State of the Onion (11 page)

Rather than taking the right to my apartment, I veered left to hers. “I have to—” I began, but she cut me off.

“Is this you?” She thrust a computer-printed page at me and pointed an arthritic finger at its color picture. “I found this on the Internet. Did you really kill a terrorist today?”

I grabbed the sheet. “Does it say that?” I asked, scanning the article, looking for my name and hoping desperately not to find it.

“No, of course not,” she said. “They don't say who killed the terrorist. But I figured it must be you. You had those two Secret Service men come visit you last night, and then you were there when this terrorist got shot.”

I should have known Mrs. Wentworth would have found out that Craig and Tom were Secret Service—probably from James. Fatigue loosened my lips and I blurted, “He wasn't a terrorist.”

“A-ha. Then this is you.”

“Where?” I asked. “I don't see anyone in this picture that looks like me.”

“Right there.” She pointed to Naveen's prone form, dead center of the crowd. Her finger moved to the picture's very edge, where the side of a nose and a slice of cheek had made it into the shot. Barely. “That's you, isn't it?”

“No,” I said. I looked closely. It could've been me. “I wasn't there,” I lied.

Her pale eyes sparkled and a grin played at her pursed lips. “If you weren't there, honey, then that's the first thing you would've said.”

Wily old lady. I should've been more careful, but my weariness was taking its toll.

“I should go.”

“So, did you kill him?”

My stomach wrenched. In a way, I guess I had.

“I'm really not sure what happened there.” That, at least, was the truth. “Good night, Mrs. Wentworth.”

Her skeptical eyes watched till I shut the door. Leaning against it, I realized I still had the cell phone clamped in my hand. My knuckles ached.

A swift glance at my hall clock—Tom should've called by now. It had been a helluva day. “Come on,” I pleaded with the little phone. “Give me a chance to explain.”

It took all my effort to push myself off the door and get ready for bed. There were no messages on my home answering machine, not that I expected any. If Tom called, he would use my cell. I pulled on a pair of cotton pants and a T-shirt, brushed my teeth, and stared solemnly at my reflection in the mirror. I was different tonight, in a way I couldn't explain. But my eyes told the story.

Suddenly not tired at all, I grabbed my butterfly afghan—my nana had made it for me—and pulled it tight around my shoulders as I made my way out onto my balcony. No chairs, so I sat on the hard concrete. There wasn't much of a view down below, but high above was a wide swath of sky.

My cell phone sat next to me, silent as ever.

The breeze was cold. The night, very quiet.

I gazed up at the stars and thought about Naveen.

BUCKY WAS KNEADING DOUGH WHEN I walked into the kitchen the next day.

“Good morning, Ollie,” he said.

Bucky's uncharacteristic good cheer, coupled with the bleak looks I got from of the rest of my colleagues, stopped me in my tracks.

Cyan met my eyes. “What are the bruises from?” she asked, pointing to her own forehead as she stared at mine.

“Altercation with a camera,” I said. “Long story. What's going on?”

She then glanced over to Henry, who turned away. Marcel appeared to be muttering to himself as he worked at a floral sculpture made entirely of sugar. Bucky whistled. It was the happiest I'd ever seen him.

“What happened?” I asked.

Cyan broke the news. “Laurel Anne's coming tomorrow.”

“What? She can't.”

Bucky stopped whistling. “Oh, yes she can.”

“But…” I protested. I'd been here late last night when Paul told me I was required to be present for her audition. He hadn't said anything about moving up her audition day. “But we have a state dinner next week.”

“Yes,” Henry said. “Due to unexpected circumstances, however”—he gave me a look that told me my actions yesterday had had more repercussions than I'd anticipated—“Peter Everett Sargeant III believes it is in the White House's best interest to get Laurel Anne in here as soon as possible.” He turned away again.

Bucky added, “Sargeant says that her audition is merely a formality now.”

I'd done it, all right. By agreeing to meet Naveen, I'd seen a man get murdered, nearly gotten killed myself, jeopardized my career, endured interrogation by the police, and alienated Tom. I swallowed hard. And I still didn't have the commemorative pan returned to me for Henry's retirement party.

Looking at my mentor's back right now, I realized that was the least of my worries. Henry was angry. He had chosen me to be named executive chef. And I'd blown my chances. I'd blown them spectacularly.

“Well then,” I said with forced energy, “it looks like we'll have to work twice as hard today to get the state dinner arranged, doesn't it?”

Cyan and Marcel looked at me as if I'd gone stark-raving nuts. Bucky went back to his dough. But Henry's big head came up, and he turned. I thought I detected a glimmer of pride in his eyes. At least I hoped it was.

“Yes,” he said, “that's exactly what it means.”

BY SIX O'CLOCK, WE'D COME UP WITH THREE preliminary menus, all variations on a theme involving American cuisine with the two countries' unique flavors as accents. Bucky and Marcel had gone home an hour ago, Cyan was just finishing her preps for the next day, and Henry and I were hashing out the remaining state dinner details, including filling out orders from our vendors and contacting the sommelier to have him begin choosing suitable wines. Aware of the added complication of having to pass Sargeant's taste test, we'd decided to develop these three menus, with interchangeable courses. Sort of a mix-and-match plan.

We had a hunch that, if he remained true to form, Sargeant would toss aside at least one of our offerings. Probably more.

The intensity of our planning had taken my mind off my troubles with Tom, but now, as Cyan called good night, I thought about her going home to her boyfriend, and I pulled my cell phone from my pocket. I hardly ever kept my cell phone with me at work. But today I had.

No messages. Still.

The disappointment made my heart hurt.

“Ollie,” Henry said, pulling me out of my reverie.

I tucked the phone away again. “Yes?”

He tapped at the computer screen. “Why did you remove the pine nut appetizer from our submission list?”

Work was the best panacea for a broken spirit. “The prince's wife,” I said, reaching past Henry to dig through my notes. “We have a reminder here that she's allergic to nuts. The pine nut appetizer was the only item that might've caused an issue.”

He stopped and looked at me. “You ready for tomorrow?”

Tomorrow.

The kitchen grew suddenly quiet, as though the entire White House was holding its breath, waiting for me to say her name out loud.

“Laurel Anne's big day,” I acknowledged. I focused on a small spot near the ceiling so I wouldn't have to see the lie in Henry's eyes when I asked him, “This audition really is just a formality, isn't it? She's got the position wrapped up already, doesn't she?”

Henry didn't answer.

Eventually, I lowered my eyes to meet his.

“Ollie,” he said in the paternal tone I'd come to know so well, “if that's what you believe, then that's exactly what will happen. If you give up, then she wins. With no effort.” His mouth curled down on one side and he shook his head. “Seems to me an executive chef ought to earn her position, not have it handed to her on a silver platter.”

Paul Vasquez knocked on the wall as he entered the kitchen. “I don't mean to interrupt, but Ollie has a visitor.”

Could it be Tom?

“The Metropolitan Police need you to look at some mug shots,” Paul said, dashing my hopes, “to see if you can identify the man from…from yesterday. They wanted you to come down to the station, but I convinced them you were needed here. I know how busy you are with everything you've got going this week.”

I guess my face must have communicated my disappointment, because Paul was quick to jump in and ask if this was a bad time.

“No, it's fine,” I said, just as Henry agreed and told me he'd wait for my return.

Before heading off with Paul, I gripped a handful of Henry's tunic and leaned close to his ear. “I am not giving up.”

UNABLE TO RECOGNIZE ANYONE IN THE POLICE photos, I made my way back to the kitchen about a half hour later. Along the way, I passed our social secretary coaching her team through this foreshortened lead time. “Nothing's impossible with the right attitude,” I heard Marguerite say.

The team had set up a large felt board where they tacked, removed, and retacked names to devise the dinner's seating arrangements. This was a tough one. I wasn't even sure all the invites had gone out yet. I couldn't imagine the logistical nightmare the social office faced for this event.

When I got back to the kitchen, I found Henry just outside the door, in conversation with Peter Everett Sargeant and a man I'd never met before.

Henry called me over. The new man, wearing a smartly cut suit, full beard, and blue patterned turban, turned slowly at my approach. His hooded eyes were expressionless, yet I was aware of his immediate and thorough inspection of me. I ran the dossier information I'd studied through my head and deduced he must be a representative of Prince Sameer.

“Ambassador Labeeb bin-Saleh, allow me to introduce my first assistant, Olivia Paras,” Henry began.

Sargeant interrupted. “We're finished here.” He started to guide the ambassador away.

Henry continued as though Sargeant hadn't spoken. “Olivia, you and I will be working closely with Ambassador bin-Saleh and his assistant, Kasim.”

I smiled at bin-Saleh. I knew better than to shake hands. He bent forward, slightly, in acknowledgment.

Bin-Saleh's words were melodious as they rolled out of his mouth. “The prince and his wife very much anticipate sampling your talent for food making.”

“And we are honored by your presence,” I said. “I look forward to working with you and your assistant.”

“Kasim,” he said, “has not been well on our journey, and he has retired to his room at the house of Bah-lare for the evening.”

I knew he meant to say Blair House, the expansive residence across the street where visiting dignitaries were usually accommodated.

“I'm sorry to hear that he's ill,” Henry said. “I hope he recovers soon.”

The ambassador bent forward again. “I will intend to convey your pleasant wishes.”

“Yes, well,” Sargeant interrupted as he insinuated himself between Henry and bin-Saleh in an effort to guide the man away. “The ambassador has had a long trip, and I'm certain he would prefer to retire for the evening.” To us he added, “We will continue this tomorrow afternoon at two o'clock.”

I blurted. “Tomorrow afternoon?”

Sargeant fixed me with a cool stare. “Yes, Ms. Paras,” he said. “Two. That will give me time to prescreen the menu items you're proposing for the state dinner.”

Did he mean that we were supposed to create our menus for him by tomorrow morning?

As he and bin-Saleh turned away, I called after them. “Wait.”

Sargeant's eyes glittered. Ooh. He was not happy.

Bin-Saleh simply blinked, his expression mild.

We needed clarification—tonight—and I knew this was my best shot. I didn't like to air grievances before guests, so I tried to keep my voice neutral. “You do remember that Laurel Anne is coming tomorrow, right?” I asked. Then, with the hope that wishing made it so, I added, “Or has she been rescheduled?”

“Of course I remember that Ms. Braun is due here tomorrow. And thank goodness for that.” Sargeant looked to bin-Saleh as though sharing a joke, but the ambassador said nothing. He blinked again, still without expression.

Henry's hand grazed my shoulder blade. I didn't know whether he was encouraging me to continue or warning me to stop. But I pushed. “She's taking over the kitchen for the day. The whole day.”

Sargeant rolled his eyes. “Yes. That's why Mrs. Campbell and I are planning to conduct the taste test tomorrow morning—eight thirty sharp. With Laurel Anne here, the First Lady and I will have much to look forward to. Now,” he added, “we have other staff members to meet. Good night.”

Bin-Saleh bowed our direction. Henry nudged me. I was so flustered by Sargeant's pronouncement I almost forgot to respond.

“What are we going to do?” I asked, the moment they were out of earshot.

Back in the kitchen, Henry scowled. He was silent for a very long time. “How early can you get here tomorrow?” he asked.

“I can stay all night.”

“No.” He shook his head. “Go home. Sleep fast. You'll need every bit of energy and strength tomorrow. I'll call the others. We'll meet here at four and get as much done as we can before the ‘star' arrives.” He smiled down at me. “It's just been one thing after another lately, hasn't it?”

I pointed out the doorway, in Sargeant's direction. “And I can tell you exactly when it all started.”

I TOOK HENRY'S ADVICE TO GET HOME quickly. My cell phone was out of power—not that it mattered. As I rode the Metro to my stop, I realized that Tom wasn't going to call. Not now. Not until the whole Naveen situation was settled. Or maybe, I thought—with a sudden lurch to my gut—he might never call again.

Last night I'd felt the weight of the world pressing me down. Now, as I walked to my apartment building, I realized I'd never felt so low.

Tonight was much worse. I couldn't even summon enough hope to wish on a star.

The last twenty steps to the building's bright front doors were up a gentle incline, but it took all my energy to climb it. As I reached out to grasp the front door handle, I heard footsteps behind me.

“Ollie.”

I turned.

Tom crossed the driveway, closing the distance between us in ten steps. His face was set, his expression unreadable. “You got a few minutes?”