Hail to the Chef

by Julie Hyzy

  IN FAIRLY SHORT ORDER I GOT ONE OF THE Campbell ’s favorite dinners started. Nothing fancy, a simple breaded lemon chicken served over angel hair pasta, with capers. The pre-course salad would be served with Bucky’s newest dressing. I’d pre-tested it myself and pronounced it wonderful. Dessert would be simple, too. Fresh sorbet, in hollowed-out oranges, waited in the freezer for a whipped cream and peppermint leaf garnish. The preparation took some effort, but I wanted to bring a touch of cheer to what promised to be a difficult evening.

  I was so immersed in preparation that I didn’t notice Bindy until she called my name.

  Startled, I glanced up, hoping as I reacted that my disappointment didn’t show.

  “This is nice,” she said, walking into the kitchen. “I’ve never been in this room before.” She carried a plate, silverware, napkin, and crystal water glass. In addition, she held a diplomatic pouch under her arm.

  “What’s going on?”

  The disappointment on her face told the story before she could. “Treyton asked if I minded excusing myself.” She flushed. “How embarrassing. We thought this was supposed to be a real dinner, downstairs, with a few other people. I guess I should’ve…” She shook her head. “Doesn’t matter now, does it? I’m here. I’m stuck till it’s time to leave. Do you mind if I sit in here with you?”

  She arranged her place settings on the table, as though preparing to be served. With care, she placed the package on the chair next to hers. “That’s for later,” she said cryptically.

  I’d planned to clean up as soon as dinner was served, and then beat a path back downstairs. My estimated ten o’clock departure was looking ever more unlikely. “Sure,” I lied. “Have you eaten?”

  She shook her head.

  “Well, I’ve prepared plenty,” I said. “Let me just take care of them first, okay?”

  If I’d expected an offer of help, I was mistaken. But in truth, I was glad. Preparing a dinner for this small group wouldn’t be difficult, and I’d rather do it myself than have to coach an amateur. Bindy sat at the table, watching me work, occasionally asking a question about preparation or presentation.

  She had the good sense to speak in a whisper. Since we could hear most of the conversation going on in the next room, it stood to reason they would be able to hear us, too.

  I wheeled out the salad, dressing, and bread, feeling more like I was serving my mother and nana at home than the president of the United States, his wife, and their guest. Meals in this home were usually served by tuxedoed butlers, amid much pomp and circumstance. Right now, in my tunic and apron, I felt positively slovenly.

  “Good evening, Mr. President, Senator Blanchard,” I said, nodding to each of them and to Mrs. Campbell. The president greeted me by name and Blanchard smiled. I saw in him what most voters must have seen. He exuded charm and confidence-so much so that it almost seemed as if he had the power to dispel the house’s sad pall.

  I set the food items on the table. “I’ll be in the next room, if you need anything.”

  Having gone silent when I entered, they started conversation start right up again as I crossed the threshold into the adjacent kitchen.

  “I know the timing is terrible,” Senator Blanchard said, “but this is the situation we’re faced with. This was brought on by our fathers. It’s unfortunate that we’re required to deal with their shortsightedness. Especially at a time like this.”

  Bindy made a face that let me know she was as uncomfortable as I. “Salad?” I whispered.

  She nodded, so I set one in front of her and used the remaining time to finish preparing the entrée. As she ate, I couldn’t help listening to the terse conversation in the next room.

  “My wife has shown me the corporation’s financials,” President Campbell said. “Based on the company’s projected growth, I don’t understand why any of you want to sell right now.”

  “I beg your pardon, sir,” Blanchard said, “but I believe my analysts have a better grip on the company’s financials than either you or I could hope to have. We are, after all, in the business of serving our country rather than wizards in the financial world.”

  “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 i
s 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?”

  “That’s the thing,” Bindy said. She seemed to fight back her natural reluctance to talk about her boss’s business. Maybe she believed she’d glean some vital information from me. Bringing her head closer to mine, she whispered, “According to the company history, the four men who founded the company never wanted their children to sell. Zendy was set up as a research company with the mission of bettering the world. It’s done that. In fact, the company has done it so well that it’s made billions on research. Most of that money goes to philanthropic causes.”

  “Oh.” I was beginning to understand. Although I trusted Sean’s instincts, it had made no sense to me to put an investment on hold for ten years with no promise that the current successes would continue. I knew there had to be more to the story. “And Mrs. Campbell is reluctant to sell, because…?”

  Bindy glanced toward the doorway leading into the dining room. “They can’t hear me, can they?”

  I shook my head.

  “The company looking to acquire Zendy intends to change its mission.”

  “How so?”

  “Zendy is worth more in pieces than it is as a whole.” She licked her lips. “If they sell now, Zendy will be split up into smaller units and sold off one at a time.”

  “What will happen to the philanthropic agenda?”

  She shrugged, then gave a slight giggle. “That’s one of the downsides. But that’s a small price to pay for all the good the four partners can do with the proceeds.”

  “I understand now why Mrs. Campbell is opposed to the sale.” I remembered her comment on Thursday, arguing that the new owners might not respect the same goals.

  “That’s it,” she said.

  “Sounds like Senator Blanchard is tired of giving away the money to the needy and wants to collect the proceeds of the sale for himself.”

  Put that way, my reflections made Bindy squirm. “It isn’t Treyton,” she said. “It’s that Nick Volkov. You heard about all the trouble he’s in.”

  “There’s no way he’s hurting for money to pay for legal counsel,” I said. “I don’t buy it.”

  “You have no idea how deep he’s in debt.”

  “But you do.”

  She looked away. “I know stuff,” she admitted.

  I had a sudden thought. “Is Senator Blanchard planning to run for president?”

  When her eyes met mine in that immediate, panicked way, I knew I’d struck a nerve.

  “No,” she said unconvincingly. “He’s the same party as President Campbell. That would be silly.”

  “True.”

  I stood and finished setting up the serving trays, arranging the sorbet so it would look pretty as well as appetizing. I peered into the dining room and saw that both Mrs. Campbell and Senator Blanchard had pushed their empty plates just a little forward. They were done. Moments later, I had their places cleared and dessert served.

  Back in the kitchen, I asked Bindy, “And so why are you here?”

  “I told you. We thought that this dinner was involving more people.”

  For some reason I doubted her. But I couldn’t think of any other plausible reason for her presence, so I let it go.

  When the First Lady and the senator were finished eating, I cleared the table one final time, but since they were deep in conversation, I didn’t interrupt. As I washed the remaining dishes and put everything away, Bindy and I discussed the gingerbread men. “They’re incredible,” I said.

  “Thanks. We worked hard on them,” she said.

  “You and the Blanchards’ chef?” I asked with a tilt to my head and a tone in my voice that asked if she and the chef were romantically involved. She turned away without answering and tried to listen in to the dining room conversation again. Mrs. Campbell and the senator had gone so quiet that there was no hearing them at this point.

  “Oh, I almost forgot,” she said, pulling her package onto the tabletop. She gave the top of the diplomatic pouch a little pat. “This is for you.”
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br />   I was confused.

  Bindy explained. “Treyton is so grateful you agreed to handle the gingerbread men that he asked me to give you this.” She pushed it toward me. “Just to say thank you.”

  “I can’t accept…”

  “I know, but it really isn’t for you exactly. It’s for the kitchen. He figured that’d be okay.”

  As I opened it the weighty bundle, Bindy bit her lip. I wondered if she’d picked it out.

  “Thank you,” I said, as the object came free of its packaging. “It’s lovely.”

  It was a clock. A bit large for a desk clock-about the size of a hardcover novel-it would have looked more at home in a French Provincial sitting room than in the White House kitchen. The clock face was small, but it was surrounded by a wide border of gold-colored heavy metal. Had it been real gold, I probably could have retired. As it was, the garish thing looked as though someone had picked it out as a joke, or for a white elephant gift exchange. “Thank you,” I said.

  Bindy breathed a sigh of relief. “You like it?”

  “Sure!” I said. “I’ll keep it in the kitchen right where we all can see it.” To myself, I added that we’d keep it there long enough for Bindy to see it a couple of times. Then off to the warehouse with this clunker. “You really shouldn’t have,” I said, wishing she hadn’t, “but thank you.”

  I offered coffee on my last foray into the dining room, but Blanchard declined. He stood. “Has Bindy been good company?” he asked me. “I’m so sorry we had a misunderstanding, but she said she hoped she might be of help back there.”

  She must have heard her name because before he finished asking, she was at my side. “I enjoyed reconnecting with Ollie,” she said, with a little lilt to her voice that be-lied her words.

  “That’s great,” Blanchard said. To Mrs. Campbell, he smiled and nodded. “It’s been a pleasure, as always, Elaine. I hope you’ll give some serious thought to the matters we discussed.”

  “Of course,” she said.

  “The clock’s ticking,” he said, tapping his watch. “I don’t want you to forget.”

  With a smile that took the sting out of her words, Mrs. Campbell said, “How can I, when you’re so eager to remind me?”