Buffalo West Wing (12 page)

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Hyden,” I said. “And hello again, Abigail, Josh.”

The two kids said hello, then looked to their mother. Mrs. Hyden spoke. “The children wanted to come down to visit each department to express our gratitude at making us feel at home. We are all still adjusting to this new environment, but we realize how much is being done behind the scenes to see to our comfort.”

“What about me?” Josh asked.

Mrs. Hyden directed a fond gaze toward the boy, then explained, “Josh hopes to be a chef someday, too, don’t you?”

He nodded vigorously.

I brought my face down to his level. “I’m sure Chef Virgil will have lots to share with you, but don’t forget that you and your sister are always welcome down here in the main kitchen, okay?”

“Really?”

Mrs. Hyden started to protest. “Won’t they be in the way?”

“No, not at all,” I said. “Unless it’s an hour before a major state dinner where we’re serving a hundred guests, we can always make time for kids in the kitchen. They can help us come up with treats for school, or Abigail and Josh can invite friends for a pizza-making party.” To the two of them, I said, “Whatever you need, we’re here for you.”

Abigail seemed less impressed than Josh did, but both children were significantly happier with us than they had been on inauguration night. As though he read my mind, however, Josh decided to bring up the subject. “Whatever happened to the Rene’s Wings that I found the other night? Did you eat them?”

I felt a subtle shift in the room’s mood. As we’d been talking, Bucky had come to stand beside me, and now he and I exchanged a look. “No, of course not.” Thinking about creating a teachable moment, I added, “No one in the White House should ever eat anything from outside, unless we know exactly where it came from.”

Mrs. Hyden tilted her head. “I know the matter is moot because wherever the chicken wings are now, we certainly wouldn’t want to consume them, would we? But Josh brings up a point I’m not quite clear on. If the box of Rene’s Wings was a gift to the children—from what I understand, it had their names on it—then why on earth did you refuse to serve them? Had I been consulted before a decision was made, perhaps we could have worked this disagreement out?”

Her expression was pleasant, but her resolve was steel. She delivered a very clear message: Her children were not to be denied by the hired help.

It galled me to no end to be unable to tell her about the arsenic poisoning. I tried to defend my actions the best way I knew: by telling the truth, short of full disclosure. “I’m so sorry about this misunderstanding. I’m sure once I explain, everything will become clear. Here at the White House ...”

“I’m aware of protocols. And the reasoning behind your decision to dispose of the children’s treat has been explained to me,” she began, clearly dismissive. Speaking slowly, she held up one finger. “But I also think it’s just possible that you might have imagined conspiracies where there are none.”

Forbidden to disclose what I knew, I bit the insides of my cheeks. My face flushed red. I couldn’t see it, but I felt the blood zoom hot and straight up from my twisting gut. I had one more ace in the hole. “It isn’t just me,” I said. “The Secret Service believes we followed the proper course.”

Mrs. Hyden’s dark eyes flashed. “Are you saying it wasn’t your decision to withhold the treat?”

“No, of course not.” I squared my shoulders. “I made the decision, and ...” My stomach fluttered like a wild thing. ”I would make the same decision again, given the circumstances.”

She humored me with a smile. “It was lovely to be able to talk with you and clear this matter up. Come on, kids,” she said, putting her arms out to herd the children back out of the kitchen. Turning to me and Bucky she added, “Thank you both for your time.”

As soon as she was gone, I put my head down.

Bucky grumbled under his breath, but went back to work. A couple seconds later he asked, “Is your resume up to date?”

CHAPTER 11

I MET CYAN FOR DINNER AT ONE OF THE more upscale restaurants in D.C. There were certainly plenty to choose from. It wasn’t a sense of entitlement after several bad days that tempted us to drop a big chunk of change—it was professional curiosity. A new chef had been hired at the Buckwalk just over a year ago and we hadn’t had a chance to check him out yet. He didn’t know we were coming, and that’s exactly the way we wanted it.

When I arrived, Cyan was already there. I was shown to a small table for two in the center of a quiet dining room. Cyan was just being served a glass of red wine. The stale décor hadn’t been updated since the mid-’70s, and although it suffered from lack of design, the restaurant never suffered from a lack of patrons. Despite its tired furnishings, nearly ever table in the restaurant was occupied, and I knew that within an hour there would be a waiting line out the door.

All conversations here were hushed. Restaurant-goers seemed much more interested in the food than they did in people-watching. This wasn’t L.A. or New York. The luminaries who graced our establishments were generally big-shot politicians, not A-list movie stars. Not unless there was a major bill coming up in Congress that enjoyed celebrity support. Or a movie being filmed locally. I’d seen Arnold Schwarzenegger walking the National Mall once, but I had no idea if his agenda had been political or entertainment-related.

“Hey,” I said as I took the seat across from her. The maître d’ snapped my napkin out then placed it gently on my lap before handing me a large leather-bound menu.

“What’s wrong?” Cyan asked.

“That obvious?”

Our diminutive waiter had a ring of white hair and a tiny mustache. Upon his arrival, he bowed. I asked him for a glass of cabernet sauvignon. “Not white wine?” Cyan asked.

“Not today,” I said. “I need something bolder.”

“Talk to me.”

I did. I broke the news about Virgil Ballantine, and she took it exactly the way I expected she would. “Are you kidding me?” she asked. “Why not just shove us out the door right now? Who do they think they’re fooling by keeping us on?”

“Paul promises we won’t be affected.”

Her look told me she believed that about as much as I did. “I’m so sorry,” she said, “this is all my fault.”

“How do you figure?”

“They’re blaming the whole kitchen for making the staff sick. It’s my fault. If I would have listened to you—”

“Actually, it’s just the opposite. You’re forgetting that Mrs. Hyden doesn’t know that the chicken wings were given to the laundry women. She’s clearly angry with me for not letting the kids have them.” I told her about my interaction with the First Lady earlier today.

“Tom still won’t tell her what really happened? Seriously?”

“Seriously.”

“That’s just dumb.”

“He says he has his reasons.”

Cyan cocked an eyebrow. “Still defending him?”

My wine arrived and I was spared responding. I asked Cyan how her experience moving her mother into a nursing home went, and she told me. There wasn’t much I hadn’t expected, but I did notice that Cyan seemed ever so slightly less tense. Given the predicament of the kitchen, that was saying something. “Feeling good about the decision you made for your mom?” I asked.

“Surprisingly, I am.” She drained her glass just as the waiter returned.

“Another?” he asked.

“Please,” she said.

He gave a solemn nod and told us he would return shortly to tell us the specials of the day.

“Whatever it is, I’m ordering it,” I said, closing my menu. “Chef specials are always the way to go.”

“What if it’s tuna?”

I shuddered. “Okay, not that. I might be capable of
creating
a great tuna entrée, but I’m not particularly fond of eating one.”

“Same with me and Brussels sprouts. Remember when Bucky came up with that recipe for President Campbell?”

She was interrupted by our waiter placing a fresh glass of wine in front of her. He gave us a peculiar, though not unfriendly once-over, then proceeded to announce the day’s specials.

Fortunately for both of us, nothing du jour contained either tuna or Brussels sprouts. We ordered appetizers of
vol-au-vent des champignons
and tomato-gorgonzola soup. Our waiter nodded again, said he would get them started, and offered to delay taking our entrée orders to give us time to talk and enjoy. We took him up on it.

“When does this new guy start?” Cyan asked.

“No idea. But I’m sure it will be soon. After my run-in with Mrs. Hyden this morning, I’m sure she can’t wait to bring him on board and kick me out. To be honest, Cyan,” I said, “I have to believe you and Bucky will be safe.”

“Not if Tom has his way. I know he wants me out.”

No need for me to confirm her fears. Instead, I said, “I figure Mrs. Hyden will probably give me a couple of months to find a new position and if I don’t, she’ll ask for my resignation.”

“Do you really think so?”

The truth was I didn’t know. “It could be that we’re all just getting off to a bad start. I’m not planning to actively look just yet. If they do ask for my resignation, I’ll give it, but I’ll also ask for the opportunity to stay on until I find something else.”

“Wow, Ollie. You’ve really given it a lot of thought.”

“I have to. I keep picturing Sargeant gleefully delivering the bad news.” I took a deep drink of my cabernet. “Wouldn’t that be a bite?”

“We might both be back on the market,” she said. “But at least you won’t have the shame of poisoning colleagues on your record.”

We sat quietly for a minute, each of us deep in our own musings.

Cyan broke the silence. “Which is exactly why you and I need to stop believing the White House kitchen is our life.”

“We don’t do that.”

She gave me a look. “Of course we do. I didn’t follow Rafe. Why? Because it would mean leaving the White House. You broke up with Tom. Why? Because he can’t handle the fact that you’ve put your life on the line—literally—for the White House.”

“Cyan—”

“I had hopes this time, Ollie. With a new administration coming in—I had hopes that maybe your involvement in things beyond the kitchen would cease. But it hasn’t. Who found the tainted chicken wings? You. And because of a stupid mistake on my part, I’m involved now, too. This has to stop.”

Our appetizers arrived and we thanked the waiter who chose, wisely, not to press for our entrée orders.

Before Cyan could start portioning the mushroom pastry, I whispered. “But I don’t ask to get involved.”

Her eyes were bright blue again—she’d been favoring her blue contacts a lot lately—when she looked up at me. “Does it matter? What does matter is that you throw yourself completely into protecting the White House. That’s admirable, Ollie. Really it is. But look at the price you pay. You have no social life, nobody to go home to. Not even a cat.”

I was about to protest that I had Mrs. Wentworth next door, but that would have sounded pitiful. My neighbor kept an eye on me, but it wasn’t as though the elderly woman and I “hung out” together.

Cyan must have read something on my face because she continued, impassioned, “You and I are too young to just give up on fun. There’s a whole life out there we’re missing because we’re so dedicated to our work.”

“But it’s more than that,” I said, “these are our careers, and this is the White House kitchen. You don’t get any higher than this.”

“There’s nothing wrong with being dedicated,” Cyan said. “I can’t imagine you being anything else. But tomorrow they could let us both go, and then where would we be?”

I didn’t have an answer to that.

She went in for the kill. “Don’t you think it’s about time you started dating again?”

I gave a wry laugh.

“What’s so funny?”

“I don’t have time.”

“Because you spend too much time at work.”

“I don’t have any prospects.”

“Because you never get out.”

“Cyan,” I said, my voice a warning, “I’m not interested in dating right now. I want to concentrate on being the best chef I can be.”

“You’re already that and more,” she said. “Why not go out with one of our new Secret Service cuties?”

This time I laughed genuinely. “I’m leaving them for you,” I said. “Honestly, neither one is my type, although I agree they’re both very attractive.”

“You need to find someone.”

“I’m fine just the way things are right now.”

She persisted, “You’re too closed off. I’ll bet if a handsome man—like the one we saw at the bar the other night—asked you out, you’d find a million excuses why you couldn’t.”

“You’re right,” I said, picking up my knife and fork. “And if you don’t serve this wonderful-looking appetizer, I will.”

We ate in companionable silence, both enjoying the gorgeous combination of flavors in both the mushroom sauce and the creamy-smooth tomato soup, with the gorgonzola’s underlying buttery bite serving as the perfect accent. “Mmm, wonderful,” I said. “Think we can re-create these for an upcoming menu?”