Home of the Braised (11 page)

Although most people spoke highly of peace, some, like those chanting in Lafayette Square tonight, balked when it came to inviting sworn enemies to the table. Others voiced their disapproval in much less civilized ways. When news of the upcoming peace accords and state dinner had become known, protests against Durasi grew violent in some cities around the country.

President Hyden’s talk tonight sought to quell such displays and bring the American people together in compromise.

Everything he said was more or less a rehash of what he’d said before, the only difference being that this time it was a formal address. I turned away from the TV to look at Gav. With his head back and his mouth gone slack, he was finally finding his own version of peace. I was about to move his legs, so that he could lie on his side versus remain sitting, when President Hyden’s next remark caught my attention.

“And as we move forward with more diplomatic methods, one of the most important and groundbreaking changes we plan to adopt will be reducing our reliance on mercenary forces in Durasi.”

Mercenary forces were exactly what Rosenow had been talking about today, Kalto in particular.

I sat forward and increased the volume ever so slightly.

“What’s going on?” Gav asked.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

He rubbed his face and straightened, leaning elbows on his knees. “How much did I miss?”

I pointed, not wanting to talk over the president and miss what came next. When he called on a reporter in the audience for a follow-up question, I said, “Mercenary forces.”

Gav nodded.

The president went on, repeating himself. His goal, he said, was to eliminate the United States’ need for any mercenary teams anywhere. He went on to explain that we had contracts with several such companies and that we would be availing ourselves of their teams’ services to the extent of our contractual obligations, but that in the future, if all went as planned, those contracts would not be renewed.

“That’s weird,” I said.

“President Hyden has been against mercenary forces from the very start,” Gav said. “Why do you think this is weird?”

I told him about talking with Agent Rosenow earlier and how she explained that Kalto would be working with us at the White House.

Gav frowned. “At one point not long ago, mercenary forces—hired troops—seemed like a great idea. Little by little, however, we started to find that a few of the companies have been working to undermine the efforts of our armed forces, in an attempt to bolster their own worth. They claim to have the United States’ security as their top priority, but we’ve found that many of these companies operate under their own agenda.”

“That’s not good.”

“Not good for the country, definitely not good for morale. Kalto and others are businesses. They exist to make a profit. Nothing wrong with that, unless you play dirty.”

“Kalto is dirty?”

Gav shook his head. “I’ve heard complaints against a few other protective companies, but never Kalto. You met Baran, huh?” Gav looked impressed. “He tried to hire me away from the Secret Service a few years ago. Made a nice offer. Gotta admit, I was tempted.”

“What stopped you?”

Gav’s gaze was fierce, though not with anger. More with passion. “I’m already where I want to be,” he said. “The Secret Service. Working for the protection of the country, of the president.”

“A sense of duty?”

He heard the compliment in my question and waved it off. “Call it what you will, but I knew that a fatter paycheck wouldn’t provide the same satisfaction. It was an easy decision, actually. Still, because I wanted a second opinion on the matter, to reassure myself I wasn’t making the mistake of a lifetime, I talked it over with Joe Yablonski before I gave Baran a final answer.”

“And?”

“Joe supported me. Not only is he not a fan of mercenary forces on principle, he told me that he believed that the job prospects were not nearly as good as everyone believed them to be. Turns out, his predictions were right.” Gav nodded at the TV. “President Hyden isn’t a fan. Neither is the secretary of defense. I’d hazard a guess that, including Joe, they’re the triple threat behind this decision.”

“The secretary of defense?” I repeated. “Cobault?” A retired four-star general, Theodore Cobault was one of the most respected and revered members of the president’s cabinet. And an incredibly nice man, whom I’d had the pleasure to meet a couple of times.

Gav pointed at the screen. “You can bet that Cobault’s hand is guiding this decision in a big way.”

“How do you know that? Cobault is notoriously mute when it comes to talking to the press. Do you remember that altercation when he was being pressed for an answer to explain his position on a diplomatic crisis
before
the press conference announcing the president’s decision? I know I’m paraphrasing, but Cobault said something like, ‘If I wanted my views known to the public, I’d take out an ad. Now get out of my way and let me do my job.’”

“I remember.” A corner of Gav’s mouth curled up. “Joe and I had lunch with him not long ago.”

“You had lunch with the secretary of defense?” I asked. “And you didn’t tell me?”

“You didn’t need to know,” he said with a grin. “You see why I wouldn’t want to give all this up? If I’d taken Baran up on his offer, I’d miss out on being part of the real decisions. Part of what shapes our country for future generations. I’d have been off in a faraway land for the past half-dozen years.” He leaned sideways so that our shoulders touched. “And if I’d gone that route, I would never have met you.”

“Well then,” I said, “you definitely made the right decision.”

THE NIGHT GREMLINS—THE NASTY, NEFARIOUS
little buggers that find their glee in being able to explode molehills into a range of Everests—kept me from sleeping well. Gav had gone back to his own apartment after the president’s news conference. He hadn’t changed clothes in more than forty-eight hours and, once he’d shaken off the fogginess from his catnap, had woken up sufficiently to make his way home safely. I saw him off, advising him to try to sleep, never realizing that I would be unable to do so myself.

I’d always found that the way to thwart the night gremlins was to give up any hope of sleep, to abandon the demons and their insidious ways, and start the day despite their trickery. Somehow, the act of getting out of bed, of showering and turning lights on, made the little fiends less intimidating. Starting the day was the only way I knew to fight back.

Thus, I found myself on the earliest Metro to the White House in the morning. Ever since Virgil had taken over the First Family’s meals and I was no longer responsible for breakfast, I’d taken to coming in a little later. Today, however, once I’d decided to get out of my apartment, I thought I’d be nice and see if Virgil could use a little help.

His presence in my kitchen caused me significant angst, and the conundrum of how to better our situation was never far from my mind. If Sargeant couldn’t negotiate Virgil’s release—and I had serious doubts that he could—I needed to turn the testy chef around, to convince him that I wasn’t his enemy.

The Metro train was quiet this morning. Lonely. I ignored the jostling melancholy that could easily overwhelm me. Being up and out and ready for work gave me strength to shake off the gremlins’ hold. Once I was on my way, I couldn’t be touched. Or so I told myself.

By the time I reached the McPherson Square Station, I’d come up with a radical solution for handling Virgil. I’d asked myself: What, more than anything else, drove the man to his best efforts? Fame. No question about it. Virgil adored being in the limelight and no matter how much media love was showered upon him, he craved more. A natural performer, he knew precisely how to craft a sound bite that would resonate and repeat. One that would always be attributed to him. Clever Virgil. Talented Virgil. He wanted to be the first person everyone thought of when the title “White House Chef” came to mind.

To his everlasting dismay, he wasn’t. I was.

As far as I was concerned, celebrity was overrated. He could have it. I would be happy to run my kitchen without ever encountering the media again. The thing was, as gladly as I’d give up my reputation with the press, I would not relinquish power over the workings of the White House kitchen. Not without a fight. Not to anyone, and especially not to Virgil.

The trick was in finding middle ground.

These days—due to some fabulous dinners we’d produced, as well as a few adventures that had taken place behind the scenes and resolved successfully—I felt about as secure as I’d ever felt in my role as executive chef.

But that didn’t make working with Virgil any easier.

This state dinner with Durasi dignitaries promised to be an extraordinary event at the White House. Newspapers, magazines, websites, blogs, Facebook, and Twitter would cover every moment in loving detail from the time the Durasi dignitaries left their country until they departed U.S. soil. Every nuance would be analyzed. Minutiae would make headlines.

With the way our kitchen was structured now, Virgil had nothing to do with state dinners. Bucky, Cyan, and I handled the process of food preparation from start to finish, overseeing temporary staffers where necessary. Virgil, if he helped at all, did so only under duress.

What if
, I thought. What if I
included
Virgil in the plans? If he felt as though his contributions were valued, if he thought that he could be credited with some of the evening’s success, then maybe he’d begin to feel more like a team player. I knew that if I attempted this, I couldn’t simply give him a task or two and hope he’d fall in line. I’d have to truly include him fully, every step of the way. My attempt would have to be a genuine one.

I wasn’t wholly certain that Virgil would go for it. Nor was I convinced that it would work. This would be a heck of a leap of faith for me, but if it resulted in better relationships between team members, then we’d all succeed.

Virgil was busy with breakfast preparations when I walked in. Except for the sound of his bustling and the few ingredients he hadn’t yet cleaned up around his workspace, the place was quiet and clean. I took a deep breath of the warm, eggy smells that rolled out of the oven when he opened the door, and smiled. My plan for the new day was working. Nighttime’s gremlins—even those that hung around after waking—were beginning to lose their hold on me. “Hi, Virgil,” I said.

He jumped, then glared at me.

“Sorry,” I said. “Didn’t mean to startle you. Whatever you’re making smells fabulous.”

His face was pink from the oven’s heat as he lifted the casserole dish to the countertop. “What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked.

I snapped on a smock and grabbed an apron. Deep breath. “Exactly what I said. Whatever you’ve made smells heavenly. What is it?”

“A breakfast casserole.”

Well, wasn’t that helpful? I decided to ignore the snub. “I’m sure the First Family will enjoy it. It looks great.”

He eyed me suspiciously despite the fact that I routinely made sure to compliment him whenever he deserved it. I was willing to do almost anything—short of compromising my own core values, of course—if doing so might calm the rough waters between us. It hadn’t helped thus far, but being nice to another person couldn’t hurt, so I never stopped trying. That old definition of what constitutes a fool flashed through my mind.

Still giving me the evil eye, he asked, “Why are you in so early?”

I told him the truth. “Couldn’t sleep.”

He’d used a pair of dishtowels to get the casserole dish out of the oven. He tossed one atop the counter and slapped the other over his shoulder. “I thought you and Sargeant were buddies. I heard he threw you under the bus at his press conference.”

Was that glee I detected in Virgil’s glittering eyes? “Not at all,” I said. “The press conference wasn’t about me.”

“It’s always about you.”

“Virgil.” I strove to keep a pleasant expression on my face. “This is no way to start out our morning. Is there something on your mind?”

He dragged the towel from his shoulder and held it tight in his fist. Glancing around as though worried that others might hear, he took a step closer. “It’s the same thing that’s been on my mind from the very start,” he said quietly. “Except now it’s all fresh again, with Sargeant in charge and Doug let go. Why do you even have to ask? We both know I deserve to be the executive chef here, but because you’re the first woman in the role nobody wants to touch you. You’re golden.”

I bit my lip tight to keep from retorting. I sensed that we were going to have it out now and I hoped this would prove to be our “once and for all.” If so, I needed to let him vent until he believed he’d had his say. Harder still, I needed to listen if I had any hope of having a working relationship with this man in the future. I reminded myself to take the high road.

“Not only am I
not
the executive chef,” he went on, “which, I’m sure you recall, was the agreement I had before I started working here . . .”

That wasn’t true, but arguing the point wouldn’t change his perspective. I kept quiet, focusing on what was driving him—what he was truly trying to communicate—as his voice rose.

“Not only do I suffer that particular indignity—Do you have any idea how many magazines had me pegged to take over for you? No, of course you don’t. You don’t care about magazine features. You prefer to make headlines with your reckless adventures.” He’d gotten louder and seemed to catch himself. Muttering now, he added, “Like that requires any real talent at all for cooking.”

None of this was new, but the fact that I wasn’t responding to his diatribe was. I could tell that my silence unnerved him. He crossed his arms and stared down at me with insolent impatience. “The worst of it is that I’m not even next in command. Whether I’m named, or that fool Bucky is, hasn’t been decided yet. You can’t run a kitchen like that.”

“That’s a point we can agree on.”

He blinked, startled.

I held up my hands. “And with that in mind, I’d like to try a new approach.”

He lowered his eyelids, as though feigning boredom. “Yeah? Like what?”

“It’s true that I would favor Bucky as my next in command.”

Shifting his weight, he gave a dramatic sigh. “News flash there. Not.”

I let his comment roll off of me, reminding myself to keep my eyes on the prize. Getting into a battle with Virgil at this point, even if I emerged the victor, wouldn’t be a win at all if our relationship remained as strained as it was. Baby steps. I needed to take this slowly.

“Bucky and I have worked together for a long time. You and I are still getting to know one another.” When he looked about to make another disparaging remark, I added, “It’s been a rocky road. I think we can both admit that.”

“What are you proposing?” he asked. “If you’re trying to get me to back off, I won’t. I deserve to be treated better than I have been.”

“I’m not asking you to back off.” We were getting to the crux of it now. “I’m hoping for the opposite, in fact. I want to suggest a blurring of the lines.”

“Come again?”

“You do have a lot to offer, Virgil. Whatever else you might believe, you have to know that I respect your talent.”

His mouth twisted. “What are you up to?”

“A truce,” I said. “The question is, are you up to it, too?” I broached my idea, suggesting he play a bigger role in our event planning. That he help us with state dinners, guest banquets, and events.

“What’s the catch?”

“No catch. Everyone knows that you provide wonderful meals for the First Family every day. There’s no question. What the public
doesn’t
see is you taking part in the state-level events. Like this one we have coming up with the president of Durasi. You know this will be a mammoth undertaking. The press will want to sniff out every detail. Being part of it will be like being part of history.”

“I’m supposed to believe that you’d open yourself up to criticism?”

“Criticism? How do you figure?”

“Allowing me to work my magic for this event would mean that you’d risk being overshadowed by my brilliance.”

Did this man actually hear the words that were coming out of his mouth? I began to second-guess my decision, though it was a little late for that now. He was the sort of person who didn’t understand the basic concept that sharing the responsibility meant sharing accolades. I was willing to include him in this experience only because I knew that when people came together, everyone rose a little higher.

Though I had no words to be able to explain this, I held out the fervent hope that once he saw it happen, once he felt that camaraderie and experienced it for himself, he would finally understand.

“Keep in mind,” I said, “this isn’t a competition. It isn’t you versus me. Nor you versus Bucky. We work as a team. Team,” I repeated. “All of us. Cyan, the SBA chefs, the butlers, too. Can you do that?”

“I’ve run kitchens far larger than this one,” he said, as though that was an answer.

“Our physical kitchen may be small, but our impact is huge. I’ll ask you again, Virgil. Can you be a team player?”

He regarded me with suspicion. “Of course I can. And I accept your challenge. Without doubt, I will be the best team player this kitchen has ever encountered.”

Not quite the sentiment I was looking for. Still, it was a start.