I fixed him with my most pointed, angry glare. “I’m just trying to help.”
“Gene’s dead,” he said again. “Nothing you can do can change that.”
“But I thought if we found out why-”
“Tell you what, missy,” he said as he replaced his tool belt around his waist. “You get yourself a journeyman electrician’s card-then I’ll talk to you. But for now, I’ve got a White House to keep hot.” He started down the same path Manny and Vince had taken. Two steps away, he turned and spoke to me over his shoulder, not breaking stride. “Don’t bug me with this crap again.”
RAFE TOOK UP A POSITION NEXT TO ME AT THE kitchen’s center counter. “What did those chicken breasts ever do to you?”
I looked up, realizing I’d taken out my aggression by pounding the meat so thin, the breasts could’ve been served as high-protein pancakes. “Geez,” I said, embarrassed, “I didn’t realize.”
“It’s your first holiday season in the executive chef position,” he said. “You’re bound to be a little stressed.”
If he only knew. I glanced at the clock. “I think there should be a law against aggravation before nine in the morning.”
Rafe laughed. “Not going to happen. Not around here at least.” He flicked a fleeting look across the kitchen, where Bucky was preparing a new salad dressing of his own concoction, and separately, stirring beef stock we would need later in the day. My second-in-command was murmuring, apparently having an argument with himself.
I took in the rest of the kitchen. Cyan was uncharacteristically silent, and even as Agda rolled dough out, I noticed veins in her arms standing out, and a crease on her forehead.
“How come you’re so chipper?” I asked Rafe.
He shrugged. “Stress manifests itself differently in each of us.”
I thought about Bindy’s tendency to giggle. “Too true.” The phone rang. I was closest, so I wiped my hands with one of the antiseptic towels we kept just for that purpose, and answered it.
Jackson informed me that the First Lady would be out all day, meeting with relatives to make arrangements for Sean’s funeral. His parents lived nearby in Virginia, and Mrs. Campbell was not expected to return to the residence until after dinner.
“The president is returning this evening as well,” he said.
“For dinner?”
“No. He’ll be joining Mrs. Campbell at his sister’s home first, and the president and his wife are expected back here after eight o’clock.”
“Thanks,” I said, and hung up. Not having to prepare lunch and dinner today made things easier on us, but I couldn’t imagine how hard the day would be for the First Couple. It was a wonder that Mrs. Campbell had made it through yesterday at all, but having to prepare for the funeral of someone so close and so young had to be devastating.
I announced the change in plan to the rest of the kitchen staff, and I watched tension seep out of them-by the change in their stances, the position of their shoulders, their very breathing. “We still have a lot to get done,” I added, unnecessarily. “Let’s hope that…”
Before I could finish my wish that the rest of the day proceed uneventfully, Marcel stormed in, with Yi-im trotting faithfully behind him. Without greeting any of us, Marcel began ranting. “I ’ave no method to make use of these… these… childish efforts.” He held out a tray displaying some of the gingerbread men that had been turned in yesterday. “These do not complement the gingerbread house I am slaving over. The house that is my crowning achievement this year. No. These are… le pire.”
I stepped closer to look.
“Do you see?” he asked. “How can I use such a terrible mess as these? No one will look at the exquisite structure. No. Their eyes will all be drawn to this mishmash.”
Although Marcel and I generally worked independently of each other, we had a friendly, symbiotic relationship. He needed to vent and I was happy to oblige him. But maybe there were options he hadn’t considered. “Have you spoken with Kendra?” I asked.
“She is the one who presented these to me! She wants me to fix them. I have no time for such nonsense.”
While I had to agree that the workmanship on the eight-inch cookies left a great deal to be desired, I thought they were kind of cute. “The idea is to showcase the country’s kids,” I said quietly.
“Are we raising a nation of imbeciles?” he asked, his big eyes bulging. “Look at this.” He pointed to one of the corner pieces. The cookie man was missing one eye and half of one foot. The squiggled icing that decorated the cutout’s perimeter had been squeezed off the edge repeatedly, but it was the smudgy unevenness of it all that made it look like it was put together by a bored kindergartner. Marcel practically sputtered as he spoke. “This was made by a boy of seven. By the time I was his age, I was creating three-layer cakes with handmade candies. Each one I produced was perfect.”
I didn’t doubt that. “Kendra is in charge of the overall design,” I said soothingly. “And you know what a perfectionist she is. I’m sure she’s hoping to use most of the submitted cookies.” I took another pointed look. “Did you ever consider that these are the best she received?”
The horror on Marcel’s face would have been laughable if I didn’t know how much pressure we were under to get the residence together and ready for presentation in the next two days.
“I cannot work with this,” he said. He dropped the tray in the center of the countertop and backed away from it, with an unconcealed look of contempt. “I will not use these. You may crumble them up and feed them to the dog.”
Marcel left the kitchen. I blew out a breath as I stared after him. Although he occasionally had his prima donna moments, he didn’t usually draw such a hard line. Bucky, Cyan, and Agda shared a glance of wariness before returning to their tasks. I locked eyes with Rafe, and it was as if we both shared the unspoken sentiment about stress manifesting itself differently in each of us.
“Ho, ho, ho!”
I turned at the exclamation to see chief usher Paul Vasquez come in, carrying a diplomatic parcel and wearing a wide grin.
“You’re back,” I said, stating the obvious.
“And the tree is beautiful,” he said. “This year we have a magnificent Fraser fir. Breathtaking. I can’t wait until we get it set up.” His jovial expression dropped. “That’s the good news. Unfortunately we’ve had our share of bad, haven’t we?” He made eye contact with each of us in turn. Paul had a way of making every staff member feel important. “I’ve been in contact with the White House over the days I was gone,” he said, “so I am aware of what has transpired. We will discuss everything at the next staff meeting. In the meantime,” he handed me the diplomatic pouch, “this came for you.”
“Me?” I said, surprised. Belatedly, I realized I knew exactly what this was. As I opened the parcel, Cyan edged up. I held my breath.
“More gingerbread men?” she asked.
I nodded. “These must be the ones created by the Blanchard children.” And they were. A letter from Bindy accompanied them. I pulled the three men out, one at a time. They’d been boxed separately, and wrapped in tissue paper surrounded by bubble wrap.
“Somebody isn’t taking chances on these getting damaged,” she said. Then, “Wow. His kids made these?”
We stared at the first cookie I’d removed from its container. “This is amazing.”
Paul whistled. “Kendra must be thrilled. If this is the caliber of submissions she’s receiving-”
“Eet ees not,” Marcel interrupted, coming up behind us. “Sacre bleu.” He held out both hands and I placed the little decorated man into them. “Where did this come from?”
Paul excused himself to return to his office and I took the opportunity to explain Bindy’s request to Marcel.
“This is wonderful. Marveilleux,” he said, placing the cookie back into its box with great reverence. “Let me see the others.”