Buffalo West Wing (2 page)

John noticed. “Olivia,” he said, gesturing me forward, “you can’t possibly see anything from there.”

“I’m fine,” I said, but by the time I’d gotten the words out, everyone had shifted to make room for me. I removed my toque and took a position next to Cyan, turning to face the group that had closed in behind me. “Can everybody see okay?”

“There’s no problem seeing over you.” Bucky said, not unkindly. “You’re short enough.”

We were stealing precious minutes here. At our stations before dawn, every one of us had been rushing nonstop from the moment we’d arrived. Just as soon as our new president was sworn in, we would hurry back to resume today’s crazed timetable. Of all the busy days at the White House—and there were many—this was by far the busiest. Thank goodness it only occurred once every four or eight years.

From the instant President and Mrs. Campbell stepped out the south portico door this morning to head to the Capitol until our new president arrived here later in “The Beast,” his brand-new custom-fitted limousine, we would be hard at work, changing everything in the mansion to accommodate its new residents.

Housekeeping had swiftly transported all the Campbells’ personal items: pictures, notes, books, colognes, dresses, suits, and socks into moving vans, and were now in the process of scouring the already gleaming home before bringing in all new belongings and favorites to replace the old. Different sizes, colors, preferences.

Everything changed in what appeared to the outside world to take no longer than whispering “abracadabra.” But it was the endless rehearsals, the thick binders filled with detailed instructions, reams of notes, and the tireless work of ninety staffers that made the switchover look like magic.

“You’re just in time,” Cyan whispered.

One of the new Secret Service agents, Bost, shushed her. “Quiet,” he said. “The chief justice is about to administer the oath of office.”

Cyan rolled her eyes but returned her attention to the television where we all watched the young and handsome Parker Hyden become the new president of the United States. His lovely wife, Denise, held the Bible upon which he set his left hand. Accompanying them before an audience of millions—if you included those gathered in front of the Capitol building and everyone watching from home—were their two children, Abigail, thirteen, and Joshua, nine. The Hydens were a handsome family, bright with hope and determination.

What would the future hold, for him, for them, for us? As the oath was completed and President Hyden stepped to the microphone to deliver his first speech as commander in chief, I wrestled with the sadness I’d been fighting these past few weeks. I liked our new president very much. I liked what he stood for. But for the past four years, I had served at the pleasure of President and Mrs. Campbell, and I missed them already.

A bond forms between the White House staff and the First Family. It’s an unusual bond because it is, by definition, temporary. Every four or eight years the residents change, but the staffers largely remain the same. I had come to treasure my time with Mrs. Campbell.

With a new family moving in, I had no idea what the days ahead held for me or for others in key positions on staff. For those of us in the most visible posts, continued employment was not a given. So far, the Hyden family seemed willing to keep me around. After all, I was the first female in the role of White House executive chef, and it wouldn’t look good to cut me from the staff without giving me a chance to prove myself. But there were no assurances they would like my style. No guarantee I would bond with them the way I had with the Campbells.

President Campbell had served only one term and had not run for reelection due to health issues that threatened to hamper his ability to serve. After the news broke that he would not seek a second term, entertaining at the White House was severely curtailed. President Campbell had finished out his presidency in relative quiet.

By contrast, Parker Hyden, a junior senator from a Midwestern state, had taken the world by storm and had won the election over President Campbell’s former veep by a landslide. The new president promised to continue promoting a platform of unity. I was glad. But when it came time for the final good-byes in the Entrance Hall, I’d gotten choked up when Mrs. Campbell leaned forward to hug me. She’d whispered in my ear, “Life was never boring with you in charge of our kitchen. I hope you take as good care of the Hydens as you did of us.”

John interrupted my reverie as he stepped away from the television. “The next few weeks ought to be interesting,” he said. “Now that the election hoopla is over, the media will hound our new president relentlessly, hoping for an early misstep to get everybody all fired up again. Be on your guard, everyone.”

His warning was appreciated, but unnecessary. With the exception of the new people, everyone gathered here had weathered more media blitzkriegs than we could count. “Good reminder, John,” I said. “Thanks.”

The group around the television dispersed. Cyan, Bucky, and I followed the new staffers out the door with Kendra and her assistant close behind. As much as we would have liked to stay to hear what President Hyden had to say, we couldn’t afford the time. I planned to catch his speech online later.

Passing the kitchen, one of the new agents, Gardez, sniffed the air. “What’s that? It’s so familiar.” His faint Spanish accent and height—over six feet tall—combined to make for one very attractive Secret Service agent.

Cyan laughed before I could answer. “Bet it smells like home, doesn’t it?”

“Come on, Gardez. We don’t have time for this.” In contrast to his companion, Bost was muscular and trim, with a blond buzz cut, and an acne-pitted complexion. He fisted his companion’s arm. “We have to report in to MacKenzie in five.”

My heart gave an extra beat. MacKenzie. Tom. I hadn’t seen him very much since his promotion to head of the Presidential Protective Division. We crossed paths now and then—and worked together when situations required us to do so—but we hadn’t yet reached the level of friendship that had been lost when we’d ended our romantic relationship. It had been over a year now. I wondered if we would ever get back to that place.

Cyan waved to Gardez as the two agents headed toward the West Wing and I spotted a hopeful glint in her eyes. I wasn’t the only one suffering from a nonexistent love life these days. She and Rafe, one of our SBA chefs, had been an “item” in the kitchen until six months ago when Rafe had accepted a position as executive chef at a prestigious New York hotel. Like me, Cyan was “single” again. Unlike me, however, Cyan was ready for a rebound. I was happy to immerse myself in my job and forget about relationships for a while. Life was so much simpler that way.

At least that’s what I kept telling myself.

Bucky led us into the kitchen, talking over his shoulder. “You didn’t tell Gardez what you were making in here. Why not? Too embarrassed to admit it?”

“Hardly,” I said. “Did you get a look at the other guy, Bost? He was ready to deck Cyan for continuing the conversation. I’m surprised he even took time to watch the inauguration.” I shrugged. “But then again, I suppose we were all like that when we were new: anxious about making a good impression.”

Cyan laughed. I wasn’t quite sure why, but I had too much work to do to bother finding out. Bucky headed into the refrigeration area, and I went to check on my “masterpiece.” Some accomplishment: mac and cheese with green beans. I shook my head. This dish was on Abigail and Joshua Hyden’s list of homemade favorites. In addition to the tacos, minipizzas, and salad that we planned to serve our young guests tonight, we would also feature make-your-own sundaes, and Marcel’s famous brownies.

Even though Marcel was the only one of us with the freedom to whip up an original creation tonight, I wasn’t jealous. The event we were organizing was no less important than the parties our new president and his wife would enjoy as they were fêted all over town. My team was charged with providing dinner for the new First Kids and their friends who had been invited to tonight’s sleepover.

I missed Marguerite, Mrs. Campbell’s social secretary. She had been replaced by Valerie Peacock, who had arranged the evening’s festivities. While Valerie wouldn’t be here in person to oversee the show—she would be attending all the gala events around D.C. tonight with her boss—she had left detailed instructions with her staff. Valerie had set up a scavenger hunt for the youngsters’ entertainment. Designed not only to be fun, the race around the White House would help familiarize the Hyden kids with their new home.

Part of their game would bring them to the kitchen, and I was looking forward to that. I’d met the children briefly during their initial visit, but I wanted them both to know we were here for them, ready to prepare whatever they wanted—assuming their mother approved. We hadn’t had school-age children in the White House for a long time. I knew things would be different. Just how different remained to be seen.

“What kind of pizzas are we making tonight?” Cyan asked, scratching her head. “I know it changed.”

“We’re adding spinach pizzas in addition to the pepperoni,” I said. “They invited a couple more kids and one of them is vegetarian,” I started to question where my assistant’s mind was today. I’d answered that question for her at least twice already. I finished checking on the cheesy green bean casserole and came around to continue. That’s when I spotted an out-of-place box on the countertop behind her. “What’s that?” I asked, pointing.

She twisted to look as I made my way over.

The box was about twelve inches square and about eight inches deep. Bright red in color, it bore the familiar Rene’s Wings logo. Rene’s was a well-known national barbecue/ chicken wing chain. An oval sticker read “Garlic and Green Pepper.”

“I’d guess it’s an appetizer.”

Wondering how Cyan had missed seeing it, I lifted the lid of the box to find exactly what we expected: a plastic-covered take-out container jammed with sauced chicken wings. What we didn’t expect to see was the bright yellow note taped to the inside of the lid.

“For Abby and Josh,” Cyan read aloud.

“Where did it come from?”

She shrugged. “No idea.”

At that moment, Bucky returned, carrying two trays of freshly washed cooking utensils. “Who left these wings here?” I asked him.

Dropping the utensils on the countertop, he peered into the box. “Don’t know, but they look delicious. What kind are they?”

I told him.

“Mmm. Good choice.”

I stared at the note again. “Whoever left this clearly intended for the Hyden kids to have it.”

“You use your finely honed deductive skills to figure that one out?” Bucky asked

I shot him a glare but ignored the jab. Although Bucky was always sarcastic, I couldn’t ask for a better chef in the position of first assistant. He and I had an unspoken agreement: He would do his best to keep the sarcasm to a minimum, and I would try to overlook it when he slipped. Most of the time it worked. Bucky had even learned to apologize—occasionally—when he was really out of line.

I tapped the box. “My point is that whoever left this here must be new.”

Bucky raised his eyebrows. “And ...?”

“I can’t serve these to the kids until I find out where they came from.”

Cyan laughed. “Why not?”

Was she kidding? “You know how it works. Nothing gets served to the First Family unless it comes through proper channels.”

“But it must have come from someone who works here. The only people in the White House today are official personnel.” She shrugged again. “And everyone here is cleared.”

“Yeah,” I said under my breath, “until they’re not.” I’d had enough run-ins with people who
should have been
trustworthy, but who’d proved to be anything but. “I’ll talk with the Secret Service. In the meantime, I’ll store this in the refrigerator until we find out who left it here.”

Cyan grinned. “Careful. If you leave the box in there too long, those wings might start flying off. That’s their most popular flavor and my all-time favorite.”

“I wouldn’t let you eat any of these either,” I said. “Not until we figure out what it’s doing here. This is very odd.”

I picked up the box and headed toward the refrigeration area. Just as I reached for one of the stainless steel handles, I sensed a presence in the doorway.

“Good afternoon, Ms. Paras.”

Peter Everett Sargeant didn’t smile when he delivered his greeting. So I didn’t smile when I responded. “What can I do for you, Peter?”

He stepped closer. Dressed impeccably, he wore a custom suit and perfectly coordinated tie, and, as always, the crisp, folded edges of a matching handkerchief peeked out from his breast pocket. His undisguised curiosity skimmed the box in my hands before he answered. “Today,” he said, speaking softly, “is a new day.”

“It seems most of the world would agree with you.”

“You don’t?”

I did, but I wasn’t about to get pulled into a political discussion with Sargeant. White House staffers knew that it was our job to take care of the First Family. Just as important was leaving our own politics at the door—every single day. While I was as happy as the next guy to see Parker Hyden as the new leader of the free world, I wasn’t about to chitchat about it with our sensitivity director.

Sensitivity director. Talk about a walking contradiction in terms.

“Today is a day to celebrate,” I said, and with what I hoped was finality, placed the wings on an empty shelf and shut the refrigerator door. “Which is why I need everyone
out
of my kitchen except essential personnel. What was it you said you needed?”

“Why do you have store-bought chicken wings?” he asked, avoiding my question. “Aren’t you up to preparing that level of delicacy?”

I wanted to say that it was none of Sargeant’s business, but I took the high road instead. “I didn’t buy these. And, to be frank, I don’t know where they came from. The box was here when I got back from watching the inauguration in the curator’s office.”