Foreign Éclairs (7 page)

“Thanks for understanding,” I said with only a hint of sarcasm.

“But this,” he said, shaking his head. “What happened to Margaret strikes at the very heart of this house.”

“Are you sure she was targeted because she worked here?”

“It’s looking more and more likely though we don’t know for certain. Not yet at least. All we have is speculation.” He heaved a deep sigh. “Maybe Cyan was smart to get out when she did.”

“You don’t believe that, do you?” I asked.

He sat up, rubbed the bridge of his nose, and shook his shoulders. “My apologies, Olivia. It’s been a rough few days.”

“It has.”

“Does it get any easier?” he asked.

I thought about the many times I’d fought for my life. About the people I’d known who’d been hurt or killed along the way. “Not easier. Never easier.”

His eyes were creased, dark, and pouchy with wrinkles. “I didn’t think so.”

Bucky met me at the bottom of the stairway. “Got a call from upstairs,” he said. “Josh wants to know if he can come cook with you this evening.”

“Tonight?” After the lackluster experience last time, I’d been convinced Josh wouldn’t visit the kitchen again for months. I glanced at my watch.

“I started to mention the fact that you and Gav had dinner plans, but he sounded weird, so I held off.”

“He called down to the kitchen himself?” I asked.

“I thought that was unusual, too, which is why I figured it would be better if you talked with him. I told him you were with Sargeant, but that you’d call as soon as you got back.”

“That’s odd,” I said. “An assistant usually calls down here on his behalf.”

“And lately, he cancels last minute.”

I followed Bucky into the kitchen, where I drummed the countertop and stared down at its shine for a few seconds.
“There’s got to be a reason he called out of the blue.” Wrinkling my nose at the clock, I did some mental math. “I can’t turn him down,” I said to Bucky. “Even if it messes up my dinner plans.”

“You’re a soft touch.”

“Yeah?” I pulled my phone from my pocket and dialed Gav. “Don’t let it get out.” When Gav answered I told him the situation and asked if he would mind if we delayed dinner.

“Wait that long for sustenance?” he asked. “I’m liable to wilt away.”

“Ha-ha. Do you think Jason will still be able to fit us in?”

“Leave it to me,” he said. “And good luck with Josh.”

While I called upstairs to tell Josh I had a free hour, Bucky finished cleaning the kitchen. “Don’t know why I bother if you’re about to mess it all up again,” he said good-naturedly when I hung up.

“He’ll be down in a couple minutes,” I said. “How did the rest of dinner prep go, by the way?”

“Smooth as silk,” he said. “And the interview?”

I turned to our bookshelf, seeking inspiration. “Good,” I said. “I’ll tell you more later. Right now I need to come up with a plan for Josh. Any suggestions?”

“What about that soup you thought he’d enjoy making? The idea you had the other night?”

“That’ll take too long.” I tapped fingers against my lips. “I told Gav I’d keep it under an hour. I need something quick yet fun.”

By the time Josh showed up, I’d pulled out three of my favorite cookbooks. “Hey, Ollie,” he said from the doorway. He raised a hand in greeting and attempted a smile that fell flat.

“Josh, come on in,” I said. Pointing to the open books strewn across the center workspace, I asked, “Glad we could
make tonight work. I have about an hour. What are you in the mood to make?”

As the Secret Service contingent did their cursory inspection of the kitchen, Bucky lifted his chin in greeting. “Hi, Josh. How’s school?”

Was it me, or did Josh seem surprised and disappointed to see Bucky there?

“Good, I guess,” Josh said. He waited for the Secret Service agents to disappear around the corner before making his way over to glance at the books. I was no mind reader, but I could tell his heart wasn’t in the task.

Bucky and I exchanged a look and I could tell that my assistant had picked up the same vibe I had. He untied his apron and unsnapped his smock. “I hate to leave before the fun begins, but I still haven’t figured out the perfect gift for Brandy. More shopping ahead of me tonight.” He rolled his eyes. “My favorite thing.”

Josh visibly relaxed. “Good luck,” he said.

“Thanks,” Bucky replied with a wave. “See you tomorrow, Ollie.”

The kitchen grew unnaturally quiet as Josh breezed through the cookbooks. He sent furtive glances toward the doorway while flipping pages too quickly to register content.

I knew his Secret Service bodyguards were probably out of earshot, but I made a spur-of-the-moment decision and crossed the room to our computer. “Anything catch your eye?” I asked.

“Um . . . not yet.” When he got to the final page he didn’t push it away and turn to the second book. Instead, he flipped back to the beginning and resumed his mindless paging. “I’m sure there’s something in here . . .”

Loading a music website, I turned to him. “What do you like? Classic rock? Country? Hip hop? Smooth jazz?”

His eyes brightened and a corner of his mouth turned up. Still, he shrugged.

“Okay then,” I said. “You’re stuck with what I pick.” I entered my choice into the search bar: soundtracks from animated features. First up was an Academy Award winner with catchy lyrics and an earworm-worthy tune. Grabbing a giant spoon, I held it like a rock star clutching a microphone. “If you don’t pick something to work on soon, I’m liable to start singing.”

Finally, a shadow of a smile. Josh sent another quick glance toward the doorway. “Can we turn it a little louder?” he said.

“You got it.” I turned up the volume, returned the spoon to its place, and took up a position across the workspace from the First Son. Tapping the open book in front of him, I asked, “There’s nothing in there for you today, is there?”

He pushed the books to the side and leaned forward heavily, resting both elbows on the shiny stainless counter, his gawky maneuvers bringing to mind a collapsed marionette.

“You don’t have any more of those brownies, do you?” he asked. “To eat, I mean. Not to make.”

“No brownies, but Marcel has been experimenting with different cupcake combinations this week before holiday entertaining begins in earnest. He left a few samples here for us to taste test.” Opening the small refrigeration unit to my right, I read Marcel’s tiny hand-printed descriptions of each flavor aloud. Josh perked up at the mention of German chocolate.

“I like coconut,” he said.

I plated his choice and placed it in front of him. “You need a fork?”

“Nah,” he said. “I mean: No thank you.”

“It’s okay, Josh. We’re casual down here.”

He peeled back the cupcake’s paper holder and took a
big bite. “You’re not having any?” he asked around a mouthful of chocolate. He used the back of his hand to wipe frosting off his nose before I could hand him a napkin.

I chuckled. We
were
casual down here, all right. “Bucky and I have gotten a little cupcaked-out this week,” I said, opting not to mention my dinner plans.

As he plowed through the treat, demolishing it with preteen gusto, I gathered the cookbooks and returned them to the shelf.

“By the way, how did the brownies go over at school? Were your classmates suitably impressed that you made them?”

“I guess.” The shrug was back. As was his leaden expression. “They ate them. It was fine.”

Something clearly not fine was going on in his life. The theme song from a jungle-based film warbled in the background. “Tell me what’s going on.”

Not looking at me, he played with the chocolate bits left on his plate, rolling them together to make one giant crumb. “I overheard Dad talking about you the other night. Did something happen in the park on Sunday?”

Weighing my options, I answered slowly. “What did you hear?”

“That you were attacked again.” The crumb had snowballed to about the size of a macadamia nut. He played with it, rolling it back and forth on the plate. “He said you were okay, though. You are, right?”

“I’m fine. They got my purse is all.”

Using the pad of his index finger, he picked up tiny shreds of chocolate that still clung to the plate, popped them into his mouth, then scoured for more. He rolled the giant crumb of chocolate around one more time before devouring that as well. “How come you didn’t say anything about it when I was here on Monday?”

“I don’t want to burden you with that kind of news.”

Elbows back on the countertop, he propped his chin in one hand and played with the empty plate with the other. “Plus, I wasn’t exactly talkative Monday night, was I?” When he looked up at me, there was an apology in his dark eyes.

“It’s okay, Josh. Seems like you had a lot on your mind.”

He shot a glance at the doorway, then lowered his voice. “You pretend things don’t bother you when they really do.”

It wasn’t exactly a question, but I said, “Sometimes.” Leaning both elbows on the counter, I mirrored his posture.

“Isn’t that really hard to do? I mean, when people say and do mean things, how do you keep from letting them know it gets to you?”

I wanted to ask what had prompted the question, but I sensed it best to tread lightly. “It depends,” I said. “Usually, if the person is someone I care about, I
do
let them know. Small problems can grow into big ones if they aren’t addressed, and the truth is that the people who love us want us to be happy.”

He nodded and shrugged.

“When that happens,” I said, “I try to be fair, and try to keep myself from sounding as though I’m placing blame.” My turn to shrug. “I’m sure I’m not always successful, but I find it’s best to explain how circumstances affect me, rather than try to tell people what I think they’re doing wrong.”

“What about people you don’t care about? I mean . . . you care what they
think
and what they say, but you don’t really care about them personally? Not family. More like somebody you work with, or go to school with?”

Continuing to play with the plate, he pressed his index finger hard enough along the edge to tip the opposite edge upward. He made small circles with his finger, causing the dish to spin like a small satellite seeking signal.

“If someone I don’t care about hurts me,” I continued,
“and if I believe it’s deliberate, I do my best to ignore them. People who intentionally hurt others usually do so because they’re unhappy themselves.”

“Doesn’t mean it hurts less to hear it.”

“Good point,” I said. “The thing is, people like that thrive on negativity. They can never get enough. If you feed them by letting them know they got to you, they’ll keep coming back for more. When I can, I try to simply cut those people out of my life.”

He frowned. “What about a person you have to like?”

“You don’t
have
to like anyone,” I said. “But I think I know what you mean. It gets messy when we don’t like a person at work, or school, or wherever. And if that person is purposely mean, it can be really tough.”

“Yeah.”

“Are kids at school giving you trouble, Josh?”

He stopped spinning the plate, allowing the elevated end to drop, clunking against steel. “Everybody wanted to be my friend the first day,” he said. “I mean, I know why. Duh. Probably all their parents told them to make friends with the president’s son. Gives them the chance to brag.”

I smiled. The kid was perceptive.

“That was okay,” he said with yet another shrug. “They all wanted to ask me about living in the White House and what it was like having Secret Service guys hanging around all the time. But then one of them—his name is Seth—started asking different questions.”

“Like what?”

Josh sent another look toward the door. “They can’t hear me, right?”

“Not with the radio on.”

“I mean, I know they’re supposed to keep me safe, and let me be as normal as possible, but I’m eleven. My father is the
president of the United States. I know they’re not supposed to, but you think they
won’t
tell him if there’s a problem?”

The weight of this conversation settled on me. Josh couldn’t have made it more clear that he expected me to keep his confidence.

“Go ahead,” I said. “Tell me more about this Seth kid.”

Despite my assurances that the radio—now bouncing to the beat of singing fish—would cover our conversation, Josh dropped his voice to a whisper. “He started out friendly like the rest of the kids, but then he started picking on my dad. Saying he’s useless and he should never have run for office and that anyone who voted for him was stupid.”

“Sounds to me like Seth is a jerk.”

Josh almost smiled. “I like that you say what you think. Too many grown-ups try to be too polite all the time.” He mimed gagging himself.

I laughed, then sobered. “What else is Seth saying?”

Josh began playing with the plate again. “He says my dad’s a loser and that he’s screwing up our country. He says my dad won’t win this next election and that I’ll be kicked out of school because I’m a loser, too.”

The despair in his voice cut my heart.

“You know the truth, Josh. Your dad is a good man and a strong leader. But no matter how hard he tries, or how much he accomplishes, there will be people who disagree with him. That’s okay. That’s normal. That’s the way our system works. If he’s defeated in this next election, that doesn’t mean he’s a loser. It means that the country decided to work with someone else.”

“I know that,” Josh said with more than a little strain. “But the other kids are listening to Seth and telling me what a bad president my dad is and how he should be kicked out of office.”

When he looked up at me with shiny eyes, I wanted to
wrap him in a hug and promise I’d find a way to protect him from Seth.

“How do you react when he says these things?” I asked.

Shrug. “I never know what to say. Nothing makes him stop. I wish Dad wasn’t running for reelection. I wish we could leave here and just be normal again.”

“Have you told your parents any of this?”