Recipes for Disaster (14 page)

“Donna, my sweet! Long time no see!” Babette’s air kiss misses me by a mile. 

Not so with Jack. He turns his head so quickly that her lips miss his, catching his shirt collar instead.

Babette shrugs. “What a shame! You’ve got my lipstick on your collar. At least this is one time Donna has no excuse to be jealous, since she witnessed my innocent attempt to kiss you.” 

He winks at her. “Donna doesn’t get jealous, she gets even.”

I love this man.

While Babette lets this sink in, Lee walks out of the estate’s grand salon. Seeing us, his face lights up with a smile. “Ah, the Stones! Glad to see the DNC took my advice, and hired your firm for Catherine’s protection—and that of the other candidates, of course. I was so impressed by the way in which you exposed Fantasy Island’s questionable management practices. It allowed my company to clean house, and to reassess the island’s investment potential.”

Jack takes my hand and presses my palm as a warning to let him take the lead. “What company is that, again?”

What a smart ass.

“Why Global World Industries, of course.” Lee smirks. “But you already know that, don’t you? My sources told me Acme was asking around about me, too.”

“Well, then certainly thanks are in order—especially for keeping our covers under wraps at the time, since our presence there wasn’t supposed to be known to the island’s management group.” Jack puts out his hand.

Lee shakes it. “Certainly, it was to GWI’s advantage to do so. While you investigated Mr. Bourke, I had you investigated, and learned about Acme’s dealings with governments all over the world. Bourke’s belief that your financial bid was real worked to GWI’s advantage as well. I felt it best not to intrude on your discovery process—that is, until Mrs. Stone’s life was in peril." He puts his hand on my arm. “Then of course, I did my best to intercede.” 

The memory of being prey for Fantasy Island’s Hunt Club has bile creeping up my throat—especially when I was under the impression that Carl was stalking me.

“All’s well that ends well. You got Donna back safely. And a WPI asset was saved from a public relations disaster. Not to mention the incident brought us together. And to think you already knew Babette! Small world, isn’t it? But no more unpleasant trips down memory lane! Come meet the candidate I hope will soon be our next president. Catherine is just dying to meet you.”

I guess we should feel guilty that we were distracted for the past few hours while we should have been reading Congresswoman Catherine Martin’s dossier, but we aren’t. From what we’ve seen thus far, research gathered from fawning magazine articles aren’t worth the bytes they’re pixeled on. 

One quantifiable fact that is hard to dispute: should she win, besides having the distinction of being the youngest candidate ever to run for the US presidency, she would certainly be the most photogenic, too.  

At least the first page in Catherine Martin’s dossier explains why she’s much more than just a pretty face. Despite being just three years older than me, her twelve-year tenure in the US House of Representatives has made her a strong voice on a few key Congressional committees, such as Armed Forces, Energy, Intelligence, and Foreign Affairs. Having graduated Harvard as a linguist, she is also fluent in French, German, and Chinese. 

Despite the flurry of campaign staffers buzzing about, the congresswoman doesn’t wait for a formal introduction. Instead, she welcomes me with a warm handshake. “You must be Mrs. Stone. May I call you Donna?”

“Yes, and this is my husband, who is also on your detail.” 

“Carl, isn’t it?” She takes his hand as well. “A pleasure. Lee has been singing your praises. Considering the threats I’ve received, I now know I’m in good hands.”

“How have these threats come to you, and when?” Jack asks.

“Via cell texts and emails. It concerns me that any potential assassin may have obtained access to such confidential information!” She shudders. “They began just in the last couple of weeks, when it was publically announced that we’d be coming back to California. I’m to receive the Zero Hunger America Humanitarian Award. We thought we’d make the most of the trip. Tomorrow through the early afternoon I’m doing the usual meet-and-greets and photo ops, then in the late afternoon, I’m to be interviewed for a spread in 
Mommy Dearest
 magazine. The following day, it’s been arranged for my husband, Robert, and I to take our son, Evan, to Disneyland. The award will be presented to me later that evening. But the day after is devoted to family. Robert and I want to take Evan to see the houses where we grew up.”

I smile. “Oh? You’re native Californians?” 

“Yes, from Pasadena, in fact.”

I do a double-take. “Small world. I’m from there, too.”

“Really?” She takes a hard look at me. “Robert and I are both graduates of East Pasadena High.”

“So am I.” We’re around the same age, and yes she does seem familiar to me—

“My maiden name is Connelly. And Bobby was big man on campus—”

Connelly …

Catherine …

CeeCee?

My heart drops into my stomach so quickly that I feel faint.

No. Oh, hell no—

Not CeeCee Connelly.

But yes, now I realize it is the same CeeCee whose backyard butted up against mine and whose always-open window gave me a peek as to what was to come when I skidded into the very fast teen lane of life.

She let me wear her lipstick, taught me how to use mascara, and showed me how to stuff my bra.

She was supposed to be my sitter. Instead she was my provocateur, nudging me into the forbidden world of gossip, flirtation, and sexual exploration.

In return, I was her confidante, her little sister—

And sadly, the target of her wrath when she so wrongly presumed I threatened her.

How could I, when in fact I idolized her—

When I wanted to be her?

Because of some pathetic misunderstanding, so long ago, over—

“Donna? My God, is that you?”

When I turn around, I 
see him
: 

Bobby. 

Tall, blond and tanned, with a twinkle in his eye and a teasing grin.

But how can that be? Like me, he should have grown older—not to mention wiser, and perhaps more contrite for the cruel slights administered to others.

To me.

He sees me staring at him. And yet, ever so polite, he holds out his hand. “Hello, my name is Evan Martin.”

I take it, and hope that he doesn’t realize my palm is sweaty.

Or that my heart is stuck in my throat.

The heart he broke into sad little bits, so long ago.

But this boy is not Bobby. I know this because Bobby stands behind the son who is his spitting image. 

The real Bobby is older, with a few gray hairs and a few more pounds. The creases around Real Bobby’s mouth are deeper, and there is a tiny web of wrinkles by his eyes, which almost disappear as they open from his shock at seeing me. 

Do I look the same to him? I’m sure I don’t. I’m certainly a few inches taller than my eleven-year-old self, hopefully not as scrawny, and certainly happier, despite the path that has led me here, back to them.

To protect CeeCee.

CeeCee who is now staring hard at me through cold eyes; whose smile falters, and whose voice cracks under the weight of her wariness from some unknown threat:

Me.

But today my role is not to inflict wounds. Instead, I must serve and protect—

My very first enemy: 

CeeCee Connelly, who now goes by Catherine Martin or Mrs. Robert Martin.

She is now Bobby’s wife.

So instead of crying in front of him, or berating him for hurting me so long ago, or showing anyone—especially CeeCee—that I can’t separate some long-buried hurt from my official duties, I smile and feign memory loss. “Um … I’m sorry. I mean, yes, my name is Donna, but do I know you?”

The pupils of Bobby’s eyes flicker like a camera shutter right at the moment in which its film is exposed to light, preserving forever the reality of life at that very moment: 

Bobby is married to CeeCee, and I am no more than a bodyguard paid by the political party that wishes for her to win the upcoming election.

I wonder why is there so much sadness in his eyes.

Chapter 10

Kitchen Cabinet

A politician’s “kitchen cabinet” is a group of unofficial advisers who are considered to be unduly influential to his or her decision-making process.

This can include a campaign manager, a spouse, mentors and previous professors, and those renowned for their knowledge and skills in the areas of important policies: finance, foreign affairs, and domestic issues, such as education and health care.

Since these confidants are not elected officials in their own right, those whose lives are being affected by the politician in question can only hope that his kitchen cabinet members (a) aren’t just kiss-ass sycophants; (b) haven’t filled the candidate’s coffers to the extent that he is now their lapdog; and (c) that their opinions don’t confuse him to the point that he always chooses the recommendation of the last person who has talked to him, a.k.a., the “last one in the elevator” syndrome.

More than likely, one of these scenarios will play out, so be prepared to feel disenfranchised. Hey, there’s always the next election, and the next candidate.

And the next kitchen cabinet influencing decisions on your behalf.

One thing everyone can agree upon is that a pie is only as great as its crust. That said, this recipe is tried-and-true to create a crisp, flaky crust every time:

The Pie Lady’s Crust

(From Kristin Isaacson, Seattle, Washington)

Ingredients

2 cups sifted flour

¾ tsp. salt and 1 TBS sugar

½ cup Crisco

¼ cup butter

4-6 TBS ice water

Directions

1: Sift together flour, salt and sugar.

2: Add Crisco, and blend with a pastry blender until it is the consistency of meal.

3: Add the butter, and cut into the Crisco/flour mixture, until it is the size of peas.

4: Add ice water, one tablespoon at a time, stirring lightly with a butter knife until dough starts to form (don’t be worried if the dough gets a little wet).

5: Divide into halves, and roll onto a generously floured surface.

6: Remember to own your dough—and don’t let it own you!

“Mom, Babette Chiffray called just a few minutes ago.” Mary disdainfully plucks black olives off the pizza Aunt Phyllis has ordered for everyone, including Wendy, who is busy scraping mushrooms off her piece, then the girls swap piles.

It saddens me to see that Babs is not here, too. All week long, Mary has been ignoring my seemingly innocent questions about her friend’s wellbeing. 

“Did Mrs. Chiffray leave a message?” I ask. 

 “She said something about a change of plans. You’ll need to be at her house at least by eight-fifteen tomorrow, so that you can accompany Congresswoman Martin to her first campaign stop.” 

Wendy looks up from patting down her olives. “Are you really part of the congresswoman’s entourage?”

I sigh. “Not really.”

Jack nudges and mutters, “Tell them the truth.”

I nudge him back. “Yes. Well, really I’m helping out your father, whose firm has some dealings with her campaign. She's here with her husband and her son—”

“Oh my God!” Wendy squeals. “Someone said they spotted Evan Martin jogging in the park; so it’s true! He’s here! He is 
such
 a hottie!”

Yes, he is his father’s son. 

I turn my face so that Jack can’t see my frustration. Too late. I catch his frown in the mirror. 

Wendy nudges Mary. They exchange a wink. Mary asks nonchalantly, “How long is Evan—I mean, are the Martins, in town?”

Whatever scheme they’re hatching is going to be nipped in the bud, right here and now. “Not long at all. Just a couple of days, in fact. The congresswoman has a few events, then she and her husband are stopping in Pasadena, where they grew up—”

I stop short, but it’s too late. Aunt Phyllis looks up. “Our home town? Do we know the family?”