by Julie Hyzy
Sargeant regarded me coolly. He folded his arms and stared out the window. “As you wish,” he said.
Quinn asked, “You aren’t looking for a new job, are you?”
Next to me, Josh spoke up. “You can’t look for a new job, Ollie. You aren’t, are you?”
His earnest face, the apprehension in his voice, and the way he scooched forward, though hampered by his seat belt, tugged at my heart. I put an arm around him. “No, Josh. I’m not. She misinterpreted my interest and I didn’t want to be rude.”
When we got back to the White House, but before we alighted, Josh reminded Quinn that he’d promised to go through all the freebies in his bag that same day. Quinn said he’d have it back to him within an hour.
The car stopped behind the south entrance and, as we disembarked, I grabbed my plastic bag of freebies. “Uh-uh,” Quinn said, catching the edge of it and preventing my exit. “I have to go through that one, too.”
I laughed. “It’s for me. Not for anyone in the First Family,” I said.
“Can’t be too careful.”
Sargeant scrambled out from behind me. “I cannot wait to change from this monstrous outfit,” he said. With a shudder, he added, “Thank you for an illuminating adventure. I know my presence added a great deal to the boy’s experience.”
His sarcasm wasn’t lost on anyone. There had been no chance for Sargeant to interact at all with Josh. I also knew that it didn’t really matter. Mrs. Hyden had pressed the sensitivity director into this adventure in order to keep her husband happy. If the president believed that Josh was learning about diplomacy on the same trip he learned about food, everyone was happy. Except, perhaps, Sargeant.
He bustled off.
I turned to Quinn. “When do I get my goodies back?”
Quinn looked amused, so I pushed my luck. “All I really want is the paperwork I picked up. You can keep the munchies.”
He adopted a curious expression. “I’ll tell you what, Ms. Paras. I’ll give you the entire bag back in one hour. Will that do? I’ll bring it to you in the kitchen.”
I needed to change clothes and freshen up anyway. “Sure, that sounds great.”
HAPPY TO BE LOOKING LIKE MYSELF AGAIN after scrubbing my face and changing into jeans and a cotton top, I headed back into the kitchen. Thora wasn’t around today and I didn’t want to leave the wig and bright pink outfit lying around where it could get lost or misplaced. I had no idea when she and her team would return, so I packed the disguise into my gym bag and decided to take it home until I knew what to do with it.
While I waited for Quinn to return with my goodie bag and Pluto paperwork, Bucky and I discussed Marcel’s presentation at the Food Expo and menu plans. The two SBA chefs we’d hired for the evening were hard at work preparing dinner. The president and Mrs. Hyden were entertaining a group of mayors and their wives tonight. Dinner for sixteen.
I’d offered to help while we waited, but Bucky tossed that suggestion aside. “You’re supposed to be on vacation. Speaking of which…” He got a glint in his eyes. “Seems to me you’ve been in a really good mood lately.”
Uh-oh. I pressed my hands to my chest. “What are you saying? That I’m usually grouchy?”
He wagged a finger at me. “Don’t try to get around it; you know what I mean.”
“I’m sure I have no idea.”
“And I’m just as sure you do.” He took a step closer. “There’s someone special in your life, isn’t there?”
“Psh,” I said, giving him a dismissive hand motion. “You’re seeing what you want to see.”
“Curious,” he said, close enough to me that the two worker-bee chefs wouldn’t overhear, “you’re trying to put me off the scent but you’re not out and out denying it.”
He was good. Still, I wasn’t about to spill. “I see no reason to—”
“Ollie,” he said very quietly, “keep in mind that I’ve worked next to you for quite a few years now.” He winked. “I can tell.”
To maintain the charade at this point felt wrong. But owning up didn’t feel right, either. Fortunately for me, Bucky seemed to understand. “I don’t know who it is,” he said. “No idea at all. I thought I did, but…” He let the words hang before picking them up again. “It doesn’t matter who. If you’re happy, we’re happy.”
“We?”
“Cyan and I have talked.”
“About my love life?”
He scratched the back of his bald head, but he was grinning. “We ran out of conversation while you were gone. Don’t worry. We waited until Virgil was out of range.”
“Thank goodness for small favors.”
Bucky held up his hands. “So? Who is he?”
“I thought it didn’t matter.”
“Anyone we know?”
I shook my head. “Not telling.”
“Come on. A hint?”
“Not yet.”
“Ms. Paras,” Quinn called from the doorway.
I turned to see the agent making his way past one of the SBA agents. He held the plastic goodie bag and as I approached, he handed it over to me. He was still dressed in his “suburban dad” getup, but he’d donned an identifying Secret Service pin and wore a cord in his ear. “Thank you very much, Agent Quinn,” I said, digging into the bag to ensure all my Pluto paperwork was still there.
“My pleasure,” he said.
“Did you find anything amiss?”
“No, ma’am,” he said.
Bucky was watching our interchange closely. I wasn’t surprised. After my near-admission about actually having a love life, my assistant would be looking to put a face to the mystery person’s identity. I was certain he was assessing Quinn’s potential.
For his part, the agent didn’t seem eager to leave the busy kitchen. “Thank you again,” I said, hoping he’d take the hint.
He didn’t. With a consternated look, he tilted his head. “Would you have a moment for private conversation, Ms. Paras?”
Bucky must be having a field day now. “Sure,” I said.
He led me out of the kitchen just around the corner. We stood beneath the stone archway that still bore the scars of fire from when the White House was attacked by the British in the War of 1812.
Quinn was taller than I was, but most people were. He wasn’t quite Gav’s height, but his light eyes pierced me much the way Gav’s had when we’d first met. I had no doubt I was in for a lecture.
“Ms. Paras,” he began, and I braced myself. “May I call you Olivia?”
I hadn’t expected the question. Startled, I replied. “Sure, but I’d prefer Ollie.”
“Thank you.” He gave a brief nod. “Today when you left the group to talk to the representative at the Pluto booth, you took us by surprise. We would have been happy to make allowances for you to stop there, had we known your desire to do so.”
As far as Secret Service admonishments went, this one registered as mild. “I didn’t know the Pluto booth was going to be there,” I said. “Otherwise, I would have mentioned it ahead of time. I apologize for any trouble I caused.”
“No trouble,” he said, making me wonder how this guy ever made it into the Secret Service. Most of the agents I’d encountered viewed deviations from “the plan” as sacrilege. Why was I getting off easy?
“If I may ask,” he continued, “what it was about Pluto that aroused your interest? Not that I mean to pry, but…” He let the thought hang, one eye narrowed at me, scrutinizing.
“Nothing of national importance, trust me,” I said. “My dad worked for that company a long time ago, a fact I was reminded of recently. I was curious.”
That seemed to satisfy him. “Thank you. I appreciate your honesty.”
He didn’t say it with a sneer. Didn’t seem suspicious, didn’t appear to doubt my words. “Anytime,” I said.
Quinn held his hand out back toward the way we’d come, as though opening a gate to allow me to pass. “I’m sure your kitchen awaits your experienced hand. I won’t hold you a
ny longer. If I have any further questions, Ollie,” he said, hesitating ever so slightly before using my name for the first time, “may I assume I will find you down here?”
“Actually,” I smiled, “I’m on vacation until Monday.” I could tell I’d confused him. “I’m only in today because the First Lady asked me to take Josh along to the Food Expo, but now…” I glanced at my watch, “I’m out until first thing Monday morning.”
“I see.” His brows came together in an expression I couldn’t read. “Enjoy your time off.”
CHAPTER 15
“HERE WE GO AGAIN,” GAV SAID.
I blew out a breath. “Let’s hope we have better luck this time.”
Dusk was beginning to fall; Gav and I picked our way along an uneven sidewalk to visit Michael Fitch. We’d been obliged to park halfway down a winding block, the only open spot between a dented pickup and a rusted blue sedan.
This neighborhood had seen better days, probably fifty years ago. Mostly small ranches and one-and-a-half-story cottages, the homes here were in need of a good spruce-up, but weren’t decrepit. What the area lacked in pristine homes, however, it made up for in foliage. Trees were huge, swollen with trunks as wide as airplane tires.
Kicking up in advance of an approaching storm, wind gusts whisked through the shadowy leaves forming a rocking overhead canopy that shushed like shuffled steps, making me glance back behind us repeatedly.
Kids played in front yards, halting their jump ropes and holding onto plastic balls as they watched us make our way to Fitch’s home.
“I guess they don’t get a lot of visitors around here,” I said.
“Why are you nervous?” Gav asked. “It’s not like you.”
I didn’t answer.
“This area’s safe,” he went on. “A little worse for wear, but it’s no mecca for crime.”
“It’s not that.” I could barely see the sky through the heavy tree branches above us, but I looked anyway. “I just know that if Fitch doesn’t help us, we’re back to square one. That has me on edge.”
He didn’t say anything. A car squealed around the corner, windows open, its radio bass turned up so high it made my heart thrum as it roared past. “Such a difference from Linka’s neighborhood, huh?” I said.
Gav’s expression was thoughtful.
“What?” I asked.
“I have a good feeling about Mr. Fitch.”
“You do?”
Gav gave me a wry smile. “Not about the man, but about him helping us. I’m not sure why, but I have a feeling he’ll be more approachable.”
“I hope so,” I said as we stopped in front of Fitch’s house. It was one of the few on the block without a huge tree in the parkway, a blue-frame one-story home with a peaked roof and open attic windows. Colorless curtains whipped outward like twisty arms reaching into the breeze.
The lawn here was overgrown with crabgrass and weeds. No evergreens, no shrubs of any kind broke up the stark foundation’s gray drabness. We took the three concrete steps to the front door. I shot Gav a glance and a shrug that said, “What do we have to lose?” and pressed a thumb against the cracked plastic doorbell.
No cheery chimes sounded from inside. “You think it’s broken?”
Gav leaned over the wrought-iron handrail and knocked on one of the home’s three front windows, making the sash wobble. “This place needs work.” He glanced up at the cockeyed aluminum awning over our heads. “One good windstorm and that thing’s history.”
Noises from inside let us know the knock had been heard. Footsteps, the creak of rusty hinges, and then for the third time since I’d begun this quest, a woman answered the door with a quizzical look on her face. Dark eyes shifted back and forth and I could see that she was trying to figure out who we could be. I couldn’t help but make comparisons between her and Linka’s wife. Although she, too, was casually dressed, this woman didn’t sport yoga pants and tight tank top. She wore light-colored capris and a baggy gray T-shirt with an iron-on beer logo that had cracked and begun to peel.
“Mrs. Fitch?” I asked.
Three inches of outgrowth told me it had been months since she’d last colored her hair. She must have thought the same thing at that very instant because she ran a self-conscious hand through her shoulder-length tresses. She didn’t wear makeup, but the bones in her slim face made me believe she’d been quite lovely in her younger days. Without opening the screen door between us, she said, “What do you want? I’m not buying anything.”
I glanced up at Gav, who had taken a step back, no doubt to appear less threatening. He had his hands crossed in front of his waist, like a well-behaved schoolboy might. His air was mild, his gaze inquisitive.
“My name is Olivia Paras,” I said. “I think your husband used to work with my dad.”
She shook her head as she took a step back into the house. “My husband hasn’t worked in a very long time,” she said. “Sorry.”
One of her red, chapped hands grabbed at the door as she made ready to close it.
“At Pluto,” I said quickly. “Pluto, Incorporated.”
She stopped mid-motion, gaze darting back and forth between us again. My words had clearly hit their mark. Warily, she asked, “What did you say your name was?”
I told her. “My dad was Anthony Paras.”
Something sparked behind her eyes. “I remember that name,” she said, bringing her lips in. “Not sure how, though. Sounds familiar. How long ago did you say this was?”
“Long time,” I said. “May we speak with your husband?” I asked, knowing I had to push now or this option would be lost to me forever.
She twisted her mouth, scanned my hands, then cocked her head toward Gav. “And who’s he?”
“Boyfriend,” I said. “May we come in?”
“I don’t know that Mickey’s going to want to talk to you,” she gave a half-hearted shrug, “but no sense leaving you out here while he makes up his mind. Might as well bring you back so he can get a look at you first.” She waved us in, saying, “Let me get this door closed. We got a window air conditioner in the kitchen and I don’t want all the cold air escaping.”
The first thing to hit me when the door shut behind us was the smell. Acrid and unpleasant, I remembered this odor from when I was a kid and we’d visited some friends. I’d been polite enough of a youngster not to ask what the stink was until I could catch my mom alone. She’d whispered that her friend had probably accidentally left one of her pot’s handles over an open flame. “Burnt plastic,” she’d said.
“We just finished dinner,” Mrs. Fitch said as she made her way through the dimly lit living room. “I was cleaning up.” A beige couch sagged along one end of the room while across from it, a brand-new big-screen television held a place of honor. Two small paintings flanked a plastic orange sun clock on the wall above the sofa. The unframed oils were much too small for the wide space and looked to be amateur attempts at capturing still life: a cluster of grapes draping a misshapen apple. A bottle of wine next to a book.
We stepped along a thin gray rug that covered the squeaky wood floor, past a well-worn easy chair that could have rivaled Archie Bunker’s. Everything in the room was threadbare and worn. Old. I was touched by the many doilies carefully arranged atop tables and across the back of the couch cushions. A valiant attempt to make the place feel lived-in rather than shabby.
The dining room, immediately behind the living room, was dark. Even with the lights off, however, I made out what looked like an antique mahogany table and matching cabinet. Amateur paintings were centered on every open wall here, too.
“Who’s the artist?” I asked.
“Mickey.” She blinked and tried to smile. “He never gives up.” Mrs. Fitch took a right, opening an accordion plastic door to reveal a well-lit kitchen. Small by any standard, it had dull yellow tile walls trimmed in gray. The burnt-handle odor was gaggable in here where it mingled with the smell of cigarette smoke—stale from the ashtray full of used butts on the table,
and fresh from the one Michael Fitch lit as we walked in. I blinked to keep my eyes from watering.
His wife whacked the plastic accordion door closed behind us. “Keeps in the cool, you know?” she said. To her husband: “Hey, Mickey, this girl wants to talk to you about her dad. From your Pluto days.”
Mickey Fitch stared up at us with eyes as yellow as the kitchen walls and as saggy as his living room couch. His sickly skin tone and skinny frame made me wonder if he was battling more than nicotine addiction. “Yeah, I know. Thought you’d show up yesterday.” Coughing, he used one foot to shove at the chair across the table from him. It scraped backward across the dingy linoleum and threatened to topple over before it settled. “Take a seat.” He took a deep drag of his cigarette as we sat at a vintage 1950s table that looked brand-new.
As I lowered myself onto the turquoise vinyl seat trimmed in silver brads, I ran my hands along the table’s chrome edge. “This is great,” I said. “It’s in beautiful condition.”
“It was mine growing up,” his wife said, clearly pleased that I’d complimented her furniture. “My name’s Ingrid, by the way.”
She looked as far from an Ingrid as I’d ever imagined. For me, the name Ingrid conjured up elegance, wealth, soft violin strings, and pastel bucolic settings. But I could tell she’d been a beauty once. Maybe Ingrid fit her after all. She turned to her husband. “You didn’t tell me you were expecting anybody.”
He hadn’t taken his eyes off me from the moment I’d walked in. Gav took the seat to my left, but Fitch didn’t seem to notice.
“Can I get you something to drink?” Ingrid asked, bending down as though she wouldn’t be able to catch our answers if she’d remained upright. “We have tea and water in the fridge.”
“They aren’t staying long enough,” Fitch said. He worked the cigarette to the other side of his mouth. “I don’t have anything you want.”
“No, thank you,” I said to Ingrid as though Fitch hadn’t all but slammed the door on our conversation. Odd, I thought, inviting us to sit if he really had nothing to say.
Ingrid didn’t sit down to join us. She made her way to the sink behind Gav and started washing the dinner dishes, keeping the water low enough to be able to hear our conversation.
