Foreign Éclairs

by Julie Hyzy

  “You’re joking.”

  “If I were joking, would I be here right now?”

  “Sorry to hear it. When do you expect him back?”

  I gave an exaggerated shrug. “The wife is always the last to know.”

  Marshaling a chastising air, he pointed to the clock. “And I got in early today planning on a nice quiet, lazy day on my own.”

  I reached to pull out a smock and accidentally grabbed an apron. “You switched these,” I said. Before he had a chance to answer, I kept talking. “Sorry to mess with your plans, but if you’d been paying attention, you’d remember I always hoped to be back today.”

  His cheerful expression faded. “That’s right. You wanted to be back in time for Margaret’s wake.”

  “I packed a change of clothes,” I said, gesturing vaguely. “I plan to go right after work. Are you going?”

  “I’ll stop by this afternoon,” he said. “That is, if you don’t mind me taking off early. I’m taking Brandy dancing tonight.”

  “Dancing?” I asked. “You?”

  He folded his arms. “What’s wrong with that?”

  Grateful for the upbeat turn our conversation had taken, I stepped back as though sizing him up. “Nothing at all. Hmm . . . What kind of dancing? John Travolta? Patrick Swayze? Michael Jackson?”

  “More like Fred Astaire,” he said. “We’re taking ballroom dance lessons. It’s my birthday gift to her this year.”

  “That’s awesome,” I said. “Whatever made you think of it?”

  “I ran around like an idiot shopping in every store I could think of. All the while I knew she didn’t want things. She never wants things.” Shrugging, he held up both hands. “All she ever wants is for us to spend time together. And you know how tough that can be for those of us in service to the White House.”

  I thought about Gav, probably landed in the unnamed allied country by now. “I do.”

  “My gift to her was to choose an experience we could enjoy together. I thought she might want to go hiking or take up tennis.” He gave a wry frown, but I could tell he was far less disappointed than he pretended to be. “She chose dancing.”

  “Good for you. Enjoy yourself.”

  “I plan on it.” He clapped his hands together. “In the meantime, I want to show you what I got done yesterday.”

  Bucky took me on a tour of our newly organized kitchen, and—in between my appreciative comments—explained why he moved our mixing bowls here and measuring utensils there. Why the aprons were stacked to the left and the smocks to the right.

  “Efficiency,” he said for the fourth time. “I thought about how often we use these items and tried to come up with a better pattern for those of us working in the kitchen.”

  By this point, we’d opened all the cabinets, both above and below our work areas, giving me a panoramic view of the kitchen’s contents. Bucky’s hands flew about as he described all the changes and provided reasoning for his decisions. He spoke quickly as he bounced from one end of the kitchen to the other, gesticulating and babbling.

  I stood as far back as I could, leaning against the far counter, taking it all in, saying nothing.

  Eventually, when Bucky began repeating himself, I waved him down. “I got it.”

  “And?”

  “I like it.”

  “Do you really?” he asked, “Or are you just saying that?”

  “I wouldn’t lie to you, Bucky, you know that. I like it a lot. I can see you’ve put a great deal of effort into this. What amazes me is how much you got accomplished in so short a period of time.”

  “It’s amazing how quiet this place is when the entire First Family is out of town.”

  I chuckled at that. “They’re coming back tonight.”

  “They are?” Bucky blinked as he took in the news. “I didn’t think about that. Didn’t put it together. I guess if the Armustanians are out of the picture, it’s safe for them to return.”

  “That’s about right. At least for now.” Thinking about Josh’s difficulties at school and his reluctance to share any of it with his parents, I added, “I hope things went well for them at Camp David.”

  “Why wouldn’t they?” When I hedged, he glared. “What aren’t you telling me?”

  Peter Sargeant walked into the kitchen at that moment. “Whatever it is, Mr. Reed, is likely not your concern.” To me, he said, “I’ve been quite pleased by the reports forwarded to me. While they are understandably short on detail, they are exceedingly clear on one point: You have had a very productive weekend.”

  “I have,” I said.

  “And you’re aware that the First Family intends to return to the White House this afternoon?”

  “I didn’t realize they’d be back so early. I thought it would be later tonight. But that’s fine.”

  Bucky touched my arm. “If you need me to stay . . .”

  “No, I’ll be fine here alone,” I said. “Go ahead and leave when you need to. Celebrate Brandy’s birthday. Enjoy yourself.”

  Sargeant rolled his lips but said nothing. Before he could inject his opinion as to whether or not Bucky ought to leave me alone in the kitchen, I turned to him. “Is there something I can do for you, Peter?”

  “Two things.” He sniffed. “First of all, the president and his family will be making a special stop to visit with Margaret’s family before they return to the residence.”

  “That’s very nice of them.”

  “They believe it’s the least they can do to show support. The Secret Service has arranged for the president to have a private conversation with Margaret’s family before visitation officially begins. He recognizes that wherever he goes the press follows, and he wants to afford the family as much privacy as possible. So we’re keeping everything low-key.”

  “A sound plan,” I said. “What’s the second thing?”

  Sargeant’s mouth twisted downward. “I was coming to that, thank you. In addition to informing you about the First Family’s imminent return to the residence, I wanted to let you know that the Secret Service has given us the go-ahead to resume interviewing chefs.”

  “Good.” Bucky had his arms crossed. “The sooner we fill Cyan’s job, the better.”

  Sargeant wrinkled his nose then sniffed again. “I believe we would be better served to cease referring to it as ‘Cyan’s job’ and to begin calling the position by its proper title. We are seeking a chef de partie, are we not?”

  “Technically, yes. However, I would hope that the person who joins our kitchen is not prone to standing on ceremony.” I didn’t add: Like you.

  “Perhaps, going forward, you should consider taking a page from Neville Walker’s playbook,” he said.

  “I don’t understand.”

  On his best days, Sargeant’s smiles came off as condescending. Today was clearly not a good day. “Agent Walker is in the process of restoring the PPD to its full glory. He has taken what had become a broken, dilapidated version of what is arguably the most important arm of the Secret Service and made it new again. How did he do that? By instituting order. By bringing in professionals who understand the chain of command and who don’t confuse coworkers with friends.”

  “Peter—”

  He tut-tutted me silent. “I know you prefer to maintain a casual atmosphere in your kitchen because you believe it promotes a sense of camaraderie. I would suggest that you, as executive chef, consider adopting a new order. What better timing to institute structure than right before you bring on new personnel?”

  I opened my mouth, but closed it again before I said something I might regret later. In the short while Sargeant had been talking, I realized what was really at stake: He had let his guard down—albeit slightly—with Margaret, and he was paying for that now. Her death had hurt him and he didn’t know how to cope. So he retreated to what he knew best: imposing rules and structure. It helped him feel safe.

  Sargeant continued to pontificate, advising us on the best practices we ought to consider establishing i
n our kitchen. I contemplated ways to cut him off but found I couldn’t bring myself to do it.

  “It seems to me that your staff should never address you as ‘Ollie,’” he was saying. “When the new person starts, I believe you should insist that he or she address you as ‘Chef Paras’ at all times.” He pointed over his shoulder to indicate Bucky. “And Mr. Reed, as your sous chef, should be addressed with similar respect.”

  In a close-quarters kitchen like this one where success depended on our being able to call upon one another at a moment’s notice, having multiple individuals referred to as “Chef” would get confusing fast.

  I knew, Bucky knew, and I suspected even Sargeant knew that I would continue to run my kitchen the way I saw fit. This was not the time or the place, however, to drive that point home.

  Doing my best to ignore Bucky’s exaggerated eye rolls, I said, “I’ll take it under advisement.”

  “See that you do.”

  Behind him, Bucky sucked in his lips and glared. Over the years I’d learned how to manage Sargeant—or, at least, how to manage my reactions to him. Bucky still had a way to go.

  “Anything else?” I asked.

  “Not at the moment,” he said. “Once the Secret Service and I come up with a new list of viable candidates, I will contact you about scheduling interviews.”

  “Let’s hope we find a good fit,” I said. “Someone who can both respect authority and enjoy the camaraderie.”

  Sargeant pursed his lips.

  “Hey, I know the perfect candidate,” Bucky said before Sargeant could come back with a retort. “This person has successfully worked with us in the past, understands the requirements of the job, and possesses solid skills and abundance of energy. To top it off, this person would have no trouble being cleared by the Secret Service.” His mischievous grin grew. “And you know how it can be difficult to win over the First Lady.”

  I nodded.

  “This candidate would be a shoo-in. Guaranteed.”

  “I’d like to meet this impressive chef.” Sargeant folded his arms. “Where, pray tell, is this individual currently employed?”

  “He’s not.” Bucky’s pink cheeks and bright eyes were nothing compared to the giggle he tried to tamp down. “Employed at the moment, that is.”

  With a sense of what was coming, I covered my mouth with one hand, struggling to contain my own mirth. “Bucky . . .” My voice was a warning.

  Sargeant flipped glances between the two of us. “What is so funny?”

  Bucky’s joke wasn’t really funny at all, but the pressures from the past week had bubbled up, making silliness irresistible.

  “Who is it?” Sargeant demanded. “Enough with the games. Who is this ideal candidate you have in mind?”

  “Can’t you guess?” Bucky asked, trying his best to sober up. Failing. I swore he would burst if he wasn’t allowed to laugh out loud. Time to get our chief usher out of here.

  “Peter, it’s fine.” I took him by the arm with one hand on his shoulder and led him out of the kitchen. “We’re just enjoying a bit of that familiarity you warned us against. Forget it.”

  “You want me to forget this perfect candidate?” Indignantly, he turned to look over his shoulder. I twisted to see Bucky bent in half, holding his stomach. Sargeant raised his voice to be heard. “Why on earth won’t you tell me who it is?”

  Bucky turned his back to us, waving us away.

  Five steps outside the kitchen Sargeant stopped walking. “The familiarity I warned you against?” he asked, pointing back the way we’d come. “This is what you want for your kitchen?”

  I bit my lower lip trying not to laugh. “It really isn’t all that funny. Bucky just took a goofy idea and ran with it.” I’d been certain Sargeant knew what Bucky had been hinting at, but facing the man’s dour expression now, I couldn’t be sure.

  He blinked several times, giving me that alert-squirrel look he was so partial to. “Mr. Reed suggested someone who has worked in the kitchen, yes? Someone you know the First Lady will love? A person with energy, vitality, and one who would be instantly cleared by the Secret Service?”

  “Yes . . .”

  “Ms. Paras, really.” He shook his head, said “Tsk, tsk,” a couple of times, then walked past me to the elevator. He pushed the button, then turned to face me. “You might want to inform your sous chef that the White House has no intention of disregarding child labor laws. If Mr. Reed wants us to hire the president’s son, he’ll have to wait until the lad is a few years older.”

  I laughed out loud.

  Sargeant whispered, “Does he honestly believe I’m that dense?”

  “No, of course not,” I said, laughing.

  He arched a brow.

  “Okay, maybe a teensy bit.” I held up my thumb and forefinger in emphasis.

  “People underestimate me at their peril.” The elevator dinged its arrival. Sargeant boarded, leaned out, and placed his finger in front of his lips. “But let’s keep that our secret, shall we?”

  CHAPTER 25

  As executive chef, I was responsible for every one of the First Family’s meals whenever they were in residence. Generally, I sent two weeks’ worth of menus to the First Lady every Monday morning, seeking her input. The first week’s menu served as a reminder of what she’d approved and it gave her the opportunity to make last-minute changes. The second week’s menu—presented as a work in progress—often included new recipes I thought the family might enjoy, special requests, and reliable favorites. Mrs. Hyden might scribble a helpful note now and then, but rarely made substantive changes to the plan.

  Thus, though I knew the family wouldn’t complain if I served them exactly what had originally been scheduled for today, I thought their return to the White House called for a bit more celebration than their typical Sunday night soup and salad. I sent a note up to Mrs. Hyden’s assistant outlining my plans for a more substantive meal and asking her to let me know how to proceed.

  “You have that rib roast-with-all-the-trimmings gleam in your eye,” Bucky said when I told him what I’d done. “But you’ll be here by yourself. Are you sure you want to open that door?”

  “Too late. Already sent,” I said. “Plus, I’m feeding only four people. Even if I had a five-course dinner planned, I should be able to handle that on my own.”

  He gave me a cranky look. “Thanks for that vote of confidence, boss. Don’t need me at all, do you? Yeah, I’m feelin’ the love.”

  I picked up a dish towel sitting on the counter next to me and threw it at him. “Don’t joke about that. I don’t know what I’d do if I lost you. But one day, one meal? I can handle it.”

  He folded the towel and then tossed it into the nearby laundry bin. “I know, and I’m glad, really. It’ll be nice to enjoy a night out with Brandy for a change. If you don’t mind me asking, what exactly do you envision as your entrée for this evening? I wasn’t kidding when I said you looked like you were planning something big.”

  “Comfort food, for sure,” I said from my seat at the computer. “This sudden trip to Camp David had to put an enormous kink in their plans.” I thought about Josh being pulled from school—and his bullies—for that amount of time and tried to decide whether his absence would make it easier or harder to return to class tomorrow. “I want to do everything in my power to make them feel good.”

  “I have no doubt they’ll take you up on it.”

  “I’ll let Dennis know that we may be relying on his expertise tonight.” As I turned to compose a fresh e-mail to our sommelier, a new message pinged in. “Wow, that was quick.”

  “What was?” Bucky asked, coming to look over my shoulder.

  “Mrs. Hyden’s assistant replied.” I opened the message and paraphrased as I read. “She says that she’d been about to e-mail me on the same topic when mine arrived.”

  “Great minds thinking alike?”

  I half-laughed. “Yes and no.” Tapping the screen, I said, “According to this, Mrs. Hyden is requesting a s
pecial dinner tonight. I was right about one thing. They do want comfort food.”

  Bucky leaned forward, squinting at the screen. “Ha,” he said. “Who’d’a thunk?”

  “Breakfast for dinner,” I said, reading aloud.

  He smirked. “The wine may be overkill.”

  “You think?” I kept reading. “Dinner at five; we can do that. And apparently Josh wants to come down to help prepare it.” I turned to my assistant. “How perfect is that?”

  “I’m telling you . . .”—he pointed to the ceiling—“Sargeant needs to look into hiring that kid.”

  * * *

  Josh arrived in the kitchen about fifteen minutes after Bucky left for the day.

  “It’s good to have you back,” I said when his Secret Service escort departed. “How was Camp David?”

  Before I’d gotten to know Josh, I would have scoffed at the notion of an eleven-year-old being stressed. Especially one who lived a comfortable life with parents who loved and supported him. But kids, it turned out, were more complex beings than I’d ever imagined. He’d been wound terribly tight before they’d left, and I was delighted to see the president’s son back to his more-relaxed self.

  “The big shots who came to talk to Dad thought they were being so clever. They kept telling us how this was just an unscheduled vacation, just a change in plans.” He rolled his eyes good-naturedly. “Do they really think we’re that stupid? I mean seriously. A bunch of bad stuff happens to people who work in the White House and then the president of the United States and his family gets sent away for a vacation?” He laughed.

  I pulled out a large bowl of fingerling potatoes, three zucchini, and a yellow squash and placed them on the center countertop. “That obvious?”

  “Even if Abby and I didn’t know everything that had happened, you know, like, to Margaret and to you, it was still crazy down there. Dad had meetings with advisors and military people every few hours.”

  “Sounds stressful,” I said as I started peeling the potatoes.

  He gave a can-you-believe-it shrug. “Actually, we wound up having a lot of family time in between the meetings. More than we usually do.” He picked up the vegetables and took them over to the sink to wash. Talking over his shoulder, he continued, “We played board games and hung out together. It was, you know, cool.”