by Julie Hyzy
It was. Highly illuminated, expansive, and offering far more chances to talk about food, trends, and techniques than we could possibly experience in one day, the Expo was a feast in more ways than one. The wide entrance area smelled of new carpet, but I detected delightful odors wafting our way from deeper within the convention center. Temporary cooking areas had been set up where chefs and their assistants prepared delectable samples for happy attendees. They shared their creations and distributed colorful brochures.
I smiled at the wonderment on Josh’s face, remembering my first visit to an event like this. He was in for a treat.
Agent Quinn grabbed two complimentary plastic bags provided by the organizers to collect the freebies being handed out. I picked up two magazinelike brochures, handing one to Josh. I immediately opened the brochure to its center spread. “See this?” I pointed to the map. “Every presenter is assigned a booth number.” I directed Josh’s attention to the long banners strung overhead. “We can find anything you want to see as long as we know what aisle to look in.” I flipped through the pages. “Take a look through and let me know if anything in particular interests you and we’ll find it.”
Captivated, he began to page through.
Sargeant was clearly a fish out of water. “What possible good can I do the boy here?” he whispered close to me. “Particularly when I’m dressed in this ridiculous getup. His mother is interested in teaching the boy diplomacy?” Sargeant harrumphed. “I do not understand at all.”
I had no answer for him. While I would have much preferred to wander the spacious convention center on my own, I knew how important this trip was to Josh. Looking at the enormous effort put forth on his behalf to make today possible, I could tell his mother recognized its importance, too.
Josh seemed to be torn between perusing the book for ideas and wandering the great hall to see what might catch his eye. I put a hand on his shoulder. “Let’s go this way.” The big companies and TV networks tended to snag the plum central spots. We’d start there and see where it led. “Remember, we have to make time for Marcel’s presentation.”
Josh looked up, his eyes darting everywhere at once. “Yeah,” he said distractedly. “I’m looking forward to that, too.”
What surprised me more than the faux kitchen work areas and the giant Jumbotron displays that appeared to float in the tall, black ceiling overhead, was the fact that so many attendees were outfitted the way I was. Not pink dresses specifically, but nearly everyone—with the exception of the few children in attendance—was in business suits, or, at a minimum, smart casual. The last time I’d been here I’d worn blue jeans and had felt right at home.
Agent Quinn stayed next to Josh every minute, playing his role as doting father out with his son for the day. Sargeant, oddly, remained at my side. Agent Rosenow, wearing chef’s whites, meandered behind us. I knew there were more agents in the crowd, too, but had no idea how many. The three agents accompanying us were keeping in contact with their colleagues, though I didn’t know how. It had to be quite the challenge. With thousands of low conversations echoing in the wide space, there was no escaping its constant hum.
Quinn leaned over Josh’s head, touching my bare forearm with his fingertips. Though we were supposed to represent a married couple, the familiar gesture felt weird all the same. “What time is Marcel’s presentation?” he asked.
“One o’clock.” I kept a protective hand on Josh’s shoulder. He didn’t seem to mind. “We should be able to take in a fair amount of the Expo before then.”
Josh pointed past the busy booths to the main stage, far ahead. “Is that really Terry Lash?”
One of the event’s many foodie superstars, Chef Lash was demonstrating his signature fried chicken and homemade sides. I’d met Lash on a couple of occasions when he’d visited the White House during the Campbell administration. He was pleasant enough, in small doses. Here, the ebullient and handsome chef stood behind a temporary counter on the main stage in front of about 200 folding chairs, most of which were occupied.
“Over there,” I said, indicating the back row of seats. There were four together in one spot, and two more farther down the line. Quinn, Josh, and I sat together, Rosenow joining us next to Josh, while Sargeant sat alone. Means took up position behind us all.
Josh stared up, clearly overwhelmed but enjoying himself. The Jumbotrons above broadcast Terry Lash’s every move, with a couple of milliseconds’ delay.
“This is great,” Josh said, almost to himself. He squirmed in his seat, trying his best to be taller. I was grateful for the huge screens that allowed him to view Lash as clearly as if we’d been in the front row.
We watched for a few minutes, and even though it was apparent Josh had a decent view of the presentation, he pulled himself onto my lap. “Is it okay if I sit here?” he asked after he’d gotten himself comfortable.
“It’s fine,” I said, smiling. Until I’d met Josh, I’d never felt entirely comfortable around kids, but this little boy was special. I hadn’t realized that nine-year-olds could be so utterly disarming. With a pang, I also understood that it wouldn’t be long before he stopped wanting to hang around with adults. Soon he’d want to spend all his time with friends instead. I placed my hands on his shoulders and whispered. “Watch how he chops that onion,” I said. “It takes a lot of practice to be that quick and not slice your fingers to ribbons.”
Josh nodded.
“Years of practice,” I repeated. “Keep that in mind.”
Quinn draped one arm over the back of my chair. What was meant to appear a husband’s casual relaxation was probably a pre-planned move. If Quinn spotted anything amiss—and he would, with the way he never stopped watching the crowd—he could push us both down to the ground in one quick motion. It still felt odd, however, especially when his arm grazed my back. I sat up straighter.
After Lash’s demonstration, we browsed stalls for about an hour, resisting hawkers’ repeated requests for our contact information. Before we knew it, it was time for Marcel’s show.
Back in the seating area, I spotted empty seats much nearer to the front than at Lash’s. Marcel wouldn’t recognize me in this getup, but I wanted to be able to tell him I’d been there, up close and personal. Quinn had other ideas, however. “The fewer people seated behind us, the better,” he said, so we returned to the last row, where plenty of seats were still available. Josh scampered onto my lap again, Rosenow sat next to me, and Sargeant next to her. Means, again, stood nearby. As people filed in for the show, a woman tapped Sargeant on the shoulder.
“Is this seat taken?” she asked.
Sargeant said, “No, please, you’re welcome to it.”
Quinn assessed the intruder but didn’t say a word. I supposed, to the Secret Service, everyone was a threat until proven otherwise. The woman next to Sargeant was younger than he was, closer to my age. Taller, too. What made me notice her, however, was the shock of hot pink in her chestnut-brown hair. The chunk of hyper-dyed hair stretched down from behind her right ear to her shoulder in a blast of brightness. I liked it. Not enough to have it done myself, mind you, but it looked good on her.
Sargeant leaned past Rosenow to whisper to me, “Getting in good with the First Family, I see,” but there was no malice in the statement. He gestured toward Josh with his eyes. “You can’t possibly be worried about job security anymore.”
I smiled. “Not really,” I replied just as quietly. Not that it mattered; Josh was busy talking with Agent Quinn next to me. “At first I was worried about Virgil, but things seem to be working out.”
Sargeant leaned back. “He’s a diva if I’ve ever met one.”
I bit back a response. Good thing, because Marcel had just been introduced.
“Bonjour,” the White House pastry chef said into his microphone. Despite the fact that his handsome, dark face and thick French accent were causing a great deal of swooning among audience members, I could tell by the quiver in his voice that he was nervous.
�
��I am ’ere today to ’elp you learn more about that most difficult of talents: preparing pastry to puff when it is baked. Before I begin, however,” he turned to face each side of the stage, giving each a little bow, “I must not forget to thank the organizers of zees event. They have kindly invited me to be here for you this beautiful afternoon. I must also thank my dear friend and colleague, Olivia Paras, the executive chef of our nation’s White House, who is in the audience today.” He held a hand over his eyes as though looking for me in the crowd.
Josh twisted on my lap. “That’s you, Ollie,” he said, then clapped both hands over his mouth and turned an apologetic face toward Quinn.
The agent was not pleased. “Do not react,” he said quietly.
Marcel kept looking and I hoped to heaven he wouldn’t ask me to stand up and be recognized. “She is here,” he said, stepping forward on the stage. “But perhaps she is not willing to make herself known.” He gave a very French shrug and returned to his worktable.
I kept a hand on Josh’s back. “No one heard,” I said to Quinn. But a quick glance toward the woman with the pink shock of hair made me pause. She wasn’t looking at us, not exactly, but something in her body language told me her interest in us had been piqued.
Quinn took another long look around. “All right,” he said.
About halfway through Marcel’s demonstration, the woman with the pink hair murmured to Sargeant, then got up and left.
“What did she say?” I asked when she was gone.
“That her break was up. I guess she works here,” Sargeant said. “Why?”
“No reason.”
“Ms. Paras,” he said in a chiding tone. “You are without a doubt the nosiest person I have ever encountered.”
Quinn had kept his arm around the back of my chair again for the entire show. I was relieved when Marcel finished, bowed to thunderous applause, and we could leave. I wouldn’t rush Josh if he wasn’t ready, but I got the impression he was bordering on information overload at this point. As for me, I’d seen all I needed to and looked forward to spending the rest of the afternoon with Gav.
“I think we’ve done a lot today, haven’t we, Josh?” I asked. We talked for a few minutes about the presentations he most enjoyed and those he thought were a waste of time. I marveled at how quickly he’d caught on to what was substance, and what was mere fluff. “Is there anything we missed that you’d like to see before we take off?”
He took a look around the cavernous hall and shook his head. “No, but can we walk up one of the aisles we missed so we see new booths along the way? I don’t want to repeat.”
“That sounds fair,” I said, thinking that I could be back home by three o’clock if I played my cards right. “Which aisle?”
He held a finger to his chin, surveying the area with great concentration. At last he pointed to the second aisle from the end. “That one.”
“You got it,” I said, and we started off.
“I can’t believe all the places I know,” Josh said for the tenth time as we made our way to Aisle Two. “All the companies who make food and candy are here.”
“This is how big businesses stay that way,” I said. “The more familiar a brand name is, the more comfortable you feel with it. That means you’re more likely to buy from them. Over and over. When I was here last time, the displays were much smaller and there were more startup companies. I’m really surprised at how much it’s expanded.”
I was losing his attention, so I tried again. “Last time I was here, it was mostly cookware and two or three big-name food companies. We’ve seen candy and chocolate companies; we’ve even seen vitamin manufacturers. That’s different.”
“I wish I could try some,” he said, also for the tenth time.
Josh’s bag was filled with samples of everything anyone handed him. Quinn had been adamant about Josh not consuming a single morsel until the bag could be checked out and cleared. The chances that anyone here knew that the president’s son was in attendance were slim. But the Secret Service demanded absolutes.
“It’s like trick-or-treating,” I said. “I bet your mom doesn’t let you have anything until she goes through it. Am I right?”
He nodded solemnly. “I bet we don’t even get to go trick-or-treating this year.”
I didn’t know how to answer that, but Quinn leaned over. “I’ll go over every single piece with you and your mom today, okay?” He straightened and gave me a rueful smile as if to say he felt sorry for Josh and his sister’s fishbowl existence. “Ms. Paras is right: This is just like trick-or-treating, except for the fact that most of this is food instead of candy.”
Pre-packaged, over-processed food for the most part, I wanted to add. That’s all Josh had been allowed to take. Our plastic collection bags weren’t exactly conducive to amassing the fresh offerings. Still, I understood the boy’s excitement and I hoped he would be able to enjoy most of his stash.
We wandered up Aisle Two, with Josh stopping at every booth along the way, maximizing our last few minutes. When I turned, I noticed a booth for a company I hadn’t thought to look for here. My knees went a little weak.
I turned to Quinn. “Do you mind if I go talk to those people for a minute?”
His eyes narrowed. “What’s up?”
I couldn’t tell him the truth. “A company I’m interested in.”
He glanced over at the giant logo. “Dietary supplements?” he asked. “You’re into that stuff?”
“A friend of mine is,” I said, fooling no one. Before he could give me the okay, I’d started toward Pluto’s sage-green booth, intending to pick up any paperwork they might offer. There were no prospective customers in the made-to-look-like-a-doctor’s-office scene, only a dark-haired woman with her back to me, adjusting the spotlights to best illuminate the sampling of Pluto’s products on wide glass shelves.
I didn’t need to bother her. At the mouth of the deep booth was a counter with a plastic display case offering all the paperwork about the company I could possibly want. I knew most of it would prove useless to me, but I gathered it up nonetheless.
The woman must have sensed me there because she turned.
I sucked in a breath of surprise.
It was the woman with the bright pink chunk of hair. “Hello,” she said. “That was a great demonstration by the White House pastry chef, wasn’t it?”
CHAPTER 14
“Y-YES,” I STAMMERED, PANICKING AS THOUGH I’d been caught stealing. “Yes, it was.”
She sauntered over and saw that I’d picked up every single one of the pamphlets they offered. “You’re interested in dietary supplements, I take it?”
“I’m interested in your company,” I said. That wasn’t a lie though I was doing my best to come up with one. “I was…that is, I am interested in diet and foods and…uh…cooking. That’s why I’m here.” I punctuated that with a self-deprecating laugh, then chanced upon a genius idea. “I’ve heard great things about working at Pluto. You caught me doing homework.”
“Oh,” she said with a knowing look. “You’ll want an employment application then, won’t you?”
I didn’t get the sense that this woman recognized me as a member of the White House staff but I couldn’t be sure. She was either watching me oddly, or it was my guilty conscience chuckling on my shoulder. “I’d love one,” I said. “I’ve been out of work for a while.”
“What do you do?”
Time to stay with the truth. “I’m a chef,” I said. “I’ve worked all over the world, as a matter of fact. But the job market is especially tough right now.”
“It sure is,” she said sympathetically. Pulling a folded sheet out from a stack beyond the sight of most visitors, she handed it to me. “You can fill it out here if you like, or if you prefer, mail it in. To be frank, that might be your best option. I have a lot to clean up here when the Expo is over and I wouldn’t want it to get lost.”
“Good point,” I said. “That’s what I’ll do. Thank you.”
/> I started to turn away, but she called me back. “What’s your name?” she asked. “So I can keep an eye out for your application.”
I hesitated. “Livvy,” I said, keeping with a version of my real first name.
“What’s your last name, Livvy?”
In my mind’s eye I could see Bucky having a good laugh at my expense. “Livvy Reed,” I said, borrowing his surname.
“I’m Sally Burns,” she said. We shook hands. “Nice to meet you, Livvy.”
“Nice to meet you, too.” Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Quinn and Josh waiting for me. “Looks like the family’s ready to go,” I said. “Thank you again.”
“Best of luck to you,” she said.
“What was that all about?” Quinn asked when I returned to the group.
“Yes, Ms. Paras, you had me nervous for a moment there,” Sargeant said. “That woman sat next to me at Marcel’s event. Is she onto us?”
“I don’t think so,” I said.
“Then why on earth did you go talk with her? That wasn’t part of the plan.”
“Let’s keep walking,” Quinn said. He arranged it so that Josh walked between us again. Rosenow covered one flank, Means the other. Sargeant trailed. We made it back to our vehicle with no one giving us a second glance—or even a first one, for that matter.
Sargeant wasn’t about to let the matter drop. As we settled ourselves and pulled out of the parking spot, the man was not exhibiting as much sensitivity as his title suggested. “Why did you engage that woman? What’s going on?”
“And you tell me I’m nosy,” I said in an attempt to derail the subject.
Unfortunately for me, Quinn picked up the thread. “I must admit, I’m curious as well. Was that a job application she handed you?” His eyes glittered in the sunlight that spilled in as we exited the dark lot.
“It’s a long story,” I said. “One that has nothing to do with today or any of you, so if you don’t mind…”
