All the President’s Menus

by Julie Hyzy

  “I heard from him before we left for the day. He was groggy, but lucid. He’s scheduled for a battery of tests tomorrow.”

  “And his arm?”

  “Oh, it’s broken all right.” I pointed to a spot halfway up my forearm. “If I understood correctly, he not only dislocated his elbow, he broke both his radius and ulna, right about here.”

  Gav winced. “I’m sorry to hear it.”

  As we served ourselves and dug into our meal, Gav told me a little bit about his day. He’d gone back to work several weeks ago, after an extended medical leave and our two-day honeymoon—most of which had been spent moving his belongings into my Crystal City apartment.

  I listened as he told me about how, even after weeks back on the job, training his muscles to behave the way they had before his injuries was harder work than he’d anticipated. While he talked, I remembered our wedding day and how he’d surprised me by bringing everyone I loved together for the ceremony.

  I sighed.

  “Uh-oh. What’s wrong?” he asked.

  “Nothing at all, why?”

  “You’ve got a wistful look on your face,” he said. “You seem miles away.”

  “I’m sorry. One of the things you said whisked me back to our wedding day in the China Room.”

  “No regrets about marrying me?” he asked. “The two of us lived on our own for a long time. We’re still in the adjustment period as a couple.”

  “I think we’re handling that marvelously.”

  He reached over to grab my hand. “Do you?”

  “Absolutely.” I smiled as he ran a thumb over the backs of my knuckles. “What about you?” I asked. “It had to be tough to leave your bachelor pad for this quiet area.” I thought about Gav’s place, closer to the bustle of D.C. I’d loved the view of the Washington Monument from his living room.

  “There’s no place I’d rather be than right here.”

  I pulled my hand away, grinning. “Your food is getting cold.”

  He looked as though he was about to say more when his cell phone rang. He pulled it from his pocket, gave the display a curious, confused look, then answered. “Gavin here.” He pushed back from the table and stood. As he listened, he started toward the living room.

  I wondered why he hadn’t answered it as “Special Agent Gavin.” Must be a personal call.

  He stopped walking.

  “When?” he asked.

  He placed a finger up against his open ear, pushing the phone closer to his head. “I can barely hear you.”

  I watched as confusion, then pain, crossed his expression. “Tell me where he is again.” He glanced around frantically. I jumped to my feet and brought him a pad of paper and pen.

  With the barest of glances to thank me, he took the pen and made his way back to the table to set the paper down. He fought to cradle his cell phone between his shoulder and ear. The corners of his eyes crinkled, but not with happiness. With his jaw set, he scribbled notes, swallowing hard as he did so. He made a couple of unintelligible noises, probably to assure the person on the other end of the phone that he was taking down all the information.

  Finally, he stood straight. “Are you sure you don’t need me tonight?” He waited, nodding with what looked like resignation. “All right. First thing tomorrow, then. You take care of yourself until I get there.”

  He hung up, dropped the phone onto the tabletop, and covered his eyes with one hand for a silent moment. From upside down, I read what he’d written: GOOD SHEPHERD HOSPITAL, ROOM 350.

  I’d never heard of Good Shepherd Hospital.

  “What happened?” I asked.

  His hand lowered from his brow to his chin. He stroked his late-in-the-day stubble. “You remember Bill and Erma?”

  I did. I’d met them several months earlier when Gav and I had visited their Loudoun County winery. They’d been kind and welcoming to me, despite the fact that years ago, their daughter had been engaged to Gav. Before the marriage could take place, however, Jennifer had become the Maryland Murderer’s final victim.

  Bill and Erma had made the effort to remain close with Gav, and treated him like the son they’d never had. I knew it was their way to hold onto their daughter’s memory.

  “Bill suffered a stroke this afternoon.” Gav tapped the notes he’d scribbled. “He’s stable now but the prognosis is unclear.”

  “You’ll go,” I said. I didn’t phrase it as a question.

  He nodded, staring across the room. I could tell he wasn’t seeing anything at all. “Erma says she’s doing all right. The doctors assure her that he’s in good hands, but she’s staying with him tonight anyway.”

  “She wants to watch over him herself. I understand.”

  Gav’s eyes met mine. “You would know something about that, wouldn’t you?”

  I reached out and touched his arm. “I can’t get away while the sequester is on—while the Saardiscans are here.”

  He put his hand over mine. “I know. I’ll inform my team leader, then head out there in the morning.”

  I remembered taciturn, watchful Bill. Where Erma had been warm and eager to connect with me, Bill had held back. I didn’t blame him. “I hope he’s all right,” I said.

  Gav gave my hand a squeeze, but didn’t say a word.

  * * *

  When my alarm went off in the morning, I was wrapped around Gav’s warm body. My arm encircled his waist, my left leg draped over his. I blinked myself awake, pulled away, and shut off the radio. As I got out of bed, I turned, noticing that Gav hadn’t moved. He was still on his back, one arm beneath his head, eyes wide open as he stared at the ceiling.

  “Did you get any sleep at all?” I asked.

  “Some.”

  “Are you okay?” I asked. If I was being honest with myself, I’d have to admit that I was wondering if last night’s phone call was bringing back memories of his life with Jennifer. I wondered if Erma reaching out to Gav was reminiscent of when the older couple had reached out to him at their daughter’s death. Whatever Gav was going through had to be hard for him. There wasn’t much I could do beyond letting him grieve in his own way and to be as supportive as I could until he found his way back to me.

  “I will be,” he said.

  “I know.”

  “It’s just . . .” He bolstered himself up on one elbow to face me. In his rumpled T-shirt, with morning stubble and bed-tousled hair, he was truly the most attractive man I’d ever seen. Not only that—he became increasingly more handsome by the day.

  I sat down on the bed next to him. “This brings back memories?”

  His brow came together and he gave a quick headshake. “The opposite, in fact. Right before you woke up I was thinking about how difficult things have been for Erma and Bill. How they probably couldn’t have made it without having each other. How lucky they are that they do. How lucky to have had one another for so many years. Life can be so full of anguish. But when sorrows are shared . . .” He reached out for my hand, and held tightly. “Thank you for being here for me.”

  I leaned over to kiss him lightly on the lips. “Always.”

  * * *

  “You want a what?”

  Tom MacKenzie, head of the Presidential Protective Division of the Secret Service, the PPD, practically choked with laughter.

  We were seated across from one another in Tom’s West Wing office. I was allowed broad access to the Secret Service and to Tom because of the many situations I’d been involved with in the past. Where once Tom and his staff had worked to exclude me and even belittle my contributions, he now grudgingly accepted my peculiar talents as part of the job.

  “I think it would be smart—forward-thinking, even—to post a linguist in the kitchen while the Saardiscan contingent is here. To translate what they’re saying.”

  “Don’t they speak English?”

  “They do, very well.”

  “Stir that, bake this, pass the artichokes.” He cocked his head to one side. “What more do you need?”

/>   I sat up a little straighter, my spine zinging at the condescension. “They carry on extended conversations that neither Bucky nor I understand.”

  “So? They’re friends. They probably have a lot of things to discuss.”

  “It isn’t right.”

  “Have you asked them to speak English in the kitchen?”

  “I have, but they’re still lapsing into Saardiscan. Quite a lot, actually.”

  Tom shook his head. “Has it been too long since we’ve uncovered a conspiracy in the White House? Are you bored and looking for a little excitement?”

  “What is up with you today?” I asked him. “Don’t get me wrong, I know how sarcastic you can be when you’re in that kind of mood, but this seems over the top, even for you.”

  He pulled at his nose, not looking at me. My words had struck home, and I watched as he collected himself.

  “There is no such thing as nonessential staff when it comes to protecting the president and his family,” he said. “Even though my workforce hasn’t been cut during this sequester, there have been ripple effects from personnel shortages in other departments. Tensions are high.”

  “I get that you’re under pressure, but it isn’t fair to take it out on me.”

  “You’re right. I’m sorry.” The words were there, but the tone was perfunctory. “Thing is, Ollie, while the government is running shorthanded, this is a ludicrous request.”

  I bit the insides of my cheeks. “Hardly ludicrous,” I said. “The decision was made to honor our promise to Saardisca and host their team. Seems to me that if this initiative was so crucial that the sequester couldn’t touch it, we ought to give it its best shot at success.”

  “And you think a linguist will do that? Seriously, Ollie? Don’t you believe they have a right to private conversation?”

  Of course I did. Yet, while we all worked together in the White House kitchen, I needed to know what was going on. How could I tell Tom that I had an uneasy feeling about them? He would immediately claim I was chasing conspiracies again.

  “Bucky and I don’t have the luxury of private conversation,” I said. “And with Marcel out, he and I are stretched thin.”

  “Talk to me about being stretched thin.” He shook his head. “Your request is denied. Totally out of the question. Besides, the visitors won’t be here long.”

  “Two weeks.”

  He directed a baleful expression at me. “You’ve been through tougher situations than this one. You’ll adjust. Now, if there’s nothing else?”

  CHAPTER 5

  I returned to the kitchen to find Bucky instructing the Saardiscan team on how to use one of our tilt-skillets. The four men stood around the waist-high, stainless steel device looking confused. I got the impression they’d never seen one before. That would be a shame, because the tilt-skillet was a workhorse. I didn’t know what we’d do without it.

  The men glanced up at my entrance, but only Bucky acknowledged me. In the middle of a demonstration, he flicked on the heat, then poured a generous glug of olive oil into the mechanism’s wide, flat base. “Let’s say we’re making a chowder.”

  At their blank looks, he clarified. “Soup.”

  All four men nodded.

  “We often need to prepare enough soup to feed more than a hundred guests.”

  The chefs grunted sounds of disbelief.

  “More than a hundred?” Kilian seemed to be the group’s spokesperson. “That is an exaggeration, no? Yesterday, your pastry chef, Marcel, showed us photos of many events held here, but the quantity he spoke of could not be accurate. Much of what your government shares with the world is propaganda, is it not?”

  Bucky’s mouth quirked up on one side as he spread the oil around the tilt-skillet’s bottom. “Whatever Marcel showed you was not propaganda.”

  He reached around and pulled up a large bowl of ingredients and tossed the contents into the hot oil, making the chopped onions, green and red peppers, and carrots dance in the sizzling oil.

  Tibor pretended to be paying attention to the chowder-making, but I could tell he was more interested in my presence. I couldn’t fathom why, but Nate and Hector noticed him watching me and nudged one another.

  Bucky could tell he was losing his audience. He raised his voice and spoke with more animation. “We’ve prepared dinner here for far more than a hundred guests. In some instances, we’ve entertained more than a thousand. I’m sure whatever Marcel showed you was from one of our many successful gatherings.”

  Kilian, who appeared to be the only member of his team actively paying attention to Bucky, shook his head with vehemence. “This kitchen is too small to prepare food to serve more than fifty, perhaps sixty diners.” His soft face creased into a knowing smile. “We were warned before we left Saardisca that you might try to sway us into believing of your country’s wealth and privilege by sharing outlandish stories.”

  I took a step forward. “We have no reason to lie to you about the dinners we prepare. And I have no personal motivation to try to convince you that we’re telling the truth. Our goal here—at least the way we understood it—was to forge a bond between our countries by sharing foods our citizens love.”

  Tibor gave a haughty chuckle. “Yes,” he said, “and that is why you brag about your phantom parties.”

  Bucky and I exchanged a look.

  “Phantom parties?” Bucky repeated. “I assure you, we work very hard to bring sparkling events to life.”

  “What about the queen of England’s visit here? Or that of Germany’s chancellor? Certainly those have been publicized in your country. Do you doubt your own broadcasters?” I said it with a smile, but I was beginning to suspect that this really was all news to them.

  “If such events took place, we would have heard about them. Of course we know that your president entertains guests from other countries, but the scope and the extravagance you’re suggesting . . .” Kilian shrugged. “Let me simply say that I find your descriptions too incredible to be true.”

  “I understand that we approach entertaining differently,” I said. It was becoming clear to me that these men came from a culture so far removed from ours that things we took for granted seemed fantastic and impossible. “But by the time you depart to return to your country, I hope you have a clearer understanding about how we do things here.”

  Bucky chimed in. “And we have a clearer understanding as to how entertainment is handled in your country.”

  “Well said.” I smiled. Kilian, however, maintained his skeptical expression. Tibor glared. Only Happy Hector smiled back at me.

  By now, the sizzling ingredients filled the room with mouthwatering aromas. I pulled a long spoon from one of the drawers and began to stir the bits around. From the shocked looks on the visiting chefs’ faces I recognized I’d done something to surprise them.

  “Is there a problem?” I asked.

  Hector’s dark eyes were as wide as doughnuts. His mouth opened and he made a noise that sounded like a strangled half laugh. Tibor sputtered and pointed. “That is not yours.”

  I’d stopped stirring when I’d noticed their reactions. Now I picked the spoon up and looked at it. “What do you mean? You saw me pull this out from the drawer. Whose do you think it is?”

  “Not the spoon,” Tibor said. “That is Mr. Bucky’s food creation. You should not be interfering with it.”

  Words failed me for about two heartbeats. “In this kitchen,” I began, “we work as a team.”

  Kilian gave me an indulgent look. “Then how is the president to know who made the most delicious food?” At this, he gestured to Bucky with his eyes. “And who is responsible for the lesser offerings?” He shifted his gaze to me.

  I rubbed my forehead. We were in for a long two weeks, indeed.

  * * *

  Peter Everett Sargeant folded his hands across the top of his desk. “They are a patriarchal society,” he said with exaggerated patience. “We knew that before they arrived.”

  I treated him to a
beleaguered sigh. “I’m simply taken aback by their disregard for my authority.”

  “Are you suggesting that this arrangement is too much for you?” Sargeant raised an eyebrow. “I’d hasten to remind you that you’ve faced more difficult challenges in the past. Tut, tut. You’re not getting soft on me, are you?”

  “Of course not.” Bristling, I was reminded of Tom’s similar statement earlier this morning. I chose my next words with care. “I’m not here to whine and complain, but I do think it’s worth your knowing what Bucky and I are dealing with.”

  “Indeed. Your assistant is having trouble engaging the visitors? They aren’t respecting him?”

  “They are, as a matter of fact. But I believe it’s because he’s male.”

  Sargeant waited. I could have sworn he was amused.

  “You don’t intend to help me out here, do you?” I asked.

  Did his eyes twinkle? Or was it my imagination? “If there’s one thing I’ve learned about you, Ms. Paras, it’s that you rarely require my assistance.”

  In a flash, I heard myself and felt ashamed. Sargeant wasn’t saying it in so many words, but the fractious chefs who were inhabiting my kitchen were my responsibility. It was up to me to find common ground.

  Sure, Sargeant could sit these men down and impress on them—again—that I was in charge and that they needed to respect my authority. But the beliefs they accepted as part of their culture and years of chauvinistic upbringing weren’t about to be invalidated by one lecture from our chief usher.

  I needed to establish my authority, to lead by example, and hope they’d pick up on the lessons.

  Talk about on-the-job training.

  Sargeant shifted, sitting up straighter. “In other business, I understand Marcel remains hospitalized, undergoing tests.”

  “Have you heard when he might return?”

  Sargeant shook his head. “I’d expected an update this morning. You will keep me posted if he gets in touch?”

  I agreed and made ready to stand.

  He sniffed loudly and stared pointedly. “Where are you going?”

  “I thought we’d covered everything you wanted to discuss.”