by Gina Conroy
They ended the call after some small talk, news about his nieces and nephews. Between his brother and sister, they more than made up for his lack of contribution in the grandchild department.
Jack put the phone back in its place and went to reheat some leftover takeout. An idle thought drifted into his head: What is Chef Tara having for dinner tonight? A memory flashed into his head, of an impromptu picnic in Paris. Tara had dragged him into her idea, along with a baguette, cheese, fruit, and smoked meat. They had lain on a blanket in a park, and for once he’d shoved his job away for a few hours as they talked and soaked up the romance of Paris and shared kisses.
He should have called her. He should have admitted to her the truth then. His job was his true love; it claimed his time and his attention and his devotion. Downright cruel, to lead her down a road of disappointment. It hadn’t been fair to Tara then, and it definitely wouldn’t be fair to her now.
Chapter 3
Delivery truck’s here!” Adelaide called out to the kitchen staff. Two of the sous chefs sprang into action. “Chef Tara, here’s the inventory we’re expecting. Oversee and verify.”
“Yes, Chef.” Tara went to fetch the clipboard Adelaide held. “Let’s go, y’all.”
They walked outside to meet the truck from Capital Produce. Friday morning, last delivery before the weekend. Tara expected to hear songs in Italian on the crisp January air, but only heard the idling of the truck’s engine.
A different deliveryman hopped down from the driver’s seat. “Good morning.”
“Where’s Tony?” Tara asked. Tony Caproni always sang opera while making the fruit and vegetable deliveries. Old enough to be her father, yet still charming enough to make her giggle every once in a while. Harmless man, and he brought a smile to everyone who talked to him. She missed his deliveries during the summer, when the White House’s garden was giving them its bounty.
“Hello to you, too, Chef.” The dark-haired driver, younger than Tony, sauntered to the back of the truck. “Tony’s not with us anymore.”
“Oh. I see. Did he move?” Tara watched as the driver hopped onto the rear fender of the truck, then slid the door up.
“I don’t think so.” He moved to the nearest crate of produce. “Okay, I’ve got potatoes, snap peas, kale, and leeks on my list. Plus strawberries and mangoes.”
“Right.” Tara nodded. “Tony didn’t tell us he was leaving y’all. He didn’t even say good-bye.”
Really, she sounded like a three-year-old, but she missed the early morning serenade. And surely the kind of man whose wife made cannolis and brought them as a Christmas gift for the White House kitchen staff would tell them good-bye if he was leaving.
“He always made us smile in the morning,” said sous chef Ken. “Unloading a truck isn’t usually much fun.”
“You guys really don’t want me to sing,” said the driver. He picked up a pair of red cabbage. “I could juggle for you.”
Tara laughed. “No, that’s okay. Thank you anyway. I’m Tara Whitley.”
“Heath.” The driver hopped from the back of the truck back down to ground level. “Heath Smallwood. Nice to meet you. Next time, I’ll bring a few kiwifruit and amaze you with my juggling skills. I can whistle, too.”
The sous chefs busied themselves with loading the produce onto a wheeled cart as Tara checked items off the list. Heath leaned against the back of the truck, then tilted his head back to look at the building.
“Wow. It seems a lot bigger up close.” He squinted at the windows.
“Yeah, doesn’t it? Your first time here?” Tara asked.
“Yup. I was so nervous at the gate, I dropped my ID on the floor of the truck. Had to ask the guy at the guardhouse if I could get out and pick it up. Couldn’t reach it.” He shook his head, a quirky grin on his face. “I tried not to crack jokes, but the old guy looked pretty serious.”
“That would be Buzz. And yes, he takes his job very seriously.” Tara watched the sous chefs wheel the heavy cart down the ramp and into the building. “I had my job interview for the position here, and when I left, I found the nearest bathroom and lost my lunch. Oh sorry. TMI.”
Heath glanced at his watch. “No problem. Glad I’m not the only one. See you next week?”
“I’ll be here.” She smiled at him as he turned and gave her a nod before returning to the driver’s side of the truck. Heath opened the door, then climbed up into the truck’s cab.
She’d miss Tony Caproni and his cheerful disposition. But Heath Smallwood seemed a decent replacement so far. Definitely a morning person. No crabby delivery people, thank you very much. Sometimes bad moods could be contagious. Tara caught up with the sous chefs as they negotiated the cart into the kitchen and headed for the pantry.
Before long, the Governors’ Lunch would be over, and she’d be on her way to meet Jack. The girls had warned her to be careful with him. Oh, she’d be careful all right. She wasn’t about to be let down again. Besides, she had no idea how much Jack had changed since Paris.
Tara tried to smooth down her windblown hair as she entered the J. Edgar Hoover Building. She hoped she didn’t smell like kitchen. She probably did. She unbuttoned her winter coat and sniffed, then yawned. Not too bad. Her eyelids fought to stay open as she went through security before stopping at the reception desk.
Last night, her bedroom clock had read 3:15 right before her mind finally quit racing and she fell asleep. “Don’t count sheep; talk to the Shepherd,” Mom always told her. And so Tara had, which helped. She didn’t know what the next days held for her, between now and the State Dinner. She knew two things for certain: she’d be crazy-busy with menu preparation in addition to her regular duties, and she would have to steel her heart against Jack.
Silly really, she reminded herself as she smiled at the receptionist and showed her identification and Jack’s card. She honestly wasn’t sure what she could do to help him, but despite her personal political views, she’d grown to care for the First Family. She saw a side that the media didn’t.
“They’re just a family in the house,” one of the maids had told her right after the inauguration. “They’re part of history, and by serving them, we’re helping create that history.”
The receptionist gave her a visitor’s pass and directed her to the elevators. Tara walked along, feeling out of her element as other workers passed. She shared the elevator with an older gentleman who busily tapped on his phone. Then she reached the floor where Jack’s office was.
Men and women in suits talked on phones or studied computer monitors, and a few were gathered by a whiteboard covered with lists. Jack’s head and shoulders emerged from behind a monitor, and he waved her in his direction.
“Glad you made it.” He stood and moved as if to shake her hand, then reached for a notepad and a manila folder on his desk instead. Nope, they hadn’t done a lot of handshaking in Paris. Just that first meeting in a café, as a couple of lonely ex-pats.
“I came right after work.” She ought to have bought new insoles for her work shoes. Her feet screamed at her after the walk along Pennsylvania Avenue.
“We’ll use one of the interview rooms. It’ll be quieter there. This place is a zoo right now.” He touched her elbow and led her toward one of a series of doors on the far wall of the office.
The room he took her to looked more like a living room, with a love seat and a pair of soft chairs. Two lamps flanked the love seat and a reading lamp on a pole stood between the pair of chairs. Nice. Tara hoped she didn’t start nodding off once she sat down.
“This is one of our soft interview rooms.” Jack motioned to the love seat as he took one of the chairs facing it.
“I hope it’s not too soft. It’s been a long day,” Tara admitted as she sank onto a soft cushion.
“I know. I don’t plan to keep you long.” He opened his notebook. “I just want to talk to you about the staff, your impression of people. One thing I always loved about you was your honesty, and your keen perceptions of
people.”
Loved. Past tense. Get a grip, Tara. He’s old news. If this affected her any more, she could always request to talk to another investigator on the case. Maybe the guy who had shown up with him at the White House yesterday. He sort of reminded her of her uncle Greg, her dad’s younger brother.
Tara cleared her throat. “Well, thanks. I’ll do my best to help.”
“I know you will.” Jack kept staring at the page in front of him. It was blank; Tara had seen that much when he opened the notepad. Maybe this encounter was affecting him as well.
She waited for him to say more. After all, he’d been the one to invite her to come. This was his show, and she was just a player in everything to come.
“All right.” At last, he looked up at her. “We have a long list of people to sort through. We have the guest list for the State Dinner. We have the list of the White House employees, including the administration’s appointees. We also have the list of waitstaff who’ve been hired for the event. They’ve been screened already, so that helps us, too.”
“Explain to me exactly how I’m helping with this.”
“The regular staff. You’ve been with them for a few years now. I know that yesterday you were pretty resistant to the idea that one of them could be planning something. What I need to know is, has anyone acted out of the ordinary? Have you heard anything?”
Tara fumbled her thoughts. “I don’t know. Honestly. I know they’re not perfect people, but I don’t believe they’d do anything to harm anyone, especially at the White House.”
“I see that there haven’t been any new staff hired in the last nine months, and no one’s left recently.”
“Not yet, anyway.” She regretted the comment immediately.
“What do you mean?”
“Mart Welch’s last day is February seventh.” Tara followed that up with, “But that doesn’t have to mean anything.”
“Do you know why he’s leaving?”
“He, um, honestly? Well, it’s because he didn’t get the promotion he was hoping for. I doubt Mart is really that upset about it, because he’s going to New York to work for Eric Ripert.” She’d almost turned the hue of a frog herself at the idea of working for one of America’s most renowned chefs.
“So who got the promotion Mart wanted?”
“Uh, that would be me. But that happened a few months ago.”
Jack set down his notepad and opened the manila folder.
“Martin Welch has been employed there longer than you, according to his record.”
“Chefs know how competitive the culinary world is, and you learn to deal with that. Otherwise, you’re in the wrong business if you hold grudges for very long.” Tara felt herself oozing deeper into the love seat cushion. Then she yawned. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. You’ve already put in a full day’s work. As for Martin, if he’s in the clear, we’ll know it. Would you rather us check someone out and have them be clean, or ignore someone because they might ‘seem’ innocent and turn out to be the conspirator?”
“You’re right, Jack.” She realized she still wore her winter jacket and shrugged out of it, placing it on the cushion beside her. “I would make a lousy FBI agent. I always try to assume the best about people.” Just like she had about him. She picked at the stitching on the edge of the cushion.
Jack placed the folder on the other seat and leaned forward in his chair. “Tara, I should have called you. In Paris. You deserved more than silence.”
“So”—she fought to keep her voice from shaking—“you were still around.”
He shook his head and stared at the floor. “No. I was called away to South Africa for a few weeks, then spent a few days back in Paris before I was off again. Then I got the position with the London bureau then here.”
Tara nodded. “I figured as much. Well, it looks like things have worked out for you with your job. Same for me.”
“I’ll say—the White House?” Jack’s tone brightened. “I’m not surprised, though.”
The door to the room flew open, and the older man she’d seen with Jack at the White House leaned into the room. “We have a new lead. The CIA shared fresh intel about Anqara.”
“We’re almost through here,” Jack said over his shoulder. Tara couldn’t read his expression to tell if that was relief or irritation on his face. His fellow agent nodded and shut the door.
“Anqara. The Anqara royal family is going to be at the State Dinner,” Tara said. She sat up straighter.
“What do you know about Anqara?” Jack faced her again, all business.
“It’s a small Middle Eastern nation-state, sort of tucked near the corner border of Syria, Jordan, Iran. Kind of like Monaco. I actually looked up Anqara when we started dinner planning, because I’d never heard of it.” Tara chuckled. “Um, their crown prince is looking at colleges in the U.S., which is why they’re here, visiting schools. You think the threat might be because of him?”
“I don’t know. Either that, or whoever’s behind this is using Anqara’s presence here as a cover-up for what they’re really planning.”
He’d said too much. Jack had felt his guard slipping with Tara, ever since his admission that he should have called her. He’d been warned that he shouldn’t share too much with her, since after all, she was on that list of employees. Of course, she’d come out clean so far, according to George.
Jack studied her now, seated on the love seat and looking like she’d rather curl up in a quiet corner and go to sleep. Still wearing her chef’s jacket and cotton pants, a thin gold chain and a simple tiny cross that lay just above the rounded neckline of her white T-shirt. The gold winked at him when the light caught it.
Maybe he could keep the personal and the investigation separate. “Don’t be worried. I won’t let anything happen to you.”
“So what exactly do you want me to do now, in the meantime?” She shifted on the cushion and it squeaked.
“Be my eyes and ears. Talk to Martin, find out what’s going on with his new job. See if there’s anyone or anything unusual going on. If there’s a new employee or someone’s out of place from where they usually are. Like a maid hanging out in the kitchen.”
Tara nodded. “I’ll do my best.”
“Would you like to meet me for coffee sometime?” The impulsive question startled him and made Tara snap to attention.
She regarded him like a cornered cat. “Um, okay.”
“I don’t regret Paris, just so you know.” He sounded like he’d developed a sudden case of laryngitis. “I regret not calling you, but not Paris.”
“Me either.” She brushed her hair over one ear. “But we’re at different points in our lives now. Our careers have really taken off.”
“They have. I finally made it here.”
“You sure did.” For the first time, she smiled at him. It had the force of a punch.
Beautiful Tara, and picnics, walks on rainy evenings along the Seine, kisses to warm up under the umbrella. Tara’s blush, saying she never kissed in public. And coffee. The best coffee. But that was Paris, and he’d found himself tugged along into the current.
“So, do you need anything else today?” She reached for her coat, breaking the moment.
He snapped himself back to attention. “No. I’ll call you about coffee. And you call me right away if you learn anything that might help us.”
“I’ll do that.” She stood, picking up her coat.
“Here.” Jack reached for the coat, helping her put it on. She flipped the ends of her hair out from behind the collar. As she lowered her hand, it brushed his.
He grasped her hand. “Tara—“
She tugged her hand from his grasp. “I’ll let you know what I find out.”
Of course he deserved that. “Thanks. I can walk you to the elevator.”
“Don’t worry about it. I can find the way.” With that, she smiled at him and left the interrogation room, her posture straight and her eyes bright.
He�
�d tried to sound casual, friendly, genuinely sorry. Part of him was. He wanted to admit his cowardice to her, but knew it wouldn’t change anything. George was right. Tara was ripping his focus from the job right now. She was a great resource, though, and if they could have at least a tentative friendship, he could get through this investigation.
Jack picked up his notebook and the file on Martin Welch. The guy had had a string of jobs since culinary school, staying in none of them for much more than a year, until now. He’d been at the White House for four years, securing his employment one year before Tara signed on.
Another memory rippled across his mind. Standing on a bridge in Paris, they’d looked out over the river drifting below them and talked about dreams. His was to go on to FBI’s Washington bureau. Tara wanted her ultimate chef’s job—to work at the White House. Something about Paris had made them both feel they were invincible, as if anything were possible.
His faith had been a lot stronger back in Paris, too. He’d thrived because of weekly Bible study with a small group of ex-pats. Friends who worked for the State Department had paved the way for that. Not only had he tossed Tara away for his career; he’d also let his relationship with God slip to the side, then out of his focus at all. Lord, I don’t know where to begin… I hurt Tara. I was such a wimp, no matter how big and bad I thought I was, or am.
Here in the quiet atmosphere of the little room, Jack saw the brisk pace of the office outside move in its chaotic dance. George had said something about new intel coming in about Anqara. He’d better get out there and see about it. Plus, he had a whole stack of employee files to work through still. He made sure, though, that George would see to Tara’s.
He entered the busy office area. His tie had somehow grown tighter in the last half hour or so.
“What’s the latest on Anqara?” Jack joined the others at a desk.
Steve Durbin, another colleague, pointed at a screen. “The royal family will be arriving in three days, not seven days from now as we originally thought. Prince Ahmed has added Georgetown University to his list of colleges to attend. Plus there’s murmuring among the Muswali in Syria, who are against Anqara’s friendly relationship with not just the United States but with Israel. If there’s an attack against the White House while the royal family is visiting, that won’t change.”