The three cookies were whimsical and perfect. So perfect that not even Marcel could find fault with them. They were, of course, the right size, browned to perfection, and each of the three men sported a combination of patriotic red, white, and blue icing piped along their edges so perfect it looked fake. I commented on that.
“I don’t care if it is plastic.” Marcel said, beaming. “No one is to eat these. They are for display only.”
The piped edge was the only requirement the White House had made for consistency’s sake. I never would have thought to give them little sugar flags to hold, nor would I have come up with the idea of carving into the cookies themselves for a textured background. These were not cookie-gingerbread men; they were works of art.
“I promised Bindy we’d find a prominent place for these in the Red Room. I’m glad I did,” I said, winking. “I had no idea the kids were so talented.”
Missing my sarcasm, Marcel said, “Children did not make these.” He pronounced the word, “shildren.” He shook his head. “These are the work of a master.”
“Bindy did hint that Treyton Blanchard’s chef might have helped a bit.”
Marcel barked a laugh. “I would say he created these single-handedly. And the project took several days, at least. I will have no problem including these with my own masterpiece.”
I grinned, pleased to have one less thing to deal with, and handed him the three boxes. “All yours.”
Marcel gave a little bow. “I accept with pleasure.”
THE LAST THING I NEEDED WAS TO INCUR THE wrath of Curly again, but when I saw Manny later, still wearing the clanking tool belt, I couldn’t help myself. In a repeat of the morning’s move, I called out to him.
He turned, and this time when he saw me, he shook his head and backed away.
“I just have a question for you,” I said.
“What did you do to get Curly all fired up?” he asked. “The guy’s been on my case all day. Vince’s, too. He said you ticked him off.”
“I asked him about floating neutrals, and he-”
Manny looked just as surprised as Curly had this morning. “What?”
I explained about Stanley ’s mock-up.
“No wonder Curly’s so pissed. He wouldn’t tell us what was going on, just that you keep bullying him about Gene getting electrocuted.”
“I keep picking on him? Since when does asking a question constitute bullying?”
“Hey, I’m just saying. Vince has gotten his head bitten off about five times today, and whenever we ask Curly why he’s so ornery, he just gives us more work to do. He keeps checking on us, too. Like every fifteen minutes, he’s there again. You shouldn’t have started all this. You have no idea what you’re doing. And now he’s worse than usual. But at least now I know what’s behind it.”
“What’s so bad about me asking?”
In even more of a hurry to get away now, Manny shrugged one shoulder and shifted toward the door. “I dunno. Maybe Curly thinks you’re trying to show him up. Maybe he’s worried you’ll cost him the chief electrician position.”
“Don’t be silly.” I could tell Manny was ready to bolt, so I pressed my point, explaining again what Stanley had explained to me. “Is there any way you can check to see if Gene’s accident was due to a floating neutral?”
He shook his head even before I finished making my request. “Let it go.”
“But I don’t believe Gene would’ve made an electrical mistake.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure,” he said.
“Just check, please?”
“No way. It’s not a neutral. I guarantee it. And even if I could check on it, I wouldn’t want to mess with this one. Not with Curly around. If it were up to me,” Manny said, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, “I’d kick his sorry butt out of here. The guy’s got too much on his mind with the sick wife and all. And now he’s so worried I’m going to make a mistake, or that Vince is, that he’s not letting us do our jobs. That guy should get canned before he does more damage. Seriously.”
CHAPTER 13
WHEN THE KITCHEN PHONE RANG AT SEVEN-FIFTEEN that evening, I was surprised to see the in-house ID indicate it was the First Lady calling.
“Hello, Ollie,” she said. “I’m glad it’s you who answered. Are you very busy?”
A visit from Gavin-who pilfered Bucky and Cyan for half the afternoon-had set us even further behind than we’d been. We had all hoped to leave by eight tonight, but from the looks of things now, we wouldn’t get out until after ten.
“Not at all,” I said. “What can I do for you?”
“My husband and I are expecting a guest this evening. I inquired and found that he hasn’t eaten yet. In fact, neither have we.”
That surprised me. I said so.
“Yes, I know,” the First Lady continued, her voice just above a sigh. “We had planned to, but I don’t find myself with much appetite today.”
With everything that was swirling around in their lives-the president’s high-level meetings, Sean’s death, Gene’s death-I couldn’t imagine eating either. “I understand.”
“I knew you would, Ollie. That’s why I have a particular favor to ask. Would you be willing to prepare something for us and for our guest this evening?”
“Of course,” I said. I was about to ask a question when she interrupted.
“There’s one other thing. Could you take care of all this up here? In the family kitchen? I’d prefer to keep it informal. I don’t want any other… anyone else… present. Would you be willing to do that?”
“I’d be glad to,” I said. “Can you tell me who the guest is, so I can look up his dietary requirements?”
“Yes, of course. Senator Blanchard will be joining us this evening. He and I have much to discuss.” She paused for a moment and I sensed it best to give her time to collect her thoughts rather than rush off the phone. “We have a lot to talk about that”-she hesitated before saying his name-“that matter Sean advised me on. You have been privy to information of which the rest of the staff is unaware. I would prefer to keep it that way. Just a limited contingent tonight. Dinner doesn’t need to be elaborate. Do we have any leftovers you can use?”
In my mind, I’d already begun pulling together a menu. “How soon would you like to sit down?”
“Whatever works best for you. Just come up as soon as you can; the kitchen will be yours alone. After a day like today, I’d like to relax and not stand on ceremony for once.”
WE KEPT SO MUCH ON HAND IN THE WHITE House kitchen that the First Lady’s request made for no difficulty whatsoever. After assigning Bucky to take over holiday preparations-and it seemed there was no end to them in sight-I gathered ingredients, utensils, and assorted necessities onto one of our butler’s carts and made my way up to the second floor.
The kitchen here was cozy-flowered wallpaper and warm-wood cabinets similar to those found in middle-class homes across the country. Although there would have been enough room for two of us to work comfortably together, I was content to handle this dinner for three myself. More important, that’s what the First Lady had requested.
Dinner was to be served in the adjacent dining room. Occasionally referred to as the family’s private dining room, it was often confused by non-White House personnel with the Family Dining Room on the first floor, or with the President’s Dining Room in the West Wing. But we staffers knew the difference. This room, formerly known as the Prince of Wales Room, due to the fact that the Prince of Wales slept there during James Buchanan’s presidency-before it was outfitted as a kitchen-became the First Family’s private dining room under Jacqueline Kennedy’s direction.
I’d just started breading the chicken breasts I’d pounded the heck out of earlier when Mrs. Campbell knocked at the doorjamb.