Julie Hyzy - Hail to the Chef

I hadn’t met Nick Volkov before, but I recognized him from the recent news items I’d checked online at Sean’s suggestion. Volkov and his wife had had some trouble lately-involving allegedly bogus land deals, kickbacks, payoffs, and property liens. Volkov was a man-whether guilty or innocent-for whom a windfall would be salvation. No wonder he was pressuring Mrs. Campbell for a quick sale.

As they chatted and mingled with the other guests, the couple never seemed to lose physical contact with each other-his arm grazed hers his, fingers skimmed her back. Younger than the First Lady by about ten years, Nick was stout and fair, with youthful Eastern European features and a prominent brow. Mrs. Volkov, by contrast, wore her age like a road map. She looked considerably older than her husband and was a little bit hunched. Maybe all the jewelry she wore weighed her down. I hadn’t seen this much sparkle since I passed Tiffany’s in New York City.

“I don’t understand your reluctance, Elaine,” Nick Volkov said to the First Lady. His voice was even bigger than he was. “The sooner we put your uneasiness behind us, the sooner we can enjoy this blessed Thanksgiving day. Don’t you agree?”

Mrs. Campbell held her hands together, clasped low. She was the only diner in the room not carrying a glass of wine. “Oh, Nick,” she said, with a touch of reproof, “I’m certainly not reluctant to talk, nor uneasy about my position with the company. I just don’t want to discuss things twice. Why don’t we wait for another opportunity, when both my husband and Sean can be here?”

I glanced at Jackson again. He shook his head. Sean still hadn’t arrived.

Volkov lowered his voice. I almost didn’t hear his next words. “If we wait too long, Elaine, we will miss our opportunity. Ten years from now the market may not be as good as it is now.”

“And in ten years the market may be better,” Mrs. Campbell said smoothly. “In fact, my father counted on that. He didn’t want me to-”

“Your father didn’t understand how things have changed.”

“I believe he did.” The First Lady’s lips twitched. “And I certainly do.”

Volkov’s voice rose. “It comes down to this: We need to act and we need to do so right now.”

“Nick,” she said, and I caught the impatience in her tone, “once we sell, everything our fathers worked for will be gone. Zendy Industries will belong to others-to people who might take it in a direction we can’t control.”

“What difference does it make after we’ve been adequately compensated? Our fathers worked hard to provide us with security for our futures. Isn’t this exactly what we’re taking advantage of? Don’t you think they would approve?”

“I don’t think they would approve, no,” Mrs. Campbell answered. She unclasped her hands and gestured around the room. “I don’t think any of us is financially insecure right now. None of us needs the money-not for any legitimate reason.”

Nick Volkov’s face reddened.

He looked ready to say something unpleasant when his wife interrupted. “Where is Sean, anyway?” she asked. “I believe I’ve only met him once before. Such a nice young man.”

Volkov sniffed. “Too young to understand the subtleties of business.”

I backed away as Mrs. Campbell glanced toward the open door. “I don’t know. I’m sure he said he was coming.”

Nick Volkov cleared his throat. “He’s irresponsible, if you ask me.”

I slid around fast enough to catch Mrs. Campbell’s tight smile. “Well, it’s a good thing I didn’t ask you, then, isn’t it?” she said. With a pleasant nod to Mrs. Volkov, Mrs. Campbell excused herself to mingle with the other guests.

Call me Nosy Rosie, but I couldn’t let it go. I continued to watch the interactions in the next room, listening closely to as many conversations as I could. The only people I knew who had the First Lady’s interests at heart were the president and Sean. I hoped to overhear some tidbits of information that I could pass along to Sean later. Again, I wondered where he was. After our conversation yesterday in the kitchen, I couldn’t imagine he would have forgotten the time. But things happen, and I decided that until he showed up, I was on spy duty.

Nick Volkov muttered under his breath. I didn’t catch his words, but I couldn’t miss the grimace he made behind the First Lady’s back. Helen Hendrickson didn’t miss it either. Practically sprinting away from Treyton Blanchard’s side, she hurried over to join the Volkovs. Helen Hendrickson was not a small woman, nor a young one. The quick movement left her breathless. “Did she say she’ll sign?” she asked.

“Hardly,” Nick answered. “She’s unwilling to even entertain conversation until that damn Baxter arrives.” Turning to his wife, he said something else I couldn’t catch. She broke away from him to intercept Fitzgerald, who’d been heading toward them. Mrs. Volkov looped an arm through his and led him away toward the room’s fireplace.

Helen Hendrickson chewed her thumbnail before addressing Volkov. “What can we do?”

Cyan came around the corner from the pantry. I walked over to meet her. “Still no news on Sean,” I said, keeping my voice low. Looking at my watch, I added, “Not too much longer before we serve.”

“I hate this tension,” she said. “Can’t do anything but wait and be nervous. Everything’s ready now.”

“I know, but we’ve been through worse,” I said.

She glanced at the open door where I’d been standing. “Anything interesting?”

“So-so.”

By the time Cyan returned to the pantry and I made it back to my unobtrusive position at the doorway, Treyton Blanchard had joined Nick Volkov and Helen Hendrickson. It was neat to be part of the wallpaper-seen but not noticed.

“What good gossip am I missing here?” Blanchard asked. The junior senator from Maryland had a pleasant face, but his natural charisma and wide smile made him seem even more handsome in person than he appeared on camera. “I hope you two haven’t been talking about me.”

Volkov made a noise. Frustration, it seemed. “We’ve been talking about our… partner.” The way he said it made my skin crawl.

“Give it time,” Blanchard said.

“Time?” Again, Volkov grew red-faced. “We don’t have that luxury.”

Blanchard took a small sip of his wine. “We have time enough,” he said. “Elaine can’t be forced to make a decision without consulting her trusted advisers, can she?”

Volkov sputtered, “Some trusted adviser. That Baxter fellow can’t even make it to dinner on time. How can we expect him to help her make the right decisions?”

“I’ll talk with Elaine one-on-one when I get the chance,” Blanchard said. “I think she’s just overwhelmed right now. She’s still grieving for her father…”

“Her father’s death is what precipitated this decision.”

Blanchard held his wineglass to almost eye level, gesturing with it for emphasis. “Don’t tell me things I already know, Nick. I understand what’s at stake here. But today is Thanksgiving.” He tempered his admonishment with a smile. “Or have you forgotten that?”

From the ping-pong movement of her head as the conversation went back and forth, Helen Hendrickson seemed unwilling-or too mousy-to join in. I was surprised when she focused her attention on Blanchard. “Easy for you,” she said. “Nick and I don’t have the benefit of political donations to help us make our dreams come true.”

Blanchard replied, but I missed it because Jackson was on the move. As he passed me, he whispered, “Showtime.”

I followed. “Sean Baxter?” I asked.

He spoke over his shoulder. “Not yet.”

Within minutes, the guests were seated and we were ready to serve. I had Cyan in the narrow pantry with me and we scrutinized every dish to make certain it was absolutely perfect before one of our tuxedoed butlers carried it into the next room. I heard exclamations of delight as the platters reached the table, and I blew out a breath of relief.