She let the thought hang and I finally understood why she was uncomfortable talking with me. Treyton Blanchard wanted his kids’ handiwork plastered all over every newspaper, White House-related Web site, and on TV. Rumor had it that the man was considering a run for the presidency. Getting his kids’ artwork prominently displayed must feel a little like squatter’s rights. A thought occurred to me. “Aren’t his kids kind of young for this?” Blanchard had three little ones, and the oldest was eight or nine.
With a bouncy little so-so motion of her head, Bindy said, “They’ve had help with the project. The gingerbread men are really beautiful, Ollie. I wouldn’t ask you to do this if they weren’t worthy of presentation.”
Sure, she wouldn’t. Treyton Blanchard probably thought his kids’ scribbles with a blue crayon were genius. And I knew that if the powerful senator asked Bindy to do something, she’d do it.
I shuddered inwardly at the thought of what these homemade gingerbread ornaments looked like until Bindy said, “If the kids had actually done all this on their own, they’d be snapped up as protégés.” She laughed. “The family chef did some of the work. He’s amazing.” The spirit with which she added that last remark made me wonder if she and Blanchard’s chef were the new hot item in D.C. I knew the guy. But I couldn’t see them together.
“And the kids think they did it all themselves?”
She bit her lip, nodding.
“I’ll look into it.” I held up my hands, staving off further pressure. “But there’s no guarantee the photographers will snap the right angle to get these in print, you know.”
Tiny shrug. “I realize that. But I just wanted to ask you to do your best. The kids will be so thrilled. They’ve been invited to the ceremony, too. Their mom’s bringing them. Can you imagine how excited they’ll be to see their artwork in the Red Room of the White House?”
Realizing I wasn’t going to get back into the kitchen until I gave her something to take back to Blanchard, I said, “I’ll talk with Marcel and the decorating staff. That’s the best I can do.”
When Bindy smiled, relaxed now, I was taken aback again by the change in her. She’d morphed from ordinary to fabulous in just a few short months. And she seemed to have acquired a new confidence, too. “Thanks,” she said. “It’ll mean a lot to us.”
She turned and headed for the stairs before I could ask whether “us” meant her and the kids, or her and Treyton Blanchard.
I STEPPED OUT OF THE KITCHEN FOR THE dozenth time in the last hour. As Jackson passed me in the Center Hall, I grabbed his arm. “Any updates?”
Headshake. “No word. Nothing.”
Five minutes before one o’clock and Sean Baxter hadn’t arrived yet. We should have begun staging already.
“When do you think we’ll be able to serve?” Visions of wilted lettuce, dried-out turkey, and soggy rolls raced through my mind.
“The First Lady suggested we wait until half past one. If Mr. Baxter still has not arrived, then we will begin without him.”
A half-hour delay. Not great, but it could be worse. “Okay,” I said, heading back in to deliver the news to my group. “Let me know if anything changes.”
Over the next twenty minutes, I divided my time between overseeing progress in the kitchen and the Butler’s Pantry upstairs. We staged our offerings in the pantry, waiting impatiently for the signal to serve our guests in the next room. The Family Dining Room occupies a space on the north side of the White House, with the pantry directly west. The State Dining Room-where most of our larger seated dining events are held-is a large area immediately adjacent to both rooms. In fact, we often used the Family Dining Room for staging when serving in the State Dining Room. The three-room setup is perfect whether we’re serving a hundred guests, or fewer than a dozen.
I maintained a position in the empty State Dining Room, close enough to the gathering to listen and watch without being seen. Although I had every excuse to be there-to gauge how the hors d’oeuvres were going and to determine if I needed to make any last-minute changes to dinner-the real reason I parked myself at the door was pure nosiness. I knew Mrs. Campbell was a strong-minded and resilient woman, but I didn’t know many of our guests. If they were planning on ambushing her, as Sean expected they might, I wanted to help him with information-gathering. I caught Jackson ’s eye. He stood nearby, facing the cross hall. I could tell he and I were on the same page.
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.”