Fonduing Fathers Page 4

  He pulled my arm closer. “Not a chance, kiddo.”

  A thought occurred to me. I looked up at him. “You’re eligible to be buried at Arlington, aren’t you?”

  He nodded. “I may not have ever known your father, but I can understand why that was important to him. For what it’s worth, I believe in what you’re doing—what you’re about to do. No matter how I turn this situation, no matter how I look at it, it feels as though pieces are missing. Big pieces. I’ve never heard of anyone being ‘snuck’ into that cemetery. We’re not getting the whole story. I’d bet on that much.”

  “Dietary supplements,” I said, shaking my head. “My dad went from being a decorated hero to heading information systems at a dietary supplement company.”

  “A man with a family needs to put food on the table first. You don’t know what Pluto offered him, what kind of pay or benefits. They may have been the best game in town.”

  “For a dishonorably discharged veteran.”

  He sighed. “Let’s take one thing at a time.” I liked his use of the word “Let’s.”

  “What do you suggest?” I asked.

  He glanced at his watch. “You have to be in at…your job…early tomorrow, right?”

  “About nine. Not too bad.”

  “By the time we land, it’s going to be too late to do anything tonight. I have a couple of errands I need to run tomorrow, so how about we agree to tackle all these big questions on Wednesday? We’ll come up with a plan and get started first thing.”

  “I appreciate you, you know that?” I asked.

  “Your mom thinks you need to appreciate me more.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “While you were in the shower this morning, she and your nana asked me to keep an eye on you. Make sure you don’t get into trouble the way you usually do. They were quite vocal about how they think you ought to heed my advice.”

  “You three talked about me behind my back?”

  “Uh-huh. And if you remember, you, your nana, and I talked about your mother behind her back while she was in the shower.” He gave me a very pointed stare and gestured “come on” with his free hand.

  “What?” I asked.

  “I took a shower. I took one every day, in fact. I can’t imagine I escaped without a little ‘shower gossip’ going on behind my back.” He narrowed his eyes, but I caught the twinkle of amusement in them. “Time for the truth. Cough it up, Paras. You’re under interrogation.”

  “They like you,” I was happy to tell him. “A lot.”

  “Really?” he asked, looking far more relieved than I would have expected. “I’m glad. I like them both, very much. You come from a strong family,” he said. “They’re amazing women, and so proud of you. As they should be.”

  I pulled away. “Back up a minute. They asked you to keep me out of trouble?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What did you say?”

  All humor left his expression. “I told them the truth. That I will keep you safe, even if it kills me.”

  OUR FLIGHT FROM O’HARE WASN’T VERY LONG, but by the time we’d landed at Reagan National Airport, I’d begun to doze. Gav nudged me as we taxied to the gate. “I slept through the pilot’s announcement and landing?” I asked.

  “You were up all night trolling the Internet, remember?”

  “True enough.”

  Gav drove me to my apartment. Yawning, I asked him if he wanted to come up, promising to fix a late-night snack. He declined. “You have to be at the White House tomorrow, don’t forget,” he said. “Besides, I have a few things to do back at my apartment.” He walked me to my door, kissed me good night, and made sure I got in safely.

  I was wiped. Whether it had been the emotional toll the trip had taken, the fact that I hadn’t gotten much sleep, or a combination of both, I didn’t know. But whatever it was, I was happy to be home. I tumbled into bed and was sound asleep within minutes.

  “HOW WAS THE TRIP?” CYAN ASKED WHEN I arrived the next morning. With her red hair tied back as usual, and purple contacts brightening her wide eyes, Cyan stood next to our giant mixer, watching the massive beater turn as she ladled in what looked like vegetable broth.

  Gav and I had decided to keep our relationship under wraps for as long as possible, so my staff believed I’d simply gone home to visit my mom and nana.

  “Great,” I said. “How’s the kitchen?”

  Bucky had been standing at the stove with his back to me, one hand manipulating a frying pan over a high flame, the other perched on his hip. From behind, with his bald head, he always reminded me of a slim bowling pin. He had a tendency to gesticulate, and though he took pains to hide it, a heart of gold. He turned and grimaced, which for Bucky, was as good as a smile. “Your buddy Virgil has been prancing around here like he’s the king. He’s off right now…” Bucky swirled a hand in the air, “…doing his best to appear useful without actually doing any work.” With a mischievous grin, he asked, “He doesn’t know why you’re back today, does he?”

  “Nope,” I said, pointing at them both in turn, “and I prefer to keep it that way.”

  Bucky turned the flame off and placed his frying pan on one of the cool burners. He gave his concoction an appraising glance, then turned to me, wiping his hands on his apron. “Why?” he asked. “Virgil never hesitates to rub his familiarity with the First Family in your face. They passed over him because they want you working with Josh. This is your chance to gloat. Why not enjoy it?”

  “Tempting,” I said, tying on an apron. But it wasn’t, really. Even though Virgil got under my skin, even though I knew the look on his face would be priceless when he realized that I’d garnered some capital with this family, thereby intruding on what he considered his precious turf, I knew that “rubbing his face in it” wouldn’t give me any true satisfaction. Did I want the First Family to prefer me over Virgil? Darned right I did. But while proclaiming “Nyah, nyah,” might provide a quick giggle, it wouldn’t do me any good in the long run.

  I tried to take the high road where Virgil was concerned, convinced that someday it would pay off. Doing so had paid off—to a small extent—with Sargeant. After a recent skirmish we’d shared, he’d been better. Tolerable, even. If Peter Sargeant, our persnickety and easily aggravated sensitivity director could be tamed, there was hope for anyone.

  “Virgil was uncharacteristically cheerful the entire time you were gone,” Cyan said.

  “Figures. He likes it best when he thinks he’s in charge.”

  Bucky made a face at his frying pan and I couldn’t tell whether it was because he was disappointed in its contents, or because of our topic of discussion. Ever since the new chef had joined the White House there had been some question as to how the reporting structure actually worked. Bucky had always been my first in command, but now the lines were blurred.

  It didn’t help that Paul Vasquez, our beloved chief usher, had recently resigned to deal with family concerns. Doug Lambert had taken over as interim chief usher, resulting in the near-universal consensus that Doug was in over his head. Until his permanent replacement was appointed, the kitchen—and other departments in the White House residence—would operate in a state of flux.

  “What do you have planned for Josh today?” Cyan asked.

  “Pumpkin cheesecake and a couple of salad variations. He’s a smart kid and he’s eager. Above all else, he enjoys the creative parts. If I can incorporate a few rules as we work, maybe I can make learning fun.”

  “You’ll be great,” Cyan said.

  I glanced up at the clock. “I still have a few minutes before I need to be up there. Anything else I need to know? Anything I missed since Thursday?”

  “Not much,” Cyan said. “I don’t think—”

  Bucky snapped his fingers. “Your tickets came in,” he said. “I knew there was something I meant to tell you.”

  “For Saturday’s Food Expo?” I asked. “Excellent. Marcel will be thrilled.” Marcel, the White House pastry chef,
known throughout the United States and his native France for his delectable treats, was scheduled to be a guest speaker at the Food Expo. He was nervous, yet delighted to have been invited to present and I’d promised him I’d be there for moral support.

  “There’s one problem,” Bucky said.

  Cyan held up two fingers. “Not just one.”

  I looked from one to the other. “What is it?”

  Bucky made his way over to the computer desk, opened the drawer beneath, and pulled out an envelope addressed to me. “Here you go.”

  I took the proffered envelope and pulled out the letter and handful of tickets. The White House address must have inspired them to provide extras. “What’s the problem?”

  Cyan gave me a sheepish look. “I know I promised, but I can’t make it after all. I have a meeting with my mom’s doctors Saturday. They say she’s been acting up these past few days and we need to discuss her meds.”

  “Bucky?” I asked.

  He scowled. “I can’t go either. Your buddy Virgil announced that he’s taking Saturday off. Which means I have to be here. We’ve got two Service by Agreement chefs scheduled that day but we can’t allow them to run around without guidance.”

  “Virgil’s taking the day off?” I said, with a whine in my voice I hadn’t expected.

  “For all we know, he’s going golfing with the president. Again.” Rolling his eyes, Bucky went on, “He didn’t share specifics with us, just declared that he won’t be here. I suppose we should thank our lucky stars that he at least gave us a little bit of notice this time.”

  I sighed. “I suppose.” To Bucky, I said, “If you want to go to the Expo, I can come in here instead.”

  He shook his head. “Marcel is counting on you. Go ahead and have a little fun. It’s part of your vacation anyway.” He stopped himself. “You’ve got quite a few tickets there,” he said with a curious glint in his eye. “Is there someone you’d like to invite to go with you?”

  Cyan’s face lit up. “Is there?”

  “Are you kidding?” I said, attempting to dodge the question. “Who would I invite to a foodie show besides you guys?”

  I knew Cyan was completely in the dark where Gav was concerned, but I wasn’t so sure about Bucky. His occasional needling commentary made me believe he was onto us—or at least suspected that I was seeing someone. I wasn’t about to admit to anything. Not yet. I tapped the tickets against my lips. The event was a showcase for food and products that supported the food industry. There would be equipment manufacturers, cooking demonstrations, giveaways, and plenty of innovative ideas to explore. I wasn’t going solely to see Marcel’s event. I hoped to get a glimpse of new gadgets coming our way. Maybe Gav would want to go.

  Okay, that was a stretch of crazed proportions. Gav wouldn’t be interested in the least, though that didn’t mean he’d refuse to come along. I could ask. It certainly wouldn’t hurt.

  I glanced up at the clock. “I’d better get my ingredients together, they’re expecting me upstairs.”

  CHAPTER 5

  JOSH RACED INTO THE FIRST FAMILY’S PERSONAL kitchen, breathless and wide-eyed. “Am I late?”

  The kid was so cute. Of all the kids I’d encountered at the White House, Josh was my favorite by far. Earnest, eager, with boundless energy and a smile that lit up a room, he’d taken a liking to me, too. We’d bonded several months ago, and I’d been caught unawares by dormant maternal instincts that had bubbled up since then.

  “Good morning, Josh. You can’t be late. Today is our day, remember?” I said. “We’ve got a lot—”

  Josh’s mother, Denise Hyden, First Lady of the United States of America, came around the corner behind him. Tall and serene as always, she offered an indulgent smile. “Good morning, Ollie,” she said warmly.

  “Good morning.”

  Despite the fact that I was the executive chef at the White House, I felt like an intruder up here in the president’s personal kitchen. Significantly smaller than our space on the ground floor, it could have been featured in any middle-class suburban sitcom. While our ground-floor work area was all stainless steel and tile, this kitchen had wooden cabinets, flowered wallpaper, and utensils like those I used at home.

  Up here, the family moved about freely without Secret Service escorts. This was where they entertained guests, watched TV in their pajamas, and spoke without fear of being overheard.

  “What are we doing today?” Josh asked.

  When Mrs. Hyden had first approached me about spending time with Josh, I’d been under the impression that it would be he and I working together in the family kitchen. I hadn’t expected that she would be joining us as well.

  “I have a few ideas,” I said.

  Mrs. Hyden and I had gotten off to a rocky start when her husband had taken office and the family had first moved in, but a tense situation involving Josh—one that I’d had a hand in seeing to a safe conclusion—had put this mom firmly in my corner.

  “I was thinking about pumpkin cheesecake, would you like that?”

  Josh was already digging through the supplies I’d brought up with me, admiring the gingersnap cookies and toasted pecans as he pulled them out. “Are these for the crust?”

  “They are.”

  “I love cheesecake,” Josh said. “Did you know that I made the fried chicken strips from the recipe you gave me? That was the most fun homework I’ve ever had, plus it was super easy,” he said, beaming. “It turned out great.”

  “I have no doubt.”

  Mrs. Hyden hadn’t moved from her perch in the doorway, and although she smiled as her son bragged, there was a pensive look on her face. I wondered what was on her mind. “Okay, Josh,” I said, “how about we get started? Why don’t you break the cookies into smaller pieces while I pull out the food processor?”

  “Ollie.” Mrs. Hyden took a hesitant step forward. “Do you have a minute to talk?”

  “Of course,” I answered. “Josh, will you be okay on your own with that?”

  He gave a good-natured eye roll. “I’ve done stuff like this before, remember?”

  “An excellent job, as I recall,” I said to him before following Mrs. Hyden through the adjacent corridor and into the West Sitting Hall. She stood before the half-moon window there and turned to face me. “What can I do for you?” I asked.

  Her mouth worked itself into a smile, but her eyes tensed. “I know I can count on you to keep what I’m about to say confidential.”

  “Of course.”

  Slim fingers writhing, she took a breath. “Josh,” she began, her eyes lighting up as she spoke her son’s name, “is a wonderful boy.”

  “He really is,” I said sincerely. “I’m thrilled to know he’s interested in becoming a chef and I can’t tell you how much it means to me to be able to work with him.”

  “That’s what I wanted to discuss. My husband doesn’t…” Her hands, ever moving, belied the calm she strove to keep on her face. “He believes there’s more for Josh.” She quickly added, “Not that there’s anything wrong with aspiring to be a chef. You must understand I’m not suggesting that.”

  Eyes wide, her face was pained and earnest. The First Lady of the United States was worried about offending me? Self-conscious as I confronted this unique situation, I responded kindly, “I’m sure you don’t.”

  “Truly not. What I mean to say is that my husband has dreams for Josh. He desperately wants him to go into public service. He thinks that…” Her words trailed off in obvious agony. Collecting herself again, she continued, “You, Ollie, have become the best of the best.” Clearly on firmer footing now, she went on, “You’ve proven yourself, not only in the kitchen. But even you have to admit, you’re one in a million.”

  I opened my mouth to protest, but she cut me off.

  “You’ve earned a position that is arguably the top chef spot in the country. Maybe even the world. You’ve also gained a great deal of notoriety for your, shall we call them, extracurricular activities?” She smiled at th
at. I did, too.

  “Josh is talented,” I said. “He has a great personality and a strong work ethic that shines through, even at his young age. There are millions of talented people in the world, and I have no doubt there are many who are much better than I. Hard work, perseverance, and an open mind are what separate the good from the great.”

  Ack! Had I just called myself great?

  Mrs. Hyden didn’t seem to notice the gaffe. She nodded. “I believe Josh will be successful at whatever he puts his mind to. He is only nine years old. When I was his age, I wanted to be a movie star.” She gave a rueful laugh. “Kids change and grow. As their horizons expand, so do their plans. I understand that this interest in becoming a chef may be a phase. Regardless, I want to encourage Josh. My husband isn’t completely against it, but he prefers our son be exposed to other opportunities as well.”

  “Have you talked about this with Josh?”

  “A little. He’s not happy.”

  I didn’t expect he would be. “How can I help?”

  Suddenly uncomfortable again, she splayed her hands. “When you work with him, don’t sugarcoat. Not that I think you would, but, as I said, you’re at the top of your game. Most would-be chefs never reach your level of achievement. My husband wants Josh to be sure he understands what kind of life is ahead of him—all of it: the hard work, the disappointments, the pressures—before he falls in love with cooking for a living.”

  I ran a hand through my hair. “I may not have children, but I was a kid once. I knew I wanted to be a chef from the time I was about ten years old.” I gave a wry smile. “Of course, back then I wanted to be Nancy Drew, too.”

  “I’d say you’ve succeeded on both counts.”

  I felt blush creep up my cheeks and returned to the main topic. “You’re not asking me to discourage Josh?” I phrased it as a statement but ended it as a question.

  She hesitated.

  I took the opportunity to plunge forward. “Josh is so bright, so inquisitive. If I suddenly started dwelling on only the negative aspects of the job, he’d see right through me.”