All the President’s Menus Page 6

  “Which is also a point of contention.”

  I nodded and took a bite.

  “Maybe I’m glad I’m not working there right now.”

  After chewing and swallowing, I took a drink of water. “I’d love to have you back, Cyan. Right now, especially. How are things going?”

  “Without a paycheck? Without knowing how soon I’ll be back at work?” She shrugged and snagged a big chunk of salad. “Nerve-wracking. I’ve offered to substitute or to take temporary work at some of the local upscale places, but no luck. So many people out of work these days. The competition is tough.”

  “You’d think with your resume that restaurants would jump at the chance to take you on, even temporarily.”

  “That’s the thing. The transient nature of my status makes them leery. They know I could get called back at any time.”

  “Leaving them with an opening to fill, again,” I said.

  “I have to tell you, this situation makes me wonder.” She fiddled with her fork without looking up. “About where I’m going.”

  The greens in my stomach twisted into a knotty ball. “What do you mean?”

  Still not meeting my eyes, she said, “Bucky is your first in command. Believe me, I get it. He deserves that. But he’s not moving. And you’re not, either. Not that I want you to.” Shaking her head, she finally looked up. “This is coming out wrong.”

  “Not if it’s what’s on your mind,” I said. “If something is bothering you about the workplace, I need to hear it. What’s going on?”

  “You’re only a few years older than I am and you’re the executive chef at the White House. Where am I?”

  “You’re an essential member of the White House kitchen team. You’re well-respected and you’ve got amazing talent.”

  “But where, exactly, is my career going?”

  She had blue contacts in today, and when she stared across the high table at me, I could see behind them into the depths of her eyes.

  I put my fork down. “This conversation hasn’t come up solely because of the sequester, has it?”

  She shook her head.

  “You’ve been thinking about this for some time, haven’t you?”

  Nodding, she put her fork down, too. “I look at you, Ollie. You have it all. You’re at the top of your career, you have the love of your life, you’re content and settled and strong. I’m still struggling to find my place in the world.”

  “And that place isn’t the White House kitchen?”

  She wrinkled her nose. “I need to broaden my horizons. This job takes everything from us. Our time, our lives, our hearts. I don’t know that I have any more to give.”

  I started to say something, but she reached across and patted my hand, stopping me.

  “Not you, Ollie. You’re always generous with compliments and you do, truly, make those of us working for you feel valued. Best of all, I know you believe what you’re saying. But maybe I don’t believe it. Maybe I need to prove to myself that I’m capable of more.”

  My heart sank with every word out of her mouth, but I had to admit I understood. Perhaps that’s why it cut me to hear it. Cyan was leaving us.

  “How soon?” I asked.

  “I’ve been wanting to talk to you about this for quite some time,” she said with a tiny smile. “I’ve only finally found the nerve. But because I want to take my time and find the right fit, probably not very soon. Don’t tell anyone, okay?”

  “What about Bucky? Does he know?”

  Cyan gave a breathy laugh. “Yeah.”

  “I figured. You two have become pretty tight over the years.”

  “We all have,” she said.

  “That’s absolutely true.” Though her decision made me profoundly sad, I would do whatever I could to help. “We will miss you, Cyan. More than you can ever know. Take all the time you need, okay?”

  The bottoms of her eyes had gone red. “Thanks for understanding.”

  * * *

  Marcel had several friends visiting when we arrived, so Cyan and I didn’t get a lot of time to talk with him alone. His surgery had gone well and his arm was expected to heal even though they’d had to insert metal pins for stability.

  We’d brought him some chocolate from a local shop. When Marcel opened the wrappings and saw the store name, he turned up his nose. “I make confections far superior to these,” he said.

  Cyan and I shared a grin.

  “Looks like you’re back to normal,” I said.

  His distaste for the store-bought chocolates didn’t stop him from sampling one. He popped it into his mouth, then snagged a second piece before offering the box to his guests to share.

  “What happened?” I asked Marcel as his friends talked among themselves. “Do the doctors have any idea why you passed out?”

  Still enjoying the first chocolate, with great mouth movements and an appreciative eye roll, he shook his head. “Thank you so much, my Olivia and Cyan. You are both too kind to come visit. Yes,” he said, with a sheepish look, “we know why I lost consciousness.”

  Cyan and I waited.

  Again, a flash of embarrassment. “I have not made a habit of sharing medical information.”

  “I don’t mean to pry,” I said.

  “No, of course not. What I mean to say is that I had not yet informed you, nor the White House doctors, that I have recently been prescribed a medication for high blood pressure. Unfortunately, I miscalculated the dosage.” He gave an elegant shrug, considering he had one arm jammed into his chest. “I must stay here until they ensure that my vitals remain stable.” He took a deep sniff, then popped the second chocolate into his mouth. “Dark chocolate. My favorite.”

  “It sounds as though you’ll be discharged soon.”

  “We are hopeful for tomorrow morning. That is, assuming the results from today’s tests come clear. You know as well as I do, Olivia, that we who cook for the president cannot be found to be carrying illness. They have run extensive tests.”

  Cyan had gone to the other side of Marcel’s bed. “It’s good to be careful,” she said, patting his uninjured arm. “Like Ollie, I never want to pry, but I hope you’ll keep us updated.”

  “I certainly will,” he said. “And you may repeat this information to Monsieur Sargeant and to Bucky, and others in the staff. If word of my misstep helps to prevent someone else from making such a mistake, I am happy to share.”

  He smacked his lips, eyeing the box of chocolates, which were now being devoured across the room. “This is not how I anticipated my week.”

  “When you’re feeling better,” I said, “I hope you’ll be able to return to the White House.”

  He held up his right arm—at least as far as he was able to. “With this? How can I be of any use to anyone?”

  “We’re putting in another request for one of your assistants to take the lead while you’re out, but you know how much more we’d love having you back. Even if all you do is oversee the visiting chefs’ efforts from time to time during the day, that would be a huge help.”

  Marcel’s dark face split into a deep grin. “Then I shall look forward to returning to work as soon as the doctors and our esteemed chief usher allow.”

  I felt a great weight lift off me. “Wonderful,” I said.

  Cyan and I made a little more small talk, but because Marcel’s friends seemed to be eager to get back to their visit, and because any further delay might result in Marcel being deprived of more chocolate, we said good-bye and promised to check in on him again soon.

  CHAPTER 8

  Mrs. Wentworth stepped out of her apartment as I was unlocking my door. “And how are things at the White House during this sequester?” she asked.

  “Has it been that long since we’ve talked?”

  Twisting her mouth to one side, she gave me a long, appraising look. “Seems to me now that you’re married, you don’t have time for us old folks anymore. I don’t think I’ve talked to you more than twice since my wedding.”

&nb
sp; She and the apartment building’s handyman, Stanley, had tied the knot shortly after Gav and I had. Just as I had kept my name, Olivia Paras, she’d kept hers. I was happy about that. To me, she would always be Mrs. Wentworth.

  “The sequester is keeping me busier than I’d expected,” I said.

  “Where’s your ball and chain?”

  I laughed. “I’m not sure he’d be too thrilled with that moniker.”

  “That’s what they are, though,” she said. Even across the corridor, I could see the twinkle in her eyes. “Always keeping us home, slave to the stove.”

  “You and Stan eat out almost every night,” I said.

  She brushed a stray white hair off her forehead, causing her cascade of bracelets to jangle down her arm. “Pfft. If we don’t complain about our husbands, they’ll think we have it too easy.”

  I crossed the short space between us and spoke softly. “But you and I both know we are the two luckiest women on the planet, don’t we?”

  “Shush.” She slid a glance toward her apartment, as though afraid Stanley might hear. “Don’t want him to catch on.”

  “I’m sure he already has.”

  My cell phone buzzed in my purse. As I dug it out, I bade Mrs. Wentworth a good night and pulled the device out to answer. It was Gav.

  Part of me was thrilled to hear from him. Part of me was disappointed. A call this late in the evening meant that he probably wouldn’t be home tonight.

  I shut the apartment door before answering. “Hey,” I said.

  “It’s good to hear your voice, Ollie.” He sounded tired and worn, but not distraught.

  “How is Bill?” I asked. “Any change?”

  Gav took an extra second to answer. “He’s stable,” he said, but something in the way he hesitated made me wonder.

  “But you’re staying out there tonight?”

  Again the hesitation. “I am. That okay with you?”

  “Of course. You need to be with them right now.”

  “It seems I do.”

  “There’s something you’re not telling me.”

  He expelled a quick breath. “Nothing that can’t wait. I’ll be home as soon as I can. You know I love you, right?”

  “Yeah, I do. And I love you back.”

  As much as I wanted to bring him up to speed about Cyan and Marcel, and get his read on both matters, I could tell from the sound of his voice that he needed rest. And probably a clearer mind than he had at the moment.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow, Ollie. I promise.”

  “I’ll hold you to it. Take care of yourself, okay?”

  I could almost see him smile. “You, too.”

  * * *

  “Ms. Paras? Mr. Reed?”

  Bucky and I glanced up—as did our four guests—to see our chief usher and his assistant in the doorway.

  We’d been in the middle of learning how to put together a Saardiscan dish involving cabbage, ground chicken, and rice. I wiped my hands on my apron and made my way over to him. “Peter, Margaret,” I began, “I’m surprised to see you down here.”

  Margaret nodded acknowledgment, but remained mum.

  Keeping his hands folded in front of his waist—a Peter Everett Sargeant move if there ever was one—he raced his gaze over everyone in the room. It took only a second or two, but he settled on Kilian. Lifting the edges of his lips in what should have been a smile, he continued, “Good morning, everyone. I trust you are enjoying your experience here in our kitchen?”

  All four men nodded, but didn’t reply.

  “Ms. Paras and Mr. Reed approached me about the difficulties we’re facing here with Marcel’s absence.” Again, the non-smile. “It is unfortunate that due to circumstances beyond my control, and despite multiple impassioned requests, I am unable to reinstate Marcel’s assistant, even temporarily.”

  “Peter,” I said, “isn’t this a topic we ought to discuss in your office?”

  Or anywhere more private than this? Such an announcement should not be made to the visitors without informing staff first.

  His eyes flashed at the interruption. “What you are unaware of, Ms. Paras, is that your colleague here, Kilian”—he rolled his hand toward the Saardiscan chef—“is a man of many talents.”

  “Don’t you think we should—”

  Sargeant talked right over me. “Not only is he considered the top chef in his country”—at this, Tibor made a disagreeable noise, then tried to cover it with a cough—“he is an undisputed master with regard to pastries and desserts.”

  “That’s good to know—” I worked to get a word in edgewise.

  Sargeant nodded to Margaret. “We can thank my assistant for her diligence in discovering this information.”

  Margaret beamed at Sargeant, then cast her eyes around the room expectantly, her smile fading ever so slightly at the lack of reaction. Did she assume we’d all burst into applause?

  Hector and Nate stared at us with uneasy expressions. Tibor shifted his weight, sending hard glances at Kilian, whose red cheeks grew ever brighter.

  Sargeant turned to me. “We’re very fortunate to have Kilian with us, aren’t we, Ms. Paras?”

  In a wordless demand to know where this was going, I glared at Sargeant. “Yes, very.”

  Facing the group, he continued, “Of course, our fervent hope is that Marcel rejoins the kitchen soon, but until he is given the all-clear, we’re hoping that you, Kilian, will take over the pastry kitchen in his stead.”

  Whether these men knew what “in his stead” meant or not, didn’t matter. I did. Unable to stop myself, I gasped. “Peter.”

  He turned to me again, speaking quietly through clenched teeth. “I know what I’m doing.”

  I pulled my lips in tightly. I really would have preferred to shout.

  “A word, Peter?” I asked.

  He ignored me, continuing to share details about how the teams’ schedule would change—yet again—and how much everyone was looking forward to sampling the Saardiscan national delicacies. All the while, Margaret glowered at me with a steely imperative to back off.

  So tightly wound and laser focused on what was wrong with this picture, I barely heard what Sargeant was saying. The Saardiscans listened with rapt, occasionally confused, expressions. Finally, the chief usher’s cadence alerted me that he was winding down.

  “If you have any questions,” he said, “please feel free to contact my assistant. She’ll bring your concerns directly to my attention.”

  When they turned to leave, I touched Sargeant’s arm. “I need a moment of your time.”

  He blinked at me, eyes glinting. “I thought you might. One minute, Ms. Paras. That’s all I have.” To his assistant, he said, “Margaret, I will meet you upstairs.”

  She still hadn’t said a word, but her body language communicated her disappointment at the dismissal. Being the perfect assistant, however, she did as she was told.

  I followed Sargeant through the pantry and into the Center Hall. “Map Room,” I said.

  He didn’t argue.

  The Map Room’s soft, ivory-toned walls and understated décor suited the mood I strove for. Plus, it was one of the closest private rooms across from the kitchen.

  The minute the door closed behind us, I exploded. “What was that all about?”

  “I’m certain I don’t need to remind you that as chief usher, I manage personnel issues among White House staff. Are you questioning my authority in this matter?”

  “Of course not,” I said. “Everyone knows you have every right to hire and fire at will. But just because Kilian is a chef with pastry experience doesn’t necessarily mean he ought to take over. Do you really believe it’s a good idea to hand over that level of control? To a stranger?”

  “This was not my decision.”

  “Whose was it?”

  “This came down from the highest levels.”

  “Quit with the ambiguous-speak, Peter. It’s me you’re talking to. Are you saying President Hyden made this decisio
n?”

  He flexed his chin. “No. This comes from the chief of staff.”

  “Do you have any idea what kind of security breach this is? It’s one thing to have visitors assisting with food that the president and his guests consume. It’s wholly another to have them in charge of an entire course with no oversight. Am I the only person who sees this?”

  “Certainly not, Ms. Paras, and I’ll thank you to calm yourself. You and I don’t set policy here. Nor are we ultimately in charge of decisions such as this. The team you’re working with has been vetted by both Saardiscan authorities and by our Secret Service.”

  I paced in a small circle, my anger compelling me to move, to fight for what I knew was right.

  “What about the way you handled the situation?” I flung a hand toward the kitchen. “You didn’t think I deserved a heads-up before you announced it to the Saardiscans?”

  “Would it have made a difference?”

  I wanted to take him by his perfect lapels and shake some sense into him.

  He tilted his head in what could have been condescension, but in the moment, looked more like solidarity. “We would have had this fight in my office before I talked with the group instead of afterward,” he said.

  I scratched an eyebrow, realizing that Sargeant wasn’t arguing with me. That he’d been put in the same situation, and we were both stuck dealing with it.

  “I would have preferred a heads-up,” I said in a quieter voice.

  He gave me a withering glare. “I imagine you would have. But this was out of my hands and I’m tied up with meetings until nightfall. It was now, like this, or let you swing in the wind all day without answers.”

  I was so full of fury I didn’t know where to begin.

  “Let’s hope Marcel is able to return to duty soon, which would render this decision moot,” Sargeant said, and I recognized it for what it was—an attempt to find common ground. “Until then, I have faith that you will find a way to make this situation work to the best of your abilities.” He pushed up the sleeve of his suit jacket and showed me his watch. “Your minute is up. I have other matters to attend to.”