State of the Onion (24 page)

She nodded.

“Bucky, you're in charge of dinner's first two courses.”

His head snapped back like Henry had punched him. “Me?”

“Yes.” Henry pointed. “I need you to oversee the final preparations just before the food is plated. I've prepared a list of those who will assist you, and you will work together with the indoor waitstaff to ensure the proper plating and prompt delivery of the first courses to the dining room.” Rolling wide eyes, Henry continued, “Dennis, our sommelier, is beside himself. He'd planned vintages to complement tonight's menu—he had not arranged for a full assortment of aperitifs. But,” he added with a rueful smile, “that's not currently our concern. He will be marvelous; he always is.”

“What am I doing?” I asked.

“Before the first guest arrives, we are all gathering our troops to make as many more appetizers as we possibly can in the allotted time. All of us. While Cyan and Bucky direct their people, you and I, Ollie, with the help of some assistants, will be making more appetizers. Thank goodness we made as much as we did, and thank goodness you ordered those extra supplies, Cyan.”

She blushed at the compliment.

“Once we have the situation under control—and I expect to arrive at that state shortly—Ollie and I will take charge of overseeing operations. This event tonight will require
orchestration
. We will probably all step out of our comfort zones.” He took a moment to make eye contact with each of us. “And assist where we're needed, whether it's our job or not.”

Henry was preaching to the choir. Not one of us approached our positions as a prima donna would—my mind lurched as I pictured Laurel Anne faced with this state of affairs—but Henry's coaching gave me reassurance. He huddled our team before every big event. This was standard. This was reassuring. Suddenly these last-minute changes didn't seem all that insurmountable.

If I ever ran my own kitchen, I'd do it exactly the same way.

AT THREE THIRTY, WITH HENRY'S BLESSING, I snuck outside to watch the ceremonies, keeping close to the South Portico doors. The prime minister and the prince and princess had arrived in limousines earlier and had been welcomed at the south doors and into the oval-shaped Diplomatic Reception Room with a flurry of pomp and circumstance. After that “official reception,” the president and Mrs. Campbell, with the assistance of the well-practiced aides, guided the dignitaries outdoors, amid snapping camera shutters and microphones thrust forward from behind velvet ropes.

Each of the dignitaries found his or her place on a line of artificial green turf that had been rolled out several hundred yards south, where official ceremonies were usually held. Each dignitary's name was marked on the ground with white tape. Every movement of this entire day had been scrupulously choreographed; such preparations were necessary so that an event of this magnitude ran smoothly.

I winced at the loud pops of the twenty-one gun salute and watched as the cameras moved in to capture the president's official inspection of the troops.

The Marine Band, also known as “The President's Own,” played several national favorites including “Yankee Doodle Dandy,” and two songs I didn't recognize, but I knew must be the national songs of the prime minister's and prince's respective countries.

For a breathless instant, the music stilled.

And then, the Marine Band began the “Star Spangled Banner.” When the familiar opening notes of our national anthem sounded, so clear and strong on this exceptional spring afternoon, shivers ran up my back. I blinked once…twice, and then again.

As I stood there watching, I marveled. The photographers stilled their cameras, the reporters lowered their microphones. We all stood at attention to salute the most beautiful flag, the most powerful symbol of freedom on Earth. Next to me, the waiters halted their work to place hands over hearts. Several mouthed the words to the song so many of us learned in grammar school.

As always happened, when the lyrics came to “…gave proof through the night, that our flag was still there…” goose bumps raced across my arms and chest, down my back. I took in a deep breath and thanked heaven that I'd been born here, that my parents' grandparents had come to this country for a new life so many years before. I had much to be thankful for.

I whispered along with the final line, “…and the home of the brave.”

How true.

I knew I should hustle toward the West Wing, where the appetizers, beverages, and incidentals were being set up for the cocktail reception just moments away.

But I couldn't resist taking a quick moment to sidle near the dais that had been erected just outside the south doors. Atop a carpet of bright red, three tables were being set up, and I knew that the reason they were there—for a three-way discussion for the cameras on the nature of the Camp David trade agreement—was pretext. These were the tables where the president, prime minister, and prince would sit to sign the peace treaty that would change the fabric of life in this world forever. And our president had facilitated this.

Had the day been overcast and rainy, I would have felt just as ebullient. I was part of this moment. I was part of history. As workers placed chairs, tablecloths, and flags in place on and around the dais, I ran my finger along the edge of the signing table. A lineup of miniature flags, representing a myriad of countries, topped the tables with a festive, though profound touch.

Out of the corner of my eye, I thought I saw Tom near the West Wing. Even though I'd been on my way back to the kitchen, I couldn't resist delaying long enough to see him and say hello.

My short legs could only take short strides, and I certainly didn't want to call attention to myself by running, so I walked purposefully toward the West Wing and was disappointed to see Tom catch up with Craig and disappear inside before I had a chance to talk with him. At least I knew he was here. And that made me feel better. Within the White House gates, I felt so much safer than I did in the rest of the city. I glanced up at the black-clad snipers on the building's roof, pacing with their rifles, keeping a close eye on all of us below.

While at the Rose Garden, where chafing dishes had just been set up, I corralled Jamal. “As a last-minute addition, we've prepared extra fruit trays,” I said, pointing to spots on the tables between the silver servingware, “which I think should go here, here, and,” I stretched out both arms, “there.”

Jamal nodded, asked a couple of questions about timing, and headed back in via the West Wing entrance.

I caught sight of Kasim working his way toward the food tables, dodging workers who carried chairs, tables, and other accoutrements. Kasim was in a robe of navy blue with a brown turban. Poor guy. Today was warming up and even in my white tunic and toque, I was hot. I could only imagine how he felt. He spent his entire life wearing dark clothing in a hot climate. How uncomfortable And he'd been ill recently, too.

I also wondered how he felt, being left out of the ceremony taking place on the South Lawn. As one of the underlings, Kasim wasn't privy to the big events. Like Henry and I, he was there to make himself available, to facilitate and to assist. When it came to the formal procedures, he was left in the background to make sure things went smoothly for his people.

I was about to ask him if he needed assistance when I noticed Peter Everett Sargeant. He called out to Kasim, who turned. I ducked out of sight, then inched closer to hear.

“This came for you moments ago,” Sargeant said, handing Kasim a large diplomatic pouch.

Kasim nodded his thanks. “I am most grateful. The princess was quite distressed to have left these things behind this morning. I will see to it that she receives this promptly.” He turned his back to Sargeant, but the shorter man trailed behind the foreign assistant, talking animatedly. He, too, was relegated to the background to assure smooth transitions. The problem was that Sargeant didn't like to be left out.

The last thing I needed was another run-in with Sargeant. I stepped out of their line of vision, behind one of the colonnade's white pillars, and started to make my way back to the kitchen.

“If she prefers me to hold onto anything of hers, I can make a page available to assist.”

“Thank you,” Kasim said, “the princess will be most appreciative of your offer. But I believe one of her female assistants will be present later.”

The words were polite but strained, and Kasim's long-legged, limping strides punctuated his obvious desire to distance himself from Sargeant.

I could relate.

Sargeant scurried double-time to catch up. Decked out in another smartly cut pinstripe suit, this one the same shade of navy blue as Kasim's robes, the two looked like a multicultural Mutt and Jeff. “I'm sorry you missed the opening ceremonies.”

“It is my duty to serve my prince and his wife at their pleasure. If I am required here, then this is where I remain.” Kasim spoke as he walked. I ducked deeper behind the pillar and hoped to get past them both without being seen. “Just as I am certain that you are more needed here to facilitate than you are out there.” He gestured toward the crowd.

“I wanted to take special care of your delivery,” he said with a degree of annoyance. “I will join the celebration as soon as I am certain that you and your colleagues are well taken care of.”

Kasim wiped his brow and coughed. He stopped, turned, and looked down at our eager sensitivity director. “What I am in need of at the moment, my dear sir, are your lavatory facilities. I am feeling unwell.”

“Of course,” Sargeant said. “Let me show you the way. I'll take my leave then, and see you at the reception.”

“Thank you,” Kasim said. He wiped his face again and made a noise that underscored his discomfort. “I may be required to return to Blair House if I continue to feel this unwell.”

“Is there anything I can do?” Sargeant said again. Now he started to look as though he'd like to get away from the other man.

“The lavatory.”

“Yes, yes, of course.”

Just then Sargeant spied me. “What are you doing out here?” he asked.

Kasim lurched toward the doors leading into the West Wing. Sargeant called a Secret Service agent over and asked him to escort Kasim to the washroom that I knew was just outside the Oval Office. The foreign diplomat nodded to me, briefly, looking relieved to be able to get indoors out of the heat.

I nodded back, then turned to Sargeant. “I'm here to make sure things are set up properly.”

“And why wouldn't they be?”

I bit my tongue. Literally. Then said. “In the White House kitchen we leave nothing to chance.”

“You will not be out here when the guests are.”

“I don't intend to be.”

He tugged at his suit jacket. “That's all,” he said, dismissing me. “Do not let me see anyone from the kitchen out here again. You especially. Are we understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

If he was taken aback by my crisp retort, I didn't know it. I executed a quick turn and had my back to him before he could respond. At this point I had nothing to lose. All I wanted right now was to make tonight's event a success—an amazing success—for Henry's sake. This would be our final hurrah together. Whether I stayed at the White House or not, I was determined that Henry would go out with a bang.

As luck would have it, however, I found myself outdoors again, just as President Campbell finished his welcoming speech. I glanced at my watch. Right on time. Paul Vasquez stood near the presidential contingent, and I knew he kept a precise eye on every movement, maintaining an exact schedule.

When President Campbell closed, the crowd burst into eager applause. As it died down, White House personnel moved in to ensure the crowd followed the plan. The Marine Band began playing low background music, which they would maintain until it came time for more speeches.

Leading the way to the Rose Garden, President Campbell walked between the prince and prime minister. Behind them followed the First Lady and Princess Hessa. Although the prime minister was married, he'd come alone to the United States. This was the first I'd seen of him. While the prince and princess were settled at Blair House, the prime minister had been accommodated at a nearby hotel, the best Washington, D.C., had to offer. Despite Blair House's size and accommodations, it was not acceptable to house two delegates in the same abode at the same time. Since the prime minister and his group was smaller, and did not require the same level of privacy that the prince did, he'd agreed to the hotel.

From all accounts everyone was happy, although it seemed that everyone would have preferred to remain at Camp David.

All but the princess, that is.

I caught sight of Kasim as I made my way to the tables to give everything a last look and to ensure that the food we'd prepared was being displayed properly. Kasim pushed at his headdress, as he made his way back toward the West Wing. He looked sweaty and uncomfortable, eager to avoid the crowd, and I guessed he was again heading to the washroom.

“Were you able to get the diplomatic pouch to the princess?” I asked. He wasn't carrying it, but neither was the princess. If it was something she needed, I worried that Kasim's apparent illness would have a ripple effect on the rest of the day.