Dead to the Last Drop (14 page)

“I understand it was printed in France, back in the 1830s,” the First Lady noted. “Goodness knows where Mrs. Kennedy got the idea.”

“A room with no windows can feel claustrophobic,” I replied, admiring the mountains, trees, and sailing ships. “Our jazz club’s greenroom had the same problem, but I solved it with the same approach—a panoramic mural with bucolic imagery. Of course, mine isn’t anywhere near this ambitious, just a simple forest scene in acrylics.”

“Oh, who was your decorator?”

“No decorator. I painted it myself.”

For a brief second, a confused frown shaded Mrs. Parker’s expression.
Painted the walls yourself? Good heavens, why?
But that utterly confounded moment was quickly dispatched by the polite reaction she knew she
should
be displaying.

“How perfectly lovely, Clare. You know I was told you
studied
fine art—”

“You were?”

“—but I wasn’t aware of your own artistic abilities.”

Leaning forward on her wingback chair, she lowered her voice.

“Abigail will be joining us shortly. But before she does, I wanted the two of us to share a private moment . . .”

T
hirty-five

P
RIVATE
moment?
I thought.
There are ten people in this room. I guess that’s why they call it “a public life.”

Still leaning forward, the First Lady placed her hands on her knees. “If I may, I’d like to speak with you as one mother to another.”

“Of course.”

“Your daughter is older than Abigail, Clare, but I suspect she gave you headaches now and again. Goodness knows, all children do—”

Something tells me you more than “suspect,” Mrs. Parker.

“In the end, you were fortunate. Your daughter weathered the trials of new adulthood to find her place in the world. She’s apprenticing as a chef in Paris, isn’t she?”

“She’s back in New York City for the time being, helping her father run our Greenwich Village coffeehouse.”

Mrs. Parker nodded. “A family business is a wonderful thing. And I understand your daughter is outgoing, gregarious, social. Like you. Like her father.”

I suddenly felt like I was getting a headache. It might have been the heat radiating from the fireplace . . . or something else.

She leaned even closer, invading my space.

“Abigail is different from your daughter. She’s vulnerable. And fragile. Did you know that six years ago, Abigail attempted suicide? That was a trying time for all of us, but we found our way through. Now we’re moving Abigail along, toward a better life.”

Moving her along?
I thought.
More like controlling her every move.

But, as Gardner advised me to do when I first relocated to DC, I held my frank opinion and spoke instead in bland generalities.

“I think Abby . . . Abigail is a unique young woman. She’s smart, sensitive, and she possesses remarkable musical talent—”

“Which the President and I very much fear will be
exploited
.”

“Excuse me?”

“Oh, I’m not suggesting
you
are doing anything wrong, Clare. I know that Abigail enjoys her time at your little club above your coffeehouse, that she’s been treating it like a second home, which the President and I can accept.”

The First Lady’s piercing gaze was now practically impaling me.

“What is
not
acceptable is
publicity
—of
any kind
. If Abigail’s musical dabbling became public knowledge . . .” She paused to shudder in a manner I hadn’t seen since the cinema adaptations of early Stephen King. “I can’t imagine the spectacle of the First Daughter playing honky-tonk piano in a Georgetown loft. It would be a circus. A freak show—”

I tried to hold my tongue. I really did. But—

“Mrs. Parker,” I said, forcing my tone to remain respectful, “it is not honky-tonk piano. It is jazz, a modern American art form, some say America’s only true art form, because it began here before becoming beloved around the world. Abby’s passion for jazz is a beautiful thing to see—and hear. You should take the time to witness it—”

“Well, Clare, you’ll excuse me if I take
your
evaluation of my daughter’s musical ability with a grain of salt.”

“You don’t have to. Accomplished, professional musicians are impressed with how well she—”

“
Authoritative
music teachers have already judged my daughter to be mediocre at best—”

“Excuse me, but how many years ago was that judgment made?”

“I don’t know . . .” She glanced at the grandfather clock a moment. “Six or seven years, I guess.”

“That’s a long time in the scheme of any young artist’s development, and Abby herself told me she was playing
classical
piano at that time. Jazz is not the same as—”

“Enough, Clare. You simply do not understand. Music is Abigail’s place to hide. But she cannot hide forever. She must grow up and face the world . . .”

I took a breath for patience. Either Elizabeth Noland Parker did not wish to understand her daughter or she was incapable of it.

Maybe that judgment was unfair, given my brief view of the pair. But I couldn’t help my reaction. I’d seen far too many of these misunderstandings back in New York, where cultures clashed on a 24/7 basis, and extroverts continually labeled artists and introverts as “weird” or “antisocial” or “deficient” in social graces, never stopping to consider how introverts viewed them—as unimaginative, condescending, and distressingly deficient in depth.

I couldn’t help wondering where Abby’s artistic genes came from. If not from her mother, then she must take after her father, which gave me a new respect for the President. I’d never met the man. But now I was curious to make his acquaintance.

“Clare, I did not bring you here to debate,” Mrs. Parker insisted. “I brought you here to ask for your word that you will not exploit my daughter.”

“I only want Abby to be happy.”

“That’s not good enough. We are the First Family. Not a reality TV stunt. Do you understand?”

“Of course, I understand, Mrs. Parker, and as long as your daughter chooses to perform under an assumed name, we will honor that. I’ve personally kept her secret from my friends, family, everyone—and it will always be safe with me.”

“Your word?”

“You have it!” I even raised my hand, as if taking an oath.

The First Lady’s expression immediately softened.

“You must understand. The President and I are pleased Abigail is enjoying her college years. We’ve decided it’s best that she get this music bug out of her system now. College is the perfect place to indulge a frivolous fantasy.”

She touched my hand. “But it will soon be time for Abigail to put aside childish things, even if those things make her
deeply happy
.”

Despite the blast furnace of a fire, and the perspiration trickling into my bra, I felt a shiver slither up the back of my neck.

The First Lady had deliberately echoed my words to Abby on the night the First Daughter and I met. My gaze automatically found Sharon Cage, standing at attention across the room—just as she had in our greenroom the night I’d said those words.

The knowing look in the First Lady’s eyes told me this wasn’t a coincidence. Either my conversation with Abby was reported back to the First Lady verbatim or
recorded
and played back.

Now, I was well aware that people with power and position had handlers whose job it was to feed them information about the people they encountered in a given day. But it was one thing to know this objectively; quite another to be the ant under their microscope.

Even worse, I suspected Agent Cage wasn’t the only one telling tales.

Katerina Lacey had exited the very doorway that I walked into.

Given that Katerina was working within the executive branch—reporting to someone who reported to someone who reported directly to the President—I couldn’t help suspecting the First Lady of asking her to investigate me.

I recalled Katerina’s assistant, Lidia, juggling all those files. They couldn’t all be on me, could they? And if they weren’t, then whose were they?

Is Katerina doing political dirty work for the White House in addition to her Justice Department duties?

“The music industry is so . . . tawdry,” the First Lady continued. “And Abigail has so many better things to look forward to. Her graduation, with honors. And her pending nuptials, which we’re anticipating with great excitement.”

I blinked.
Did I just hear the words “pending nuptials”?!

“I ask you, Clare. Can anything be more delightful than a Rose Garden wedding in June? Abby will make such a lovely bride!”

T
hirty-six

I
think my jaw may have bounced off that star-clustered carpet.

“Abby is engaged? She’s getting married?”

“It hasn’t been announced to the public yet, and I’d appreciate it if you kept that little secret under your cap.”

“Of course.”

“I think of President Parker as an actor on the world stage; and, like all great actors, he seeks those moments that define his presidency, and the nation . . .”

The First Lady’s eyes seemed to stare into the distance. “This Rose Garden event will be one such moment. When the Commander in Chief strides down that aisle as father of the bride, he will be seen as the Father of the Nation.”

Another chill went up my neck, and I couldn’t help thinking:
Who’s exploiting Abby now?

“This is the second reason I asked you here,” Mrs. Parker continued. “Abigail has made a request. She wants your Village Blend, DC, to provide the coffee service for her wedding day.”

My jaw struck the carpet again. “I’m honored, truly—”

“You know, Clare, I’ve always appreciated coffee. But my real love affair with the beverage began while I was living in Morocco.”

“Morocco?”

“Oh, yes. Ever since high school, I enjoyed my morning cup, but when I got pregnant I had to give it up. I was amazed at how much I missed it, so after Abigail was born I went a little crazy. I visited my favorite stall in the souk every morning for that entire summer. I’d down five or six cups in a
row. I savored some of the finest coffees in the world in that souk.” The First Lady paused. “Which brings us to another dilemma.”

“Dilemma?”

“The Village Blend is historic, and its reputation has long been esteemed. Yet your debut in Georgetown was . . . less than successful. I’m sorry to bring it up, but your reviews were not favorable.”

There’s not much you can do with a broken gas line and a no-show barista
, I thought with embarrassment.

After that disastrous first day I’d replaced the gas line and tirelessly continued screening applicants until I found Tito. But there was no point in peddling excuses. The truth was the truth.

“Growing pains,” I replied. “The Village Blend, DC, is now well past those problems.”

“Good, because your reputation for coffee in New York is impeccable. That’s why I asked our White House chef to brew some for our brunch. I’m anxious to see if it lives up to its reputation.”

Speechless for a moment, I suddenly realized my question was finally answered:
Whose coffee will we be drinking?
Apparently, my own!

“I’m sure you won’t be disappointed,” I said with confidence.

“Let’s hope not. And if I choose to humor Abigail in this request, we’ll have to raise the Village Blend’s profile—and yours, Clare.”

“Mine? How?”

“The solution is simple. But first . . . I need to know what you know about the history of coffee.”

“Excuse me?”

“Coffee, Clare. Do you know something about its history? Or is your knowledge of the beverage limited simply to roasting and serving it?”

“Why? Is this some kind of test?”

“Don’t think of it like that.” She waved her hand. “Like most people, other than drinking it, I really don’t think much about it.” Her gaze pierced mine. “
Educate
me.”

I smiled politely, guessing there was a reason for the First Lady’s strange demand. And, despite her denial, I could see this
was
a test of some sort. The question was—

What happens if I fail?

T
hirty-seven

“H
ISTORY of coffee? Okay . . .” I cleared my throat.

The First Lady folded her hands on her lap and waited expectantly.

“I doubt you want me to go all the way back to a flock of overactive goats in Ethiopia, so why don’t I begin with coffee in America?”

“And what can you tell me about that?”

“Well, for starters, the Revolution was plotted by coffee drinkers in coffeehouses in Boston and Philadelphia.”

The First Lady nodded approvingly.

“After the Boston Tea Party, Americans almost universally switched over to coffee. It became the beverage of patriots. There’s a funny story about John Adams, who adored tea. He complained to his wife about having to embrace the bean, because tea drinking was considered unpatriotic, and he would be suspect if he continued to ‘imbibe the leaf.’”

“Very good, Clare, go on . . .”

My mind raced. “Have you visited Monticello, in Virginia?”

“I know I should. But regretfully . . .”

“Well, if you do, be sure to look for Thomas Jefferson’s silver coffee urn. It was purchased in France. Oh, and did you know Jefferson was known to present coffee urns as gifts to friends and fellow businessmen?”

“No, I didn’t. What else can you tell me?”

I went on “educating” Mrs. Parker about coffee in America: cowboy coffee, coffee during the Civil War—the soldiers roasted their own green beans over open flames and used their guns to crush them up. This led to the custom of roasting at home, which gave way to small batch shops, which led to
large batch, mass-market roasting, the general decline in quality, and the rise of a new generation of coffee professionals with a passion for sourcing, small-batch roasting, and re-creating the coffeehouse culture that first gave birth to our country.