All the President’s Menus (25 page)

Marcel and his assistant began working to create three orange poppy dessert centerpieces—one large, and two smaller versions—for the dinner tomorrow night. I wondered, sometimes, if Marcel and his team weren’t secretly magicians. How they managed to create such beauty so consistently, and—this time—under less-than-ideal circumstances, boggled my brain. He and his assistant were also in the process of putting together a variety of coordinating petits fours to arrange on serving plates around the vivid poppies.

Without the Saardiscans to distract us, and with our supplies arriving on schedule, Bucky, Cyan, and I made as much of the meal ahead of time as was feasible. We would be serving fourteen for dinner. In addition to the president, First Lady, the secretary of state, Kerry Freiberg, her campaign manager, her two assistants, and Tibor, six other high-ranking American officials had scored invitations.

We’d done our due diligence on all guests and had memorized everyone’s dietary needs. Fortunately, among these fourteen individuals, we had only one allergy—pineapple—to contend with. Even better, we had no pineapple on the menu.

In the midst of preparations, I picked up the phone and dialed Margaret’s extension. When she answered, I greeted her politely, then asked, “Has Sarg—er, Peter received any response to my request to get into Blair House today?”

“Mr. Sargeant is out of the office at the moment,” she answered, pertly as ever. “I will be sure to ask him when he gets back.”

“Thanks.”

“No luck?” Bucky asked.

“It’s not like we’re feeding three hundred people,” I said. “I mean, we’re serving a mere fourteen guests and preparing most of the food here. And although I’ve never actually worked in the Blair House kitchen, I do know that it’s well equipped. We shouldn’t have any problem.”

“Who are you trying to convince? Us or yourself?” Bucky asked.

That got me to smile.

When Margaret called back an hour later, I expected her to give us the go-ahead. “Mr. Sargeant is back,” she said.

“Excellent. Has he heard from the Blair House staff?”

“Yes. Your request is denied.”

Why did Margaret always sound particularly cheerful when she delivered unpleasant news?

“Did they give a reason?”

For the briefest moment, I thought she might tell me that it was none of my business. Instead, she said, “If you must know, it was the Secret Service’s decision. Ms. Freiberg will be returning to Washington, D.C., tonight and before she arrives, they want to do a thorough sweep to ensure nothing dangerous has been planted there. That the house is secure.”

“Will they be there all day?”

“No, but apparently the staff needs to put the house back in order after their search. You would, unfortunately, be in the way.” Again, the happy little lilt.

I heaved a sigh, not caring that she heard it. “Okay, thank you.”

“That’s not the only reason for my call.”

I waited.

“The Saardiscan government has asked our photographer to send them photos from the dinner, and they’ve specifically requested that he take pictures of Kerry Freiberg, Tibor, and you together.”

“Are you kidding me?” I asked, knowing full well that Margaret didn’t possess the capacity to joke. Tibor posing for a photo with two powerful females? I didn’t know whether to laugh or to feel sorry for the guy.

Bucky and Cyan stopped what they were doing, turning to me with twin looks of “What now?” on their faces.

“Mr. Sargeant told me to inform you to be sure to have a clean smock and apron on hand for the photo-op,” she went on smoothly, not bothering to address my disbelief. “He also said to tell you that the biggest Saardiscan newspaper intends to run the photo as part of their cover story about Ms. Freiberg’s success in extending friendship to the United States.”

“I thought she was a long-shot candidate,” I said.

Margaret didn’t seem to care one way or the other. “All you need to know is that you will be having your picture taken. Is there anything else I can help you with?”

Resisting the urge to grouse, I thanked her and hung up. Answering Bucky’s and Cyan’s unspoken question, I said, “No big deal, really. I’m to have my photo taken alongside Kerry Freiberg and our good friend Tibor.”

“I wonder if he knows he’s supposed to smile for the camera.” Bucky turned to Cyan. “You’re lucky you never had to work with that guy. What a sourpuss.”

Cyan, who had been brought up to date on all the drama thus far, seemed confused. “What? Do they want a photo as a souvenir?”

I ran my fingers up through my hair, then immediately walked over to the sink to wash my hands. “No, I guess our happy faces are to be plastered across Saardiscan newspapers.”

“You’re joking,” Bucky said.

I shot them a look over my shoulder, as if to say, “Now you understand
my
reaction.”

“I don’t get it. Any of it.” I dried my hands. “None of this makes any sense.”

“From what you two have told me, nothing the Saardiscans have done so far has made any sense.”

Bucky pointed to Cyan. “Give that woman a prize.”

*   *   *

That night, after dinner, Gav and I sat at the kitchen table going over plans for the following day. One of the perks of our relationship, beyond the fact that we were crazy about one another, was the fact that we could share specifics about the White House and its goings-on. Gav occasionally dealt with classified situations that he couldn’t divulge, but most of the time we were able to freely banter and discuss.

In fact, from the time he and I had met, back when we’d respected—though detested—one another, we’d worked well as a team. I’d come to appreciate his perspective and, even when nothing exciting was going on, I looked forward to the end of the day so that we could spend time talking.

“What time are you and the other chefs expected at Blair House?” He pointed to one of the pages I’d brought to the table. “That part of the schedule has been left blank.”

“I’ve been trying to pin Sargeant down. Or, should I say, I’ve been trying to pin Margaret down.”

He furrowed his brow. “I can’t believe Sargeant would let something like that fall through the cracks.”

“He’s been under a lot of pressure,” I said. “He’s doing his best but with all the trouble with the Saardiscans, and the diplomatic problems he’s facing, it’s a tough job. Plus—this sequester is taking its toll—it’s hard to maintain efficiency when we’re so short-staffed.”

“Defending Sargeant?” Gav asked with a sly grin. “Don’t let him hear you. He’ll cut Cyan again and make you put Bucky on furlough, just to make you take your kind words back.”

“He’s not so bad,” I said. “Situations change. People do, too. I wouldn’t go so far as to say Sargeant has done a complete one-eighty, but he’s better. His personality still rankles and there are times I’m tempted to bait him into an argument just for the fun of it, but there’s no denying he’s dependable and good at his job.”

“Not good enough to have provided your arrival time. When will you find out?”

“I plan to head over to Blair House by noon at the latest, no matter who complains,” I said. “I’d prefer to get in earlier.”

“Kerry Freiberg is scheduled to arrive at Dulles Airport around two in the afternoon. That’s where our team will meet her. We have several stops to make along the way, but we expect to be at Blair House no later than five.”

“We plan to serve at seven,” I said. “Which means that the staff at Blair House will see to Ms. Freiberg’s comforts while Bucky, Cyan, and I stay safely out of sight.” I pointed to the residence’s floor plan. “The home is enormous. That should work to our benefit.”

“The kitchen is opposite the dining room, down a long hallway,” he said, “Until everyone arrives for dinner, I imagine you’ll be able to work in relative solitude.”

“That’s precisely what I’m hoping for.”

“I know you would have liked to have gotten in there today,” he said, “but there were too many agents involved. It wouldn’t have been pretty. The specialists in charge of advance reconnaissance don’t view your presence in quite the same light I do.”

“Tomorrow will be a challenge,” I said, memorizing the floor plan before me. “We’ve been through worse. As long as Tibor doesn’t have any surprises in store for his dining partners, I think we’ll be fine.”

“Do you believe he might?” Gav asked. “I know you’re not fond of the man, and I know that the Saardiscans and our Secret Service have done exhaustive investigation on him since the plot to harm Kerry Freiberg came to light. But that has been only a couple of days and I worry that some crucial piece of evidence has been overlooked.”

“I’ve been thinking about that,” I said. “Tibor strikes me as a what-you-see-is-what-you-get kind of guy. He has made his opinion of Kerry Freiberg clear. He’s also been upfront about his displeasure at being required to attend this dinner.”

“Why doesn’t he beg off?”

I shared what I knew about Tibor’s upbringing, concluding with, “He’s a good soldier. He was indoctrinated from a very early age into a life where one does what one’s told. Where, even if he disagrees, he complies with government commands.”

“With Kerry Freiberg’s platform of freedom and personal responsibility, that ought to make for some fascinating dinner conversation.”

“He’ll probably remain silent the entire time, and speak only when a response is required.”

“You don’t think that the real reason he’s agreed to attend is because he has a hidden agenda? That attending this dinner is part of some underhanded plan?”

“I suppose it’s possible,” I conceded. “But I have to say I don’t see that in him. He’s not a nice man, but he isn’t evil.”

“I’ll keep that in mind tomorrow night,” Gav said. “Once all the guests have arrived at Blair House, two of Tom’s agents will remain with the president. The rest of us will move into adjacent rooms.” He indicated positions on the floor plan. “There are several ways to get from the kitchen to my position, so if you need me . . .”

He let the thought hang.

“You know I always do.” I ran a knuckle along his jawline. “But in this instance, we’d both prefer a quiet evening doing our jobs.”

“Good,” he said, snugging me tightly against him. “Let’s get through tomorrow night and hope life gets back to normal after that.”

I twisted to look up at him, arching a brow. “Since when is life ever normal?”

“Right there,” I said. Arms filled with utensils for tonight’s dinner, I used a free finger to indicate the countdown list I’d forgotten to tuck into my pocket.

One of the assistants who had helped us cart food and other supplies to the Blair House kitchen leaned over to pluck the indicated sheet from the nearby counter. He folded it in half and placed it into one of the bags I was carrying. I had that information on file and could have called it up from one of Blair House’s computers, but having the printout ready saved me an extra step.

I thanked the assistant, then turned to Bucky and Cyan, who were also toting armloads of supplies. “I think that’s everything. Let’s go.”

Most of the items we needed had been transported across the street earlier this morning, but I’d insisted on these late additions. It wasn’t so much doubting that the Blair House kitchen would be properly outfitted, it was more my desire to work with reliable favorites that caused me to scoop them up.

Holding fast to my burdens, as well as to my vow to get into our workspace before noon, Bucky, Cyan, and I made our way to the resplendent home known as the President’s Guest House.

Though crowded with pedestrians, Pennsylvania Avenue had long been closed to vehicle traffic. That had come at the request of the Secret Service after the bombings in Oklahoma City. Crossing to get to Blair House didn’t require us to navigate traffic, thank goodness, but we were required to enter the home via a service door, far off to one side.

The house manager answered, accompanied by assistants eager to relieve us of our bundles. “They will deliver these to the kitchen,” he said. “I want to take you the long way, to show you around.”

Freed from the weight, I shook my arms to reestablish circulation. “I’d like that,” I said.

“Smells different in here,” Bucky remarked as we followed the butler.

“Every home has its unique scent,” I answered, taking a delicate sniff. “I’m detecting a hint of . . . citrus?”

The house manager was a middle-aged man with thinning, pale hair. He turned and smiled. “You would be correct, Chef Paras. Whenever Blair House expects a four-legged guest, we treat certain areas of the home with special cleansers that are not harmful to dogs and cats.”

“That’s right,” I said. “Frosty is part of the entourage.” I turned to Cyan. “She’s a Westie, a West Highland terrier, and absolutely adorable.”

“Are we cooking for her, too?”

“No; I inquired about that. Apparently she’s on a fairly strict regimen and Ms. Freiberg’s assistants have Frosty’s needs covered.”

The man led us past two staircases and through a number of back corridors, narrating all the way, providing glimpses into many of the home’s opulent rooms, explaining shortcuts and instructing us which doors led where, and which should remain closed at all times.

“How long did it take you to learn how to navigate this place?” I asked him.

He gave a one-shoulder shrug. “It isn’t so difficult once you understand how the four individual buildings were ultimately connected to form one large home. I’m sure that once you spent a couple of days here, you would have no trouble at all.”

As we continued on our tour, I peered out a window that provided a view of the garden courtyard. It was a welcoming space featuring fountains, expertly trimmed shrubbery, and dotted with benches and wrought-iron seats.

“Gorgeous,” I said.

Our guide took a slight left into a wide corridor on the main level. “The kitchen is directly to your left, as I’m sure you’ve noticed. We will explore that in a moment.” Pointing to our right, he indicated a very long, narrow hallway. “This leads to the dining room we will be using, as you can see through the swinging door at the far end.”

Bucky, Cyan, and I peered down the long, darkened area into the fraction of brightness ahead. I couldn’t make out much beyond what looked like federal-blue print draperies, ivory walls, and two Chippendale-style chairs flanking a sideboard.

I remembered the floor plan from last night. “There is also access to the outside down this hallway, isn’t there?”

He nodded. “You have done your homework. Yes, this corridor provides access to a small parlor as well as to the main gathering area, where the president will be entertaining his guests tonight. In addition to having access to this corridor, the two rooms are connected to one other. They’re not, however, connected to the dining room itself.”

I thought back to the floor plan I’d studied last night. I could picture exactly the area he was describing.

“I assume this corridor gets pretty busy during meals themselves,” Bucky said, “with the butlers traveling back and forth.”

“During the day, yes.” The house manager chuckled. “But once an event begins, quite the opposite. When utilizing the rooms that have been chosen for tonight’s soiree, our staff stays clear so as not to get in the way of our guests. Butlers take a more roundabout path when delivering meals.”

“That seems an odd decision.”

He smiled. “If we had more time, I’d give you a more in-depth tour. Once you saw the space, you’d understand how well this works for us.”

I thought about how often we staged courses in the Family Dining Room on the White House’s first floor, even though the Butler’s Pantry might seem the more logical choice. I agreed with the house manager: The best choices were not always the obvious ones.

“Makes sense,” I said.

I counted three doors on the left side, so I wasn’t surprised when he added, “Between them is a guest bathroom. Because there are several other lavatories available and because they are somewhat distanced from where guests will be mingling, this one doesn’t get used as often as the others.” Gesturing to the other side of the long throughway, he pointed to the single door centered there. “On the right is a mudroom with a door that leads to the courtyard. There is also access to another staff stairway.”

“Lots of doors,” Cyan said.

“As I said, this structure is the amalgamation of four individual homes. It has its quirks.” He waved toward the lone door down the hall on the right. “That exit is generally not open to guests of the home. Tonight, however, one of Ms. Freiberg’s assistants will avail herself of the back door whenever the pet needs to be taken out. Of course, the stairway will also be open to all of you, if you need to travel between kitchens.”

We would be working in the home’s “hot” kitchen. Marcel would be working in the smaller, “cold” kitchen, one floor below.

The house manager had remained in the wide corridor during his explanation and now gestured to our left. “Speaking of kitchens,” he said, “welcome to your home for the evening.”

“Wow,” Cyan said as the three of us spread out. “It’s so modern, compared to the rest of the house.”

Exactly as I remembered from an earlier visit, the spacious, windowless room boasted long walls of warm wooden cabinetry, an unforgiving stone tile floor, and a huge center island with a cream-colored marble surface, providing a perfect expanse for organizing ourselves. There was plenty of oven space, but the sink was relatively small, as was the cooktop.

“Not a lot of personality in here,” Bucky said. “Everything is beige and brown.”

I knew he was making an observation, not voicing a criticism, but the house manager’s mouth turned down. “The home is designed for the comfort of the president’s guests,” he said. “Not for that of the staff.”

Bucky murmured something along the lines of, “Oh yes, of course,” but as he turned his back to the man, he stretched his chin and raised his brows, making a face that said “Whoops!”

*   *   *

Dinner was to be served at seven, and by six o’clock we were precisely where we needed to be. The citrusy smell that had met us when we’d first arrived, and that still lingered ever so slightly in the long hallway across from us, had been replaced by the savory aroma of roasting meat.

A Secret Service agent had been positioned nearby to prevent unauthorized persons from entering the kitchen. Several members of the Blair House staff had visited to introduce themselves, but for the most part we’d been left alone, which is how we preferred things.

The kitchen’s position directly across the staff hallway, however, meant that I’d been distracted by movement all day. Butlers and assistants scurried back and forth, setting the table and preparing for guests.

Despite the fact that I was immersed in preparations of my own, I’d found myself glancing up every time a person entered that far hallway, or crossed my line of sight. I envied Bucky and Cyan, who had been able to tune out the activity far better than I had.

As was my habit before an important dinner, I’d imagined every step of the process in advance. Now, standing with my back to the stovetop, I took a quick look around the kitchen, reassured to see the meal progressing as planned.

Cyan was putting finishing touches on the salads. “Cyan, how soon does the roast come out of the oven?” I asked.

“Twenty minutes,” she said with a quick glance at the clock. “I checked the temperature before you asked. Looks to be right on schedule.”

“Fabulous,” I said.

From the other side of the kitchen island, Bucky added, “Marcel called from downstairs. He wants us to let him know when the first course is served so that he can gauge when to bring his poppies up here.”

“Got it,” I said. “That shouldn’t be a problem. Believe it or not, after all we’ve been through, it looks like we’re going to pull this dinner off without a hitch.”

The house manager appeared in the kitchen doorway, looking slightly agitated. “Chef Paras,” he began, “there has been a change for dinner this evening.”

“Change?” This came mere seconds after I’d predicted success. When would I learn? “What’s wrong?” I asked.

Cyan and Bucky stiffened, waiting for the worst.

“Nothing is wrong,” he said, quickly. “I didn’t mean to alarm you. It’s just that this change has a bit of a ripple effect on the evening’s agenda, and I will need to discuss alternatives with the photographer.”

“And the change is?” I prompted. I wanted to hurry the man along. Unless he was about to tell us that dinner was canceled, we had work to do. We were getting into crunch time.

“One of the guests, a gentleman you are acquainted with,” he said, “by the name of Tibor . . .”

“Yes?”
Come on, guy. Spit it out.

“He will not be in attendance this evening after all.”

My mouth dropped open. I closed it quickly. “Do you know why?”

He slid a sideways glance toward the front of the home, where the president and guests were enjoying pre-dinner cocktails and passed hors d’oeuvres. “There was some excitement, initially, because another gentleman arrived in Mr. Tibor’s place, to deliver the regrets.”

“Cleto?” I asked.

“I didn’t catch the man’s name,” he said, “but he is, apparently, a member of the Saardiscan contingent.”

“It is Cleto, then,” I said. “Did he give any reason for Tibor’s absence?”

“I was not informed. In any event, I wanted to let you know that dinner is now for thirteen.”

“Thank you,” I said. When he left I turned to Bucky and Cyan. “I wonder if Cleto discovered Tibor planning something and forbid him to come tonight?”

Bucky frowned. “You said yourself you don’t believe Tibor was in on the plot to harm Kerry Freiberg.”

“I’ve been wrong before.”

Out of the corner of my eye I noticed a young woman emerging from the single door at the center of the long hallway. I didn’t recognize her and she wasn’t dressed like one of the servers or staff. I stepped forward, around the center island, to get a closer look. It was then I noticed that she was accompanied by Frosty, on a leash.

The young woman was no more than twenty, pale-skinned, heavy at the bust and hips, with a pixie cut the color of dark chocolate. I didn’t hear her words, but could tell that she was cooing gently to the small dog, urging the pooch along. A moment later, she disappeared through one of the doors on the left, presumably to return to the party.

Cyan drew my attention back to the kitchen when she said, “I thought you both told me that this Tibor didn’t want to be here tonight. Sounds to me like he was planning to duck out of this dinner all along.”

I explained to her, as I had to Gav the night before, that Tibor didn’t strike me as the type to say one thing and do another. “He wasn’t thrilled to be invited, but he had every intention of being here. I can’t help but believe that there’s more going on that Cleto has opted not to share.”

“After tonight it won’t matter,” Bucky reminded me. “Tomorrow, they’re all flying home to Saardisca. And good riddance to the lot, I say.”

“I can’t wait,” I said, with a despondent nod toward Cyan, “although that also means the sequester guidelines will be back in force.”

“I’ll be okay,” Cyan said with forced cheer.

“Any prospects on the horizon?” Bucky asked.

“Nothing that excites me. Not yet. But it’s early. And I have enough savings to carry me for a few months.”

“Let’s hope they put an end to this well before then.”

Ten minutes later, the house manager returned. “Another change,” he said with a smile. “We are serving fourteen after all.”