Fonduing Fathers (12 page)

“I did not.”

“Sure you did. But you recognized that I was there to do my job as you were there to do yours. You trusted me.”

“Eventually.”

“Eventually. But you didn’t like me one little bit. That came later.” He looked at me over the tops of his sunglasses. “At least, I assume it did.”

“After today, I’m not so sure,” I teased. “That Yablonski made me jittery.”

“You held up well under his scrutiny. I can tell you from personal experience that not many people do.”

We’d driven about halfway back to D.C. when I remembered to tell Gav about having to report to the White House in the morning. He wasn’t as shocked by the notion of donning disguises as I’d been. “You’ve seen how life is there. Photographers hound the First Family, capturing every expression they make. Waiting for them to make a mistake so they can exploit it for personal gain.” He huffed. “Put a photo up on the Internet and it becomes instant fodder for interpretation. You’ve seen the one with President Hyden not saluting when the two army officers flanking him are?”

I hadn’t. “There must be some mistake. Or a good reason he wasn’t saluting.”

“Curtain number two. Turns out the photo was snapped as the Marine Band played ‘Hail to the Chief.’ Presidents don’t generally salute themselves at that point.” Anger made his sarcasm all the more pointed. “And yet this photo went viral with captions purportedly proving that President Hyden isn’t patriotic. It’s all about spin.”

“You didn’t vote for President Hyden, did you?”

“No,” he said, glancing my way again, “but truth is truth. If you have a gripe against a man, fair enough. Don’t make garbage up.”

“Well said.”

We drove awhile longer, chatting more about Yablonski—who I would probably never feel comfortable calling Joe—and our conversation eventually turned to Pluto. I pulled up
all the copies Gav had made, along with my notes. “I’d like to visit this company,” I said.

“What would you hope to accomplish?”

“I don’t know.”

“Walking in and announcing that your father used to work there and was accused of corporate espionage may not garner you the warmest of welcomes.”

That earned him a laugh. I looked out the window at the landscape speeding by. I glanced down at the company’s address and read it aloud.

“Any idea where we’d find Planetary Parkway?” he asked as I looked the information up on my phone. “Beside the fact that it’s in Fairfax?”

“Isn’t Pluto being studied again? I’m talking about the heavenly body, now. Aren’t they trying to have it reinstated as a planet?”

“Could be,” he said, “I don’t keep up on that as well as I should.”

The website loaded that moment. “Got it,” I said. “It’s not far off 66.”

“Want to take a detour?”

“You know I do.”

Less than thirty minutes later, we arrived at Pluto, Incorporated. An uninspired U-shaped building, it tried its best to stand out among its look-alike neighbors, but even the lush evergreens and multi-colored annuals softening its foundation did little to differentiate it from the surrounding rows of blandness.

The company parking lot sat inside the U, the building’s wings acting like arms enveloping employees’ and visitors’ vehicles. “Probably nice in the winter,” I said. “I bet there’s not a lot of wind.” Gav looked at me and I shrugged. “Making conversation, that’s all.”

“Why? Are you nervous?”

I didn’t answer. “Let’s drive past the front door.”

Other than having a spacious modern reception area of
white and chrome with sage modular furniture, there wasn’t much to be deduced.

“Well?” he asked when we’d pulled out of the lot.

“I have a feeling that I’d understand more if I could get in there.”

“How do you intend to do that?”

“Drive around again,” I said. “Let’s stop.”

Gav’s face registered surprise. “What do you plan to say when you get in there?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “I’ll come up with something.”

“WELCOME TO PLUTO, INCORPORATED,” THE young girl behind the glass-and-chrome desk said as we walked in. She had a slim build and a full moon–shaped face. Her dark hair, worn tightly pulled back, only emphasized the extreme roundness of her head. Crater-deep eyes took us both in with polite curiosity. “May I help you?”

I made quick introductions, smiling and keeping my eyes wide, my manner unthreatening. There was no reason to behave otherwise, but if I wanted to meet and talk with anyone at this company, I’d have to play extra nice. “My dad worked here,” I said, “a very long time ago. We were in the neighborhood.” I sent a doe-eyed look toward Gav. “We thought we’d stop by to see if the company was still around.”

“Sure,” she said. “Your dad worked here? When?”

I told her.

Her eyes widened. “That’s before my time,” she said.
“Before I was born, in fact.” I could see questions forming in her eyes. “And you wanted to visit, why?”

“My dad died when I was very little,” I said. “This was the last place he worked.” I shrugged, maintaining my innocent demeanor. “It’s probably silly for me to even stop by here, I mean, what are the chances that anyone would remember him?”

“Not silly at all,” she said, her manner changing instantly. Solicitous now, she said, “I’m sorry to hear your dad died so young. What department was he in, do you know?”

“Management information systems,” I said. “What we’d call the IT department now. According to my mom, he was a vice president.”

Oh, I deserved an award for my acting. Gav looked like he was having a tough time keeping a straight face.

I wasn’t sure where to take this next, but the girl spared me by asking, “You mentioned your dad was one of the executives?”

“That’s what I understand.”

“Maybe Mr. Benson remembers him.”

“Craig Benson?” I asked.

“He’s here today. That’s unusual in itself because Kyle runs the place day to day now. But what a wonderful coincidence isn’t it? I’m sure he’d love to meet you. He’s such a nice man.” She picked up the receiver before I could respond. “Mr. Benson?” She smiled up at me as he answered. “I have a woman at the front desk whose father used to work here a long time ago. She says she’d love to meet you.” She was still smiling as she hung up. To us, she said, “Why don’t you have a seat? Mr. Benson said he’d be delighted to come out and say hello.” Her round head swayed like a bobbing balloon. “He’s such a nice man.”

Was she trying to convince me?

Gav and I glanced at the two sage sofas, which faced each other across a glass-and-chrome coffee table offering industry
magazines for our reading pleasure. We exchanged a look, silently agreeing that we’d both prefer to remain standing. “Have you worked here very long?” I asked the young woman.

“I started in May right after graduation,” she said with a self-conscious shrug. “I majored in economics, but this is the only job I could find.” She blinked, as if hearing how that came out. “Not that I’m complaining. They’ve been very good to me here.”

“I’m glad,” I said.

Gav took over the idle conversation while we waited, asking her where she went to school. I was grateful to be able to take a backseat because my mind was leaping like a startled gazelle. This unexpected opportunity to meet Craig Benson—a man who had known my dad very well—could be an enormous boon if I only knew what to ask or how to approach him. This could be such a coup. I didn’t want to blow it.

“What do you do for a living?” the girl asked Gav.

Smoothly, he answered, “I’m in insurance.”

Her pale brows rose, but he didn’t elaborate.

“Can you see yourself making a career here?” he asked, and I went back to pretending to listen.

I didn’t have long. In the distance a door closed with a solid
clunk,
echoing in the sterile lobby and halting all conversation. A moment later, an older gentleman came into view. The girl at the desk looked very proud of herself as she said, “There he is.”

I crossed the distance between us, extending my hand. “Mr. Benson,” I said. “Thank you for taking time out to meet with me.”

In an instant, I knew I wouldn’t have the same concerns I’d had with Eugene Vaughn. Though the two were close in age, my father’s elderly friend was in poor health and seemed to rely on a brain that slipped away whenever he tried too hard to clutch at a memory. Craig Benson carried himself with confidence. In his double-breasted navy blue
suit and shiny wing tips, he gave the impression of being a lot taller than he was. I put him at about five foot eight. With a narrow band of graying hair encircling his otherwise bald pate and eyes that were rimmed dark from worry or lack of sleep, he wore a well-fed look of money. He reminded me of Uncle Fester from the old
Addams Family
reruns I used to watch as a kid, except better dressed.

“Erica didn’t give me your name,” he said as we shook hands. He glanced over my shoulder, spotting Gav. I watched curiosity take hold; Benson spent an extra few seconds assessing him.

“My name is Olivia,” I said, “my dad worked here a long time ago. Maybe you remember him?” I waited a beat for Benson to give me his undivided attention. “Anthony Paras?”

Instant recognition jerked his head ever so slightly. “Tony?” He gave Gav another quick glance, as though looking for answers there. It took Benson less than a heartbeat to collect himself, but he did so admirably. “Oh, my,” he said, bringing a hand to his mouth. “Oh, my.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Erica’s panicked reaction. I’m sure she was worried that she’d committed some egregious error by putting the boss in an uncomfortable spot. Her concerns were laid to rest almost immediately, however, when Benson continued. “It’s been so long,” he said. “You were just a little thing.” He stepped sideways and extended an arm. “Come back to my office. Let’s talk.”

We started back the way he’d come, but Benson stopped Gav before we’d gone very far. “I fear I’ve been rude,” he said, extending his hand. “I’m Craig Benson. And you are?”

Gav shook the man’s hand. “Len Gavin,” he said. “I’m with Olivia.”

“I see,” Benson said, leading us through a back corridor to a silver door. Pulling it open, he said, “This way.”

In here, the décor changed. Sleek gray-blue walls with framed black-and-white photographs of Washington, D.C., landmarks lined a long corridor that ended in a T.

“Beautiful,” I murmured, taking it all in. An effulgent urn of fresh flowers sat atop an antique table under a brilliant spotlight, looking out of place yet exactly right in this modern design.

“We had a professional redecorate our space about two years ago,” Benson said. “My son’s idea.” From the askance look, I got the impression Daddy wasn’t impressed. “It shows well enough.”

We took a left at the T and passed through a door, where Benson welcomed us into his private office. His mouth twisted up and his eyes crinkled. “You can tell I didn’t allow the decorator in here.”

This office probably hadn’t changed since my dad had worked here. The carpet was navy blue with gold braid running a narrow crisscross pattern throughout. The walls were cream colored, the furniture oak, most of it antique with the exception of a massive mahogany desk that took up almost 10 percent of the room. Every wall except one was covered with photographs of Craig Benson, glad-handing other men. There were a few notable politicians represented and even a celebrity or two, but most of the pictures were of people I didn’t recognize. One wall had a door carved into it. I wondered if it led to an executive washroom, or to the office that sat to the right of the T.

An American flag stood in one corner next to the windows, a flag for a foreign country in the other. Between them was a second desk, antique oak, this one with at least a dozen framed family photographs atop it. As Benson invited us to sit, he noticed me looking at the flag. “My parents were born in Cabriga. I promised to never forget my roots, so I keep the flag here to remind me every day.”

“I’m sure they’d be very proud.”

“I’d like to think so.” He settled himself. “Now, what can I do for you, Ms. Paras? May I call you Olivia?”

“I’d be delighted if you would.”

He waited while I took a deep breath. “I know my visit
here comes as a surprise, but Gav and I were back visiting my mom last week—”

“Your mother!” he said, bringing a hand to his forehead. “Of course. How is she?”

“She’s doing well,” I said, shifting in my seat.

He laced his fingers across his chest. “And you? Do you live here in D.C.?”

“As a matter of fact, I do.”

I was about to bring the conversation back to my dad when he said, “Indulge an old man. Tell me a little about yourself. I remember how proud your father was of you. What do you do for a living?” A smile, this time for Gav. “You seem to be well settled.”

His questions were throwing me off my trajectory.

“I’m a chef,” I said, hesitating before adding, “at the White House.”

His eyebrows jumped, then furrowed. “Oh,” he said, peering at me with greater intensity. “I never put that together. Forgive me. You’re the executive chef, aren’t you? Your photos in the newspaper and on TV don’t do you justice.” He shook his head in disbelief. “You certainly take after your father. I should have realized.” As if suddenly remembering his manners, he added, “Congratulations on your prestigious position. I’m sure it took a great deal of hard work and no small measure of talent for you to reach such heights.”