The flaw Marcel spoke of was another wire appearance. This time the wire was gray, and attached to the back of the structure. “Maybe when Yi-im was fixing the gingerbread men,” I said, “he bumped it and the icing fell off?”
“Fixing what gingerbread men?”
The fear on Marcel’s face made me sorry I’d said anything.
“Oh,” I stammered. “Maybe I’m wrong. One of my chefs said…”
I purposely let the thought hang as I moved closer to inspect the three gingerbread men perched just above the cookie White House. Not one of them looked marred in any way. Perhaps Agda had been mistaken. Perhaps Yi-im had been working on other gingerbread men. They were all certainly fragile.
“I guess Agda meant different gingerbread men,” I said. “She told me some were broken.”
“And thank heaven for that,” Marcel said with spirit. “Some of them were… exécrable, and I would be ashamed to show them to the public. Even if they are made by children in America, we must always strive for the best display we can manage.”
Personally, I thought Marcel was missing the point of the exercise, but I kept quiet. Scrutinizing the decorations, I tried to see if I could find any evidence of them having been repaired.
Marcel was so intent on his own repairs that he no longer paid me any mind.
Each of the three men sat perched atop a pole. None of the poles had cracks or anything visibly wrong with them. I remembered being impressed with the gingerbread men because each held a tiny flag made out of sugar. Even these delicate details looked to be perfect.
“These are supposed to light up, too?” I asked, pointing to the three men.
Marcel gave me a brief glance. “No,” he said. “Only the house is to light. And these poles.” He pointed vaguely in the direction of a corner of the building. “You remember? The sparklers. We have added more for effect.”
They certainly had. In addition to the three poles attached to the Blanchard gingerbread men, there were several additional ones along the side and back of the White House itself. I could only imagine what a beautiful background it would make for the house when the creation was officially lit this afternoon. I selfishly wished they’d had them in place when we’d tested it earlier.
But I would see it later. One of the nicest things about being executive chef was the fact that I was not only welcome, but featured, at many of these official events.
“Okay, thanks,” I said. “Good luck with your repairs.”
Marcel grunted.
WITH BINDY FINALLY GONE-PLEASED WITH the knowledge that her boss’s kids’ artwork was in place-and the last of the hors d’oeuvres complete, all we had to do now was wait. In twenty minutes, one of the assistants would come down to escort me upstairs for the media event.
I checked my watch for the fifteenth time in the space of twelve seconds.
“Nervous, Ollie?” Cyan asked.
I pretended not to hear her. The last thing I needed was to endure the well-intentioned jibes of my coworkers while I was fighting off butterflies in my gut.
“Agda,” I said, trying to divert everyone’s attention. “I checked those gingerbread men upstairs. None of them were broken.”
Her brows came together in a puzzled look. “Yah,” she said. “All three broken.”
“Not the ones from the Blanchard family,” I said patiently.
Her perplexed frown grew tighter. “Yah,” she said again, with feeling. “Three from box.”
As luck would have it, Marcel walked in just then. “Ask him,” I said to Agda. “He and I both checked the gingerbread men. There’s nothing wrong with any of them.”
She seemed so miserable to be wrong, that I added, brightly, “It must have been some of the others,” I said.
“No.” She gave me the most direct look she had since she’d begun working here. “I see him fix två.” She stabbed three fingers into the air for emphasis.
“What is wrong?” Marcel asked, glancing from one of us to the other. “Something is amiss?”
I explained, but even as I began, Marcel shook his head. “Once we installed the three gingerbread men above the house, they were not to be moved,” he said. “Yi-im knew this. He would not move them.”
Agda’s lips were tight and her entire being seemed to reverberate with tense frustration. I rested the tips of my fingers against her forearm. “I believe you saw him fixing gingerbread men,” I said. “But the three from the Blanchard family-from the box-are looking great.” I didn’t reiterate that they’d never been broken. I just wanted to put this matter to rest. In the large scheme of things-with an event the size of which we would be working today-this was nothing. “What’s important now is that there are only about ten minutes to go before the ceremonies begin, and everything is perfect.”
The words hadn’t left my mouth before one of the assistants, Faber, appeared in the doorway. “Five minutes.”
Marcel and I didn’t waste another moment. “Bucky, come on,” I said, inviting him to join us. “I’d like you to be part of this, too.”
Pleased, he hurried along with us to don clean jackets-crisp, white, recently pressed-and our tall toques. While we kept them here in the kitchen for occasional use, we always wore them for media events. I liked the fact that wearing one made me seem taller.
Marcel was repeating things to himself in a low voice.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
With an abashed look, he whispered, “I am trying to remember key words to respond when the First Lady asks me the questions.”
He and I had been provided with scripts, ahead of time. Nothing in them was difficult or unusual, but I understood his discomposure. We were supposed to recite from our prepared scripts, but make it look conversational. Sure. Get in front of the cameras and all memorization, all practice, goes out the window.
I’d surprised Bucky by inviting him to participate with me. My intention was not to make him eat his words about being left shorthanded in the kitchen but to foster a sense of inclusion. Henry was my idol where that talent was concerned, and I was eager to prove myself a worthy pupil. As my second-in-command, Bucky wasn’t likely to be called upon to answer any questions on camera. But you never could completely predict these things.
Bucky’s eyes were wild as he straightened and re-straightened his white jacket. “Do I look okay?” he asked.
“You look great,” I said. And it was true. Though he and I occasionally bumped heads and ideas in the kitchen, we had a mutual respect and I was, if not glad, then resigned to the fact that he would always be part of our crew. No doubt about it: In the kitchen, he was an asset. Unfortunately, he was also a pain in mine.
“Where’s Yi-im?” I asked Marcel. “Didn’t he want to be part of this? He’s done so much lately.”
Marcel wagged his head sadly. “He has taken ill.”
I’d seen him this morning, and he’d looked fine to me. I said so.
Marcel gave a very French shrug. “What can I say? He tells me he is sick; I have to believe him. We do not want germs on our precious creations.”
“That’s true.”
Faber led the three of us up, using the stairs closest to the usher’s office. I felt the nervous jitters myself and I, too, started to rehearse my lines for when the First Lady would ask about menu preparations.
On our way up, we met Curly coming down. Looking a lot like an angry bulldog, he seemed not to even notice us until we passed him. But then he grabbed my arm and looked directly into my face. “You seen Manny?” he asked.
“No,” I said wiggling my arm to dislodge his hand. But he held fast.
Faber cleared his throat. “We are on our way to the official opening-”
“I know where the hell you’re headed,” he said, his voice a growl that matched the bulldog visage to perfection. The long, pinched scar throbbed red. “But since you’re always chasing after Manny and Vince, I figured you’d know where they are. It’s the last minute before everything goes hot and they ain’t anywhere.”