Fonduing Fathers (6 page)

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.”

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 that. 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.”

She sighed. “I just ask that you present a balanced picture.”

I had no problem with doing that and said so.

“Thank you.” Visibly relaxed now, she and I returned to the kitchen. We heard scuffling and bumping, much like the sounds a nine-year-old would make to avoid being caught eavesdropping.

Mrs. Hyden took the lead. “Josh,” she said in a commanding mother’s tone, “what have I told you about listening in on adult conversations?”

I bit my lip, thinking of the countless times I’d lingered in doorways. A bad habit I’d never been able to shake.

He stood at the small kitchen’s center island, crushed cookies in front of him, innocent face staring up at us as we walked in. I could tell he was working hard to keep emotion at bay, but his dark eyes were big and his lips turned down. The bottom one didn’t quiver, but I thought that was just a matter of time. Depending on what Mrs. Hyden said next.

“Were you listening at the door?” she asked.

He nodded.

She gave a little huff of impatience, but when she looked at her son her gaze softened and she continued gently, “You know you’re not supposed to do that.”

His fingers gripped the edge of the countertop. “I thought Dad liked the food I made for him.”

She was quick to comfort, crouching to put her arms around him. “Of course he does, honey. That’s why we talked to Ollie about working with you. We believe in you. She does, too.” She sent a pleading look my way.

“You’re talented, Josh,” I said sincerely.

He rubbed his nose with the back of his hand.

I took a step closer. “I mean that. I knew I wanted to be a chef at about the same age you are right now.”

His eyes brightened but he remained skeptical, giving me the you’re-just-saying-that-to-keep-me-from-crying look I’d seen on kids before.

“If you heard everything your mom said,” I went on, hoping to stave off tears, “you know that your parents believe in you. They believe you’ll be great at whatever you choose to do. Your dad might have other plans, but that doesn’t mean that his are right and yours are wrong.” I was treading choppy waters here, but Mrs. Hyden’s pointed look encouraged me to continue. “It doesn’t mean that there aren’t other options out there that you might love as much or more than being a chef. What we’re doing here”—I held my arms out expansively—“is experimenting to see if this really is what you want to do with your life. Your mom asked me to show you all of it—even the negative parts—and she’s right to do that. The more information you have, the better choices you’ll make.”

I feared I’d talked too much. Josh had squirmed out of his mother’s hold and begun cracking the cookies in half again. After a few moments, he looked up. “I want to know the negative parts, too. I want to know all of it.” He got a superior look on his face, one that I found adorable. “I never said I thought everything would be easy.”

I smiled. Mrs. Hyden stood. “Then we’re all in agreement,” she said with relief. “You know that your dad is always proud of you. I think the problem comes when he expects you to like everything he likes.”

Josh snickered. “He picks basketball over football. Everybody knows football is better.”

Crisis averted for now, Mrs. Hyden whispered her thanks, and left the two of us to get started.

About two hours later, as Josh and I were cleaning berries for one of the salad choices, I heard a familiar voice boom, “Something smells wonderful.”

President Hyden strolled into the family kitchen, his wife right behind him. I could tell from their body language and from the apprehensive look on Mrs. Hyden’s face that she’d engineered this little impromptu visit.