State of the Onion (13 page)

LAUREL ANNE MADE A BEELINE FOR BUCKY. “I hope you don't mind our coming early,” she said, flashing her camera-ready smile. “But I wanted to be sure we had plenty of time to set up.” She spun to face a technician who tramped in behind her, carrying equipment. “Carmen,” she ordered, pointing, “that's where I want to work from.” Great.
My
favorite work station. I wanted to protest, but I didn't know how. “I told you it was tight in here,” she went on. “I wasn't exaggerating, was I?”

The dark fellow shook his head and claimed a spot, where he began to set up. “Got it.” Three other assistants followed him into the kitchen, all bearing clunky machinery. Carmen ordered them into position with quick, terse commands. In the space of two seconds, the place went from tight to claustrophobic. And it smelled of sweaty men.

Laurel Anne spun again. “How are you, Bucky? I miss working with you.”

Bucky looked like a fourteen-year-old waiting to be kissed by a supermodel. He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out.

I wished I could say the same for Laurel Anne, but she whirled, yet again, and raked her nails down Henry's sleeve. How the heck she could maintain such nice nails in this business was beyond me. They weren't overly long, but they were shaped and even. I guessed that things were just different for people on camera every day.

“It's so nice to be back here, Henry. How have you been? I bet you can't wait for retirement, can you? This is such a demanding job.”

Henry shrugged. “I find it exhilarating.”

“Well, of course you do,” she said, in the kind of voice I used when I cooed at puppies, “and that's why it's time to make room for the younger generation.” She scrunched up her face in what was supposed to be a smile as she tapped the left side of his chest. “We don't want to get too exhilarated these days, do we?”

Henry's face blushed bright red, but it wasn't from embarrassment. Anger sparkled brightly from his eyes, but he kept his mouth shut. Henry never took guff from anyone, and I didn't understand why he was doing so now, until I spied Carmen behind me, filming it all. His trio of assistants spilled around us, setting up a spotlight with white umbrella reflector, positioning a boom microphone, running extension cords, and setting up a second, stationary camera.

“Get in closer,” Carmen said in a quiet voice.

Laurel Anne pulled Henry's arm around her, and she bussed his cheek with a quick kiss.

“Say your line again, sweetheart,” Carmen urged.

“It's been too long, Henry.” She directed her attention to the camera. “I'm so glad to be back here. It's just like coming home.”

Carmen lowered himself to a crouch, filming from the low angle. He mouthed the words along with Laurel Anne as she spoke. I stepped out of the camera's view and watched his lips work and his brow furrow.

A half-beat later, Laurel Anne sighed dramatically for the camera. She tilted her head, and delivered the remainder of her introduction. “Henry, you taught me all I know about
Cooking for the Best
. How perfect it is that I'm back here today, at the White House, where it all began.” She turned and kissed Henry's cheek again, then blinked four or five times. I swore it was to conjure up wet eyes for the film. “You will be missed.”

“Hey,” I said, striding into the scene. “He's not going anywhere yet.”

“Cut.” Carmen glowered at me, stood up. “Who are you?”

I ignored him and addressed Laurel Anne instead. “It's nice to see you again,” I lied.

“Olivia.” With the camera turned off, the smile turned off, too. “What are you doing here?” She glared at Carmen, who came to stand next to her. “I thought we agreed that she wasn't to be here today.”

Carmen took me in with new eyes. Down to my shoes, up again to my face. Then he turned to Laurel Anne. “This is your competition?”

Okay, so I was at least six inches shorter than Laurel Anne and I didn't usually wear makeup to work—there were far too many times I needed to brush flour off my face—and my fingers were those of a worker, not of a television star. I'm sure I didn't look like much to Carmen, here.

“Olivia Paras,” I said, grabbing Carmen's hand and shaking it. “Pleased to meet you.”

I must have taken him by surprise—to be honest, I was taking myself by surprise with my forwardness—because Carmen was suddenly struck silent.

He finally turned to Laurel Anne. “It was my understanding—”

“Good morning,” Paul Vasquez said, as he entered the kitchen. The smile in his words died almost immediately when he found himself navigating around the equipment to join our little tête-à-tête. “What's all this?”

Laurel Anne's beaming smile flicked back to its “on” position. “Paul will sort all this out,” she said to Carmen, then twisted back. “Won't you, Paul?”

He shook his head. If I were to characterize his expression, I'd have to say he was befuddled. And Paul Vasquez was rarely befuddled. “When we agreed to your filming here today, we also agreed that you were only to bring one cameraman.”

Carmen said, “Well…yeah,” stringing the word out. A fireplug of a guy, he placed his hands at his hips and addressed Paul. “One cameraman,” he said indicating a tall fellow leaning on the counter near the door. “Jake.”

“Then the rest of you need to get out of here. I'll arrange for an escort.”

Thank God. There wasn't a day that went by that I wasn't delighted to have Paul as our chief usher.

“Uh-uh.” Carmen punctuated his response with a shake of his head.

“Excuse me?” Paul said.

“You specified one cameraman. We agreed. One cameraman needs one sound man”—he pointed to a young guy near the boom—“Sid. One tech.” He pointed to the last of the three. “Armand. And one director.” His fingers splayed across his chest. “Me.”

Paul's lips tightened and he rubbed his eyebrows with the fingers of his left hand. “You've got two cameras.”

Carmen acknowledged his observation with a nod. “As director, it is my prerogative to capture my own view. I need the freedom a handheld camera provides. Your cramped conditions here,” he gazed around the small area, grimacing, “require that we keep our main camera stationary. That's hardly conducive to creativity.”

“Boss?” Jake the cameraman said. “Should I be filming this?”

“Yes, yes,” Carmen said, throwing his arms out flamboyantly. “It's all flavor, and flavor is what we are all about, aren't we, Laurel Anne?”

If it were possible, she beamed even brighter.

Of course she did. The camera was back on.

Paul cocked an eyebrow and took a long look around the room.

I couldn't read him, but I could tell he was taking the whole enchilada into consideration. He always did.

“Three things,” he said, finally, “and there will be no argument.” He ticked off his fingers as he spoke. “One—Henry and Ollie's first priority today is to the First Lady's taste-testing for the upcoming state dinner. Cyan and Bucky can assist Laurel Anne. Ollie will join them once the taste-testing is complete.”

Laurel Anne's pretty face fell. She shot me one of the nastiest looks I've ever received, her vehemence taking me aback. I felt myself blanch. Great, I thought. Jake over there caught my shocked expression on tape.

“Two—I will allow this…this…” Paul looked as flustered as I'd ever seen him, “intrusion,” he said with emphasis, “only if the White House is provided a complete and uncut tape of the day's activities.”

“No problem, man,” Carmen said.

“Lastly—I get final say on what, if anything, from today's activities—is used for broadcast.”

“No can do.” Carmen shook his head. “As director, I get final say on what stays and what's cut. We worked all this out with Peter Sargeant already.”

“Peter Sargeant does not have the authority to grant such requests,” Paul said, his teeth tight.

Carmen raised a big hand over his head, as though to dispel further argument. “This is a creative endeavor. We let ‘the man' in on our decisions and we lose the beauty. The flavor. It's all about the flavor.”

Paul nodded, pensive. I held my breath.

“Laurel Anne,” he said, “welcome back. Today the kitchen is yours.” To Carmen, he said, “I will personally escort you—and your associates—out.”

“But,” Laurel Anne sputtered, “we have to film this.” She shot frantic glances to Carmen, whose large eyes had gone wide. “We're going to broadcast this as my final episode of
Cooking for the Best
when I get the executive chef position here.”

Henry cleared his throat. “
If
you get the position here.”

At that, Laurel Anne almost lost it right in front of all of us. I held my breath as she worked her face back into a careful smile and rolled her eyes. “Of course. That's what I meant.
If
I get the position.” With a quick tilt to her head, she faced me. “I'm up against a truly worthy opponent.”

I bit my lip, hard, and forced a smile of my own. I wanted to retort, but no matter how I worded it, it could come out badly.

“Can't we please keep filming?” she asked Paul. “Carmen, I know Paul understands how important the creative process is. I'm sure he's just concerned about security. We can compromise on this one, can't we?”

Faced with his pleading starlet and an impending toss out the door, Carmen relented. “Sure, sure. You're the boss, man,” he said, clapping Paul on the back.

Ooh. Huge breach of protocol.

Paul was, above all, a diplomat. “Well then,” he said, clapping his hands together, “we're agreed.” He gave the room another long look, and something behind his eyes made me sad. He didn't like this setup any more than I did, and yet his hands were virtually tied. I knew that he had to juggle Peter Sargeant's newness on the job, while keeping in mind that Laurel Anne and the First Lady shared the bond of having the same home state. He couldn't afford to offend any one of these people, and I knew he wouldn't. The sadness, I believed, was directed toward me and to Henry. He knew that if there was any fallout, Henry and I would be catching the brunt of it.

“One more thing,” he said. “I need Ollie.”

Carmen raised a dark eyebrow.

“Now?” I asked.

Paul nodded, turned, and strode out the door. I followed.

“DON'T BE ALARMED,” PAUL SAID AS WE MADE our way to his office. “We just don't want to get into specifics in front of visitors.”

I walked double-time to keep up with him, but I couldn't figure out how not to be alarmed. I'd been in way over my head these past several days. I'd been called in, talked to, scolded, reminded of being scolded, terrified, and virtually shut out by my boyfriend.

“Is it about the taste-testing?” I asked. I knew my tone was hopeful, but I couldn't help it. “Do we really need to clear menus through Peter Sargeant first?”

He hesitated. “It's not that the First Lady needs an additional taste-tester,” he began. “As we all know, Mrs. Campbell has strong opinions on the subject of meal planning.”

That was an understatement. Mrs. Campbell had trained in culinary school herself—the same school where Laurel Anne had apprenticed, of course—and the First Lady often suggested changes. To be honest, some of them were very good ideas. And the ones that were not, she was gracious enough not to argue. Mrs. Campbell, while strong-minded, was not difficult to work with.

I waited for him to continue.

“Sargeant was brought on board to keep a close eye on the White House where matters of political correctness are concerned.” As we walked, Paul made a sort of so-so motion with his head. “The president's platform of unity means that he wants us to be attuned to the needs of everyone, regardless of race, creed, gender, sexual orientation, etcetera. Peter Sargeant's job is a lot less structured than most around here. He's to ingratiate himself into all White House areas to be our last line of defense. So that no one makes a mistake that costs us dearly in the press.”

I nodded.

Paul turned apologetic. “He's keeping an eye on the menus to determine if anything being served could somehow offend a guest. Or put a guest off in some way. If a country has an embargo against a product from another country, we surely don't want to serve it at an official dinner, do we?”

I shook my head.

We turned the corner. “So, no,” he said, finally answering my original question, “this isn't about the taste-testing.”

I was about to ask what it was about, when I noticed a lanky young man in Paul's office. He stood.

“Olivia Paras,” Paul said, “this is Darren Sorrell. He's a police sketch artist here to help put together a picture of the man you…saw…the other day.”

The man I saw the other day. Of course I knew who he meant. I wondered if the vague wording was for Darren's benefit, or for that of the other folks in the office area who might not yet have heard about the skirmish at the merry-go-round. Though how anyone didn't know by now was beyond me.

“Sure,” I said. I didn't know how much good this would do, and I worried about Henry getting things ready for Sargeant by himself. Without thinking, I glanced at my watch.

“This shouldn't take too long,” Darren said. And then to Paul, “Is there someplace we can go where it's quiet?”

Twenty minutes later, the amazingly speedy Darren had produced, on his laptop, a likeness of the murderous blond man that matched my recollection. As he'd zipped me through choices of eyes, noses, and face shapes, I doubted my accuracy. Did I really remember, or did I think I remembered? “See him in your mind, Ollie,” he coached. “Now tell me: Were his ears more like this,” click-click, “or like these?”

Even now, barely two days since the altercation, I couldn't swear that this was what the man truly looked like. Darren printed out a copy of the finished product. I stared at it. It looked like the man I remembered, but had I remembered correctly? In all the excitement, had I really noticed all these details, or was my imagination filling in what I couldn't recall?

“You can keep that one.”

I shot Darren a look. Why would I want it?

As if he'd read my mind, he continued. “Copies will be distributed to everyone on staff. The Secret Service and the Metropolitan Police are working together to keep this man from breaching security.”

I studied the bland features. Even though the pale eyes that stared back at me were rendered in black and white, I could see their color in my mind's eye. That was probably the only feature I'd been confident about. I understood how this assassin could make himself invisible. He blended. He had no distinguishing facial characteristics. Aside from the fact that he was short in stature, he was blah. A combination of shapeless and personalityless features.

I sighed. “I don't know what good this will do.”

Darren packed up his laptop. “Sometimes all we can do is our best, and we have to hope that's good enough.”

I FOLDED THE PORTRAIT IN QUARTERS, TUCKED it into the pocket of my apron and headed back to the kitchen where Carmen was doing
his
best to soothe Laurel Anne's obvious distress. He stepped in front of her, begging her to be reasonable.

“I will not settle down. Not when my reputation is on the line.” With her fists jammed into her pale pink apron, she glowered at Cyan. “You call yourself a chef and you don't know the difference between fresh and frozen?”

“Of course I do,” Cyan answered, with an insolent lift to her chin. “I ordered fresh asparagus for today's delivery.” She held the printout of Laurel Anne's e-mail request in her hand. Now, she pointed. “Right here. Asparagus. Five pounds.”

Laurel Anne whipped the page out of Cyan's hand. “I wanted frozen.”

“Frozen?”

I don't know who said it. Maybe we all did. Frozen? We rarely used frozen produce, and the word stopped us all in our tracks.

“Yes, frozen. I find it much easier to work with for this particular dish.”

Cyan aghast, caught sight of me in the doorway, and shrugged.

“Where's Henry?” I asked.

Carmen shook his big head. “You're supposed to join him in the lower kitchen. Bucky is down there, now. Go on, we're handling this.”

I ignored him. “Let me see the list.”

Laurel Anne didn't want to relinquish the note, but as I stood there, hand extended, waiting, her good manners apparently won out.

Before Cyan had ordered anything, she and I had gone over the list together. If she'd ordered incorrectly, it was as much my fault as it was hers. “This does not specify frozen asparagus,” I began.

“Well, it should have.” Laurel Anne's face took on a look so heated it could have defrosted the asparagus, had the frozen stuff been here. She whisked the sheet out of my hand and stormed away, studying it. “Let's see what other screwups I have to deal with today.”

Carmen trotted after her. “Sweetheart, I'll send Armand out for frozen. We got ya covered, baby. Don't sweat the small stuff.”

“It's not that easy,” I said.

He spun. Glared at me.

“We have certain vendors we work with,” I explained. “We have specific protocols we have to follow. There is no compromise on that. Laurel Anne knows it.”

Laurel Anne had taken a position ten steps away, perching her butt against the counter as she studied her list. Carmen kept his back to her and his voice low. “I'm not about to tell her she can't get her frozen asparagus,” he said, holding both hands up.

I sighed again, worried that Henry needed me. I knew I should leave Laurel Anne to deal with this situation herself, but I couldn't allow the kitchen to continue in crisis. “Let me see what we can do, okay?”

Carmen gave an abbreviated nod and went to powwow with his team members, who were still exactly where they'd been when I left.

“Listen, Laurel Anne,” I said, “I've got some pull with the vendors. Let me know what else you need and I'll see that it gets here fast. Okay?”

“Puh-lease,” she said, dragging her eyes from the list. “Like
you're
going to help
me
.” She laughed, but it came out more like a bark than an expression of amusement. “I'd rather use the damn fresh asparagus than have you in charge of getting me what I need. That'd give you the opportunity you need to sabotage my chances. You'd like that, wouldn't you?”

“No,” I said, although right now I couldn't imagine anyone less deserving to take control of the White House kitchen than Laurel Anne. But sabotage? “No,” I said again. “I would never do anything to hurt your chances.”

She rolled her eyes, snapped her fingers at Cyan. “You,” she said, pointing. “I'm sure you have just as much pull with the vendors as”—a venomous glance at me—“she does. Get on the phone and get the asparagus here by nine thirty.”

Cyan looked to me for guidance, but Laurel Anne wasn't done. She turned to me. “You're supposed to be downstairs with Henry, aren't you? Send Bucky up when you get there.”

I went.

DOWN IN THE LOWER KITCHEN, BUCKY AND Henry were putting the finishing touches on a sample I didn't recognize.

“What is it?” I asked, leaning closer to take a whiff. It smelled wonderful—warm and garlicky.

Bucky grinned. “My latest creation. Brussels sprouts stuffed with goat cheese, dill, walnuts, and garlic.”

He offered me a sample, which I took, tasted, and pronounced fabulous.

“It is, isn't it?” he said, with contagious confidence.

Henry joined in the admiration. I reminded Bucky about Laurel Anne's audition upstairs. “I hate to see you stop while you and Henry are really cookin' here, but…”

Bucky, still reveling in his success, gave us both a wry smile as he took his leave. “You'll include me when you present this to the First Lady?”

“Of course,” Henry boomed. “You've contributed a new taste sensation. You're in this now as much as we are.”

The small room practically glowed with our combined good cheer.

Finally. Something had gone well.

When Bucky left, Henry asked me how things were going in the main kitchen.

I told him.

His sigh spoke volumes. Rather than dwell on the negative, however, Henry stole a look at the clock before reminding me: “Time's precious. Especially today. Ollie, our First Lady awaits. Let us not disappoint her.”

We got to work.

AT EIGHT TWENTY, WE WERE READY. THERE were two side dishes in the oven just about ready to be pulled out—one of them was Bucky's Brussels Sprouts Extravaganza. Several ingredients for other dishes warmed on the stove, others cooled in the refrigerator. We would put them together to create appetizers, entrées, sides, and garnishes when the First Lady was ready to start tasting. Three of our butlers stood nearby, prepared to serve the food once it was plated.

Marcel e-mailed from upstairs to let us know that he, too, was prepared with three sample desserts for Mrs. Campbell's assessment. We waited for Sargeant's call, eager to get started.

He showed up at the lower kitchen's door at eight thirty on the nose. “Are we ready?” he asked.

“Absolutely,” I said. I headed to the refrigerator for the salads.

Sargeant addressed the maître d', a handsome man named Jamal Walker. “You will serve in the library today.”

What?

“The library?” Henry asked. “But the First Lady usually takes her taste tests—”

Sargeant silenced him with a glare. “Mrs. Campbell prefers the library today.” His nose twisted as though it was unpleasant to have to explain. “We will conduct all taste tests there.”

Jamal turned to Henry, who shrugged. “So be it,” Henry said. “I've always liked the library.”

“You do remember that you'll be preparing two portions of each course?” Sargeant asked. “I'm sampling, as well.”

I forced a pleasant expression. “How could we forget?”

Within minutes, Henry and I had plated and garnished seven appetizers, two salads, and three soups. Of necessity, the portions were small, but the preparation still took time. We planned to return to the kitchen for the entrée courses when the first round of testing was nearly complete.

As we started out the lower kitchen's door, Sargeant stopped us, with an “Ah-ah-ah.” Apparently his favorite refrain.

Henry and I waited for explanation.

“You are not to accompany me.”

“What?” we said in unison.

We were
always
present at taste-testings. It was how we gauged the First Lady's opinion, how we knew what worked and to what extent it succeeded. Or failed. Getting Mrs. Campbell's opinion firsthand was invaluable in preparing future menus.

“Another change,” Sargeant said with a prim shake of his head. “There is no need to clutter up the library with two chefs and three butlers.”

I started to protest. Little did Sargeant know that Bucky planned to join us, which made three chefs. Even so, the butlers would be in and out, serving, not participating in the discussion. The sizable library would hardly be considered crowded.