Buffalo West Wing (20 page)

“Yeah,” he said, almost whining, “but Virgil was going to teach me. I want to learn how to make stuff like he does.”

“I understand,” I said. “But, just like I told your mom ... unless there’s a big dinner coming up that keeps us too busy, I would like it a lot if you came down here. We would all be very happy to teach you some cool chef tricks.”

Josh’s eyebrows came together as he squinted at me. “Are you just saying that?”

“Nope. Trust me. We’re here for you, okay?”

With a skeptical look that might have made me laugh if he hadn’t been so serious, he said, “Okay. I want to learn
real
stuff, though. Not just how to peel a potato.”

He was so cute, so earnest, that I wanted to reach over and ruffle his hair. “You got it, Josh. And if there’s anything in particular you want to work on, just let us know and we’ll plan ahead.”

Mollified, he nodded.

Bost was quick to add, “You are only allowed in here when I’m with you, remember.”

Josh made a face. “But what if you’re not around? Can’t I ask another agent to come with me?”

Clearly displeased by the question, Bost answered without answering. “Let’s not involve other agents at this point. I am assigned to you, and the only time I am off duty is when you are in the residence. I will talk with the staff and ensure that I am always consulted before you come down here.”

The poor kid didn’t know how to parse that information and obviously decided it was better to keep quiet than ask for clarification. Bost struck me as a no-nonsense agent, but with his recent questions about Tom’s competence and this uncompromising answer to the First Son’s question, I was starting to wonder if he was the best choice to guard his small charge.

Abigail had turned to Zeller and was speaking in low tones. When Zeller nodded, the First Daughter turned to Virgil. “My school has two days off next week. I’m having a sleepover with my friends at Camp David. Do you take care of the food up there, or does somebody else do that?” She shrugged as though it meant nothing to her. “I just want to, you know, plan out what we’re going to have.”

Virgil opened his mouth to answer, but he clearly had no idea what to say. He turned to me.

“Camp David has its own kitchen staff,” I said. “Will you be staying in Aspen Lodge?”

Abigail looked to Zeller, who nodded.

“If there’s anything you want them to prepare for you and your guests,” I continued, “all you have to do is let us know. I would be happy to coordinate menu plans with you.”

Virgil cleared his throat. “Ms. Paras means that
I
would be happy to do that. In fact, if I’m not needed here that day, I would enjoy a trip to Camp David to take care of you and your guests.” He looked to me expectantly. “Is that all right with you, Chef?”

Nothing like putting me on the spot. “What days next week?” I asked.

Abigail glanced back and forth between the two of us. “We were going to spend Tuesday and Wednesday night there.”

The very same time we would be in the final crunch for the state dinner. There was no way Virgil should be away from the kitchen at that time, but I didn’t want to have this discussion in front of Abigail. I smiled. “We’ll get back to you really soon on that.”

Unappeased, she said, “Okay.”

Virgil held his hands up in a “too hot to touch” movement. “Whatever the boss says, Abby. I guess your question will have to wait.”

Stifling my annoyance, I shifted gears. “We’re really looking forward to our first official tasting with your mom this Friday. You and your brother are coming, right?”

“I guess.”

Clearly disappointed with me—yet again—Abigail turned to Zeller. “I’m going to start my homework now,” she said. “Can I just go upstairs by myself?”

Zeller was stone-faced. “I’ll walk you up there.”

Annoyed, Abigail turned away and headed out the door. Zeller followed. Josh gave me another of his suspicious looks. “You really mean it, right?”

“I do,” I said.

As soon as he and Bost were gone, I breathed a sigh of relief. Why were all my interactions with the kids so tense? I couldn’t understand it.

Just as I started back to work, Virgil interjected, “I won’t have time to coach Josh, you understand.”

I pointed upstairs. “But you told the First Lady ...”

“I said that the kitchen would help him, I didn’t mean me specifically.”

I stopped myself from snapping. “And you promised this when you believed you were being named executive chef.”

He had good sense enough to affect a sheepish look. “I just thought ...”

“That we would handle the kids while you took care of the important things,” I said, finishing his thought for him.

He tried to correct me. “The kids are important, too.”

“Oh, I know that,” I said. “I’m just surprised to hear that you do.”

“You heard the agent assigned to Josh. He isn’t even supposed to be down here without permission.”

Why did I sense that Virgil was relieved not to have to deal with a young boy’s kitchen curiosity? “Agent Bost is new here,” I said. “He’s trying to prove himself and that’s fine. In a month or two, when everything settles, I believe we’ll be seeing a lot of little Josh down here. And that’s a good thing.”

Virgil headed back to his station, muttering under his breath.

“I didn’t catch that,” I said.

He turned to me. “I just said that kids don’t belong in the kitchen.”

CHAPTER 17

CYAN HAD ASKED ME TO MEET HER AFTER work again and we’d settled on a little diner just a few blocks southeast of the White House. We’d both eaten there before and knew we could count on basic comfort food done right. She’d left before me, claiming to have a few errands to run. Virgil had taken off for the day shortly thereafter, leaving me and Bucky to finish up. When I finally was able to leave, I exited the Southeast Gate and headed to Pennsylvania Avenue going east. The weather was brisk and I hunched my shoulders against the cold. Flipping open my phone, I dialed one of my favorite numbers.

“Ollie! Wonderful to hear from you,” Henry said. It was just as wonderful for me to hear his voice. Henry had been executive chef at the White House for years before I’d even begun working there, and had recommended me to succeed him. I owed him a lot already, but that never stopped me from calling him for additional advice.

“I don’t know if you’re going to be so happy to hear from me once you realize I’m calling to complain.”

Immediately solicitous, Henry asked, “What’s wrong?”

I told him about our new upstart, Virgil, and how he’d believed he would be named executive chef over me. “I’ve got a bad feeling about this guy, Henry,” I said. “And I guess I’m just looking for words of wisdom.”

He laughed. “Then you called the wrong number. I only looked good because I had you and Bucky and Cyan there behind me.”

“Oh, come on, Henry. Don’t be modest. I know better. You’re already starting to formulate ideas for me, aren’t you?”

He laughed. “Maybe some. But I’m on my way out the door right now.”

“Going out with Mercedes?”

“As a matter of fact, I am. But you know I always have time for you. And I would like the opportunity to continue this discussion.”

“How about Saturday night?” I asked. I named a time, and a place we were both familiar with.

“Hmm,” he said. “That’s date night, isn’t it? Shouldn’t you be out with some lucky young man?”

“Not this weekend.”

“Or any weekend lately, I’d wager. Okay. It’s a date. I’ll finagle a couple of things and we’ll be set. Can we make it closer to six o’clock?”

“Don’t change plans on my account.”

“Ollie,” he said with such warmth in his voice it made my throat hurt, “don’t you understand? I make time for you because I want to.”

Cheered, I said, “Then it’s a date. I’m looking forward to it.”

“As am I.” He laughed. “No canceling now. If our new president asks you to work late, you’re just going to have to tell him no.”

“You got it. See you then.”

Walking into Sylvester’s Diner was like walking into a hot wall of bliss. Sizzling scents of onions, burgers, and mac and cheese met me as I unzipped and peeled off my jacket, looking for Cyan. At the table nearest me, a man was about to dig into an open-face turkey sandwich with steaming gravy over everything, including the fries. It wasn’t pretty, but I bet it was good.

Cyan was in a fat turquoise booth in the far corner, waving to get my attention. I saw her, all right. And I saw Agent Nourie sitting right beside her, looking happier than agents normally do.

Dodging the pink-uniformed waitresses and tray-laden busboys, I made my way to the back of the diner. “Hey,” I greeted them, not knowing what else to say, “this is a surprise.”

“Is it?” Cyan wrinkled her nose and eyed me suspiciously. “I thought you had us all figured out.”

“Nope.” I took a seat. Any and all conversations I had planned to have with Cyan about Virgil went out the window. “Nice to see you, Agent Nourie,” I said.

“Call me Matt.” He jostled Cyan’s shoulder. “We’re off duty.”

In all the time I’d dated Tom, he’d never smiled and claimed to be “off duty.” According to Tom, he was on call all the time, even when he wasn’t. I didn’t know if I was annoyed that Nourie could relax, or if I found his attitude refreshing. Either way, it was clear Cyan was happy. I smiled at Nourie, thinking that Cyan was coping well without Rafe after all. “Sounds good, Matt.”

“Hey, how about that chef Virgil?” he said. “I get the impression he’s not too happy with his position as second banana.”

“Well,” I said slowly, “technically Bucky is the first assistant. I think we’ll just have to wait until everybody settles in. I’m sure in no time it will be like we’ve worked together forever.”

“Very diplomatic,” he said.

“Thanks.”

We placed our orders with a twentysomething waitress named Bippy, and the moment she departed Cyan said, “Matt has been filling me in a little on Bost.”

I sat back and glanced around. So many conversations were going on in this high-ceilinged, busy restaurant that the likelihood of anyone overhearing us was virtually nil. Still, it seemed wrong to discuss any White House topics in public. Nourie apparently agreed because he tapped Cyan on the shoulder and held a finger over his lips.

“Nobody knows who Bost is,” she said, clearly annoyed by my reaction and his admonishment. “I could be talking about my cat.”

“That may be true,” Nourie said, “but it’s still not worth the risk.”

“Okay, fine. I’ll bring you up to speed later, Ollie.” Cyan turned to Nourie. “If that’s okay with you.”

He nodded. “I never share anything that’s classified.” With a gentle glance at me, he added, “I’m sure that’s not new news to you after your time with Tom.”

Taken aback, I realized that apparently Cyan had no compunction about sharing information with him about me. “Right,” I said. “Speaking of Tom—are you bringing this relationship out in the open, or keeping it quiet?”

Cyan was the one who answered. “We’re keeping quiet for now. Just until the new admini ... er ... the new people are settled.” With a look around the loud restaurant meant to allay my fears of being overheard, she said, “But in time we plan to come out. Don’t we, Matt?”

He looked like he wanted to pat her hand, but settled for a beneficent smile instead. Oh I could see where these two were headed. They both had that starry-eyed look that said they believed they’d found their soul mates. Having known each other for just over a week, I had my doubts. I worried about Nourie being the “rebound guy.” Cyan needed to feel wanted and appreciated right now, and Matt just happened to be in the right place at the right time. Maybe everything would work out and they’d have a long, happy relationship. Maybe.

As we talked—keeping to safe subjects like favorite movies and books—I felt my mind wander back to my early days of dating Tom. He was so strong-minded, so confident, so decisive. All the attributes that had combined to make him a great Secret Service agent had twisted when it came to being a boyfriend. Rather than see me for who I was—rather than accept my quirks and try to understand my need to be useful—he’d tried to force me to become what he envisioned a girlfriend should be. And the cracks in our relationship had started when he tried to make me behave according to his rules.

To be honest, I understood it. Tom had a job to do and he did it well. Just as I had a job and I strove to do my best. The problems came when my role inadvertently expanded—on occasion—to include the protection of the White House and its inhabitants. Clearly his territory. No matter that I was good at helping out; he didn’t want me involved. I didn’t blame him, but I wasn’t willing to change who I was to match his ideal. And so we parted ways. But that didn’t mean it didn’t hurt.

As though reading my mind, Cyan said, “I’ll bet you have a theory about who left the you-know-what in our kitchen?”