“Still,” President Campbell said, “when Sean took a look at the books-”
“Your nephew would have advised you to sell, too.”
“No,” Mrs. Campbell said. “He advised me against selling.”
I heard a chair scrape backward and I could picture Blanchard’s reaction. As I poured sauce over the chicken breasts, I fought to tune out Bindy’s mouth sounds and listen in to Blanchard’s reply.
“You must be mistaken.”
“I am not.” A clink of silverware. I could imagine Mrs. Campbell sitting up straighter. “Don’t you remember? I told you on Thursday.” Her voice faltered. “Before we learned… before…”
“I truly am sorry to bring up such a difficult subject at a time like this,” Blanchard said again. “But I can’t imagine such a fine young man giving you bad advice.”
Whispered: “Ollie?”
I turned. Bindy held up her glass. “Do you have anything stronger than water?”
I pulled open the refrigerator door, wondering why she didn’t get it herself. Then again, she might not feel comfortable puttering around in someone else’s kitchen, especially one in the White House. “Orange juice, milk, iced tea…”
“Iced tea, thanks.”
As I served her, I listened again to the conversation in the other room. Bindy’s body language suggested she was eager to keep me from hearing what was going on, so I strove for nonchalance, moving with care, trying to make as little noise as possible. Not that it mattered. The adjacent room’s conversation came through loud and clear.
“No, I don’t believe this is our fathers’ fault,” Mrs. Campbell was saying. “I believe they wanted to ensure their children’s security. And my father would not have wanted me to sell out at the first opportunity after his death.”
Blanchard spoke so quietly I almost couldn’t make out his words. “But you must understand that my father, Nick’s father, and Helen’s all died years ago. We couldn’t move on this business venture until… well, until you inherited your share. This can hardly be considered too quick of a decision.”
“It is for me.”
“But don’t you see? That’s the problem. Our fathers believed-erroneously, I might add-that the four of us needed to reach a decision unanimously. If they hadn’t put that codicil in their agreement, I can guarantee Helen would have sold out within a year of her father’s death. She’s been waiting ten years for her portion of the proceeds.”
The president chimed in. “What I don’t understand is why the need to sell? None of you is destitute; you don’t need the funds to survive. Why the rush?”
I carried a platter of succulent chicken breasts and steaming pasta into the dining room. As I set the dish down, I wanted to ask if there was anything else the diners required, but Blanchard was talking, so I held my tongue.
“It’s Volkov,” he said. Then, with a pointed look at me, he stopped talking and took a drink of water.
I grabbed my chance. “Will there be anything else for now?”
“No, thank you,” Mrs. Campbell said. “Is Ms. Gerhardt faring well in the kitchen?”
“Just fine.”
“Thank you, Ollie.”
The moment I left, one of the president’s aides, Ben, met me in the kitchen, coming in from the hallway. He gestured to me. “Where’s everyone else?”
“Informal tonight,” I said.
The assistant didn’t hesitate. “He’s needed downstairs.”
“Now?”
Without answering, Ben strode into the private dining room and spoke quietly to the president. I watched from the doorway. Sighing deeply, President Campbell wiped his mouth with his napkin, then dropped it on the table. “If you’ll excuse me,” he said.
I ducked out of sight.
As soon as the president left, Blanchard spoke again, now more animatedly. “Volkov is going to bring us all down. This scandal he’s involved in is not going away anytime soon. In fact, I see it getting worse. Every day that we keep Zendy Industries alive with his name as one of our co-owners is a day that we risk losing everything.”
I heard the sounds of passing plates, and then Mrs. Campbell said, “Surely, Treyton, you exaggerate.”
“Not at all. In fact, he’s the one spearheading this sell effort. At first I dismissed the idea, just as you’re dismissing it now. But think about it. He may be desperate for funds to cover his legal bills, but he’s right. We need to sell now, while Zendy’s at the top of its game. Not later, when Volkov’s troubles expand to include us all.” Blanchard made a sound, like a tsk. “It’s just a terrible shame that our fathers insisted on that unanimous vote.”
There was silence for a long moment, with only scraping sounds of silverware on china and bodies shifting in seats.
“My father would not have wanted me to sell Zendy. Not this soon after his passing.”
“Elaine,” Blanchard said. “I know you’re suffering still from the loss of your father. I offer you my sincere condolences on his passing and on Sean’s, but we have very little time to make this decision.”
“I disagree. We have ten years.”
Blanchard took in a sharp breath. I assumed it was Blanchard, because he then said, “Perhaps you misunderstand. We have to wait ten years only if we decide not to sell at this time.”
“And that’s what Sean advised me to do.”
The silence was so heavy I felt it in the kitchen. Bindy watched me with wide eyes. The chicken on her plate remained untouched.
“I hate to say this, Elaine, but if that’s what Sean advised you, he was wrong. In fact, as distasteful as it sounds, I’m now beginning to wonder… if that’s why he shot himself.”
I heard Mrs. Campbell gasp. “No. No. Of course not.”
“Can’t you see it, Elaine? He might have believed he disappointed you by giving bad advice. He might not have seen any way out but to take his own life.”
“Treyton, that’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. And I will thank you to not discuss Sean’s death anymore. That subject is closed.”
I heard him sigh. “I’m sorry.”
“Yes, well, I would also like to table the Zendy discussion as well. We can talk about it another time.”
A long moment of silence. “Just remember one thing, Elaine,” Blanchard said. “Our window of opportunity won’t stay open for long. And once it’s closed, we won’t have another chance to sell for ten years. There are buyers out there now. The time to sell is now.”
“Actually, now is the time for two old friends to enjoy dinner together. No more business discussion tonight. Are we agreed?”
I couldn’t see Blanchard’s face, but I could imagine it as he said, “Whatever’s best for you.”
When they moved onto other topics, including the exploits of Blanchard’s kids, I pulled the sorbet-filled oranges from the freezer and began to prepare them for serving. I liked to allow the sorbet to soften slightly for easier eating. Bindy broke the silence in the kitchen by asking, “How much do you know about this Zendy situation?”
I shrugged, shooting a look toward the other room. Even though she spoke quietly, I worried about being overheard. “Not much.” I didn’t want to tell her what Sean had shared with me. For some reason it seemed to be a betrayal of trust. I had no doubt that if Bindy perceived any value in my musings, she’d scurry to share them with Blanchard at her first opportunity.
The girl watched me work. Halfway between anxiety and expectation, the expression on her face told me she was hungry for any specifics I could give her. Little did she know that when it came to the First Family’s business, I was as mute as a mime.
“Why all the fuss?” I asked, lowering myself into a chair opposite Bindy’s so we could talk like girlfriends sharing a common concern. “I mean, really. Why can’t the three other people sell and leave Mrs. Campbell to hold on to her share?”