Hail to the Chef

CHAPTER 2

“I KNOW THAT THIS ISN’T MUCH,” I SAID, AS I placed a thrown-together lunch on the small table, “but we don’t know how long we’ll be here. We need to keep our spirits up.”

“Do you need any help?” Sean asked me.

I shook my head. We’d been sequestered for more than an hour. In that time, one of the Secret Service agents had stopped by long enough to let us know that the purported bomb had been located and disabled by the bomb squad. Before allowing any of us to resume our duties, however, the entire residence would be swept for additional explosives. The special agent requested our patience for the duration.

While we waited, I scrounged. In addition to the bottled water and PowerBars, I’d found a supply of interesting ingredients and freeze-dried packets. What used to be called C-rations were now more appealingly known as MRE-meals ready to eat. Augmenting these were canned foods and a few necessary staples. I went to work.

Less than fifteen minutes later I’d pulled together canned chicken chunks, added a bit of soy sauce, peanut butter, a splash of oil, and a dash of pepper flakes, then heated it all in the microwave, and served it on a bed of microwave-cooked rice.

I’d then drained a can of carrots and bamboo shoots. With a little maple syrup and more soy sauce, I had a serviceable side dish. Next up, three-bean salad-again from a can. Drained and tossed with Italian dressing, it wasn’t half bad. We were ready to serve.

“This is amazing, Ollie,” Mrs. Campbell said as she and Sean sat at the table to enjoy the meal I’d cobbled together. I was used to using fresh vegetables, herbs, and even flowers as garnish. Here I presented a no-frills meal on utilitarian plates. Still, the chicken smelled good. “I can’t believe how wonderful this all looks. You are a miracle worker.”

I thanked her and began cleaning up.

“Aren’t you planning to join us?” she asked.

Just as I opened my mouth to demur, my stomach rumbled its displeasure at the thought of turning down a meal.

Mrs. Campbell laughed. “That settles it. Sit down, Ollie.”

I took the chair to the First Lady’s left, which set me across from Sean. He smiled at me as he popped a forkful of bean salad into his mouth and said, “This is really good.”

Ravenous, I nonetheless managed restraint as I helped myself to some chicken and carrots. Two bites in, I knew I’d done well. In fact, I wished I would’ve written everything down as I’d put it together. White House chefs were always hounded to create cookbooks. I envisioned my future tome with a chapter titled: “Bounty from the Bunker.”

“I wonder when they’ll let us out,” I said with a glance at the room’s digital readout. The White House assistant usher had called a staff meeting for this afternoon. With Thanksgiving only two days away, and holiday decorations going up the day after that, we were already operating under tight deadlines. Every hour delay squeaked the schedule ever tighter. While we ate, I formulated alternative methods to get everything done on time.

As though reading my mind, Mrs. Campbell said, “How are plans for Thanksgiving dinner progressing?”

“Perfectly,” I said. It was true-mostly. I’d taken over the position of executive chef in the spring, and since then I’d come to learn just how difficult it is to manage meals, staff, and administrative responsibilities at the same time. So far, however, plans for Thanksgiving were right on schedule. And they would continue to be, as long as we got out of our bunker prison soon. “Your guests are in for a treat. And Marcel has another spectacular dessert planned.” Just to keep conversation going, I asked, “Are we still planning for six guests in addition to you and the president?”

Mrs. Campbell sighed. “Unfortunately, yes. The rest of my husband’s family won’t be attending this year, so we’ve invited my Washington, D.C., business partners-they’re practically as close to me as cousins. But I have to admit, I was hoping to host a bigger event this year.” She directed a pointed look at Sean. “Thanksgiving is a time for families to be together. Isn’t that right?”

Sean considered the question. “It may be better for me to skip this one, Aunt Elaine.” When he looked up, his eyes were clouded. “You know your partners wouldn’t want me there.”

She leaned toward him and placed a hand over his. “I want you there.” Sitting up, she gave a bright smile. “And Ollie does, too. Don’t you?”

Startled by the apparent non sequitur, I answered, “Of course.”

Sean smiled at me from across the table. “Well, then, maybe I could reconsider.”

My brain skip-stepped. Comprehension struck me-and I could only hope my instantaneous panic didn’t show. If I was reading this interchange correctly-the First Lady was attempting to play Cupid. But she was obviously unaware of my relationship with Secret Service Agent Tom MacKenzie. Although the excitement from last spring might have led people to suspect there was more to our companionship than dodging bullets might warrant, Tom and I chose to keep information about our love life quiet. We leaked details of the relationship on a need-to-know-basis only. And until this moment, I’d decided Mrs. Campbell didn’t need to know.

From the looks on Mrs. Campbell’s and Sean’s faces, however, it was clear the First Lady had designs to fix me up with her nephew. Here was a wrinkle I hadn’t anticipated. At once I was honored that she thought so highly of me-because I knew the esteem she held for Sean-but at the same time I was quietly horrified.

How, I wondered, could I disentangle myself from this particular dilemma without ruining her image of me-and, just as important, without coming clean about my relationship with Tom?

For the moment I could do no better than deflect. I wracked my brain to come up with the Thanksgiving guest list. “The three couples attending are the Volkovs, the Blanchards, and the Hendricksons?”

Mrs. Campbell shook her head. “Helen Hendrickson isn’t married. She’s bringing a guest.”

“Her attorney,” Sean said to me. Shaking his head, he again addressed his aunt. “Don’t you see? They’re planning to surround you with their arguments to convince you to sell your stake in Zendy Industries. Why else would Helen bring Fitzgerald along? I’ll bet he’s already drawn up all the papers. They’ll be pressuring you to sign before the gravy congeals.”

She laughed. “Don’t be silly. Thanksgiving is a time for being grateful for all our blessings this past year. No one will be talking business.”

“I changed my mind,” he said. “I’m coming to dinner after all.”

“Good.”

“Somebody needs to look out for your interests.”

As they talked, I realized I was in a peculiar position-although I was most certainly present, I was not part of the conversation. Feeling like the eavesdropping elephant in the room, I desperately wanted to extricate myself.

Although I kept my seat, my right knee twitched with the beat of anxiety. I wanted to be busy in the kitchen. My real kitchen.

Questions raced through my brain. And although I tried to maintain a neutral, disinterested demeanor, an errant thought must have skittered across my face because Sean turned to me, explaining the one thing I’d wondered about-why Mrs. Campbell wouldn’t have a champion in her husband. “Uncle Harrison-that is, President Campbell-makes it a point to stay as far from decisions like this as possible. At least publicly.” Turning to the First Lady, he continued. “He’s against you selling the business, Aunt Elaine. We both know that. I also realize that he can’t make a big deal out of it. His influence on your decision-if made public-could cause economic repercussions. It’s a tough position to be in.”

“Which is why Sean is my personal financial consultant,” she said with obvious pride. “Other than my husband, Sean is the most trustworthy person I know.”

Sean’s cheeks flushed pink. Though obviously pleased, he waved off her praise. “I’ll be there for Thanksgiving dinner. You two talked me into it.”

“Great,” I said, and then with over-the-top peppiness, I asked, “Will you bring a guest?”

Their twin looks of incredulity cemented my earlier matchmaking assumptions. “No,” Sean said, meaningfully. “I’m not seeing anyone right now.”

“Well, then,” I said, suddenly at a loss for words, “I’ll let the staff know to set a place for you.”

Whether it was the close quarters, the long wait for an all-clear signal, or the fact that I was being double-teamed in my love-life department, I didn’t know. I just suddenly needed to break free. I stood. “Let me clean up,” I said, reaching for Mrs. Campbell’s plate.

Sean stood, too. “I’ll help.”

“No.” I whisked his plate away before he could touch it. “You visit with your aunt. I’ve got this.”

“But-”

“It sounds as though you have a lot to talk about,” I said, effectively cutting off his path to the sink area. To my surprise, he sat back down. In an attempt to guide the conversation back to safe territory, I then turned to Mrs. Campbell. “I didn’t realize you were part of Zendy Industries. They’re huge.”

“They are,” she said. “My father started the company with three friends-years ago when I was young and his friends’ children weren’t even born yet. That’s why Nick, Treyton, and Helen are invited for dinner Thursday. We grew up together. Now, they’re all my business associates. I guess you could say I inherited the business and I inherited them, too.”

The sudden sadness in her eyes reminded me of her recent loss. Mrs. Campbell’s father, Joseph Sinclair, had been killed in a horrific car accident about two months earlier.

“You also inherited your father’s good business sense,” Sean said. “All I’m suggesting is that you rely on your own instincts now, and not defer to your colleagues’ demands. No matter how convincing Volkov and the others might be.”

“You’re a good boy, Sean,” Mrs. Campbell said, patting his arm.

By the time I had the bunker room’s kitchen back in order, I’d overheard enough about the Zendy Industries situation to understand why Thursday’s dinner had the potential to get ugly. I made a mental note to talk to Jackson, the new head butler, to keep his eye on the alcohol intake. Mrs. Campbell was a social drinker-limiting herself to an occasional glass of wine-but the Blanchards, the Volkovs, and Helen Hendrickson had been our guests only a couple of times in the recent past. I couldn’t remember if they’d achieved status on our “Do not serve” list. I made another mental note to check.

While the White House is first and foremost a gracious host, it is also a wise one. Over time, certain guests have proved to be unable to handle liquor in a responsible manner. We would never deign to refuse anyone a drink-but one must not dance on White House tables, literally or figuratively. If someone does, he or she earns an immediate place on our “Do not invite” list. If, to our great disappointment, we find that this person must be invited in the future, our sophisticated staff manages to keep the inhibition-loosening beverages just out of the ersatz performer’s reach.

With nine diners-including Sean-for dinner on Thursday, Jackson would have a relatively easy time of keeping tabs on the intake.

I continued to listen in, even as I puttered around, trying to tidy up an already Spartan room.

The First Lady stood up and walked over to the fake window. “All discussion about this Zendy situation should be tabled until after the holidays,” she said. “How I wish we could get out of here. I have so much to do.”

“The deadline for a decision is December fifteenth,” Sean said. “That’s why I think they’ll be pressuring you to agree to the sale of the company.”

She turned. “I thought we had until March fifteenth.”

Sean shook his head. “The trust was very clear: Ninety days after the death of the final founder-your father-the four of you are required to file a decision as to whether you intend to sell the company or not.”

“And if we don’t, we have to wait ten years to decide again.” Mrs. Campbell sighed. “Such a peculiar requirement.”

Sean gave a wry shrug. “Not so peculiar when you think about what the founders intended. They envisioned this company as they would one of their kids. One that they all fathered. The four men who brought Zendy Industries to life were wealthy, successful businessmen in other ventures. They didn’t need Zendy’s income. They needed to believe they’d made a mark on this world.”

The bunker door opened, cutting Sean off. Special Agent Martin gestured us out. “Follow me,” he said.