by David Shobin
“Day off?”
“No, I was supposed to work. And I did, until the afternoon. Most of the dishes were already prepared. We do that in the morning, then cook it just before service. Then, around three, I was told to go home.”
“You mean, just like that?”
“Just like that.”
“Who told you?”
“Actually,” she said, drawing out the word as she reflected, “no one told me. It was a note, on official stationery. White House Chief of Staff.”
Jon fell silent, knitting his brow. That was strange indeed. Why would Mitch Forbes tell her to take off on the day of a state dinner? Mireille called it a coincidence that neither she nor Jon was supposed to be there that evening, but she didn’t believe in coincidences.
“You didn’t actually speak to Mr. Forbes?” he asked.
“No, I was too shocked. I just finished what I was doing, left instructions, and went home.” She paused. “Do you think that I did something wrong?”
“Absolutely not. You did what you were told. Were you ever sent home before?”
“Never. That’s what is so strange.”
“Was there a reason given, an explanation?”
She shrugged. “Not at all.”
“Hmmm. Why do you suppose he’d do that?”
“Oh, I don’t know. In the back of my mind, I was afraid they were bringing in a big-name chef just for la presentation, but that didn’t happen. What is it, Jon? You seem disturbed.”
“Not really,” he lied. “It’s just a little weird. So, who was the big name?”
“Marcel Al-Hakeem. He’s not a big name, really. A pastry chef.”
“Is he French?”
“Algerian, I think. I’m not sure why they wanted him.”
Soon his Audi turned onto a narrow lane lined by towering oaks. His home was one of the block’s smaller dwellings, an older split-level fieldstone structure that spoke of warmth and comfort. He parked in the driveway and escorted Mireille inside.
“Tommie, I’m home.”
“In the living room, dad. Did she come with you?”
“Yes, she did.” To Mireille, “I told her you were coming. She’s pretty excited. She never met a real chef before. This way.”
The living room was done in wood, leather, and earth tones, and an entire wall and fireplace were set in stone. It had a hearty, lived-in look. Tommie was sitting on a long couch in front of a TV, doing her homework. When they entered the room, she looked up and beamed.
“Hi,” she said cheerfully. “My dad said you’re the White House chef. Do you really cook for the president?”
“Yes, I do,” Mireille said. Dr. Townsend’s daughter, she thought, was a lovely young woman. She had limpid blue eyes and naturally curly brown hair that fell just below her shoulders. Her most striking feature, however, was her expression. When Tommie smiled, her lower face became all mouth. Her wide, rising lips wanted to touch her cheekbones, and her eyelids turned up gleefully. Her eyes shined mischievously, but they also brimmed with joy—which was just as well, Mireille thought, as for the first time she noticed the short metal crutches propped up against the couch. She extended her arm. “Mireille Courtois. Enchantee.”
“I’m Thomasina,” she said, returning the handshake. “But everyone calls me Tommie.”
From the comer of his eye, Jon watched Mireille’s reaction. He hadn’t mentioned Tommie’s paraplegia because he wanted to see what Mireille would do. If she was at all surprised by his daughter’s disability, she hid it well, seamlessly absorbing the visual information and folding it into her database, just as she might blend a cake.
“Yes, your father told me. It’s a lovely name.”
“That’s so cool, cooking for the White House! Is it hard? Do you have a lot of people to help you? I bet you make a lot of money.”
“Whoa, kiddo,” said Jon. “Let her catch her breath, okay? I’m sure Chef Courtois didn’t expect to get grilled by Detective Townsend tonight.”
“That’s all right,” said Mireille, taking a seat on the couch next to Mireille. “Cooking is a lot of work, and it’s very time consuming. It can take days to put a big meal together. You have to love what you’re doing, and I do.”
“Who taught you to cook?”
“Oh, my mother, my grandmother, my aunts. I learned a little from everyone. What about you? Do you enjoy cooking?’
“I probably would, but I don’t know how.”
Mireille clucked with her tongue and got to her feet. “Then this is the perfect time to learn. Come on, I’ll show you.”
“Mireille,” Jon said, raising his hand, “that’s very nice of you, but—”
“Come on, Dad,” Tommie whined, grabbing her crutches. “She’s the chef for the president!”
“Really, Jon, I would like to. Which way is the kitchen?”
Tommie slipped on her forearm crutches and pushed herself upright. “Follow me.”
Mireille watched Tommie drag herself to the kitchen. For someone with paralyzed legs, the young woman moved surprisingly well, carrying herself like someone afflicted with polio or muscular dystrophy. The kitchen was just beyond the living room. Mireille followed at an appropriate distance, neither too close nor too far behind.
Tommie was soon behind the kitchen’s central work area, a stand-alone countertop with a butcher-block surface. Several pots and pans hung country style from overhead hooks. Mireille noticed that the kitchen had a large gas range, and the refrigerator was a newer Sub-Zero.
Tommie’s eyes were bright with enthusiasm. “What’re we going to make?”
“That depends on the ingredients. Let’s see,” Mireille said, opening the refrigerator door. “My goodness, this looks pretty basic.”
“That’s because I don’t cook much,” Jon said. “It’s usually just me. That means carry-out or the microwave.”
“Well, there are a few things,” Mireille said, opening all the bins. “Scallions, cheese, sour cream, even some bacon. Didn’t we pass a supermarket?”
“Very observant. Three minutes away.”
“Would you mind going? We need an entree, and that chain usually has fresh seafood.”
“Sure, no problem. What do you need?”
“If they have sea bass, that would be nice. About two pounds. Also, fresh basil, and …do you have wine?”
“In the living room,” he said, “both red and white.”
“Then that’s it.”
“Okay, it shouldn’t take long. Tommie, listen to what she says and try not to pester her with too many questions.”
As he left, he heard Mireille say something to Tommie about potatoes and bacon. Jon never expected Mireille and his daughter to be getting along as well as they seemed, so quickly. Tommie’s charm notwithstanding, that hadn’t always been the case with strange women. One female visitor had been so disconcerted that she’d actually screamed at the young woman. Perhaps Mireille’s method lay in her manner. Her body language was non-confrontational, her movements languid, and her tone low-key.
When Jon returned twenty minutes later, packages in his arms, the two women were engrossed in food preparation. The potatoes had been microwaved and halved, with their centers scooped out. The skins were arranged on a baking dish. The cheese had been grated; the green onion chopped. On the range, the bacon was beginning to sizzle, its aroma filling the air. A bottle of wine was chilling in an ice-filled Tupperware container.
“That smells great,” he said, eyeing the Tupperware. “Love your wine bucket.”
Mireille shrugged good-naturedly. “When in Rome. Did they have the fish?”
“They did.” He unwrapped the packages.
She plucked a basil leaf from the bunch and popped it into her mouth. “Perfect. We’ll be ready to eat in twenty minutes. Can you open the wine please, Jon?”
“And here I thought you were going to cook with it.”
“I am, but I only need a little. This is such a good white Burgundy that I can’t let i
t go to waste.”
He found a corkscrew and eyed the label. “This has been lying around for years.”
“That one gets better with age. Can you pour a glass for me?”
While he poured, he watched Mireille drain and crumble the bacon. She placed it in a bowl with the cheese and added seasonings. She took the wine, sipped it, and then showed Tommie how to stuff the potato skins with the bacon/cheese mixture. Tommie was having a ball.
“How’s the wine?” Jon asked.
“Delicious. At its prime. You have a good selection in there.”
“I’ll take your word for it. I’m not much of a wine drinker.”
Mireille went to work on the fish by first preparing its sauce. Jon was fascinated by her skill, which combined dexterity with economy of movement. Watching her nimble fingers was like watching a surgeon. She packed the basil leaves into a food processor, to which she added a little garlic, grated lemon peel, and the fresher parts of a wilting bunch of celery found in the vegetable crisper. After pureeing the ingredients, she brought bottled clam juice to a simmer, then added some wine, the puree, and salt and pepper.
With the potato skins in the lower oven, Mireille readied the upper broiler. She quartered the two-pound piece of bass into equal size steaks, which she brushed with olive oil and arranged on a rimmed baking dish. The dish went under the upper oven. While the fish broiled, she added butter and evaporated milk to the basil sauce.
Eight minutes later, everything was ready. The tangy sauce was ladled across the sizzling steaks, and the aromatic potato skins slid onto a serving dish. After Mireille removed the pans and utensils, they all sat down to eat at the butcher block.
The savory smells of basil, cheese, and bacon were so mouth-watering that the meal demanded immediate consumption. Jon and Mireille continued with the wine, while Tommie drank Pepsi. They ate with gusto and speed. Ten minutes later, they were done. “That was fantastic, Mireille,” Jon said. “Thanks.”
“Mon plaisir
“Tommie, now that you’ve been fed like royalty, I think you better get started on your homework.”
“Can I have ice cream first? We have some chocolate chip cookie dough left.”
“When you finish your homework, you can have desert.”
Tommie grumbled, put on her crutches, and slid off the stool. Once she was gone, Jon helped Mireille clean up.
“I’m amazed how easily you threw that together,” he said. “Of course, I’m sure it’s just a walk in the park for you.”
“A walk where?”
“That’s an expression for easy, no big deal. You probably do it all the time.”
“So,” she said with a laugh, “you think I’m some sort of magician, no?”
“Looks that way to me. Most people would love to have a fraction of your talent.”
“Thank you. To be honest, I enjoy this kind of cooking most, from scratch. Using what’s available, for friends and family.” She helped him rinse the plates and put them in the dishwasher.
After turning on the machine, he grasped her shoulders and kissed her softly on the cheek. “This was much more than I expected, Mireille. And I’m sorry if it put you on the spot. But Tommie’s been through a lot, and I’ll do everything I can for her. When she was helping you, the look on her face made it all worthwhile.”
“This was some sort of test, non? Not telling me about her?”
“I never thought of it that way, but I suppose it was. You’d be surprised how cruel some people are when they learn a child’s disabled. If it was a test, you passed with flying colors. With kids, you’re a natural.”
“That comes from growing up in a large family. I have many nieces and nephews at home.” She wiped her hands, returned to the central work area, and poured the last of the wine. “What happened to Tommie? Was she born that way?”
“No, when she was born, Tommie was the perfect little baby. She was blessed with that wildly curly hair, and with those blue eyes, she looked like a child model. In fact, after my wife and I split up, there were a few offers, but I talked Victoria out of it.”
“Why?”
“I didn’t want that kind of life for her. Too much stress, too many spotlights. I figured she was under enough pressure as it was, dividing her time between two parents. Anyhow, she was physically well until her fifth birthday. She got hit by a truck.”
Mireille’s jaw dropped. “A truck? What happened?”
“Believe it or not, she was running after a ball into the street. Exactly what parents tell their kids never to do. But it was her birthday party, and she was excited. Kids forget what they’re taught. So off into the street she went, and a garbage truck creamed her. Jesus, it was huge. I know, I know—she’s lucky to be alive. But for a while there, it was touch and go.”
“I’m so sorry, Jon. How long was she in the hospital?”
“Four months. She had a broken arm, a fractured skull, and a broken back. One of the vertebrae crushed her spinal cord, and even though they removed the bone, those things don’t heal.” He had a faraway look. “Usually.”
“You mean, there are ways to fix it?”
“There are a few experimental things. I’ve got my fingers crossed. But back then, when I wasn’t working, I spent day and night in the hospital. Believe me, it was a long four months. And on top of everything, Victoria blamed me for what happened.”
Mireille saw the deep hurt in his expression. She shook her head and as her lips formed a little moue, she blew her breath out in a delicate poof. “I don’t know you that well, but I don’t think you were responsible.”
“Sometimes I wonder. You see, I was watching the kids play on the lawn. ‘Supervising,’ according to Victoria, and not very well. Anyway, the ball goes into the street, and out of the comer of my eye, I saw Tommie dart out after it. The truck was hidden by a parked van, so she couldn’t see it. But I did. I ran after her as fast as I could, but….”
“Not fast enough.”
“That’s the whole point, isn’t it? You know how in the movies when the hero runs out into the street and snatches the victim from the jaws of death? For a fraction of a second, I had a feeling I could have done that. Maybe not pulled her out of the way, but pushed her out of the way. But I hesitated.”
“What would have happened to you if you had pushed her?’
“That’s not the point. I didn’t do what a father’s expected to do.”
“Oh, I understand,” Mireille said, her voice rising slightly. “So that makes you what, a coward?”
“Let’s not talk cowardice. That’s a sore subject with me.”
“But what does it make you?”
“It makes me a father who put personal fear over the safety of his child. In a nutshell, I didn’t have the guts.”
Overtaken by a frown, Mireille nodded slowly. “Let me see if I understand. You saw the truck, and she didn’t. You think you could have pushed her to safety but gotten squashed flat as a crepe. And because you didn’t, you lack courage.” She paused. “Did I get it right?”
“It’s not that black and white, Mireille. It’s an instantaneous thing. You either do, or you don’t.”
“Well, I have heard that the brain has little protective mechanisms built in. It doesn’t want the organism to destroy itself. So, where you see cowardice, I see self- preservation.”
“It’s nice of you to say that,” he said, “but I’m not convinced. Courage and cowardice aren’t things I understand too well.”
Mireille shrugged. “If you say so. But while you’re feeling sorry for yourself, it is important not to forget that your daughter is a beautiful, intelligent young woman, tres charmante, and totally in love with her father.”
He put a grateful hand atop hers. It was sweet of her to say that, something he needed to remind himself from time to time. But as for what he worked on in secret, or for what the future might hold for Tommie, he didn’t know Mireille well enough to share those things.
It was equally import
ant that he remind himself he was determined that Tommie would walk again someday.
CHAPTER 13
Danville, Virginia
Before he washed out of the U.S. Marine Corps for chronic alcohol abuse, Charles Johnson Walker thought he had found his calling. A southern Virginia farm boy accustomed to a marginal existence, he had learned to shoot at an early age, taking squirrels and rabbits with a vintage .22 pump gun. Everything he owned was threadbare and worn out. But in the marines, he thought he’d died and gone to heaven. The food, clothing, and military supplies were so superior to anything to anything he’d ever come in contact with that he couldn’t see ever leaving the Corps. This was particularly true of the weapons. To C.J., the M40A1 sniper rifle was to the rifleman what a crown was to a king.
It was indeed a remarkable weapon. First fielded in the 1970s, the Remington- based firearm fired the super-accurate 7.62 NATO round. Using 168-grain match-grade ammunition, it was incredibly accurate, with an error of less than ten inches at one thousand yards. Its only flaw was its weight. At fourteen pounds, it was difficult to lug around in the field; but then, snipers were generally stationary shooters.
C.J. was so smitten with the M40A1 that after his less-than-honorable discharge, he managed to scrounge one up on the surplus market. He spent countless hours tuning, polishing, and refurbishing it, so that when he finally put it through its paces, it could shoot as well as any weapon in the Corps’ armory. When he wasn’t doing God’s work with the Southern Cross, he could usually be found on any of hundreds of impromptu rifle ranges scattered throughout Appalachia. C.J. scoffed at other weapons and calibers. With an arrogance only ignorance can muster, his disdain for different tools of the trade was profound. Thus, when O’Brien told him what their guest sniper would be shooting, C.J. was nearly apoplectic.
Now, as he lay prone on an army surplus wool blanket, peering through his rifle scope in a deserted tobacco field, he tried to suppress his indignation. Shooting of any kind, even at paper targets as he did today, was a balm. As he smoothly worked the bolt of his rifle, ejecting a spent cartridge case and feeding in another, he also tried to work on his emotions. It wasn’t easy. But O’Brien had given him a job, and like a good soldier, he would do it to the best of his ability.