Home of the Braised (6 page)

I ignored him. “Cyan,” I said as I untied my apron, “can you take over here? I was about to cross-check this preliminary guest list with the dietary restrictions we have on file. I’ve gotten about one-third of the way through.” I pointed to where I’d left off. “Looks like we have a lot of work ahead of us. We have dietary dossiers on only about half the people I’ve checked.”

“No problem,” she said.

“When Sargeant’s free, we’ll need his help to determine the final guest list. We’ve got four preliminary lists we’re working from and we need to cross-check those to ensure no one’s been missed.”

“Go,” Bucky said. “The dinner isn’t for another week. You know we’ll have fourteen more ‘absolute final’ lists to wade through between now and then.”

I smoothed my hands down the sides of my smock and inspected it to ensure I hadn’t spilled on it yet. I pulled on a toque and straightened it. “Do I look okay?”

Cyan laughed. “I swear, Ollie. You’re more worried about how you look for Sargeant than you are for your own wedding.” Coming close enough to whisper, she added, “Maybe Virgil isn’t so far off.”

“Bite your tongue,” I said.

A wave of worry slammed as the words escaped my lips. I’d often said that very thing to Gav—whenever he made casual mention of dying or getting hurt. We both knew that being involved in potentially life-threatening scenarios was part of his job description. I’d learned to accept that he faced danger on a regular basis, but that didn’t mean I liked to talk about it. “Bite your tongue”—I’d said that so often. And right now I worried, a lot, that he was in even deeper trouble than usual.

AS I MADE MY WAY UPSTAIRS VIA THE PANTRY
staircase, I decided that the thousand worries dancing in my head had to go if I had any hopes of making it through the day with my sanity intact. I’d start now. This was Sargeant’s moment and I needed to be there for him. Even though he’d caused me grief in the past—lots of grief, if I were being totally honest—we were facing a new beginning here today. Sargeant and I had reached a détente of sorts. If my appearance and support here at his appointment helped continue that truce, I was happy to comply.

Because the White House was open for tours at this time of the day, I could hear the gentle murmurs and happy exclamations coming from the adjacent State Dining Room. Tourists were still making their way from that room across the Entrance Hall to exit out the home’s front doors. Visitors weren’t, however, allowed into the Family Dining Room, which is where the press conference was being held.

As news went, Sargeant’s appointment didn’t rank as high as, say, the president’s message announcing peace talks with Durasi. That one had been held in the East Room, just across the hall. Good thing, too. The number of reporters, cameras, and dignitaries in attendance for that earth-shattering news wouldn’t have been able to squeeze into any other room in the White House. I’d snuck upstairs to listen and watch, myself.

President Hyden had been passionate and vocal about how the time had come for compromise. Surrounded by members of his cabinet, he’d talked about plans, about how these meetings with the president of Durasi might herald new hopes for global harmony, and he very eloquently called upon all citizens to pray in their own way that this unexpected opportunity with the Durasi would prove beneficial not only to both countries, but to the entire world.

Today’s press conference was nowhere in the same league as that had been, but personnel changes at the White House always made good news copy. This promotion and its ancillary attention meant the world to Sargeant, and I truly wished him the best.

Like every room on the residence’s first floor, the Family Dining Room had high ceilings and classic lines. Painted a buttery yellow, there were two north-facing windows draped in mustard-colored silk with coordinating tassels. A lectern had been brought in and set up between the two windows. Sargeant fidgeted behind it, shuffling a small stack of index cards. Although he looked as put together as always—starched shirt, careful tie, sharp-edged handkerchief in his suit’s breast pocket—his eyes darted about the room, seeing nothing. I could tell because he’d glazed over me twice as I approached. My presence hadn’t yet registered.

There were about eight reporters in attendance. A couple of them had cameras, but all in all the mood was calm rather than rapacious, the way it had been in the East Room for the president. Sargeant’s appointment would make a decent article in tomorrow’s papers and, of course, online. If Sargeant was lucky, his news might even garner a Twitter hashtag.

Secret Service agents were stationed throughout the room, doing their best to look ominous and imposing. I recognized all but two as members of the Presidential Protective Division, the PPD. A second later, I reassessed. The two unfamiliar men standing together at the back of the room were definitely not part of the PPD. I’d bet a week’s worth of onion chopping on that. I wasn’t close enough to see if they wore Secret Service lapel pins, but it didn’t matter. The pair studied the room differently. They both wore gray suits with jackets open, but their manner was off enough to make them stand out—at least to me. The reporters probably paid them no mind, and because the Secret Service agents in attendance weren’t alarmed, I wasn’t, either.

The taller of the two men caught me watching. He glanced away, though not before chilling me with an icy stare. What was up with that? I concentrated on Sargeant again, but a random thought flashed and I chanced another look at the two men. There was something familiar about the way the taller one—the one who’d caught me looking at him—moved. His manner and build teased at my memory, but I knew I’d never seen his face before. I tried shrugging it off. Their presence here was none of my business, but I still wanted to know who they were. Couldn’t help it. It was my nature.

For his part, Sargeant looked like a prisoner about to be executed. He stood apart from the others: the First Lady, the White House press secretary, and the myriad assistants who were there to ensure a quick and smooth event. With consternation on his face, and index cards in hand, his lips moved, as though practicing his speech in silence. He was so fidgety, I realized that if a person could pace in place, he was doing it.

It wasn’t until I was almost to the lectern, saying, “Good luck, Peter,” that he blinked. His eyes were bloodshot, like those of a man who’d been abruptly roused from sleep by an air horn.

“Do you suppose they’ll ask me questions?” he asked. Without waiting for me to reply, he went on. “I’ve been trying to come up with answers for whatever they might ask. I’ve been up all night imagining they might try to get me to comment on some of our foreign guests. Especially with the Durasi president due here soon. I don’t want to cause an international situation. You don’t think they will, do you?” He waved the white cards between us. “I wrote a few notes, in case they do.”

He held them in both hands now, staring down. I could only read what was written on the top one. Even upside down it was easy to make out the words he’d jotted so precisely: “No comment.”

In my opinion, rather than corner him for his views on foreign affairs, it was far more likely they’d ask about his background and want to know what he thought he might bring to the position that was new and different. Reporters would be eager to discover what Sargeant’s unique stamp on the position might be.

Our new chief usher’s fastidious nature was well-known within the residence—his meticulousness was legendary. If I could hazard a guess, those attributes were probably what had helped seal his appointment to this position. The local newshounds didn’t know these facets of Sargeant yet. They would no doubt. Soon.

“I’m sure they’ll ask a few things about your career thus far,” I said, “but their goal, mostly, is to get to know you. Don’t worry about them pressing you for anything you aren’t comfortable sharing. You’re surrounded by the First Lady and her assistants, don’t forget. The White House press secretary is here, too. He’s good at putting out fires.”

“So you
are
expecting them to press me on specifics?”

At that moment, the press secretary stepped away from the First Lady and approached Sargeant. “We need you over here,” he said, indicating a spot near the far window. “The First Lady and I will say a few words, then introduce you.” To me, he said, “It’s nice to have you here, Chef. Why not take a spot over there.” He pointed to the northeastern corner of the room. “When Mr. Sargeant’s promotion is announced and he steps forward, I’d like you to move in behind him, next to me and the First Lady. It will make a perfect publicity shot.”

I whispered, “Good luck,” to Sargeant and headed for the far corner.

Within moments, the press secretary had silenced the already tranquil crowd and talked briefly about Paul Vasquez’s tenure as chief usher. I missed Paul. I’d heard from him a couple of times since his departure. His wife remained seriously ill, but at least there was hope on the horizon. I knew he missed working here and all of us, but he was where he was needed most.

The press secretary skimmed over Doug’s on-the-job performance, stressing the fact that he’d been appointed as an interim chief usher, suggesting that Sargeant’s permanent appointment had been the ultimate plan all along.

Two days ago, as soon as it had become clear that the rumor of Sargeant assuming the position was, indeed, fact, Doug had demanded an explanation as to why he’d been passed over. While no one considered him to be a security threat, his loud grumbling and out-of-control deportment brought Secret Service agents running. He was allowed to gather his things before being escorted out.

We all would have preferred a smooth transition, but Doug’s knee-jerk angry response put a quick end to that plan. Doug would have a hard time getting references after that stunt.

The First Lady spoke next, also briefly. She talked about how she’d gotten to know Peter Everett Sargeant, and how he’d impressed her from the start with his devotion to duty and attention to detail.

By the time it was Sargeant’s moment in the sun, little beads of perspiration had formed above his brow. Though the lighting in the room was by no means hot or glaring, the brightness above sparkled, making the man’s glistening discomposure obvious to all. As he cleared his throat, I did as instructed and eased in to stand slightly behind him, to his left.

He began with the requisite thanks for being given the opportunity to serve. I held my breath, concerned by the faint tremble in his voice. As he went on, however, his words shook a little less, became a little stronger. He spoke for about two minutes and as his cadence shifted I could tell he was moving to close. Nice. Brief. All good. I felt myself relax.

A twenty-something male reporter raised his hand. He didn’t wait to be called upon to speak. The guy had a scruffy, who-cares air about him. Skinny, with a Mick Jagger haircut, he wore a dingy, white button-down shirt that was at least two sizes too small. “Daniel Davies from
The People’s Journal
,” he said, introducing himself to Sargeant as well as to the rest of the small audience.

I’d never heard of him, though his publication was well known.

He tilted his head, squinting. “My readers will want to know how you plan to handle the chef’s antics and maintain control over her tendency to interfere with the workings of government. She
has
been in the news frequently.” At that, he gave an insouciant nod in my direction.

Blood rushed, squeezing hot behind my eyes as Davies went on, “I’m sure I don’t have to remind you—or my esteemed colleagues—of her many extracurricular activities. If I understand correctly, Mr. Sargeant, you were involved in one of these exploits recently, yourself. Will your obvious friendship with Ms. Paras impact your ability to manage her?”

My cheeks warmed, and I fought to keep my expression neutral.
Obvious friendship?
If this reporter only knew the rocky and treacherous journey Sargeant and I had traveled just to get to where we were today. We’d finally gotten to the point of mutual respect, more or less. Friends? Not yet. Maybe not ever. How dare this un-put-together pipsqueak take that tone?

My brain roared with anger.
Exploits?
If this guy knew the truth . . . I took an involuntary step forward, barely stopping myself from stepping in front of the lectern to lash out.

Sargeant cleared his throat. His nostrils flared. As his hands clasped together below his chest, I recognized his familiar gesture as an attempt to calm himself. I hoped he could hold on. He needed to, for both our sakes.

The First Lady and press secretary wore twin, tight smiles and body language that told me they were ready to pounce. But Sargeant was a big boy now. He would have to learn to handle himself in all kinds of situations. Some might prove to be even tougher than this one, though at the moment I couldn’t imagine how. I’d have been willing to bet that no one in the room had expected this turn in the questioning.

All eyes were on me all of a sudden. I could barely breathe.

“Ms. Paras runs her kitchen to the best of her abilities,” Sargeant began, speaking slowly. While not exactly a rousing endorsement on his part, it was a good start. “As for the other activities you brought up, I don’t see where any of that matters in the fulfillment of my role as chief usher. Ms. Paras has proved to be an exemplary employee, and beyond that I have no comment. Thank you for your question.” Ever proper, Sargeant paused before shifting his attention to the other members of the press.

The young reporter ignored Sargeant’s attempt to deflect, interrupting again. “You have to admit that the chef has been embroiled in an uncanny number of national-security-sensitive situations since she’s been here. How do you intend to squelch her amateur sleuthing tendencies?” Before Sargeant could gather himself to answer, the reporter continued, “Or don’t you?”

The other reporters took notes, a few of them murmuring among themselves. The First Lady and the press secretary exchanged a glance, but Sargeant straightened and answered in the sort of commanding, belittling tone that I’d so despised in the past. “Mr. Davies,” he said. “Are you utterly ignorant of protocol? I will remind you that I was promoted to the position of chief usher after successfully discharging the duties of the White House sensitivity director for several years. One doesn’t make a name for himself by casting aspersions on others without proof.”

This time, Sargeant didn’t take a breath or give Davies the barest of openings. He continued in his familiar, high-handed, fussy way. “If you have questions about security, I suggest you direct them to the Secret Service. If you have questions about the running of the White House kitchen, I suggest you contact Ms. Paras directly. Today, however, we are here to discuss the running of the household and my appointment to this prestigious position. Period. I will thank you to stay on topic.” With a glance over the younger man’s head, Sargeant lifted his chin. “Next question?”