Buffalo West Wing (15 page)

“This way, Ms. Paras.” The assistant, whose name I didn’t know, gestured me toward the back of the Blue Room and asked me to stand near the windows. The view to the south was beautiful, even on this cold January day. I tried calming myself by recalling the amazing experiences I’d had over the years here, but the memories felt strangely bittersweet—as though I sensed I might not ever experience such things again.

The assistant left me there and I dragged my attention back to the busy collection of reporters who jostled one another, wrote notes, and chatted among themselves while waiting for their audience with Mrs. Hyden. I glanced at my watch. Just a couple of minutes before the conference was to begin and I still hadn’t caught sight of my new nemesis.

And then, there he was.

Milling about in the Green Room, he came into view just beyond Mrs. Hyden. I wondered if there was some conspiracy against my getting to see what he looked like, because just like with the Google shots online, I couldn’t get a clear look at him. There were lots of aides in the Green Room and even though he now had his back to me, I could tell by his body language and the aides’ rapt expressions that Chef Virgil Ballantine was having an easy and enjoyable conversation with them. Mrs. Hyden drew away from her small group to tap Chef Virgil on the shoulder and speak close to his ear.

Whatever she said, he found funny because they both laughed. And when he finally turned to face me I nearly gasped.

He was the “fan” who had bought us drinks when Cyan and I had visited Fizz.

At that very moment, he caught my stare and waved a small hello. Instinctively, I waved back. I’m afraid my mouth was open.

“It’s time,” someone said.

Bright lights flashed on as Mrs. Hyden and Virgil Ballantine stepped into the Blue Room to introduce the new White House chef to the world.

 

I removed my toque and gave Cyan and Bucky a brief breakdown of the meeting upstairs. “It wasn’t so bad,” I lied when they asked me how it went. “I mean, even though both Mrs. Hyden and the new guy kept their backs to me for the entire press conference, it was nice not to be the center of attention for a change.”

“I don’t believe you for a minute,” Bucky said. “This job has always meant everything to you. You live to work here.”

I tried to cut him off. “I wouldn’t exactly say that—”

“Well, I would, and I’m saying it because it’s true and somebody needs to set you straight. This place is more than just a job to you, Ollie. And even though all of us feel privileged to work here, for you it’s much more. Everybody knows it.”

“We all—”

“I know what you’re going to say, but think about it. How many other White House chefs have ever put their lives on the line the way you have?”

Bucky’s accolades—if that’s what they were—were embarrassing me. “So what are you telling me?” I asked. “That I’m fooling myself by believing I have a future here now that the new guy is on board?”

“Yeah. Pretty much that’s exactly what I’m saying.”

A few more of these gut-punch revelations and I might start getting used to them.

Cyan interrupted, clearly trying to defuse the situation. “Are you sure it was the same guy from Fizz?”

“Absolutely,” I said. “I would have said something to him, but they shuttled me back down here just as soon as the official announcement was done.”

Cyan asked, “Where is he now?”

I picked up a new apron and thought about putting it on. “Still upstairs. Taking questions from the crowd on his own.” I stared at the fabric in my hand. “The assistant who walked me back told me that he’s not returning to the kitchen today. Chef Virgil has a full day of interviews scheduled with various food magazines.”

The looks on their faces reflected the acute disappointment I was feeling. “This is really happening, and there’s nothing we can do about it but start fresh with him tomorrow morning,” I said. “How are you two holding up?”

“Fine, great,” Bucky said. Cyan agreed.

“Well then, how’s this for a plan?” I asked. “Today’s my day off and if you both are up to handling the day by yourselves, I’m going to take advantage of the time I have.”

“Great idea, Ollie,” Cyan said.

I put the apron back where I’d found it and tried to smile at my staff. “It’s all going to work out. Maybe not the way we expect, but things always work out for the best eventually, right?”

Neither of them answered, but as I left, Cyan said, “Have a good time on your date tonight.”

Oh yeah. That again.

 

I played Minesweeper on my computer until my eyes started to cross. Although a copy of my resume was open directly behind it, I couldn’t summon enough resolve to actually work on it. I did change a couple of small things: I included my start and end dates as a Service By Agreement chef, but the time between when the White House hired me full-time until now was a gaping hole in my record. The idea of distilling my experiences in the White House kitchen to a few mere sentences seemed wrong. Rather than face a problem and tackle it head on the way I usually did, I’d opened up the game of Minesweeper instead. So far, I’d lost far more games than I’d won.

This family-chef challenge was taking more out of me than I would have expected. Although I had the resolve to face this new twist, it seemed as though I suffered a full-body slam at every turn. It was neither like me to give up, nor to procrastinate, but Sargeant’s insidious predictions of my demise kept drumming in my head reminding me my days were numbered.

“This is stupid,” I said aloud, and clicked out of the game.

After a moment’s thought, I clicked out of my resume document as well. I needed to get outside. I needed to clear my head. I needed to find my mojo again.

As predicted, the day was drizzly and cold so I grabbed my heaviest jacket before I left. Just outside my door, I stopped to make sure it was locked.

“How are you, Ollie?” Mrs. Wentworth asked.

My hand jumped to my throat. “I’m doing just fine, how about you?”

“Sorry to startle you, honey,” she said. “What do you think about that new chef your boss just hired?”

“I haven’t actually had a conversation with him yet.”

“He’s kind of good-looking.” She waved her cane toward my door. “And you don’t have a boyfriend.”

“I’m sure he’s not my type.”

“Now, how can you say that when you haven’t even talked with him yet?” she chastised. Squinting, she peered at me for an extended moment. “Something bothering you?”

“No, not at all,” I lied. “Just really busy.”

“Hmm,” she said, clearly not believing me. “I know there’s things you can’t tell me, but if there’s anything troubling you, you feel free to come by for a chat. You hear?”

I nodded. “I will.”

“Good girl.” She cocked her head toward the elevators. “Now get outside in the fresh air. You look like you could use some.”

I started out south toward 23rd Street. I wasn’t hungry, but there were several homegrown restaurants that way, and I decided to visit one. I always felt better when I had a destination in mind, and a cup of hot coffee might be just the thing to perk me up.

With my collar close to my face against the sharp wind and the snap in the air keeping my steps brisk, I decided that I’d wallowed enough and it was time to either cook or give up my pots. “And we all know that’s not gonna happen,” I muttered to myself.

A woman dressed in expensive running clothes, jogging with a black lab, stopped as though startled. “Did you say something?”

I peeked my face up out of my collar enough to answer. “Just talking to myself. Sorry.”

She laughed. “We all do it.” Resuming her trot as the lab pulled at the leash, she added, “Hope you find your answers.”

Answers were exactly what I needed, and wasn’t getting any. I slowed at the curb as a car turned left in front of me, and picked up my pace as soon as the walkway cleared. Although it stung, the cold felt fresh and invigorating. D.C. winters were much milder than the ones I remembered from my childhood in Chicago. If I ever moved back, I wondered if I’d be able to handle them again.

Taking a new job could give me the opportunity to move closer to my mom and nana. They were getting on in years, and I didn’t get to see them nearly as often as I liked. They’d visited me out here exactly once, and although they had both come to appreciate our nation’s capital—and my mom had even acquired a gentleman caller—I could tell they couldn’t wait to get home. They felt safe and comfortable there, while I felt safe and comfortable here.

I stopped at the intersection, halted by a sudden realization. This was my life we were talking about. I wasn’t just facing a job loss. I was facing the loss of an existence that had become almost as important to me as breathing. Bucky had nailed it this morning, though I hadn’t wanted to admit it at the time.

Walking west, at a slower pace now, I put it all together. Instead of updating my resume and preparing for the worst, I needed to hold on to what I had with both fists. I’d always fought for what I wanted and I couldn’t figure out why I was suddenly switching gears when it mattered most. Fortune favors the bold, so they say, and that’s how I’d lived my life thus far.

Bolstered, I realized I
was
prepared to fight for what I wanted—and what I wanted most of all was to continue serving as White House executive chef until I retired.

I stopped in front of Uncle Pavel’s Java Hut. This realization called for something stronger than an ordinary cup of coffee.

I pulled open the door and stepped up to the counter. The dark-haired young man asked, “What can I get you?”

“Café mocha, large. Extra hot, and don’t be stingy with the whipped cream.”

“Coming right up.”

As I licked whipped cream from the top of the steaming beverage and stared out the window at the pedestrians with their heads tucked against the wind, I let myself relax. I was good at what I did. No. I
excelled
at what I did. This new fellow, Virgil, who barely made a mark on Google, would have no idea how to run the White House. He might be a good chef, even a great one. According to Paul, however, he would report to me. A chef like that would require a significant learning curve before he’d be able to take over the executive position.

I took a long sip of my chocolaty drink and convinced myself I’d been worried for nothing.

CHAPTER 14

A CAR WASN’T A NECESSITY IN WASHINGTON, D. C., but there were times having one sure came in handy. Like right now, as I headed out for my date with Reggie. Rather than take the Metro and risk his offering to escort me to my station after dinner, I drove. I knew I’d pay dearly for valet parking, but there was no better way I could think of to make a quick and graceful exit if the opportunity presented itself.

I pulled up to the curb at the Morgenthal Hotel exactly five minutes early. The doorman accepted my keys and handed me a claim check. Before I could take three steps toward the automatic entry, a brown-uniformed valet had jumped into my little vehicle and zoomed off. I hoped they would be just as prompt when I was ready to leave.

Silently chastising myself, I entered the slow-moving revolving doors, determined to stop expecting the worst from the evening. I hadn’t been out with anyone since Tom, and nervous jitters were to be expected. This could be fun, after all. Reggie was an accomplished chef—an award-winning one at that—and if nothing else, I knew we could have fun talking shop.

He was waiting for me just inside—holding a wool coat over his arm and a small bouquet of flowers in his hand. Wearing black pants, a black button-down shirt with an open collar, and a gray sport coat, he was leaning against a giant marble pillar that soared to the massive hotel’s gilt ceiling. He smiled when he saw me and pushed away from the pillar to say hello.

“May I take your coat?” he asked.

Give him points for gentlemanliness. I unbuttoned my long down coat with the faux fur collar and allowed him to help me out of it.

“Wow, look at you,” he said.

Because the Morgenthal was a classy establishment, I’d worn a black dress and black heels and, in a nod to comfort, had also tacked on a gray sweater against the ever-present restaurant chill. My outfit matched Reggie’s ensemble almost exactly, and passersby might believe we’d intentionally coordinated our outfits.

“Isn’t this cute?” he said as he moved a bit closer.

His body language led me to believe he planned to greet me with a kiss on the cheek, which I neatly sidestepped as I reclaimed my coat and accepted the proffered flowers. “You really shouldn’t have,” I said, taking a polite whiff to express my appreciation for the profusion of blooms. “They’re very beautiful. Thank you.”

“Do you like roses? I’ve never met a woman who didn’t like roses.”

“Yes,” I said, “very much. These are a lovely shade of pink. But really, you didn’t need to go to any trouble.”