Julie Hyzy - Hail to the Chef

“Is your staff incapable of handling the situation on their own?”

“Of course not.”

“Then come with me.”

He turned, fully expecting me to follow. I stood my ground. “Special Agent Gavin,” I said to his retreating form. “Just a minute.”

He turned and his expression told me he wasn’t entirely surprised that I hadn’t complied.

“Today is a major event for the First Lady,” I said. “She’s depending on us. If you haven’t already heard, and what I’ve been trying to tell you is, she suffered a devastating loss last night.”

Gavin nodded. “Yes.”

I continued. “If Mrs. Campbell is prepared to move forward with her luncheon today, then I’m damned certain going to stay here to make sure it’s perfect.”

I got the feeling I was amusing him. In a snarly sort of way.

“So you’re telling me you refuse to attend training?”

“I refuse to attend now.”

He made a show of looking at his watch. “And when, exactly, will you be finished here?”

I blew out a breath. “The luncheon is scheduled for one o’clock…”

“One o’clock,” he said, before I could finish my sentence. “I’ll be back for you then.”

When he left, I massaged my eyes. “There’s always one, isn’t there?” I said to nobody in particular.

Cyan patted me on the back. “Don’t worry. We’ve got you covered.”

CYAN WAS RIGHT. OUR LUNCHEON PREPARATIONS moved with balletlike precision. We’d sent up trays of garlic-green bean bundles, blue-cheese straws, and other savory side dishes to stock the buffet, with replacement trays on hand, ready for replenishing as the mothers helped themselves and attended to their children.

Jackson and Red made frequent trips to the kitchen, and I asked them how Mrs. Campbell was holding up. “She’s a true lady,” Red said cryptically. “Tough and soft at the same time.”

My heart went out to her. I knew how terrible I felt, and I’d only just gotten to know Sean over the past few months. How hard it must be to lose someone you’d known since his birth.

The two men helped load the next batch of trays. Both rolled their eyes when I asked how the festivities were progressing. “Lotta whining going on up there,” Jackson said.

Red shook his head. “In my day, children were seen and not heard.”

For the first time since I’d come to work here, I was relieved not to be interacting with White House guests. “It can’t be that bad,” I said.

Jackson arched an eyebrow toward Red. “How many kids you figure are jamming themselves into that bathroom at one time?”

“Too many.”

“What about the food?” I asked. “How do people like the cheese straws? What about the mint brownie bites?”

Red gave me a sad smile. “Those poor moms are having a devil of a time getting a chance to eat. The minute any of them tries to take a bite, their kid spills something.”

“It really isn’t that bad, is it?”

Jackson gave me a so-so. “They’re well-behaved for the most part,” he said. “They just take a lot more fussing than what we’re used to.”

“Not more fussing,” Red corrected. “Just different fussing.”

Jackson laughed. “Yeah. Different.”

I was about to ask what he meant when Gavin returned. Without even a perfunctory greeting, he pointed at me. “It’s after one o’clock,” he said. “Let’s go.”

Realizing that it was not only useless to argue, but it was unnecessary because aside from cleanup, our work was done-I followed Gavin out of the kitchen and into the Palm Room.

“We’re going into the West Wing?” I asked.

He didn’t answer.

I rarely crossed into this section of the White House. The Palm Room connected the residence’s ground floor-our floor-to the West Wing’s first floor because of the lay of the land. The residence itself sat on a small slope. A casual area, with white latticed walls and a gardenlike feel, the Palm Room boasted two gorgeous pieces of art: Union and Liberty , both painted by the Italian American artist Constantino Brumidi.

Gavin walked with purpose, not looking back, and evidently not noticing how often I was required to scurry to catch up to his long-legged strides. He rushed me through the obstacle course of press corps offices, where eager reporters glanced up as we passed-each one startling into a hopeful, then disappointed expression when they realized it was only the chef coming through.

The air was different here. Too many bodies to avoid, too many wires to step over, too much electronic equipment to dodge, and the atmosphere of constant urgency gave the area a cramped, stuffy feel. I could hear the whir of a motor and I guessed air-conditioning ran in this section year-round. How else to cool off all the power equipment and panic?

“Where are we going?” I asked again.

Gavin didn’t answer, but he stepped to the side to open the next door for me. And there we were: the Brady Press Briefing Room. I’d been in this room only a couple of times; it had been renovated a few years before I began working here.

Gavin took a few more strides to the center of the room, then stopped.

“What is here?” he asked. “What do you observe?”

I was sick and tired of Gavin’s bizarre questioning methods. “I don’t see a training class, if that’s what you mean.”

He graced my smart-aleck answer with a lips-only smile. “Due to your absence at last night’s class, I have the dubious honor of bringing you up to speed by myself.”

“It’s not like I played hooky,” I said. “Can’t I just take one of the other classes?”

“When?” he asked. “All you’ve been talking about is how shorthanded you are. You have your staff scheduled tomorrow and Sunday. I highly doubt you’ll find time to attend and shortchange your kitchen further.”

He had me there.

“Listen,” I said. “I’m a quick learner, and I don’t want to waste your time. Can’t you just give me some handouts and I’ll catch up?”

“The next round of classes builds upon knowledge you glean from the first round. You can’t expect to get anything out of further instruction without learning the basics first.”

As he said this, he made his way up to the president’s large, bullet-resistant lectern, also known as the “blue goose.” When he positioned himself behind it and placed both hands on the lectern’s sides, he seemed to forget I was there. His palpable craving for power washed over me like a wave. This was one intense guy.

Blinking himself back to awareness, he noticed me still near the door where we’d entered. “What do you observe?” he asked again.

The sooner I played along, the faster I’d get back to work. I took a deep breath. “Okay, give me a minute.”

A picture of elegant efficiency, the bright room with the presidential motif boasted blue leather seats, state-of-the-art electronics, and a small raised dais at the far end of the room, where a door connected it to the heart and brains of the West Wing.

I didn’t have a clue of what to look for. A quick glance at Gavin warned me not to ask.

Okay, fine. I was on my own here. Something out of place. Something that didn’t belong.

Palladian windows adorned the north wall. I checked each one to ensure it was secure. I checked the doors, even the ones across the room that led south out onto the west colonnade. Everything clear.

But that would be too obvious. Special Agent-in-Charge Leonard Gavin was not the type to let me off easy. Whatever he’d set up in here would be designed to be difficult to find. I tried to think like old Gav. More precisely, I tried to think like an assassin.

Gav probably didn’t realize I had a bit of experience in that arena. And I’d learned a few things.