“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.”