Hail to the Chef

CHAPTER 7

WHEN I GOT BACK TO THE KITCHEN, RAFE had arrived. But we had other company as well. I stopped short. “Sean,” I said in surprise. “I didn’t expect to see you today.”

Sean Baxter was wearing a white apron over his charcoal pants and pale gray shirt, standing at the center workstation, slicing red peppers. “Hey, I was wondering when you’d show up. Look,” he said, “they put me to work.”

Cyan gave a one-shoulder shrug. “He wanted something to do,” she said with a grin. “I figured you wouldn’t mind.”

Just wait till security-crazed Gavin sees this, I thought. But then again, Sean was cleared for much more classified stuff than tomorrow’s Thanksgiving dinner. If we couldn’t trust the president’s own nephew, who could we trust?

Rafe called out, “Hey, Ollie, how’s it going?”

I waved a hello. “Welcome to the team,” I said to both of them. Still trying to understand Sean’s presence, I turned to him. “What brings you down here?”

He fixed his attention on a pepper, giving it a good slice even as his cheeks rivaled the vegetable for redness. “Aunt Elaine and I were going over some of her decisions. You know, that financial stuff we talked about in the bunker yesterday.”

He didn’t elaborate, but behind him, Bucky raised his eyebrows and shot me a look that underscored his earlier comment about “cozying up to the First Lady.”

I ignored him.

Sean continued. “She was called away and will probably be busy for about an hour. I had some time to kill, so…”

All I could think about was the time crunch we were under. “Are you sure you want to be down here?” I hoped to talk him out of helping. The last thing I needed was an unskilled amateur gumming up our plans for the day. It was one thing to have too many chefs spoiling the broth. It was another to have one who didn’t speak the language. Add an assistant who didn’t know his way around the kitchen and we’d be lucky if we managed to create any broth to spoil.

“Yeah,” he said, concentrating on the peppers again. “I’m just about done here-so if you’ve got anything else…”

I thought about it. One of the surprises I’d discovered when I took over the position of executive chef was that I did less actual cooking than I had in the past. While I was certainly involved in the preparation of every meal, my duties were to create menus both for the family and for events. I also had a number of administrative issues to juggle, not unlike those of the director of a small company. In addition to managing each staff member’s vacation time and sick days, I had to sign off on purchases, attend meetings, coordinate with other departments, and nurture my subordinates’ growth as professional chefs. The administrative stuff took a lot more time than I’d expected, and I began to see why Henry had come in early and stayed late most days. That was what I’d been doing myself since he’d left.

Part of making this kitchen work was learning how to delegate. Why not put Sean to work? I didn’t want to appear ungrateful. I reasoned that another pair of hands was another pair of hands. And we needed a lot of help if we were to get both big events plated on time with the panache to which Mrs. Campbell had become accustomed.

“Cyan,” I said, “have you cleaned the shrimp?”

She gave me a mischievous look. “Not yet.”

“Why don’t you show Sean how that’s done?”

“Sure,” Cyan said, amused. I wanted to explain to her that I wasn’t punishing him for helping out-shrimp cleaning was a job I abhorred-but rather it was a task that gave Sean a wide berth for error. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t ruin things too badly. Once he got the hang of it, we’d have plenty of shrimp for our cocktail display. If any were messed up, we could chop those and use them for other purposes. This was a safe bet.

“Shrimp, huh?” Sean asked. “Is this for tomorrow?”

“Sure is. I hope you like it.”

“One of my favorites.” When he smiled at me, I felt my breath catch. There was that sparkle in his eyes that I usually saw only in Tom’s. “Of course, I’m happy with anything you make, Ollie.”

I didn’t know what to say. Sean was a sweet guy. I liked him, even though I didn’t know him particularly well. But he wasn’t Tom. “Thanks,” I said, moving in the opposite direction.

Bucky and Rafe were conversing near the stove as I inched toward my computer station. Between the two men sat a large pan of cranberries, fresh from the oven. All the cranberries had popped and the tangy, sweet smell permeated the area, making me feel for the first time that Thanksgiving really was just one day away.

Agda had proven to be the quickest knife in the kitchen, and she was now chopping vegetables at the center island, full speed.

By the time Sean had followed Cyan around to the refrigerators, Agda had scooped up what was left of his peppers and had all of them chopped before Sean and Cyan returned with two huge bowls of raw shrimp. Sean caught my eye as he settled in to work. “I’m really glad to help out,” he said.

“And we’re glad to have you.” Okay, so it wasn’t exactly the truth, but Sean seemed so… sincere… that I couldn’t have said anything else.

I sat on the stool at the computer station with my back to the bustling staff, Gavin’s paperwork on my lap. Logging in, I immediately accessed the training schedule. He wasn’t kidding when he said we’d been left out. There were enough training spots still open for all of us, but most of them were at times that conflicted with meal preparations. That figured. What was considered prime time for us was prime time for the rest of the staff, too.

The soft sounds of a busy kitchen-muted clatters, bumping, stirring-served to soothe my frazzled nerves. For as much as I’d tried to put the accident, the bomb scare, and the next two days’ events in perspective, I realized how impossible a task that was. There was no perspective on situations like these.

A warm, yeasty scent rose up and I turned long enough to watch Agda pull a perfect tray of rolls from the nearby oven, her cheeks red from the heat. She caught my glance and smiled, her pride evident.

Back to the computer. Marcel would take care of his own training, I knew, and that of his assistant. I just had to worry about my own staff. When I’d finished placing Cyan and Bucky in A, B, and C classes that minimized impact on the kitchen, I set to the unenviable task of assigning myself.

Unfortunately, there weren’t a whole lot of choices left.

As much as it pained me to do so, I took one of the open slots set up Thanksgiving night. I reasoned that dinner would be complete, Cyan and Bucky would have gone home to rest up for the next day’s hoopla, and I would probably be staying late after dinner to clean up and prepare for the next day’s luncheon. Tom had plans to go home for the holiday, so that left me free. We hadn’t yet made the leap of meeting each other’s family. I glanced toward Sean and wondered, idly, if by this time next year Tom and I would be willing to come forward with our relationship.

Regardless, I was destined to be by myself this year, so I might as well sign up for the security class. Let Cyan and Bucky enjoy the holiday with their families. And maybe, if I was lucky, old Gav would be sitting at the head of his own dinner table and I’d get someone else teaching the training this time.

Sean interrupted. “Ollie?”

I half turned. He’d made little progress on the shrimp-shelling, but he didn’t seem overwhelmed. Yet.

“Hang on,” I said. Returning to my task, I reserved two more open spots, one each on Friday and Saturday. There. Done.

With a flourish, I clicked the file closed.

“What’s that?” Sean asked.

I told him.

He scratched the side of his face. “Would you mind me borrowing your computer for a minute? I didn’t check my e-mail yet today.”

“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.”