams are superior to those of the rest of us.”

  Whispering, Cyan made a face. “Well, I guess we know what the next primary race will look like.”

  In a rush I could see it play out: Treyton Blanchard would indeed make a run for the presidency. And if I were any judge of character, I believed he’d start the process sooner rather than later.

  The jerk. Whether he cared or not, Senator Blanchard had just lost my vote. Permanently.

  THE RED ROOM WAS NOT DIRECTLY ON OUR way back downstairs, but I pulled Cyan with me to see how great the gingerbread house looked in its setting.

  Kendra and her assistants were there, adding liquid to the champagne fountain.

  Cyan stepped closer to the tall device, which sloshed when two assistants inched it closer to the wall. “Is that champagne in it now?”

  Kendra laughed. “No, just water. I added a couple of gallons for testing. The reception starts at noon sharp and we don’t want anything to go wrong.”

  Cyan and I were about to leave when Kendra called us to wait. “This is the first time I’m using this fountain,” she said. “We just took delivery on this one. Want to see it in motion?”

  Since we were done for the night, I said, “Sure.”

  Kendra looked like a little kid ready to blow out birthday candles.

  The two assistants had pushed the fountain into place and one stood aside, ready to turn it on. “Should we lower the lights?” I asked.

  Before she could answer, the assistant plugged in the fountain and Kendra leaned forward, fingering the switch. “I’m excited,” she said. “This one is bigger than the one we had before.”

  She turned it on.

  A loud rumble heralded the upsurge.

  With a screeching rush, water shot high toward the ceiling, like an erupting volcano.

  “Aaaack!” we all cried at once, lifting our arms above our heads. Water fell down on us all, a hard and fast rain.

  The assistants ducked. Cyan cried out and turned away. Mouth open, Kendra was aghast. And dripping wet.

  “Turn it off,” I said, reaching for the switch.

  Kendra beat me to it. One second later, the rain ceased.

  “What the hell was that?” she asked.

  “Look at the drapes,” I said. “Can we get someone in here to clean these up?”

  Cyan’s red hair looked like a shiny helmet. “I’ll get housekeeping,” she said. And she was off.

  Kendra held a hand to her mouth, surveying the sad scene.

  My next worry was for Marcel’s gingerbread house. Fortunately, however, it was far enough away that it missed the sudden rain shower. “Thank goodness the fountain only had a couple of gallons in it,” I said.

  “What’s wrong with this thing?” she asked.

  I had no answer. “Good thing you tested it tonight.”

  With a forlorn look around the room, she nodded. “This could have been a whole lot worse tomorrow.” She closed her eyes. “Champagne can get sticky.”

  “This really isn’t too bad,” I said. “I think we bore the brunt of it. Look, the furniture didn’t even get winged.”

  “You’re trying to make me feel better,” she said. “But what am I going to do for a fountain? It’s too late to get a new one at this juncture.”

  Manny showed up just then. “What’s going on?” he asked.

  Kendra explained and he seemed to take it all in stride. As I left them, I heard him say, “I’ll get this fixed in no time.”

  CHAPTER 21

  “TODAY’S THE BIG DAY,” BUCKY SAID UNNECESSARILY when he arrived the next morning at six. “What time did you get in?”

  “Four,” I said.

  He whistled. “I thought you said we were all caught up.”

  I gave a so-so motion with my head. “We are. In fact we’re in great shape. I just…” I shrugged, unwilling to share my feelings with Bucky. Give him an inch and he’d probably take the opportunity to ask if I’d come in early to sniff for bombs. I wasn’t in the mood for his special brand of humor today. “I just like mornings here.”

  “Me, too,” he said, surprising me with the sudden far-away expression on his face. “There’s something impossible to describe about this place, isn’t there?” As he tied an apron around his waist, he granted me one of his rare smiles. “Like knowing there’s endless potential here. Like knowing we can make a difference.”

  Bucky never ceased to baffle me. One minute he would crab at nothing, the next he’d echo the very same protectiveness I felt about the White House.

  “Exactly,” I said.

  He walked over to the computer and wiggled the mouse, bringing the monitor back to life. “What’s the final count for today?”

  I told him.

  He whistled again. “What were they thinking when they invited so many?”

  “Remember, this is a combined event. Everyone from Sunday’s cancellation and all of today’s invited guests as well.”

  “Still,” he said, annoyance edging back into his voice. “We’re going to be working our tails off to keep the food going with that many hungry people.”

  “Thank goodness it’s just finger food today.”

  “But you’ll be upstairs for the photo-op, won’t you?”

  I’d almost forgotten about that. “Yeah. Marcel, too.”

  “Great,” he said. “Just what we need-to be shorthanded down here when we’re expecting a full house.”

  Ah… cranky Bucky. We were back to normal.

  I didn’t bother to respond, and minutes later the rest of the crew trooped in. In short order, we were going full force, producing attractive and delicious hors d’oeuvres for today’s crowd to enjoy. There was almost no sound in the room as the clock struck the next hour… and the next.

  After we sent Mrs. Campbell’s breakfast to the residence, I stole up to the first floor with Marcel to get another look at where the press conference would be held. “I do not appreciate the way they have been moving my house around,” he said as we headed up the steps. “They can easily break it, and then where would we be?”

  “They moved it?” I asked.

  “Yes,” he said. “They tell me this is a better location for crowd control.” He sniffed.

  “Maybe it
would be better to display it in the State Dining Room after all,” I said, trying to sound encouraging. “The photographers would have more room to maneuver and get better pictures.”

  “This, unfortunately, is not my decision.”

  “No matter where it’s displayed, your gingerbread house will undoubtedly be the center of attention.”

  He acknowledged the compliment in his customary way. “Very true,” he said, “but I still believe that the house should not be moved as often as it has been. We placed it properly and that is where it should remain.”

  When we made it to the Red Room, we were both surprised to find the gingerbread house against the east wall. “Where’s the fountain?” I asked, turning in a circle to look for it.

  Marcel wasn’t paying me much attention. “Look at what they have done,” he said, pointing to the house’s back corner. “The clumsy fools!”

  I rose to tiptoes to peer where he was pointing. “I don’t see anything wrong.”

  “I took great care to cover the wiring with special décor,” he said, huffing. Tugging his tunic, he straightened and informed me that he would see to repairs at once.

  The moment he was gone, I looked again. A small green wire winding around the back of the structure had poked out from the white, snowy groundcover. Unless you were looking for it, it could easily go unnoticed. But Marcel was a perfectionist. As were we all around here.

  I poked into the Blue Room and into the State Dining Room, but saw no sign of yesterday’s gusher. I knew that was not my concern; I needed to worry about providing food for our guests, making sure whatever we served was properly hot or cold, and ready to go precisely when the guests were shown to the State Dining Room. Marcel would accept accolades for his gingerbread creation and I would be expected to discuss the items we planned to serve today and for all other events throughout the holidays.

  This would be my first Christmas talk to the media. Henry had always handled these and he’d told me they were a piece of cake-sometimes literally. Just as sweet and easy to enjoy. But nervous flutters danced in my stomach and I doubted I could handle any sort of cake right now. Having it or eating it.

  I hadn’t noticed the gingerbread men when Marcel and I were in the Red Room, because I’d been first taken aback by the fact that the house had been moved, and then my attention had been further drawn by Marcel’s concerns about the visible wire.

  Yi-im was back, evidently having been dispatched to make Marcel’s repairs. He nodded to me as I came in. “See?” he said, pointing to the three Blanchard gingerbread men. They were positioned on the wall just above the gingerbread house, each of them connected to the house by means of a stick that resembled the little poles on the structure’s corners. I was amazed yet again by the quality of the workmanship.

  “This looks great,” I said. “Thank you.”

  Even though I’d asked Yi-im to make sure the kids’ creations were placed properly, I was no longer sure it mattered that they sat in such a place of honor. With Blanchard’s pronouncement that he would no longer visit the White House, the pretty little decorations weren’t doing that much good now.

  As I inched to take a closer look at the piece, Yi-im moved me away. “Marcel say no one come close. Only me.”

  Annoyed, I stepped back, although I understood the mind-set. Fewer people messing with Marcel’s handiwork meant fewer chances for things to go wrong. I stepped back, hands up. “You’re the boss.”

  He grinned, showing teeth. “Yeah. I boss today.”

  Kendra’s heels clipped at a brisk pace, and I heard her call out instructions to her staff even before she walked in from the adjacent Blue Room. “Ollie,” she said. “Ready for the cameras?” A quick look at her watch. “Just a couple of hours away from the big unveiling.”

  “Ready as I can be,” I said.

  She pulled a tight breath in between her teeth and gave a mock shiver. “I always get so nervous right before a big event. Really, you’d think this was my first time doing this, wouldn’t you? But what a feat we’ve pulled off, huh?”

  “What happened to the fountain?” I asked.

  “That electrician said he couldn’t fix it where it was, so he took it downstairs to the shop. Last I heard there was nothing they could do to get it in place on time. I ordered a replacement, but that’s not here yet either.” Her smile wilted. “Looks like we’re going fountainless, after all.”

  “What a shame,” I said.

  She leaned in toward me. “To be honest, I was having nightmares about splashing and spillage. This may be a blessing in disguise.”

  About an hour later, I was checking on early lunch preparation down in the staff cafeteria when I happened upon Curly working on the very fountain Kendra and I had discussed.

  He was on his hands and knees looking up into the underside of the contraption, scowling, as usual. I thought he looked like a little boy sent to sit under a table for punishment.

  “What are you doing?” I asked.

  He didn’t acknowledge me.

  I crouched next to him. “I thought Manny was fixing this.”

  “You are a nosy thing, aren’t you?” he asked, his voice breathless as he rearranged himself to sit. I saw why in a moment. The new position allowed him freedom to lift his hands over his head and access the fountain’s inner workings.

  Nonplussed, I scooted forward until I could see underneath as well. “I didn’t realize this was all one piece,” I said.

  He brought his hands down. “What the hell do you want with me?”

  “You really want to know?”

  “You’ve been dancing around, pointing your finger at me since Gene got himself killed,” he said. “You trying to get me to say it was my fault?”

  “No, I-”

  “Because it wasn’t my fault.”

  “I never thought it was.”

  “You don’t know a socket from a volt ohmmeter,” he said. “How the hell can you come to me and start asking me about electrical problems? You think I’m glad Gene got killed? You think I wanted his job? You think I arranged that?” Spittle formed at the corners of his mouth and, despite being in a confined space, he gestured wildly.

  “No, of course not,” I said.

  He mumbled to himself, looked away, and began working over his head again. Then as though he just thought of something, he tapped the fountain’s underside. “You were there when this thing broke down, weren’t you?”

  “Yes,” I said slowly.

  “And you swear you saw this thing shoot water to the ceiling.”

  “Just short of the ceiling.”

  “But you swear you saw it.”

  “Yes, I saw it.”

  “Well, there ain’t nothing wrong with this here fountain,” he said. “What kind of game are you playing, anyway?” he asked. “What do you want from me?”

  “All I ever wanted from you,” I said in a clear voice, “was to answer one question. And before you shut me up again, here it is: A friend I trust has been an electrician for more than fifty years. He told me that more than one expert has been killed by floating neutrals. We had that storm the day of Gene’s accident, remember? My friend just suggested I ask you to check to make sure the White House is safe. All I ever wanted from you was to make sure the house was safe. Okay?”

  Angry now, I stood and didn’t intend to look back before I left him sitting under the fountain. But I did look back and was immediately sorry. Though not directed at me, the intensity of his furious gaze nearly made me miss a step.

  CHAPTER 22

  BINDY WAS WAITING FOR ME IN THE KITCHEN when I arrived.

  “Are they there?” she asked me.

  I didn’t understand. “Are who where?”

  Behind her, Bucky rolled his eyes. “We have a lot of work to do here,” he admonished. “I hope you’re not planning to stay long.”

  Bindy’s face reddened. “I’m sorry to bother you. I just felt as though I needed to make sure. They’ve closed off the upstairs
to everyone until noon.” She looked at her watch. “But I promised Treyton I’d double-check on the placement of his kids’ gingerbread men.”

  Senator Blanchard had very clearly washed his hands of the White House-at least until he himself could call the place home. There was no mistaking that, after last night’s arguments. Bindy was apparently far out of the loop. “Maybe there’s something you ought to know,” I said. “Give me a minute here and we’ll talk, okay?”

  I went around to the computer where I checked my schedule, to ensure we weren’t running behind.

  Bindy watched as I took turns to speak with each of the chefs. My first duty was to make sure that the kitchen produced the quality edibles we were known for, so I didn’t skimp on any of my questions. Nor did I harbor any fondness for Bindy’s boss. Let her wait.

  “I’ll be out in the hall,” she said when Cyan pulled me back toward the storage area.

  “Thank goodness,” I said under my breath.

  Agda smiled and asked us to move out of her way as she slid a tray of petit-fours into the large stainless steel refrigerator.

  I kept my voice low. “Can you believe she’s still bugging me about those gingerbread men?”

  “Give it a rest, girl,” Cyan said. “Did you tell her they’re safe and sound in their place of honor?” She shook her head, then turned the subject back to our current concerns. “Whatever. I’ve got a slight change to the design we decided on for the lobster cake appetizer.”

  She was about to reach into the same refrigerator Agda was using when the taller woman tilted her head and closed the door. “Pretty men?” she asked us.

  We both looked at her, not understanding.

  The blonde bombshell pulled her lips in as though trying to decide how to word what she wanted to convey. She held up three fingers. “Gingerbread from box?” she asked.

  I remembered that Agda had been there when we received the three additions from the Blanchard family. I nodded. “Yes.”

  “Very pretty,” she said again.

  With Bindy waiting for me out in the hall and several thousand appetizers waiting for my approval in the next room, I was eager to put an end to this not-so-scintillating conversation. “They truly are,” I said, eager to see the change Cyan wanted to show me.