Buffalo West Wing, page 3
Abigail asked, “Can’t you just, like, look at some tapes to see who was carrying the box when they came in?”
Sharp girl. “I’ve talked with the Secret Service about this,” I said. “They’re already checking. That’s how important this is.”
Josh made a face and turned away. I thought I heard one of Abigail’s friends whisper, “It’s just some stupid wings. Your chef back home would never take those away from you.”
Sargeant, never one to miss an opportunity to rub salt in the wound, held up his hands. “I’m so sorry, children, but this is Ms. Paras’s kitchen and these are her rules.”
“No,” I corrected him, “these are all our rules.”
“Would you be willing to send someone out to the nearest Rene’s Wings and pick up replacements?” he asked. “That would satisfy you, wouldn’t it? As long as no one knows it’s being purchased for White House consumption, it’s considered safe, no?”
“Yes,” I began, hating the quick brightness I saw in Josh’s eyes. I knew I was about to disappoint him again. “But I’m sure none of them are open. It’s well after ten.”
Sargeant made a show of looking at his watch. “So it is.”
Josh no longer looked like he was about to cry. At this point he was angry, and bored of the conversation. He jabbed the box with his finger. “I want these wings. Abby does, too.” Glancing back over his shoulder, he asked, “Right, Abby?”
His sister shrugged. “Just forget about it, Josh. We’ll tell Mom later.”
Sargeant added unnecessarily, “I’m so sorry, but Ms. Paras is quite strong-minded and we don’t want to get her angry.”
“That’s not the issue,” I said under my breath.
Carol had begun gathering the kids. “I think we’ve found all we need in here,” she said. “Let’s move on to the Map Room.” She met my eyes and I hoped to detect some friendliness, some measure of understanding there. Instead I found only sparks of anger.
They left quietly. Sargeant followed.
Bucky patted me on the shoulder. “Way to go, Ace.”
CHAPTER 3
TWO HOURS LATER, I HAD REHASHED EVERY moment of the kids’ disastrous first visit to the kitchen a hundred times. No matter how you cut the cheesecake, there was no way I could have served those wings. If I had to do it again, I would still refuse. What I should have done was dump the whole box in the garbage as soon as I’d made my decision. But I had harbored hope that the beneficiary would make himself or herself known. I’d wanted to be able to let the kids have the treat.
I’d made a serious tactical error and there was no way to predict how much I’d hurt myself. If the kids didn’t like me—and they clearly were not pleased—it would be a hard path to their mother’s heart. I knew very well that if a First Lady didn’t like her executive chef, that chef was toast.
Cyan and I cleaned up and prepared for the next day’s meal. Bucky had gone home earlier and now the kitchen was quiet and tidy. Paul Vasquez, the chief usher, had informed us that the president and his wife would be back much later, so the butlers shuttled food upstairs to the residence just in case they happened to be hungry when they returned. Cyan and I could go home. I gave the room’s center countertop a final disinfecting swipe and realized that I needed to be back in less than five hours. I was grateful Inauguration Day didn’t come around too often.
Just before leaving, I headed to the refrigerator to discard the controversial chicken wings once and for all. After the commotion, I’d placed the logoed box into a large unmarked bag and shoved the whole thing into the back of the farthest unit. This way, no one else would find it until it was time for me to go home and I could personally see to the wings’ disposal. Part of me was still hoping someone would come forward and claim it. But no one had.
I opened the fridge door and reached in. The box was gone. I scanned up and down through the grated shelves to check if someone might have moved it. Nothing.
I opened the next refrigerator, and the next, even though I knew the search would be futile. I’d put the box in the last fridge. Bucky and Cyan would have had no reason to move it—unless they had taken it upon themselves to throw it out. Other staff members occasionally used these refrigerators, but no one ever took anything that didn’t belong to them without asking.
Where could it be?
Clinging to the belief that perhaps Bucky had taken it to throw away when he left, I called Cyan over. “The chicken wings are missing.”
She didn’t react. That was my first inkling that something was wrong.
“Cyan?”
She laughed, but nothing was funny.
“What happened to them?”
“Quit worrying,” she said, “Everything is fine.”
Now I really started to get concerned.
Talking fast, she said, “I get that we can’t serve anything weird to the First Family. But that was a huge order of wings. I mean, I think that size goes for like fifty dollars. It seemed like such a shame to waste them.”
“You ate them?”
She laughed again just as nervously. “Of course not. But I knew we weren’t going to find out who left the box here, so about an hour ago I walked it down to the laundry department. Because of the inauguration and all the extra work, there are a bunch of women working late. I thought they could use a treat.”
“What?” I started for the laundry room. Maybe I could—
Cyan grabbed my arm. “Ollie, they’re all gone.”
“What do you mean, they’re gone? The staff?”
“The wings. Lisa and SueJean shared them with the other women and a couple of the butlers,” she said. “I went back to grab some for myself but they were gone. In like ten minutes.”
“Cyan,” I said striving for control of my temper, “you should not have done that.” It wasn’t often I got angry with her. In fact, I couldn’t remember ever having done so. But right now I couldn’t believe she had been so careless. “Do you realize what you’ve done?”
She laid a hand on my arm. “Ollie, you know as well as I do that the wings were fine. They were store-bought, for crying out loud. If they were homemade cookies or muffins I would be on your side, but ...” She shrugged away any remorse. “I think you made a mistake by not letting the kids have them. You let your imagination run away with you this time. And I couldn’t let good food go to waste. I’m only sorry I didn’t get any.”
“I’m the one who’s sorry,” I said. “I’m going to have to write you up.”
“What?”
“You defied a direct order.”
“Direct order? Ollie, this isn’t the army, this is the kitchen. You always tell us you don’t want mindless minions. You claim you want people working who are strong enough to think for themselves. Well, I did think for myself, and this time I decided you were wrong.”
I wasn’t wrong, and her logic was flawed. Sure, I wanted my people to take responsibility for their own decisions, but she knew—clearly—where I stood when it came to safety. And at least as far as this kitchen was concerned, I was supposed to have the last word. “Maybe I have made a big deal about nothing,” I said. “Maybe I’m all wrong and you’re right. I hope to God you are. But this is a security breach, Cyan, and I can’t let it go without documenting.”
“You really believe there’s something wrong with those wings?” she asked.
“That’s not the point.”
“But that’s the question I’m asking you. Do you really believe there was anything wrong with them?”
“What I believe is immaterial.”
She threw up her hands. “Then why do you have to write me up? It’s not like I force-fed them to the laundry ladies. I just thought it was something nice we could do. Show we appreciate them. Okay?”
I couldn’t agree. “The reason we have these rules in place is because ...”
“Yeah, I know,” she said. “You don’t have to quote me chapter and verse. I apologize. Does that make things better? I’m sorry I gave the wings to the laundry department. Okay?”
“It’s not a case of being sorry ...”
“You’re still going to write me up, aren’t you?”
I didn’t answer, but she must have read my expression.
Her gaze grew hard and her jaw set. “I understand,” she said, though she obviously did not. She grabbed her coat from a nearby chair and looked ready to spout something else. Changing her mind, she said, “I’m going home now,” and left without a backward glance.
Since I’d moved to Washington, D. C., I hadn’t had a lot of time to make friends. I counted Cyan among my closest and it hurt me to reprimand her. She knew as well as I did that we were the last line of defense before food was served here. There was no margin for error. None. Cyan had been wrong, clearly.
So why did I feel so miserable?
I took care of a few last-minute updates on the computer, trying to convince myself everything would eventually be okay. When I looked up at the clock, I realized I had already missed the last Metro train of the night. I called a cab. I couldn’t wait to get home, get to sleep, and wake up to a brand-new day.
CHAPTER 4
THE FIRST MORNING WITH OUR NEW PRESIDENT started off with a bang. The problem is, in the White House, we usually try to avoid things that go bang!
The First Family chose to have breakfast in the family residence dining room on the second floor. Also known as the Prince of Wales Room because said titled royal stayed there in 1860, the converted bedroom was spacious and bright. A wonderful choice for creating memories of a key family moment. The kids wouldn’t start their new schools for another day, and Mrs. Hyden had requested an elaborate meal that the family could enjoy together on their first full day in their new home.
There is nothing more fun than preparing great food for eager diners. Here was our chance to shine. With Virginia ham and spinach omelets, as well as simple scrambled eggs, Henry’s famous hash browns, pancakes, bacon, scones, fresh fruit, and cinnamon toast, this would be a breakfast they would never forget.
Well, I probably got that part right.
Cyan, Bucky, and I had everything ready to go at exactly 7:00 in the morning—the time the First Lady had requested we serve. We stood in the dining room’s adjacent kitchen to wait, surrounded by the heady smells of fresh coffee; sizzling bacon; and hot, yeasty bread. My stomach growled.
At 7:05, Mrs. Hyden was ushered into the dining room. The butlers, perplexed by her solo arrival were quickly informed that the kids were sleeping in and that President Hyden had gotten up extra early to run the Ellipse. He requested coffee and wheat toast be delivered to the West Wing. Bucky jumped on that task immediately.
I overheard Mrs. Hyden speaking to one of the butlers. “Please tell the kitchen staff that I’m sorry if they went to any undue trouble.”
I shouldn’t have been annoyed, but I was. Just a little bit. I was used to Mrs. Campbell talking to us directly. Although there was no way for me to connect with the new First Lady unless she initiated a relationship, I felt slightly put out. Swallowing my disappointment, and noting that Cyan’s and Bucky’s expressions wore the same sentiment I was feeling, we plated our offerings and prepared to return to the downstairs kitchen to await further instructions.
“Mom!” Still in his pajamas, Josh appeared in the dining room. With matted hair and one side of his face bright red from what looked like a hard night’s sleep, he looked forlornly around the room. “I’m hungry.”
Accustomed as we were to shifting gears quickly, we stopped cleaning and began to assemble a sampling of all of Josh’s favorite breakfasts: a portion of scrambled eggs with bits of ham mixed in, golden pancakes, milk, a cut-up banana, and fresh strawberries.
As soon as the eggs were done, we plated his meal and handed it to Theo to serve.
Theo didn’t notice Josh racing along the room’s perimeter, making jet-engine noises. The butler crossed through the doorway just as Josh rounded the curved wall, barreling directly into Theo’s path. “Watch out,” I yelled.
Too late. Theo bellowed as his tray upended, sending pancakes flying forward. China crashed to the floor, exploding into little pieces. A surviving saucer rolled and rotated like a spinning quarter. Josh cried out, his bedhead doused with cold milk. He ran, dripping, to his mother. I grabbed a terry towel from the kitchen and hurried in to hand it to the First Lady. She dried Josh’s head, chastising him for running. “Calm down, honey, it’s just milk. You needed to take a shower anyway.”
Cyan and I helped pick up the broken china and tried to scrape scrambled eggs bits from the area rug. Two members of the wait staff rushed in to help.
On my way back to the kitchen, I spotted a large chunk of a broken tumbler that had skidded across the floor’s wood perimeter. As I bent to reach the errant glass, my right foot slipped on a slick pat of butter, sending me sprawling. I yelped in a very unladylike way. I’m sure I looked a lot like the tray must have, when Theo shot it into the air.
I broke my fall with my knees and palms, which is to say I smacked the floor hard. I was just happy that my right hand hadn’t landed on another piece of broken glass—I’d avoided gashing it by mere millimeters.
The First Lady was on her feet immediately. “Are you all right?”
Embarrassed beyond belief, I righted myself and apologized for the fuss. “I’m fine,” I said, although my dignity had suffered a mighty blow. Leaning down—careful to watch my footing this time—I picked up the glass and tried to make light of it. “This piece was out to get me, I guess.”
The First Lady had turned back to Josh and was trying to get him settled into one of the side chairs. A butler had hurried to replace the boy’s milk and brought fresh squeezed orange juice with it. “See,” Mrs. Hyden was saying, “have a little sip and you’ll feel much better.”
I returned to the kitchen, my face burning. I noticed that Bucky and Cyan were taking pains to avoid looking at me. “It’s no biggie,” I said, sounding unconvinced. “At least she won’t forget my face, right?”
They both chuckled politely.
Once everyone was resettled, I consulted with Theo, letting him know that whenever Abigail awoke, we would be more than happy to prepare whatever breakfast she desired. But right now we were returning to our ground-floor kitchen as soon as we cleaned up.
Cyan said, “I sure hope this morning isn’t an omen of things to come.”
“It’s a good omen,” I said with forced cheer. “We managed to get rid of all the negativity in one fell swoop. We got it out of the way up front on the first day. From here it will be a piece of cake.”
“Piece of cake, huh?” Bucky smirked as he peeled pancake fragments from the back of a broken dish. “Like these?”
Sargeant was waiting for us when we arrived downstairs. “The First Lady is none too pleased with your decision to withhold the gift from her kids.”
“She bought the wings?” I felt all the blood race from my head to my feet. “Oh my gosh, was she the one who had the box delivered?” My words came out fast as I realized what a major faux pas I’d committed. “Why didn’t anyone tell me? Of course I would have served them if I had known.”
I held my breath, envisioning her anger and disappointment in me. No wonder she’d been so cool this morning.
But Sargeant was shaking his head. “No, no, no.” Stepping closer to me, he continued, his voice soft, “We still don’t know who sent it, but it doesn’t matter. You stood by your convictions and now you get to deal with the consequences of your decision. The First Lady is most certainly aware that this was all your doing.”
“With help from you, no doubt.”
Sargeant affected an innocent look. “When I am questioned, especially by a member of the First Family, I always strive to give the best, most truthful answer I can. I’m sorry if that bothers you.”
“What bothers me—”
Before I could finish, John Weaver came running into the kitchen. His eyes were wide and his forehead damp with sweat. “There’s a siege going on at Lyman Hall Hospital,” he said, pointing toward his office. “Right now. Just happening now. It’s terrible. Terrible.”
“What sort of siege?” Sargeant asked him.
He held up both hands, palms upward. “Three people have been shot. That’s all I know.”
Bucky, Cyan, and I raced to John’s office with Sargeant bringing up the rear. Three agents stood in front of the little TV, which was blaring the news. An announcer’s voice tried to rise above the cacophony of screams and shouts behind him to let the audience know what was going on, but I could barely make out what he was saying. I scooted between agents Bost and Nourie to see better. Bedlam reigned at Lyman Hall Hospital. Handheld cameras tried to capture everything but shifted focus so fast they wound up catching nothing at all. I heard the announcer say, “Five White House employees ...” and “... taken hostage.”
“What? Who?” I turned to the agents behind me as though expecting them to have answers. But these guys were part of the PPD, Presidential Protective Detail, and as such would be stationed here to keep the residents of the White House safe. The third agent, Gardez, stepped away from the group to listen closely to his microphone. Nourie joined him.
Bost lifted his gaze long enough to make eye contact with his colleagues, then returned his attention to the television.
“We are as surprised as you are,” he said to no one in particular. “This is the first we’re hearing.”
At a signal from Nourie, he nodded. “The White House is officially on lockdown until we can understand what’s going on.”
“What hostages are they talking about?” I asked.
“Don’t know,” he said over his shoulder as he joined the two other agents. The three huddled together, listening intently to their microphones, all looking ready to spring should the order be given. I saw the intensity in their faces and it scared me. Lyman Hall Hospital wasn’t more than three miles away from the White House. Threats to the hospital were threats to our security as well.
