Julie Hyzy - Hail to the Chef

When the door connecting the pantry to the Family Dining Room was open, I snuck a glance. With the president unavailable, the First Lady had taken her seat at the head of the table. Treyton Blanchard sat to her right, Bindy Gerhardt across from him. The Volkovs sat across from each other, too, with Nick next to Bindy. The male-female pattern continued with Helen Hendrickson next to Nick. Helen’s guest, the elderly Mr. Fitzgerald, had settled himself across from her. Only the seat across from the First Lady was unoccupied.

As he passed me on his way back into the pantry, Jackson said, “We will seat Mr. Baxter when he arrives.” A shrug. “If he arrives at all.”

Cyan came close, whispering, “Do you think maybe Sean is with the president? I mean, that’s his uncle. Maybe whatever’s keeping President Campbell is-”

I shushed her. The other room had silenced. No conversation. No movement. Rather than push the connecting door open to peek, I hurried around into the State Dining Room where I could peer in unnoticed. I wondered if something was wrong with the meal. What could possibly have happened to stop everything so completely? I strained to hear, and was rewarded only by the flat-toned words from a voice I didn’t recognize.

In a moment, I understood. Two Secret Service agents had positioned themselves inside the Family Dining Room. One of them had apparently requested Mrs. Campbell’s presence away from her guests. I slowed to a stroll as I made my way across the expansive room, hoping I appeared nonchalant. Pretending I was heading into the hall.

Mrs. Campbell emerged just as I crossed her path. She’d been about to address the taller of the two agents, but stopped me with a hand to my arm. “Ollie,” she said, “dinner is wonderful. I-”

“Mrs. Campbell,” the agent said. He touched her elbow in an effort to guide her toward the doorway to the Red Room. “Please.”

She didn’t move. “What happened?”

Both agents glared at me, making me want to shrink and run, but the First Lady gripped my arm, effectively freezing me in place.

She blinked rapidly, then took a steadying breath. “Is it my husband?”

“No,” the shorter agent said quickly. “The president is safe.”

“Thank God.” Her grasp loosened, but she didn’t completely let go. “Then what is it?” she asked the agents.

The taller one cleared his throat. “Ma’am, perhaps it would be better for you to come with us to the residence.”

“No.” Mrs. Campbell’s jaw flexed. “Just… tell… me.”

The agents exchanged glances.

She gripped me again. “Agent Teska, if you don’t tell me what’s going on-”

The thought hung there a long moment.

“With the president tied up in negotiations… we thought it best to talk to you first.” The urgency in his face settled into the dispassionate expression that always heralds bad news. We waited. I barely breathed.

“There’s been an incident,” Teska finally said. “Please, ma’am. If you’ll come with me…”

Her face was tight. Her voice even tighter. “Just tell me.”

“It’s Sean Baxter, ma’am. He’s dead.”

THE FIRST LADY MANAGED TO FIND HER WAY back to her chair in the dining room, waving away those of us trying to help her. She sat for a long time, eyes covered, head down.

There was no recovering from news like this-not surrounded by colleagues who had planned to enjoy Thanksgiving dinner and who all now sat, staring. Doing the best they could, Secret Service agents quietly ushered the guests out to waiting limousines. Helen Hendrickson broke away from the group long enough to press Mrs. Campbell’s hands between her own and hug the First Lady, blinking back tears and murmuring condolences. All the guests were gone in minutes. Their sudden departure left us in suffocating silence.

Inexplicably, the First Lady asked me to stay with her after the guests were gone. I had a tremendous desire to beg off, but one look at the sadness in her eyes convinced me otherwise. “Of course,” I said. My staff would handle whatever cleanup and storage needed to be done, and though they’d wonder at my absence, they’d certainly manage without me.

Jackson brought Mrs. Campbell a glass of water, which she took but didn’t sip. She held it in both hands, almost prayerfully, still staring downward. “Thank you,” she said to the butler, and when he inquired what else he could get her, she said, “Nothing. Nothing now.”

The two Secret Service agents remained: Teska and a female agent, Patricia Berland. They seemed perplexed by my presence. I couldn’t blame them. I’d taken the seat vacated by Blanchard, my mind racing a hundred thoughts at once: how badly I felt about Sean, what I could do for Mrs. Campbell right at the moment, why she had asked me to stay, how soon I could get back to the kitchen, and why this had to happen today. Of all days.

Sean, who had been working in my kitchen just twenty-four hours ago-was dead. I couldn’t get my mind around that. I couldn’t grasp how he could have been here, so alive, so much fun, and now no longer exist. But I also knew I couldn’t dwell on that right now. My first duty was to Mrs. Campbell.

She finally raised her head to face Teska. “You said, ‘incident. ’ What do you mean?”

The two agents exchanged a glance. Teska squinted, as though he were fighting a hard internal argument. “His death is under investigation.”

“What are you not telling me?”

Teska’s face twitched. He spoke slowly. “Sean Baxter may have taken his own life.”

“No!” Mrs. Campbell said, starting to stand. “I don’t believe that.” Berland’s gentle touch on the First Lady’s shoulder was enough to keep her seated. “What happened? Where is he?”

At this point the two agents seemed to forget I was there. But the First Lady hadn’t forgotten-she reached out and clasped my hand with hers. It was very cold.

Berland spoke. “Preliminary reports suggest that Mr. Baxter shot himself.”

“No,” Mrs. Campbell said again. This time, however, it was not an exclamation of disbelief, it was a flat refusal. “Sean didn’t like guns. He never would have done that.”

“Let me assure you, ma’am, the Metropolitan Police will fully investigate this as a homicide until the evidence proves otherwise. But…”

“But?”

“He left a note, ma’am.”

Mrs. Campbell crumpled in on herself, her silent crying more poignant than if she’d wailed and screamed. I reacted instinctively, forgetting this was our nation’s First Lady and seeing only a woman who’d suffered immeasurable loss. I stood next to her, putting my arm around her shaking shoulders, murmuring how sorry I was.

Berland’s eyes met mine. “Let’s get her upstairs,” she mouthed.

I leaned in to whisper to Mrs. Campbell that it might be best to return to her own rooms. She nodded and stood, keeping her face covered with one hand, grabbing my arm with the other.

“We’ll help you,” Berland said, stepping between me and the First Lady.

She didn’t release her hold. Instead, she tugged me close so that her whispered words were almost inaudible. “He cared about you, Ollie. He told me he saw a future with you.” Though tears raced down her face, she managed a wobbly smile. “He asked me to fix you two up.”

I opened my mouth, but no words came out.

“He would have wanted you to know,” she added, and she finally let go of my arm. Turning to face Berland, she gave a quick nod. “I’m ready now.”

For the second time that week, I fought scalding pain in my throat, my eyes, and my heart.