State of the Onion (3 page)

I wasn't fooled. The only reason my involvement in the skirmish wasn't going on my record was because of how bad it looked to have a little lady assistant chef stop the bad guy that the big macho Secret Service couldn't catch.

I resisted the urge to make a face at Craig's retreating back.

TO KEEP MY HANDS BUSY, I CHOPPED FRESH tomatoes and onions for use later in the day. We always needed things chopped. When one of the other assistants, Cyan, came in a few minutes later, she shrugged out of her jacket and donned an outfit similar to mine, jabbering all the while.

“You should see all the network crews out around the perimeter. Lafayette Park is a mob scene. What's going on? I thought the president's news conference was scheduled for tomorrow. Wasn't it? I didn't think it was today—he's not back in residence till this afternoon, right? Did Marcel make coffee?”

“Over there,” I said. The coffee carafe sat where it did every day, but Cyan had a powerful need to keep conversation going. She was a few years younger than I. Taller, too, but then again, almost everyone was. Her red hair was pulled back into a half pony, which bounced as she made her way to the carafe.

I thought about what she'd said. The president wasn't due back to the White House till later. The determined trespasser, Naveen, had obviously gotten some bad intelligence if he'd come to warn the president on a day when he wasn't even in the country.

“Where's Marcel?” she asked.

“He went over to the White House Mess to meet Henry.”

“Did you pick up the gift? Can I see it before they get back?”

The awareness that I'd lost the commemorative pan during this morning's encounter hit me hard—like I'd been the one slammed in the head. “I don't have it here,” I said, not wanting to explain further. Not now, at least.

I bit my lip and kept working. I always chopped onions next to an empty stove burner, with the flame turned high. Cyan, used to my habits, ignored me as she stood before the computer monitor to study the day's schedule. Late last night, Henry and I had updated it.

“What's next?” she asked, clicking ahead on the calendar.

“Getting ready for India's prime minister,” I said. “He's arriving this afternoon, and meeting with the president this evening. Remember that menu we worked up a while back?”

“Oh, yeah,” Cyan said. “The one you came up with when Henry was on vacation. I hate working so far in advance.”

I laughed. “And so you're working here—why?” The meals we designed were so scrupulously planned that we always started weeks in advance, to be certain to get everything just right.

“I'm just saying I like spontaneity.”

“Speaking of spontaneity,” I said, looking up, “what color today?”

“Emerald green.” She blinked wide eyes at me so I could appreciate her contact lenses.

Returning to my chopping, I shook my head. “You change so often that I've forgotten what your real eye color is.”

“Blue.” She grinned. “Just like my name.”

“Good morning,” the president said, striding into the kitchen's work area.

My hands stopped mid chop.

President Harrison R. Campbell had a boyish face, but a statesman's bearing. He'd taken office in January, upsetting the incumbent by a wide margin, his victory due in no small part to his platform of unity.

“I thought you were in Reykjavik, sir,” I said before I could keep the words from tumbling out.

Two Secret Service men in dark suits followed him in. The White House kitchen has relatively narrow aisles running between cabinets, countertops, and our center work area. Although Cyan and I were small, the president's imposing authority and the two giants behind him made for some cramped quarters.

“Nope,” he answered—casually, like I had any right to question his whereabouts. “I got in late last night.” He pointed to the pile of minced onions on the far end of my cutting board and then to the flame flicking upward from the range's burner. “Cuts the crying, doesn't it?” he asked.

Startled that he noticed, I stammered. “Yes…yes. It does.”

“My mother used to do the same thing.”

I smiled. “Mine, too.”

The fact that he'd been in residence last night made me remember my musings about the intruder's erroneous intelligence. The man had been right after all. He'd claimed to want to warn the president—who shouldn't have been here this morning, but was. I tucked away that little tidbit as I shut off the stove and wiped my hands.

President Campbell towered over me, but smiled as he made a small gesture to the two agents behind him. “May I have a word with you, Olivia?”

Like I would say no.

“Sure,” I said, then winced at my flip-sounding response. “I mean, yes, of course, sir.” I turned to look for a quiet corner, but the two agents had already directed Cyan out of the room.

The moment it was quiet, the president fixed his bright blue stare on me. “I want to thank you for what you did this morning.”

Surprised, all I could manage was, “Oh.” And despite the worry that I'd say something stupid if I continued talking, I plunged on. “It was an honor. Sir.”

Wearing the same expression he did during difficult press briefings, he nodded. “The Secret Service is handling the incident in cooperation with other agencies, and the man has been taken into custody. I just wanted to let you know so that you don't worry about your safety here at the White House.”

My
safety?

“I wasn't worried.” Words raced through my mind, all out of order. I'd never had so much difficulty putting sentences together. “That is…not for myself. The man was trying to get to you, sir. He said he needed to warn you.”

“You spoke with him?”

“No,” I said. I pictured myself standing over the guy, skillet in hand. “It was more like he tried to talk to me.”

The president waited.

“He…he said you were in danger.”

The president's face was grim. “As are we all, in times like these.” We both felt the weight of his words. “The security staff might have a few more questions for you. Don't be alarmed if they call you in again.”

He must have caught my quick glance at the clock.

“I didn't have a chance to eat breakfast this morning,” he said. “Scrambled eggs and toast will be enough for now.” He smiled at me. “And Mrs. Campbell informs me that tonight's menu for India's prime minister is your creation.”

I nodded.

“Then I'm very much looking forward to dinner.”

“Thank you, sir. I hope everyone enjoys it.”

“I'm sure we all will.”

He stretched out his hand. It was only the second time I'd shaken the president's hand, but this time was just as thrilling as the first. “And, Ollie, one more thing.” He fixed me with those intense blues again. “Other than Secret Service personnel, I would appreciate it if you don't speak of this morning's events with anyone else.”

“OLLIE, ARE YOU OKAY? WHAT'S HAPPENING?” Henry walked in moments later, talking up a storm. “I just passed the president in the corridor. Was he in here with you?”

I opened my mouth to speak, but stopped myself as Cyan and Marcel appeared behind Henry. Not thirty seconds before, the president of the United States of America had asked me not to discuss this with anyone, and here I was about to spill the spaghetti with my coworkers.

“Yeah,” I said, “he'd like scrambled eggs for breakfast.”

Henry glanced in the direction the president had exited and gave me a thoughtful look. “He came down here to tell you that in person?”

I nodded.

Although he was set to retire on his sixty-seventh birthday, Henry was still one of the most vibrant and quick-witted people I knew. He was also the most talented chef I'd ever worked under. It was just in the past couple of years that I'd noticed him taste-testing more often, as evidenced by his expanding waistline, and delegating the more physically demanding tasks to us. His light brown hair had started to thin and go gray at the temples, but his voice was just as resonant as it had been when I'd joined his staff during the administration immediately prior to this one.

Cyan's eyes widened. “That's all he said? Why did he have to talk with you in person, then? Alone? I bet it had something to do with all the commotion outside this morning. Did it? Hey, you must have been outside when it happened, weren't you?”

Henry picked up on Cyan's comment, but she didn't seem to notice her gaffe. “What commotion? You were outside, Ollie?”

I shook my head, “I forgot my keys down by the staff entrance.” I hated lying to Henry, but between the president's words and the need to keep my errand secret if we were to pull off our surprise, I didn't think I had much choice.

He smiled. “Maybe you should tie those keys around your neck.” He let out a satisfied sigh. “As for the commotion, I'm sure we'll hear more about it later.”

Cyan moved closer. “So, what did the president really say?”

“Not much.” I pointed to the computer monitor. “President Campbell said he was looking forward to the big dinner tonight. And that he hadn't had breakfast and he's hungry. We should probably get those scrambled eggs started.”

“Oh, come on. He must have wanted something. What was it?” Cyan took a deep breath which, I knew, heralded another slew of questions.

Henry raised his hand, silencing her. “Less talk, more work.” To me, he said, “Say no more, Ollie. The president's meals are our first responsibility. Scrambled eggs it is.”

We set to work on a second breakfast. The timing was tough because of the official dinner tonight, but it wasn't anything we couldn't handle.

In addition to the scrambled eggs, we prepared bacon—crisp—wheat and rye toast, fruit, coffee, orange juice, and Henry's Famous Hash Browns. More than just pan-fried potatoes, Henry used his own combination of seasonings that made my mouth water every time he prepared the dish. The president and First Lady were so impressed with the recipe that they insisted we serve them at every official breakfast function.

Henry wielded the frying pan with authority, flipping his special ingredients so they danced like popcorn, sizzling as bits landed back in the searing hot oil. “Work fast, my friends. A hungry president is bad for the country!”

After the meal was plated and sent to the family quarters, we cleaned up the kitchen and began preparations for lunch. Then it was time to pull out the stops as we got the official dinner together for India's prime minister. This wasn't as significant an event as a state dinner, where guest lists often topped one hundred, and we were required to pull in a couple dozen temporary assistants to help. This was a more sedate affair; it required a great deal of effort, but it was certainly manageable for a staff of five.

I'd designed a flavorful menu, and the First Lady, after tasting the samples we provided, had approved. We'd feature some of the best we had to offer: chilled asparagus soup; halibut and basmati rice with pistachio nuts and currants; bibb lettuce and citrus vinaigrette; and one of Marcel's show-stopping desserts. We'd done as much as we could in advance without sacrificing freshness or quality, but the time had come to marshal the troops and get everything in the pipeline for the big dinner.

Talk among us turned, as it inevitably did, to the subject nearest to our hearts—the First Lady's choice for Henry's successor.

After months of interviews and auditions, the field had been narrowed down to two: Laurel Anne Braun and me. Laurel Anne was a former White House sous-chef, and host of the wildly popular television show
Cooking for the Best
. She and I had worked together at a top restaurant when I'd just graduated from school, long before my White House days. I'd been promoted over her. She'd never forgiven me. And she made it a point to make sure I knew that. I was hoping to avoid her, if I could, when she came in to prepare her audition meals at the White House.

“She does not have a chance against you,” Marcel said, his “chance” sounding like “shantz.” He deftly arranged chocolate petals to form lotus blossoms. Tonight's dessert of mangoes with chocolate-cardamom and cashew ice cream, would be the crowning glory of the evening's meal. He'd worked late for several nights to create the fragile chocolate pieces, and I held my breath as he assembled them. The gorgeous centerpieces came together like magic, without his breaking even one of the delicate petals. “Henry recommended you,
n'est-ce pas
? This is the most important consideration.”

Cyan had removed the asparagus from the boiling water after its four-minute bath then waited for it to cool slightly before beginning to slice the blanched stalks for the soup. “Really, Ollie, I don't think you have a thing to worry about—”

She was interrupted by Bucky's arrival. The final member of our permanent staff, he didn't socialize much with the rest of us. That was fine by me. Bucky and Laurel Anne had worked together in the White House kitchen under the previous administration. Henry had never told me the entire story of why she left. All I knew was that my subsequent hiring after Laurel Anne's departure had won me a prime spot on Bucky's hit list.

The four of us stopped talking the minute Bucky walked in. But it bothered me that we did.

I shrugged. What did it matter if Bucky heard us? We all knew that Laurel Anne was the lead contender for the executive chef position. Catching Cyan's eye, I said, “Thanks, but come on.” I cut into a segment of grapefruit and expressed its juice into a bowl. “The First Lady's been Laurel Anne's guest on the show…what? twice?…in the past
four
months. That wins her big brownie points.” I diced the remaining fruit, grimacing at nothing in particular. “I don't even know why Laurel Anne needs to audition. The prior First Family ate her meals for years. For crying out loud, Mrs. Campbell's probably already made up her mind. And this is all just wait-and-see…for show.”

Next to me, Henry prepared the entrée. Since halibut is a lean fish easily susceptible to over-or undercooking, I'd decided on a simple pan-frying method. We'd had the fish flown in from Alaska waters, vacuum-sealed in manageable-sized pieces and kept on ice to maintain freshness, but no flesh ever touched ice directly. Later, we'd brown them on one side in olive oil, then bake them in flavored butter. Henry shook his head as he expertly sliced the flatfish into steaks. “Don't be so down on yourself, Ollie. Mrs. Campbell knows you, too.” He graced me with one of his fatherly smiles, the kind I couldn't resist. “And I know you.”

“Thanks,” I said, smiling back.

Cyan piped in again. “And you know, the TV show might just work against her. The White House doesn't allow that sort of distraction among the staff. Knowing her, she'd never give up the glamour.”

Bucky spoke up from his quiet corner. “Laurel Anne gave an interview about her upcoming audition. I saw it on a local channel last night.”

I stopped what I was doing. We all did.

“She's from Idaho, you know. The First Lady's home state.” Bucky raised his eyes to ensure we were paying attention. We were. “If Laurel Anne gets the executive chef position, she says she'd happily give up
Cooking for the Best
because her new vocation will be ‘Cooking for the Prez.'”

When Bucky returned to shelling pistachio nuts, I made a gagging motion for Cyan and Henry to see.

Like he had eyes in the back of his head, Bucky addressed me again. “Just think, Ollie, if Laurel Anne gets the nod, you'll be reporting to her.”

“Maybe, maybe not.” I bit the insides of my cheeks to keep my voice level. “If she's in charge, I don't see myself sticking around here very long.”

Henry gave me an avuncular pat on the back. “Then it would be the White House's loss.”

BEFORE THE GUESTS ARRIVED, I STOLE OVER TO the State Dining Room to have a quick look. As always, the sheer grandeur took my breath away. The staff bustled about, making last-minute adjustments to the placement of water glasses and candles on round tables covered in saffron-colored silk. Our floral designer, Kendra, and her staff snipped and pruned and made tiny changes to the green mums and hot pink roses she'd shaped to resemble elephants in honor of India's prime minister. The entire room, with its magnificent attention to detail, suffused me with pride. I glanced up at George P. A. Healy's portrait of Abraham Lincoln. It hung above the fireplace, and I got the distinct feeling that our sixteenth president was watching over us as we strove to make our current president proud.

What thrilled me most was that I'd designed tonight's menu—the centerpiece of the evening. I'd done it. Me. The lowly assistant chef.

A smile tugged at my lips. The lowly assistant chef with her eye on the executive chef's position. I stood over one of the place settings and ran my finger along the rim of the dinner plate. This was the Clinton china collection, with architectural designs from the State Dining Room, the East Room, and the Diplomatic Reception Room incorporated in its gold band. The north face of the White House graced the plate's center—a first for presidential china. It was one gorgeous design.

I'd worked hard to make tonight's menu sparkle, and with a small sigh of pride, I realized I couldn't ask for a more perfect setting to showcase it.

Just as I made my way out, Craig Sanderson appeared in the doorway with another agent. Though I recognized him as Secret Service, he was not part of the usual Presidential Protection Detail, or PPD, as we liked to call them.

“Agent Sanderson,” I said, not sure if he and I were back to first-name friendliness. “I'm surprised you're still here.”

Without missing a beat, he turned to his companion. “This is the assistant chef I told you about. Olivia Paras. Olivia, this is the assistant deputy of the Secret Service, Jack Brewster.”

The man, a taller, older fellow with a wide-set nose and ruddy complexion, raised an eyebrow as he gave me the once-over. “You were the young woman involved in the altercation this morning?”

“Yes,” I answered, suddenly ill at ease.

“And you are employed here as an assistant chef?”

“Yes.”

He stared a long moment. Nodded. “We may have more questions for you later.”

I scooted away before he decided to question me right then and there.

AT HOME THAT NIGHT, I TURNED ON CNN, snuggled into my comfortable red pajamas, brushed my teeth, and spent a few important moments at the mirror fixing my hair. I poured a glass of wine for myself, and made sure I had a chilled mug in my freezer and a supply of Samuel Adams in the fridge.

The official dinner for India's prime minister had gone so well that the White House social secretary, Marguerite Schumacher, had made a special effort to visit the kitchen and let us know what a success tonight's event had turned out to be.

I sighed, contented.

It still amazed me that I was here, in Washington, D.C., working in the most important kitchen in the world. A far cry from life back in the Chicago two-flat with my mom and Nana.

The sun had gone down two hours ago, and I couldn't believe it'd been just this morning that the Secret Service had carted away the man…Naveen…the guy I'd knocked to the ground. It felt more like a year ago.

I caught a glimpse of the clear, starry night above my balcony, and I wondered if Mom and Nana stared up at the stars and thought of me, as I thought of them. I would love to have them both relocate here, but Nana was set in her ways, and my mom would never abandon her. Not even to live near me.

I'd made noises today about leaving the White House if Laurel Anne got the executive chef position, but I wasn't kidding anyone, least of all myself. This was my dream job, and I'd fight with everything I had before I'd give it up to the likes of Laurel Anne.

On a whim, I popped a blank tape into my VCR and started recording the news. As I expected, they were still running the story. I wanted to know more about this Naveen. And what danger he had talked about. And how he knew Craig Sanderson.