Eggsecutive Orders (15 page)

“Good, because he and I are going out Friday.”

I opened my mouth in protest, but a third swift kick to my shin shut me up. Bending my head, I concentrated again on my soup.

“That’s wonderful, Corinne,” Nana said. “Where is he taking you?”

“I don’t know yet.”

“Mom,” I said, putting my spoon down, “we don’t even know this man. How do you know it’s safe to go out with him? He could be a masher.”

“A masher!” She laughed. “I used to use that line on you when you were a teenager.”

“Mom, I’m serious. You know nothing about him.”

“He was good friends with Carl Minkus,” she said. “A very famous NSA agent.”

“Yeah, and that famous agent is dead.”

She shook her head, but kept smiling. “You sound like an overprotective parent.”

“But you just met him.”

“In fact,” she added mischievously, “I think you’d make a great parent.” She fixed me with a glare. “Exactly when do you plan to give me grandchildren? I’m not getting any younger, you know.”

She always knew what buttons to push to circumvent an argument. I’d only finished about half my soup, but I stood up. “I’m sorry, this is great, but I’ll have it later. I promised to stop by Bucky’s house, and then I have dinner plans with Suzie and Steve.” I carried my bowl to the side to cover with plastic wrap before placing it in the fridge. “And I need to call Tom.”

Excusing myself, I blew out a breath. My mother knew we were on dangerous ground here. Marriage and babies were not something I cared to discuss. Not now at least. Maybe not ever. I didn’t see myself toting around tots anytime soon. My chosen career was in a male-dominated field and while all the rhetoric claimed that women could have families and maintain careers, too, I knew that in this extremely competitive arena I needed to hold tight to every edge I could wrap my enthusiastic fingers around. I’d been top chef here for a relatively short time. And as soon as the next administration took over, I could be out of a job. Kids were not on my horizon. The topic wasn’t open for discussion, and Mom knew it.

Her bringing it up when I pressed her about this Kap fellow was her attempt to strongarm me into silence. For now, it worked. But I’d figure out a way to talk with her about him. There was something about the guy I just didn’t trust.

I thought about my upcoming visit with Bucky. He and I would have to discuss the situation. If the Easter Egg Roll were to be permanently canceled, the press would have a field day. There would be no way to recover from such a public-relations nightmare. I thought about calling our contact at the American Egg Board, Brandy. Effervescent and eager to help, she was just the sort of person who could get things rolling.

I started to look up her number, but stopped myself. Tom would probably consider that “meddling” in the situation. Anger rumbled up from deep in my throat. I was thwarted, no matter which way I turned.

I dialed Tom’s cell but hit “end” when I heard my house phone ring. Geez! I hadn’t gotten this many phone calls at home in the past year. I picked up the kitchen phone because it was closest. “Hello?”

A woman asked, “Is this . . . Olivia?” Familiar, but I couldn’t quite place the voice.

“Yes.”

“I . . . that is . . . this is Ruth Minkus.”

Fortunately I was right next to a chair. I sat. “Hello,” I said, and because I couldn’t come up with anything better, “How are you?”

She sucked in a breath, but didn’t answer. “My husband’s ‘friend,’ Mr. Kapostoulos”—her emphasis on the word “friend” dripped with sarcasm—“suggested I call you.”

My face must have conveyed my pure shock because both Mom and Nana stopped eating to stare at me. Mom pantomimed, “Who is it?”

“He suggested you call me?” I echoed into the receiver. Then pointing into it, I mouthed back, “Ruth Minkus.”

They exchanged looks of horror and both started mouthing questions at me. I couldn’t follow them and pay attention to Ruth at the same time, so I averted my eyes. I chose to stare at the ceiling, hoping its blankness might aid my concentration. My brain couldn’t absorb the fact that Ruth was calling me. And, based on the stammering on the other end, she didn’t quite believe it either.

“I suppose I mean to apologize for my behavior yesterday.”

I was quick to interrupt. “There’s no reason to—”

“Kap said I offended you.”

“Kap’s wrong,” I said, with more than a touch of vehemence. Movement from my right caused me to look over. My mom made a face and got up to work at the stove. Nana stayed put, watching me. I returned my gaze to the ceiling.

“I was not at all offended. I understand completely. You’re going through a lot of strain right now.”

“I am,” she said in a tiny voice. “It’s been so much pressure. I’ve been working hard to help my son, Joel, in his bid for the senate seat and now this . . . I don’t think I’m handling it very well.”

I felt for her. She had just lost her husband and was being bullied into making unnecessary apologies. Embarrassed to have been pulled into this, I said, “I am very sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you.”

I was about to make another pleasant, innocuous comment—one that would allow me to segue into an excuse to get off the phone—when she said, “Joel thinks I was wrong to accuse you, too.”

“As I said, Mrs. Minkus, there’s no need—”

“Were you planning to come to Carl’s wake tomorrow?”

“Ah . . . no, I wasn’t.”

She made a
tsk
ing noise. “That’s because of my outburst, isn’t it?”

“No,” I said. “I didn’t—” I was about to say that I’d never had
any
intention of attending her husband’s wake, but realized how rude that might sound. Softening my response, I tried a different approach. “I know this has to be a very stressful time and I wouldn’t want to compound that tension. I’m sure my presence at the wake would be distracting.”

“Distracting? How?”

“Because . . .” I groped for a quick explanation. “My staff is still banned from the kitchen.”

“Oh, I didn’t know that,” she said. “I confess I’ve been trying to avoid reading the papers. It’s just too much, you know?”

I did know. “I want to express my sympathy again, Mrs. Minkus.”

“I would appreciate it if you would reconsider.”

“Reconsider?”

“It would mean a lot to me if you would come tomorrow night,” she said. “I feel just terrible about my behavior yesterday. In fact, I feel terrible about everything these days. I can’t go around burning bridges just because my life has fallen apart.”

I heard her voice crack. I didn’t know what to say, but she continued. “I mean, I have to think about Joel. He needs me to be strong right now. And I made him ashamed yesterday. Would you please come to the wake? Even if the rest of your staff can’t make it, it would go a long way to proving to Joel that I didn’t mess things up.” She sighed deeply. “I may not always agree with Kap, but this time I think he’s right. Please come, Olivia.” Her next breath seemed to shake, and I sensed she was close to tears. “I’d better go now.” With that she hung up.

I stared at the receiver for a long time. What in the world had that been about? Kap had forced her hand, no doubt about it. But to what end? And why would Joel care whether his mother offended the executive White House chef? I was about to tell Mom about this bizarre conversation, but realized she had left the room.

Nana pointed to the guest bedroom, where I found my mom at the computer. “That was Ruth Minkus,” I said.

She turned toward me, arranging her body to block the screen from my view. “What did she want?”

“To invite me to her husband’s wake.”

Mom twisted, quickly minimized the window, and then returned her attention to me. I’d seen a tiny bit of the page she’d been viewing. “Were you reading the
Liss Is More
column again?” I asked.

Nervous laugh as she stood. “Why would I read that trash?”

“Then what were you reading?” I felt like a parent who just caught her teenager visiting inappropriate sites.

“Just silly stuff,” she said, trying to guide me out the door. “Nothing worth mentioning. Let’s go see what Nana’s up to.”

“Mom—”

Her shoulders dropped. “I wasn’t reading that crazy man, Liss,” she said. “But I found out that his articles are reprinted on the Internet and people can write in and make comments on what he wrote.”

“And?”

“There are some very odd people in the world,” she said. “I mean, I thought Liss was out of his mind, but people go off on the strangest tangents and say very mean, very cruel things.”

“Let me see,” I said, moving toward the computer.

She blocked me.

I laughed. “Mom, you can’t keep me from reading what’s out there.”

She suddenly looked so sad, my heart hurt.

“Did someone mention me?” I asked.

“Not exactly.” She bit her lip. “It’s just that people were asking about the Easter Egg Roll, and I knew how worried you were about that. I didn’t want you to see all the questions.”

“That’s not all you didn’t want me to see, is it?”

“Some people don’t know what they’re talking about.”

I made it around her and maximized the browser window again. I sensed her resignation both from her deep sigh, and from the hand she placed on my shoulder as I scrolled through the comments.

There were, indeed, a lot of strange people in the world. I wondered if these were the same folks who, for kicks, sent out indecipherable spam in their spare time. I started at the top—the most recent commentary—and worked my way through several screeds that had more to do with battling the writers’ own demons than Carl Minkus’s death. Seemed to me that the earliest posts stayed on topic and the more recent ones were lame attempts to discredit earlier posters.

“What about the Easter Egg Roll?” asked Theda R. from Virginia. “My kids have been looking forward to this all year! Can’t someone just boil a few eggs so the kids won’t be disappointed?”

From Sal J.: “What do we care if another bureaucrat is dead? He got what he deserved, if you ask me. Minkus was screwed up and whoever took him out deserves a medal.”

Yikes.

“These people have too much time on their hands,” I said, continuing to scroll. I stopped when I saw the next one. Blood rushed out to all my extremities, rendering me light-headed.

“That girl the president hired to cook for him—that Ollivia Parras—she’s nothing but trouble since she took over the job. She can’t cook worth a nikcl and she can always try seeing how she can get in the headlines. It’s all her fault your poor kids don’t get to roll their eggs this year. I say the president should fire her butt and fast!”

No matter that the writer of this little diatribe—R. I.—spelled so many things wrong, including my name. No matter that he, or she, was grammatically challenged. The message was clear.

“I can so cook,” I said unnecessarily. But the accusation stung.

“You see, this is all garbage,” Mom said. “I shouldn’t even have been reading it.”

I wanted to shake it off, but my eyes were scanning again. There were more postings questioning whether there was any way to keep the Egg Roll on schedule, a few that talked about Minkus and who might have wanted him dead, and a couple more that called for my immediate dismissal.

“Cheery stuff,” I said, trying to swallow a hot bubble of disappointment.

“They don’t know what they’re talking about.”

She was probably right, but the attacks were brutal. And they hurt.

I’d been on enough Internet pages like this to know that at the bottom there should be a form available to add your own commentary. But this time, no little box appeared. Instead, in red italics were the words:
Please allow several minutes for your comment to post.

I spun. “You didn’t.”

Mom blushed, waving a hand at the screen. “I couldn’t let them talk about you like that and not do anything.”

I dropped my head into my hands, took a deep breath, and hit “refresh.”

CHAPTER 12

OF COURSE THE PAGE TOOK FOREVER TO LOAD. Of course. Sometimes my connection was blazingly fast, and times like this—when I really wanted information quickly—the computer became uncooperative and petulant, like I was still on dial-up.

While I waited for the Liss commentary to blink back into existence, I chanced a look at my mom. “Just tell me you didn’t mention me by name.”

She opened her mouth but no words came out.

Just as the website popped up to tell me that it was temporarily unavailable, my cell phone rang.

“Aargh!” I took a look at the display. Tom.

“Did you try to call me?” he asked when I picked up.

“I started to, but then Ruth Minkus called.”

“She called you? Why? Did she start accusing you again?”

“No,” I said wearily. I didn’t feel like explaining. Over the past few days all I’d done was explain. What I wanted—what I
needed
—right now was to be back in the White House kitchen, working on the Egg Roll. We were already three days behind schedule. “She called to apologize,” I said. “Long story.”