State of the Onion (15 page)

“You know what I think?” I asked Cyan.

“What?”

Turning the card over, then back, then over again, I gave her the only explanation that made sense. “She's got two recipes here. She must have started one on the front, and finished the second one on the back. Quiche. Quince. Makes sense. It's alphabetical.”

Cyan turned the card over a few more times. “Duh,” she said. “You're right. But now what do I do?”

“Is this for lunch?”

“Yeah.”

I thought about it. “Don't make the quiche. It's just a bad idea.” I tilted my head toward the computer. “She probably meant to assign you the fruit recipe anyway. Check our database of recipes. See what you can come up with using the ingredients on the back. Make that. As long as it's a success, she'll never know you substituted.”

“Thanks. You're a doll.”

“Yeah, well,” I said, “in about two seconds, you're going to be the only person in this kitchen who thinks so.”

With that, I turned and strode toward the furious group, calling out for them to stop. This was getting ridiculous. We were in the White House kitchen, for crying out loud. And I refused to let it be treated this way. “Marcel,” I called. He ignored me.

I tried again. “Henry!”

I couldn't believe this was happening in our kitchen. Conflagrations of this sort would not, and should not be tolerated in the home of the president of the United States. The only reason nearby Secret Service hadn't intervened, I knew, was because we had our doors closed, and the cleaning staff was running the floor buffers in the hallway, masking the rapidly escalating argument.

That was it. I clapped my hands together loudly, just like Carmen had done earlier. “People!” I shouted.

They stopped and stared.

I held up my left wrist. “It's almost noon. Back to work.”

“AND SO ENDS ANOTHER EXCITING DAY IN the White House kitchen.”

My colleagues didn't react much to my pronouncement, other than to shoot me derisive stares. Henry, perched on the computer stool, rested his florid face in deep hands. “Thank God that's over.” He raised his eyes to meet mine, and then scanned the room. “But…” I could hear his bright-side-tone returning, “I'm sure that if Laurel Anne is chosen to replace me, things will go much smoother than they did today.” One shoulder lifted. “At least she won't have a camera crew following her every move.”

Cyan leaned against the countertop, her arms folded, head down. She lifted it to say, “You wound up being the lucky one, Ollie.”

“How so?”

“She shrieked at me,” Cyan said, squinting for emphasis. “Shrieked. I thought the quince thing was supposed to be served in a compote glass. But noooo…” She strung the word out. “Laurel Anne wanted it served like a parfait instead.” She returned to staring at the floor. “She could have just asked nicely. At least you weren't working with food today. That kept you safe from her attacks.”

I sneaked a glance at Bucky, expecting him to rise to Laurel Anne's defense. He didn't. Just like the rest of us, he'd found a comfortable spot—leaning in the doorway—and stared at nothing. Even prim and proper Marcel reclined, sort of. He sat on a step stool, elbows on knees.

“Oh,” he said, leaping to his feet. “I have forgotten.”

Henry raised weary eyes. “What?”

Marcel checked his watch, then the wall clock, then his watch again—all in the space of two seconds. His eyes popped as he spoke. “The ambassador—oh, his name escapes—the Muslim ambassador—he is due here in fifteen minutes to discuss menu changes.”

No one moved.

“Marcel?” I said quietly, “are you sure?” I knew it had been a trying day for all of us, Marcel in particular, but we always got more notice than this.

He collapsed back onto the step stool. “Oh, it is my fault. My grievous fault. It was I who answered the telephone during the…the…”

Bucky supplied: “The meltdown?”

Henry snorted a laugh. Elbows on the countertop, he covered his face with his hands as his shoulders shook.

Cyan started to laugh. I did, too. Even Bucky turned away, his grin belying his normally taciturn expression. Marcel looked confused but cheered by the room's sudden lightheartedness.

I tried to hold back, but bubbles of laughter accompanied my words. “We need to get ready for the ambassador.”

Henry planted both feet on the floor. His face, red with mirth, was a welcome change from being red with fury as it had been earlier in the day. “And so we shall. Troops,” he said, as we quieted, “we have yet another battle to face. If they are sending their ambassador here to discuss the menu selections, then we must rise to the challenge—fatigued though we are from Laurel Anne's incursion.” He wiggled bushy eyebrows, narrowing his eyes as though preparing for attack. “Where are the ingredients we used for the taste test this morning?”

“I have them set aside,” I told him.

“Good. We must be prepared in the event Ambassador bin-Saleh requests his own tasting.”

Cyan groaned—stopped when she caught Henry's frown—and worked up a smile. “I'm rarin' to go,” she said.

I spoke up. “I'll print up working copies of the menu items so we can take notes.”

Marcel apologized again.

“Don't worry about it,” I said, “we all had a lot on our minds this evening. I'm glad you remembered before they showed—”

My words died as Peter Everett Sargeant barged into the kitchen with Labeeb bin-Saleh and Kasim Gaffari close behind. “You will want to speak with our executive chef and executive pastry chef,” Sargeant was saying over his shoulder. “They're both here tonight.”

He carried a sheaf of papers, and despite the late hour, looked crisp and clean as though it were the start of a new day. He stopped the little parade short, just inside the door.

“Is
everyone
still here tonight?” he asked.

No longer lounging against countertops or doorjambs, we stood in a rough semicircle. I said, “Today was Laurel Anne's audition. It took a while.”

Sargeant's face went through a two-second contortion. “So I heard.” Sargeant turned his full attention to Henry and gestured Marcel forward. “Ambassador bin-Saleh and his assistant Kasim have just a few questions regarding the items you plan to serve at the state dinner.” He stepped back like a well-trained emcee, passing the spotlight on to the next performer.

“It will be our pleasure to answer all your questions,” Henry said, bringing me into the group. He called Marcel over, too. “What are your concerns?”

As it turned out, we were able to preserve all our first choices for the meal. Once the ambassador was assured that we knew how to keep
halaal
, his worries were put to rest. He told us, through Kasim's translation, that he'd been worried that our kitchen would equate kosher with
halaal
, when in fact the two were not identical. We knew that, and further assuaged his concern.

Kasim asked if we would be holding similar discussions with the prime minister and his entourage.

“Yes,” Henry told him. “We will ensure that all parties agree.”

“You will not adjust the menu beyond these parameters without consulting us?” Kasim asked.

Henry started to explain our procedures, when Sargeant piped in, “Certainly not.”

Kasim bent toward us. “Then I am satisfied with the arrangements.” He turned to Labeeb, spoke in their native tongue, then asked in English, “Ambassador, are you ready to return to our quarters?”

It had been a long day, and even Henry's jovial face showed strain. I could detect a bright glimmer of hope that Labeeb would depart with Kasim, allowing the rest of us to go home for the night. I held my breath.

“No,” Labeeb said. “I am yet unready. I am…intrigued with the usage purpose of herewith item.” He picked up a garlic press and turned the handles into an upside-down V while the press-part of the device dangled. “What is the need of such item?”

Always the perfect host, Henry demonstrated. He even allowed Labeeb to press several cloves of garlic till the ambassador had gotten the hang of it. The room was cramped, getting warm, and I inched away for breathing space.

Thoroughly enraptured by our gadgetry, Labeeb asked to see how another small item worked. He grinned, white teeth dazzling against his dark skin. “Very highly technical,” he said. “For perhaps James Bond to cook, no?”

We laughed. It was funny.

Cyan, Bucky, and I exchanged glances as we huddled near the door. So near, yet so far. It would be the height of impropriety to leave at this point, but my feet ached and I wanted to be home.

I thought about Tom.

As Henry and Marcel regaled Labeeb with more gadget magic, Sargeant made his way to our little group. I already knew what was on his mind. “So,” he began, addressing me, “how many assistant chefs does it take to destroy a competitor's chances?”

“We did nothing to Laurel Anne,” I said. “She brought it on herself.”

Cyan agreed. Bucky said nothing, but he didn't defend Laurel Anne either. I took that as a good sign.

“You're very fortunate,” Sargeant said, “that her food presentations to the president and Mrs. Campbell went as well as they did. I know that they were impressed with Ms. Braun's variety. The trout was superb, the side dishes imaginative. Mrs. Campbell particularly enjoyed the Asparagus Hollandaise.”

I winced. Hardly what I'd call imaginative. The items she'd prepared were basics I'd mastered early in my career. And the fact that she'd used frozen vegetables for her White House audition was mind-boggling.

Sargeant, still extolling Laurel Anne's virtues, continued. “Oh, and the quince parfait…” He pressed his fingers to his lips and kissed them into the air. “Magnificent.”

Cyan chimed in. “That's only because Ollie covered Laurel Anne's—”

“Ah-ah-ah,” Sargeant said, stopping her midsentence. “The only reason everything worked is because Ms. Braun was able to pull it off. Despite your attempts to make her look foolish.”

I opened my mouth to argue, but he cut me off. “She told me everything.”

“I'll bet she did.”

He fixed me with a stare. “She has no reason to lie. She knows she's as good as in.”

My heart dropped. I looked away. Clenching my teeth to keep from an improper outburst, I avoided eye contact with Cyan. Seeing her sympathetic face would have put me over the edge. “Believe what you want,” I said. “Are we excused?”

Sargeant rolled his eyes and turned to see Kasim headed our way. “Yes,” he said. “Henry and Marcel seem to have matters in hand. You may go.”

Kasim and Sargeant began a quiet discussion next to us, while I pulled on my coat and made small talk with Cyan and Bucky. “What do you have planned for tomorrow?” Cyan asked. “You're off, right?”

“Henry gave us both tomorrow off?” Bucky asked. “What, is he nuts?”

“No,” I said. “You and I are off tomorrow. Henry and Cyan are off the following day. Marcel—I have no idea. Henry said since we're all prepared, all put together, it should be fine. You both know that it's the last-minute work that's a killer. He wants us all to be rested and refreshed before we tackle those eighteen-hour shifts.”

Cyan nodded. Bucky shrugged.

“So, any big plans?” Cyan asked again.

Still in discussion with Kasim, Sargeant edged closer to our position. I started to move past them. “I might go to the gun range,” I said. “I can use the practice.”

“The one out in Frederick?” Bucky asked. While Tom had been eager to teach me the rudiments of shooting, Bucky was a firearms aficionado. The mere mention of a range outing was enough to make him salivate. I'd forgotten that.

“One and the same,” I said. “I've been out there a couple of times.”

“You like shooting?”

I did. “It's fun.”

“What time you going to be there?”

I shrugged. Tom usually went in the afternoon. “Two, maybe.”

“Well, hey, maybe I'll see you there.”

Just what I needed. More Bucky on my day off. But then again, I reasoned that if by some wild coincidence Bucky and Tom and I all showed up at the same time, it would look a whole lot less suspicious than if I were there by myself. I could claim serendipity. And then it wouldn't be the least bit odd to invite Tom out for coffee afterward.

ARLINGTON NATIONAL CEMETERY'S SERENE beauty spread before me, beckoning. I hadn't been here in a couple of weeks, but even if it had been years, I knew I'd never forget the way. Despite my late hours the past few nights, I hadn't been able to sleep, so I arrived early, getting here when the cemetery opened at eight. With my fingers wrapped around a colorful bunch of blooms—only fresh-cut flowers were allowed on graves here—I made the long trek past acres of white government-issue headstones. So many heroes. So much death.

And yet, it was the sameness of those headstones that provided quiet comfort. As though the souls of all those buried here whispered, “We served together under one flag, now we rest together, united.”

Somewhere in the distance, a lawn mower hummed.

My footsteps
shush
ed against wet grass as the sun worked its way up the sky, burning off the dew and chasing the chill from the air.

Dad had wanted to be buried here. Mom had been aware enough of that to make Dad's final arrangements with a measure of objectivity, despite her crushing grief. I'd been young. Almost too young to remember him. Mom didn't like to talk about how he died. And I often wondered if the reason I chose to live and work in Washington, D.C., was to be close to the memory of the father I never really knew.

I slowed. Came to a stop. Pulled my sweatshirt tighter around me.

Anthony M. Paras. Silver Star.

I stood quietly for a long time.

“Hi, Dad.”

With no one around at this early hour I gave in to my desire to talk to him even though I knew he wasn't really here. I knew that whatever lay beneath the soft, wet grass was just a shell of who my dad had been. And yet, my powerful need to connect won out.

“I might…I might be leaving the White House.”

Half the conversation went on in my brain, as though my father's spirit could hear both my innermost thoughts as well as my spoken words. “I don't want to go, but…”

I mulled over everything—my first encounter with Naveen, his death at the merry-go-round, Tom's disappointment in me, Laurel Anne's audition, and my current failure to make any single facet of my life go right.

“What could I have done differently?”

The breeze wrapped the smell of fresh-cut grass and the sound of the lawn mower around me. My hair lifted and I raised my face to the burgeoning sun asking again, rhetorically: “What could I have done differently?”

I didn't have an answer. And despite the calm my visits to Arlington usually brought me, I wouldn't get an answer, either.

I bent to place the flowers on his grave. “Keep an eye on me, Dad.”

AT THE RANGE THAT AFTERNOON, I REALIZED I'd picked a perfect day to come shooting. The combination indoor/outdoor location was ideal no matter the weather. But today bright sun in clear skies warmed the otherwise cool day and brought out crowds of eager marksmen, everyone cheered to be outside enjoying the beautiful weather.

Tom would want to be here today, too. I knew it. So that made the day even more perfect for arranging an “accidental” meet.

I got there before one thirty. There was plenty to keep me busy, indoors and out, and I was determined not to give up on catching Tom till they closed the place at five. Of course, once I started target practice, I could keep shooting for hours. And while it was great fun, I never lost sight of safety issues. The range guides kept a close watch on everyone, too. As long as they made sure other patrons took the same care with firearms that I did, I knew I was safe.

The range had storage facilities, so I stopped at the front desk first to pick up my nine-millimeter Beretta and purchase some ammunition. I wore a fanny pack that I'd bought here on an earlier trip. It looked just like an ordinary, albeit large, waist-purse, but a second zippered compartment behind the purse was designed to hold a firearm.

I chose the closest open station, the third of five positions under a cement canopy that shielded us from the sun. I readjusted my ear plugs—snugging them in tighter to protect my hearing. With every spot active, the sound of popping gunfire could be deafening. Literally.

I loaded my magazine, slammed it into place in the Beretta's grip, released the slide, squared my safety goggles tight, and popped my Chicago Bears hat on my head. Ready to go.

My first several shots went wide as shell casings danced out of my gun. My target: a black and white bull's-eye, maybe twenty-four inches wide, fifty feet away. Even though this wasn't considered a difficult shot, I was out of practice. Whenever a bullet hit, it made a fluorescent green hole. No mistaking where my off-center shots went, or even when they missed entirely.

I wanted a bull's-eye.

No, I amended. I wanted them
all
to be bull's-eyes.

Which meant I needed a lot more practice.

As I reloaded, I took the opportunity to check out all the other patrons under the canopy. No Tom. But just about everyone wore round-necked, long-sleeve shirts and jeans, baseball caps, goggles, and ear protection, and it was a little difficult to be sure. The shirt I wore was bright yellow, not just for safety reasons, but because it was a shirt Tom had seen before. Maybe he'd recognize it—and say hello.

There were two other sets of stations on the far side of the main office. I gave myself a thirty-minute time limit at my current spot. After that, I'd take a walk and see what the rest of the range had to offer.

Head up, shoulders back. Arms outstretched, slightly bent. Hands around the grip. My trigger finger rode straight along the firearm's frame, not inside the trigger guard, not yet.

I concentrated. With the gun's sights set on the target's center, I gently eased my trigger finger into position within the guard. I took a long, slow, deep breath, let it out, and squeezed.

Off the mark. Damn. I'd pulled up. Just enough to leave a fluorescent green ding on the edge of the target's outer circle.

A half-hour later, my arms were sore, I smelled like cordite, and there were four people waiting their turn under the canopy. I collected my target via the overhead pulley, packed away my pistol, and headed down to the front office again, where I ducked into the restroom. I washed my hands thoroughly to get the lead off, and removed my goggles and ear plugs.

My face was dirty where the glasses hadn't covered it, and my hair had gone flat. I decided to keep the hat on—it looked better. A quick glance at my watch convinced me it was time to put the plan into action. This was Tom's favorite time of the day to come shooting.

The second set of stations was full, too. I stood well behind the yellow safety line and pretended to watch. My prior visits here convinced me that target shooting was largely a male-dominated sport. Today there were no females up front, and two of the older gents who worked the grounds smiled and waved me over.

They leaned on push brooms as they conversed. Whenever the range was declared “cold,” as it was every hour or so, they'd move in, sweep the casings from the concrete floor and dump them into the nearby garbage drums. Bill was taller, Harold shorter, but both wore overalls and skin toughened from years of being outdoors. Bright white skin remained tucked deep inside cheerful wrinkles. “How've you been, honey?” Harold asked.

“Busy,” I said, “how about you?”

Bill snorted a laugh. “Tell me about it. You see the crowd over there?” He snapped a thumb over his shoulder. “I'll be chasing brass all afternoon.”

“I was over there before it got busy.” Casually, so as not to arouse the male protect-our-brother mentality, I asked, “Have you seen Tom MacKenzie here today?”

Harold's eyes narrowed. “The guy who brought you here the first time? The Secret Service guy?”

I nodded.

Bill asked, “You didn't come together?”

“No.”

They exchanged a look. Harold's eyebrows raised, and he thought about it for a couple of seconds. “Yeah, he's here.”

Bill pointed to the range's far side. His look said he was reluctant to share the information and all of a sudden I realized why. “Is he with someone?”

The two men leaned back from their brooms, surprised. “No,” they said in unison.

“He's practicing pretty hard today,” Harold said. “Never seen him so focused.” He shrugged and shared another glance with Bill. His eyes twinkled. “Maybe he's taking his frustrations out, or something. You should probably go over there and say hey.”

“I think I will,” I said.

By the time I reached the farthest set of stations, I'd convinced myself that this was a stupid move. I'd apologized to Tom. I'd been rebuffed. Appearing here now would only make him feel claustrophobic and I risked pushing him further away.

I was about to turn back when I caught sight of him.

I couldn't help myself. I drew closer, watching him as he nailed that target—
pop—pop—pop—pop—pop—pop
. Bull's-eyes, every one.

He didn't turn. Didn't seem to notice anything or anyone around him, save for the occasional glances side-to-side when shooters in his periphery moved or changed firearms. Harold was right. He was focused.

From my position behind a small shed, I could watch without looking too obvious to passersby, and if Tom should turn, I'd be able to duck behind the shed quickly and avoid any uncomfortable confrontations.

I felt like a high-school girl, gazing adoringly at my crush.

And I felt stupid being here, unwilling and afraid to approach him.

Tom switched the Sig Sauer to his left hand. Firing offhanded, he consistently hit within the second circle of the round target. When he stopped, he shook his head as if disappointed in his performance.

I thought he did great, but I couldn't bring myself to tell him so.

When he changed firearms again, and began practicing with his revolver, I realized he was winding up. He always finished with the Smith & Wesson six-shooter, and even if he had several speed-loaders on hand, he'd be finished soon.

What was I was doing here? This was silly. Again, I felt schoolgirl crush monsters devouring my usually solid self-esteem.

I fingered the brim of my Bears cap—and decided to punt.

Under bright blue canopies strategically placed around the range, the owners had set up vending machines and washroom facilities for the comfort and convenience of their patrons. The nearest oasis was about a hundred yards away. If Tom finished soon, he'd be thirsty, and he'd probably stop here before heading back to his car.

I trotted up to the vending machines, hoping at least one offered ice cold water. My lucky day. I dug two dollars out of the front pouch of my purse. Two bucks for water was highway robbery, but there wasn't much choice.

“You come here often?”

I turned. The man who spoke to me was just an inch or so taller than I was, with dark brown hair and even darker eyes. Tanned, but not leathery, he'd either spent yesterday in a tanning booth or an afternoon being sprayed that color. For being at a shooting range, he was oddly dressed. Short-sleeved gray button-down dress shirt, navy blue Dockers, and polished loafers. He smiled, inched closer. A little too close. I backed up. “Often enough,” I said.

“Let me buy you a drink,” he said. “What do you want?”

“I've got it.” I stepped forward to insert the first of the dollars into the slot, jamming it in fast and following up with the second dollar so my new friend didn't get any ideas to help.

“Oh, is the lady taken?” He smirked and glanced back toward the shed where I'd been watching Tom shoot. Had this guy been watching me?

I hit the machine's wide blue button and heard my relief tumble to the bottom shelf. “She is now,” I said.

Letting the cool water trickle down the back of my throat, I strode away. Fifteen steps later, I realized I'd been rude. I thought about the guy behind me—he was just being friendly.

Maybe I'd been too hasty. Not with this guy in particular, but in my attitude. I'd rejected him out of hand because he tried to pick me up. A pessimistic thought caught a beat in the background of my mind. I tried to ignore it, but it played there nonetheless: If Tom and I broke up for good, I'd be encountering these Vending Machine Romeos and their brethren everywhere. Worse, eventually I'd be seeking them out.

I wasn't interested in Mr. Tan Boy, but I shouldn't have been so discourteous brushing him off.

That little bit of remorse was enough to make me turn.

Romeo was following me.

He smiled. But not the kind of smile you use to pick up a girl.

I picked up the pace.

The shooting station was still about fifty feet away.

Behind me, Romeo's shoes chafed the asphalt. His pace picked up, too.

I had a sudden flashback to the merry-go-round. It couldn't be. Could it?

I turned again.

“Just a minute,” he said. “Wait. Please. I have to ask you something.”