I knew I could never do that, but I smiled and said hello to the three young children hanging on her. “And what’s your name?” I asked the oldest.
He squirmed and smiled. “Trey,” he said. “Are you the cook?”
“I sure am,” I said.
“The food was good,” he said, ever so politely. “Except Leah didn’t like the banana pudding. She smashed it on the floor.”
His mother shushed him, and shrugged. “Sorry.”
“It’s okay,” I said as I turned to the other two little ones. Leah was about three and John was five. They all looked like they couldn’t wait to get home and out of their dressy clothes. Leah wrapped herself around her mother’s leg and whimpered.
Behind us, small groups wandered in and out of the Green Room, Blue Room, Red Room, and State Dining Room. Tour guides kept them moving. I was amazed at how well-relatively speaking-all the children behaved. I heard an occasional outburst and an accompanying reprimand, but the groups were more sedate than I’d expected, especially after Jackson’s and Red’s descriptions. I really wished Mrs. Blanchard had taken the tour.
Mrs. Campbell stood a few feet away, watching us. She maintained a serene smile, but from the look in her eyes, I knew she wanted to be away from all these people-to be alone to grieve for Sean. I marveled at the woman’s strength in light of all that had happened.
“Are they touring the West Wing, too?” I asked at a lull in the conversation.
“They’re almost everywhere,” Bindy answered. “But we wanted a chance to talk with Mrs. Campbell alone. It’s probably our only opportunity, isn’t it?” she asked.
Mrs. Campbell nodded, without expression.
Couldn’t they leave the poor woman alone?
Above the soft conversation and sounds of people moving around, we heard a speedy click-clack of two sets of high heels on the hard floor. A moment later, the social secretary, Marguerite, and her assistant joined us. Marguerite apologized for interrupting. “Mrs. Campbell,” she said quietly, “you’re needed upstairs.”
The First Lady offered regrets for being called away. She thanked Mrs. Blanchard for attending the day’s festivities and then procured a promise from the assistant secretary that everyone on the tours would be looked after properly.
Once the First Lady and Marguerite departed, I started to move away myself. “It was nice to meet you,” I said. To the children, I added, “I hope you enjoyed your gingerbread man project.”
Little Trey gave me a solemn look. “I didn’t have fun making those,” he said.
Bindy piped in. “This is the lady who will put your gingerbread men up for everybody to see. Right, Ollie?”
I didn’t have any idea how to answer. “I’ll do my best,” I said.
Trey’s mother gave his arm a tug. “Say thank you.”
“Thank you.”
Mrs. Blanchard smiled at me. An embarrassed smile. “We didn’t turn them in with the rest. Bindy didn’t want them to get lost in the confusion. She knows where they are.”
“I’ll make sure to get them into your hands directly,” Bindy said.
“The tours are winding down now,” the assistant secretary interjected, effectively ending this uncomfortable line of conversation. “Is there anything else you wanted to see before we return you to your car?”
What a nice way to shoo people out.
“No, we’re done here,” Maryann Blanchard said. She settled a high-wattage smile on Bindy, who winked at me.
“I’ll call you tomorrow,” she said.
I didn’t answer. I couldn’t wait for them to be gone.
CHAPTER 11
FROM THE FRYING PAN STRAIGHT INTO THE fire.
That’s how I felt at Gene’s wake. I’d been here for about fifteen minutes, but couldn’t help but believe I’d inadvertently thrown myself into the flames just by showing up. I hadn’t anticipated the enormous impact my presence might have. Standing next to the casket, I hadn’t expected to be surrounded by Gene’s well-meaning relatives, all asking me what really happened, what I’d seen, what I’d done, and did I think Gene had suffered? With everyone asking at once, it was difficult to know exactly what to say to give each of them the most comfort. Above all, I wanted to be helpful.
Try as I might, I couldn’t keep the family straight. A tall woman rested her hand on my right shoulder, turning me to meet yet another relative. An elderly, suited gentleman. “This is the girl who found Gene,” she said by way of introduction.
She was about to continue when a man to my right tapped my arm. He, too, wore a suit-and the look of a successful businessman. “What was done for him?” he asked. “I mean, on the scene. Did you administer CPR?”
The woman to my right tugged me again, trying to pull my attention back to the elderly fellow, who I now learned was Gene’s older brother. “I’m very sorry,” I said, taking his hand in both of mine.
His eyes sagged under the weight of unshed tears. “Thank you.”
“Excuse me,” a familiar voice said. A big hand clamped my left shoulder with solid authority. “Ollie,” he said, “I need to talk with you.”
I turned to see a very welcome and familiar face. His hair had gone almost completely gray, but his customary cheer sparkled from those blue eyes. I started to smile, but remembered where I was and immediately tamped down my reaction. “Henry!” I reached to give him a big hug. Relieved to have an out, I turned back to the family. Again I offered my condolences-and then apologized for having to leave so soon.
“Thank you,” I said as we moved to the lobby. “I didn’t know how to answer them.” I shot a look back into the room as the group clustered together again. Circling the wagons, as it were. “It’s so difficult to know what to say. And what not to say.”
“It’s always hard,” he said, his eyes scanning the large vestibule. “And a situation like this one makes it worse.” He winked at me. “I’ve been waiting for you. I knew that unless there was some emergency, you’d be here tonight.”
Henry had lost some of the weight he’d put on in his last few months as executive chef, and his face looked less flushed. Although his waistline would never be characterized as trim, it was certainly under control. In fact, the suit he wore gave the impression of being almost saggy. “You look good,” I said.
He blushed. “How’s your kitchen?”
“Our kitchen?” I asked.
That made him smile.
“I’ll tell you all about it, if you want to go for coffee.”
Henry’s eyebrows lifted. “Such a beautiful young lady asking an old man like me out for coffee? I would be a fool to refuse.”
I placed a hand on his arm. “With an attitude like yours, Henry, you will never be old.”
There was a Starbucks half a block away, and though it was cold outside, we walked. I knew it wouldn’t be long before Henry started peppering me with questions. He didn’t disappoint. As soon as we’d settled at a small table, him with a cup of coffee, me with a caramel apple cider, he asked, “So, how are the holiday preparations progressing?”
I told him, then said, “You heard about Sean Baxter?”
His eyes, which had crinkled up at the corners when I’d talked about the menu, now drooped. “How could I not? It’s been on every news station.” He shook his big head. “I’ve often wondered why anyone would choose to be president. You lose all privacy.” Waving a hand in the direction of the funeral home, he said, “Gene Sculka’s family has had to deal with some reporters asking questions, but for the most part, they’re allowed to grieve privately. They can be family to one another. They’re able to hold one another up without worrying about the world staring in on them.”