While managing breakfast and cleaning up, we got to work on the afternoon’s event. Buffets were so much less stressful than plated dinners-for us, and for the waitstaff. We’d prepared as much as possible ahead of time, but there was still a lot to be done before the guests arrived.
More than two hundred moms and tots were expected, and we’d been careful to include plenty of kid-friendly fare in our offerings. One of the president’s favorite sandwiches, peanut butter and banana, was on the menu today. We would offer a choice: served on plain white or on cinnamon bread. In fact, the staff had taken bets on which would be more popular with the kids.
Rafe expertly sliced away the crusts from a peanut-butter-on-white sandwich. “Kids will go for plain, every time.”
“Cinnamon tastes better,” Cyan said, sing-song.
Rafe raised his own voice up an octave, continuing the sing-song cadence. “Won’t matter if they refuse to try it.”
Shaking her head so her ponytail wagged, Cyan slathered peanut butter on yet another slice of cinnamon bread. “They’ll try these.”
I was happy to hear their chitchat. Although normalcy was not to be expected-not so soon after the two unexpected deaths-any little bit of happiness was worth grabbing.
Just as we started in on our next project, Special Agent Gavin strode into the kitchen. He stopped short a half breath before running into one of our SBA chefs who carried a massive bowl of salad on his shoulder.
“Watch where you’re going,” Gavin said, flattening himself against the wall just in time.
The assistant turned fully, in order to see the man who’d almost tossed our salad. “Sorry,” he mumbled, then set off again for the refrigerator. Gavin’s presence here just as time was getting tricky was enormously unwelcome. There was nothing this man could say or do to help today’s event, and the sooner he got out of my kitchen the happier we would all be.
As he righted himself, he tugged at his suit coat and adjusted his tie. Before he could seek me out, I’d positioned myself in front of him. “What can I do for you?” My words were polite, my demeanor dismissive.
“You’re scheduled for emergency response training.”
So why was he in my kitchen now? I’d set the staff up myself; we were already on the hook for Gavin’s classes. “We haven’t forgotten,” I said. “We’ll be there. As scheduled.”
“You’re scheduled right now.”
“No, we’re not.”
“Not them,” he said, pointing. “You.”
“No,” I said, straining to process this. “Not possible.”
He spoke solemnly. “It is my personal responsibility to see that department heads are fully trained. You missed your class last night.”
“Do you have any idea what went on here last night?”
Gavin gave me one of those looks meant to make people wither. I didn’t. “Ms. Paras,” he said. “When someone’s faced with a life-or-death situation, do you think it’s more important that they’ve learned how to react swiftly, decisively, and accurately, thereby saving lives? Or do you believe it’s more important that they’ve mastered the preparation of white roux?”
My eyebrows shot up.
Half of his mouth curled. “I am not so ignorant in matters of haute cuisine as you might imagine.”
I didn’t care if he was the next Paul Bocuse; I wasn’t about to let him drag me away from the kitchen right before a major event. I tried again. “The reason I missed-”
He interrupted. “I know you believe your work here is important, but I’m sure you agree that the safety of the White House trumps all other concerns.”
“I’m not saying-”
“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.