Julie Hyzy - Hail to the Chef

“Sure,” I said, thinking it an odd request. “Let me get you to the Internet.”

Within seconds I had him set up and gave him some privacy. “Let me know when you’re done.”

Although we all shared the same computer in the kitchen, it felt strange to allow an outsider-even if that outsider was the president’s nephew-access. But what harm could he do? Change the ingredients in one of our recipes? Unlikely.

I kept myself busy for about a quarter hour, until Sean raised his head. “Hey, Ollie,” he said.

“What’s up?” I asked, coming over to him.

“I just got an e-mail from Aunt Elaine. Treyton Blanchard is bringing his assistant instead of his wife to Thanksgiving.”

“That’s right.”

He closed out of the Internet connection and headed back to his prior task. “You knew about that?”

“Sure. We’re always informed about guest changes.”

Sean pulled a shrimp from the pile and worked it. As he started up again, I could tell that he’d begun to develop a feel for the job-but the guy still had a long way to go. “Any idea why?”

Helping him, I grabbed a shrimp, removing the legs, shell, and tail with swift movements. I zipped the vein out and grabbed a second shrimp. “Mrs. Blanchard begged off,” I said. “Something to do with keeping traditions at home.”

He snorted.

I deveined the second shrimp and tossed it into a large bowl of ice. “You think there’s another reason?”

He frowned down at the crustacean in his hand. “Maybe.”

I tugged a new shrimp out of the bucket, disentangling its legs from the rest of them. “You think there’s something between Blanchard and Bindy?” The words popped out before I could stop myself.

“No,” he said with a headshake. “It’s not that. It’s just…” He glanced about the room. We were talking in low enough tones, and there was enough busy noise that the rest of the staff couldn’t hear what we were saying. “You know about Nick Volkov’s problems, don’t you?”

I didn’t.

“Well…” Another furtive glance around the room as he fought the little shrimp in his hand. “Do a Google search online. He’s been having problems. He could use a windfall right about now to pay his legal bills. And I think he’s convinced Senator Blanchard and Helen Hendrickson that it’s in their best interests to sell Zendy Industries.” Sean finally finished cleaning his shrimp and picked up another. I’d managed three in the interim.

“And you think tomorrow will be some sort of ambush?”

“That’s what I was trying to tell Aunt Elaine,” he said. “But she just sees the good in everyone.”

I tossed another shrimp in the completed pile. “It’s a nice quality to have.”

“Unless people are out to screw you.”

“You don’t really believe that?”

Sean stopped working. “The problem is, I do. I’m just glad Uncle Harrison will be there. They can try to sway her, but if she holds her ground, I know he’ll back her up.”

“And you’ll be there.”

He smiled at me again in a way I wish he hadn’t. “I will be. And so will you.”

“My food will be there,” I said, looking away. “The butlers will be there. I won’t.”

“Hmm,” Sean said, beginning to work the shrimp again. “Maybe you could put a drug in the food that makes everybody tired. Then we’d all just have a great meal and go home and sleep. No business talk.”

He laughed. I didn’t think it was funny. Above all, the food that came out of my kitchen had to be safe. That wasn’t something I ever joked about.

Sean must have sensed my displeasure because he sobered at once. “Listen, Ollie, I just have to tell you, I have a bad feeling about all this. The stakes are high. Aunt Elaine doesn’t realize how desperate Volkov may be. I’d hate to see her get taken.”

I put my hand on his, belatedly realizing that was probably a mistake. “Mrs. Campbell’s a smart lady. She’s strong. I’m sure she won’t give in if she really doesn’t want to.”

Sean had just begun to answer when Peter Everett Sargeant III strode in, one eyebrow cocked at us. “Well, well,” he said. “I see we’ve got a whole slew of new recruits.”

Leave it to Sargeant to pop in at the exact wrong time. I sighed, reconsidering. Lately, with all the trouble and with two major events still behind schedule, was there ever a good time?

“Hello, Mr. Baxter,” Sargeant said. Sean was the only person in the room he directly acknowledged. “It’s a pleasure to see you again.”

“Same here.” Sean glanced from Sargeant to me. “Guess I ought to be going, huh?” He shot his last shrimp a distasteful look and gave me a sideways smile. “I think I’ll stick to the turkey tomorrow,” he said. “See you then, Ollie.”

When he left I washed my hands and wiped them dry. “Peter,” I said. Ever since taking on the role of executive chef, I had the privilege-if one could call it that-of addressing our sensitivity director by his first name. “What can I do for you?”

“What was Sean Baxter doing down here?”

I no longer had to answer to Sargeant. Gave me a good feeling, deep down. “Something you need, Peter?” I asked again.

He pulled out a notebook from his jacket pocket. “Friday’s luncheon,” he began. “I took the liberty of reviewing the guest list and I want to ensure you’ve provided for all the different religious and dietary issues we’ll be facing.”

I refrained from rolling my eyes. “We’ve got it covered.”

“But I haven’t had a chance to oversee the actual food preparation-”

“And you won’t,” I said, guiding him back toward the doorway. “I sent a copy of our complete menu to your office. If you chanced to read it, you’d see that everything has been handled with our usual aplomb.”

I couldn’t resist a tiny bit of bravado. We’d worked hard to come up with the perfect menu, with choices that would not only please a multitude of palates, but offer varieties to keep kosher, vegan, halaal, low-fat, low-carb, and non-dairy, among other things. To say this buffet had been one of my greatest challenges yet would be understatement. But everyone in the kitchen knew our guests would talk to the press afterward. We wanted-and expected-nothing short of a glowing account.

Sargeant was shaking his head. “I didn’t read it yet. I would much prefer it if you walk me through-”

“And I much prefer to maximize the little time we have to get our meals together. So, Peter,” I said, relishing the use of his first name again, “I have to ask you to allow us to do our jobs and to come back some other time. Preferably after the new year.”

Blinking, he squared his shoulders and left without another word.

Bucky slapped his hands together in slow-motion applause. “Good job, kid. I didn’t think you had it in you.”

ON THURSDAY, WITH LESS THAN AN HOUR TO go before Thanksgiving guests were due, food was flying. Not literally, of course. But we were all moving so fast that everything seemed a tiny bit blurred. Though there were only nine for dinner today, there were still dozens of last-minute details to attend to. We concentrated hard and talked very little.

I glanced at the clock. Just past noon. Mingled scents of roasting meat-the turkey breasts in the far oven, and the Virginia ham resting on the counter behind me-gave me enormous comfort. We were on time. Despite the fact that we left nothing to chance, I always panicked about the turkey; in my opinion, there was nothing worse than dried-out fowl. As I poured onion gravy from a pan into a temporary tureenlike container, I shot a glance at the oven door. “Bucky,” I called over my shoulder, “can you-”