Fonduing Fathers (17 page)

“Yes, ma’am,” he said. He held his hand out and we shook. “It’s good to meet you.”

“Are we traveling as a group?” I asked. “It doesn’t seem as though we all work together as a unit, if you know what I mean.”

Means took the lead. “Agent Quinn will be with the subject…” He caught himself as he looked down at the
president’s son who was staring up with big eyes. “That is, he will be with Josh the entire time. To casual observers, you, Josh, and Quinn will appear to be a family out for the day. As for Mr. Sargeant—”

“Yes, what about me?”

We all turned.

“Oh my—” I cut off my exclamation by clapping a hand to my mouth. As promised, he hadn’t shaved that morning. The stubble actually looked good on him. Made him more human, I thought. He wore black jeans and dark gym shoes. He was almost able to carry off that casual look, but the black T-shirt featuring Pink Floyd’s classic
Dark Side of the Moon
rainbow album cover was more than I could handle. He’d tucked the oversized shirt into his jeans and secured it with a silver chain belt. The best part, however, was the salt-and-pepper ponytail that hung out the back of his baseball cap. By adding that touch, Thora had made certain Sargeant couldn’t remove his hat indoors without exposing his disguise.

Sargeant’s glare was malevolent as he sidled over. “You will not snicker at my expense.” His voice was a growl, meant just for me. He held his head up high as he addressed Means. “What were you about to say?”

Means nodded a greeting to the sensitivity director. “You four will be traveling together. Agent Rosenow will trail behind Mr. Sargeant, Ms. Paras, Agent Quinn, and of course, Josh. To the world, you’ll look like a family unit: mother, father, son, and hip grandfather.”

I said, “I see Mr. Sargeant as more as a favorite uncle.”

A shadow passed his features as he and I made eye contact, but he nodded. “Yes. Uncle. Much better.”

IT HAD BEEN SEVERAL YEARS SINCE I’D ATTENDED a Food Expo. In fact, the last time I had, I’d been one of the White House sous chefs, assistant to Henry. He and I hadn’t
spoken in a while. I wondered how my mentor was doing. I’d have to give him a call one of these days.

“Wow,” Josh exclaimed when we handed in our tickets and stepped inside the great hall where the convention was being held. “This is huge.”

It was. Highly illuminated, expansive, and offering far more chances to talk about food, trends, and techniques than we could possibly experience in one day, the Expo was a feast in more ways than one. The wide entrance area smelled of new carpet, but I detected delightful odors wafting our way from deeper within the convention center. Temporary cooking areas had been set up where chefs and their assistants prepared delectable samples for happy attendees. They shared their creations and distributed colorful brochures.

I smiled at the wonderment on Josh’s face, remembering my first visit to an event like this. He was in for a treat.

Agent Quinn grabbed two complimentary plastic bags provided by the organizers to collect the freebies being handed out. I picked up two magazinelike brochures, handing one to Josh. I immediately opened the brochure to its center spread. “See this?” I pointed to the map. “Every presenter is assigned a booth number.” I directed Josh’s attention to the long banners strung overhead. “We can find anything you want to see as long as we know what aisle to look in.” I flipped through the pages. “Take a look through and let me know if anything in particular interests you and we’ll find it.”

Captivated, he began to page through.

Sargeant was clearly a fish out of water. “What possible good can I do the boy here?” he whispered close to me. “Particularly when I’m dressed in this ridiculous getup. His mother is interested in teaching the boy diplomacy?” Sargeant harrumphed. “I do not understand at all.”

I had no answer for him. While I would have much preferred to wander the spacious convention center on my own, I knew how important this trip was to Josh. Looking at the
enormous effort put forth on his behalf to make today possible, I could tell his mother recognized its importance, too.

Josh seemed to be torn between perusing the book for ideas and wandering the great hall to see what might catch his eye. I put a hand on his shoulder. “Let’s go this way.” The big companies and TV networks tended to snag the plum central spots. We’d start there and see where it led. “Remember, we have to make time for Marcel’s presentation.”

Josh looked up, his eyes darting everywhere at once. “Yeah,” he said distractedly. “I’m looking forward to that, too.”

What surprised me more than the faux kitchen work areas and the giant Jumbotron displays that appeared to float in the tall, black ceiling overhead, was the fact that so many attendees were outfitted the way I was. Not pink dresses specifically, but nearly everyone—with the exception of the few children in attendance—was in business suits, or, at a minimum, smart casual. The last time I’d been here I’d worn blue jeans and had felt right at home.

Agent Quinn stayed next to Josh every minute, playing his role as doting father out with his son for the day. Sargeant, oddly, remained at my side. Agent Rosenow, wearing chef’s whites, meandered behind us. I knew there were more agents in the crowd, too, but had no idea how many. The three agents accompanying us were keeping in contact with their colleagues, though I didn’t know how. It had to be quite the challenge. With thousands of low conversations echoing in the wide space, there was no escaping its constant hum.

Quinn leaned over Josh’s head, touching my bare forearm with his fingertips. Though we were supposed to represent a married couple, the familiar gesture felt weird all the same. “What time is Marcel’s presentation?” he asked.

“One o’clock.” I kept a protective hand on Josh’s shoulder. He didn’t seem to mind. “We should be able to take in a fair amount of the Expo before then.”

Josh pointed past the busy booths to the main stage, far ahead. “Is that really Terry Lash?”

One of the event’s many foodie superstars, Chef Lash was demonstrating his signature fried chicken and homemade sides. I’d met Lash on a couple of occasions when he’d visited the White House during the Campbell administration. He was pleasant enough, in small doses. Here, the ebullient and handsome chef stood behind a temporary counter on the main stage in front of about 200 folding chairs, most of which were occupied.

“Over there,” I said, indicating the back row of seats. There were four together in one spot, and two more farther down the line. Quinn, Josh, and I sat together, Rosenow joining us next to Josh, while Sargeant sat alone. Means took up position behind us all.

Josh stared up, clearly overwhelmed but enjoying himself. The Jumbotrons above broadcast Terry Lash’s every move, with a couple of milliseconds’ delay.

“This is great,” Josh said, almost to himself. He squirmed in his seat, trying his best to be taller. I was grateful for the huge screens that allowed him to view Lash as clearly as if we’d been in the front row.

We watched for a few minutes, and even though it was apparent Josh had a decent view of the presentation, he pulled himself onto my lap. “Is it okay if I sit here?” he asked after he’d gotten himself comfortable.

“It’s fine,” I said, smiling. Until I’d met Josh, I’d never felt entirely comfortable around kids, but this little boy was special. I hadn’t realized that nine-year-olds could be so utterly disarming. With a pang, I also understood that it wouldn’t be long before he stopped wanting to hang around with adults. Soon he’d want to spend all his time with friends instead. I placed my hands on his shoulders and whispered. “Watch how he chops that onion,” I said. “It takes a lot of practice to be that quick and not slice your fingers to ribbons.”

Josh nodded.

“Years of practice,” I repeated. “Keep that in mind.”

Quinn draped one arm over the back of my chair. What was meant to appear a husband’s casual relaxation was probably a pre-planned move. If Quinn spotted anything amiss—and he would, with the way he never stopped watching the crowd—he could push us both down to the ground in one quick motion. It still felt odd, however, especially when his arm grazed my back. I sat up straighter.

After Lash’s demonstration, we browsed stalls for about an hour, resisting hawkers’ repeated requests for our contact information. Before we knew it, it was time for Marcel’s show.

Back in the seating area, I spotted empty seats much nearer to the front than at Lash’s. Marcel wouldn’t recognize me in this getup, but I wanted to be able to tell him I’d been there, up close and personal. Quinn had other ideas, however. “The fewer people seated behind us, the better,” he said, so we returned to the last row, where plenty of seats were still available. Josh scampered onto my lap again, Rosenow sat next to me, and Sargeant next to her. Means, again, stood nearby. As people filed in for the show, a woman tapped Sargeant on the shoulder.

“Is this seat taken?” she asked.

Sargeant said, “No, please, you’re welcome to it.”

Quinn assessed the intruder but didn’t say a word. I supposed, to the Secret Service, everyone was a threat until proven otherwise. The woman next to Sargeant was younger than he was, closer to my age. Taller, too. What made me notice her, however, was the shock of hot pink in her chestnut-brown hair. The chunk of hyper-dyed hair stretched down from behind her right ear to her shoulder in a blast of brightness. I liked it. Not enough to have it done myself, mind you, but it looked good on her.

Sargeant leaned past Rosenow to whisper to me, “Getting in good with the First Family, I see,” but there was no malice
in the statement. He gestured toward Josh with his eyes. “You can’t possibly be worried about job security anymore.”

I smiled. “Not really,” I replied just as quietly. Not that it mattered; Josh was busy talking with Agent Quinn next to me. “At first I was worried about Virgil, but things seem to be working out.”

Sargeant leaned back. “He’s a diva if I’ve ever met one.”

I bit back a response. Good thing, because Marcel had just been introduced.

“Bonjour,”
the White House pastry chef said into his microphone. Despite the fact that his handsome, dark face and thick French accent were causing a great deal of swooning among audience members, I could tell by the quiver in his voice that he was nervous.

“I am ’ere today to ’elp you learn more about that most difficult of talents: preparing pastry to puff when it is baked. Before I begin, however,” he turned to face each side of the stage, giving each a little bow, “I must not forget to thank the organizers of zees event. They have kindly invited me to be here for you this beautiful afternoon. I must also thank my dear friend and colleague, Olivia Paras, the executive chef of our nation’s White House, who is in the audience today.” He held a hand over his eyes as though looking for me in the crowd.

Josh twisted on my lap. “That’s you, Ollie,” he said, then clapped both hands over his mouth and turned an apologetic face toward Quinn.

The agent was not pleased. “Do not react,” he said quietly.

Marcel kept looking and I hoped to heaven he wouldn’t ask me to stand up and be recognized. “She is here,” he said, stepping forward on the stage. “But perhaps she is not willing to make herself known.” He gave a very French shrug and returned to his worktable.

I kept a hand on Josh’s back. “No one heard,” I said to Quinn. But a quick glance toward the woman with the pink shock of hair made me pause. She wasn’t looking at us, not exactly, but something in her body language told me her interest in us had been piqued.

Quinn took another long look around. “All right,” he said.

About halfway through Marcel’s demonstration, the woman with the pink hair murmured to Sargeant, then got up and left.

“What did she say?” I asked when she was gone.

“That her break was up. I guess she works here,” Sargeant said. “Why?”

“No reason.”

“Ms. Paras,” he said in a chiding tone. “You are without a doubt the nosiest person I have ever encountered.”

Quinn had kept his arm around the back of my chair again for the entire show. I was relieved when Marcel finished, bowed to thunderous applause, and we could leave. I wouldn’t rush Josh if he wasn’t ready, but I got the impression he was bordering on information overload at this point. As for me, I’d seen all I needed to and looked forward to spending the rest of the afternoon with Gav.

“I think we’ve done a lot today, haven’t we, Josh?” I asked. We talked for a few minutes about the presentations he most enjoyed and those he thought were a waste of time. I marveled at how quickly he’d caught on to what was substance, and what was mere fluff. “Is there anything we missed that you’d like to see before we take off?”

He took a look around the cavernous hall and shook his head. “No, but can we walk up one of the aisles we missed so we see new booths along the way? I don’t want to repeat.”

“That sounds fair,” I said, thinking that I could be back home by three o’clock if I played my cards right. “Which aisle?”

He held a finger to his chin, surveying the area with great
concentration. At last he pointed to the second aisle from the end. “That one.”

“You got it,” I said, and we started off.

“I can’t believe all the places I know,” Josh said for the tenth time as we made our way to Aisle Two. “All the companies who make food and candy are here.”

“This is how big businesses stay that way,” I said. “The more familiar a brand name is, the more comfortable you feel with it. That means you’re more likely to buy from them. Over and over. When I was here last time, the displays were much smaller and there were more startup companies. I’m really surprised at how much it’s expanded.”

I was losing his attention, so I tried again. “Last time I was here, it was mostly cookware and two or three big-name food companies. We’ve seen candy and chocolate companies; we’ve even seen vitamin manufacturers. That’s different.”

“I wish I could try some,” he said, also for the tenth time.

Josh’s bag was filled with samples of everything anyone handed him. Quinn had been adamant about Josh not consuming a single morsel until the bag could be checked out and cleared. The chances that anyone here knew that the president’s son was in attendance were slim. But the Secret Service demanded absolutes.