All the President’s Menus (13 page)

“I love it,” I said. “I’ve enjoyed every one of their wines.”

“How much do you love it?”

“I don’t understand.”

He took a deep breath. Replacing the bottle on the table, he turned to me. His face was devoid of expression; he’d adopted his “agent demeanor.” Different from his mood when he simply needed time, this side of him was impenetrable. Unyielding. I knew he was capable of assuming his hardline persona at any time, but I didn’t expect him to do so with me. Not anymore.

Before he could speak again, I interrupted. “What is going on? What are you so afraid to tell me?”

I thought I detected a crack in his armor, but in a flash it was gone. Whatever he’d been about to say, he clearly didn’t want me to read the emotion behind it. I envied him the ability to close that part of himself off, but I was miffed that he was doing it.

“Gav.” My voice was a warning to him. “We’re in this together, remember?”

My words hit some invisible target.

“That’s what makes this so difficult,” he said, shutting his eyes for a long moment. When he opened them again, he pulled in another deep breath, solidifying his resolve. The steel-faced agent was back. “Bill and Erma,” he began slowly, “want me to take over the winery.”

I don’t know what I’d expected him to say, but it certainly wasn’t that.

“Take over?” I repeated. “You mean while Bill is recovering?”

“No.” He continued to stare at me, and I realized how much I pitied suspects forced to endure Gav’s interrogations. If I hadn’t known him, I would have been terrified. It was clear he was waiting to gauge my reaction before sharing his own.

“Then what?” I asked.

“Jenny was Bill and Erma’s only child,” he said, referring to his former fiancée, the young woman who had been murdered shortly before they could be wed. “I’m the closest thing to a son they’ve ever had. They want to leave their vineyard to me. To us,” he added with a nod.

My jaw went slack and my mouth opened. I said the first thing that came to mind. “But their vineyard is hours away. How would you commute?”

He took to swirling his wineglass again. “That’s the problem. I couldn’t.”

Like a swarm of ideas condensing together to create a whole, I felt a cloud forming in my brain. A storm cloud. “You would give up your work in the Secret Service?” I asked. I was shocked and taken aback, and not certain what to do with all the thoughts ricocheting in my brain. “Is that what you want?”

Gav rubbed his face with his free hand, and in that instant, agent Gav dissolved, and my caring husband was back. “I don’t know what I want,” he said. “But before I can even consider it, I need to know what you think about all this.”

“I . . . I . . .” Speechless, because I had no idea how to answer, I stopped trying. “When would this take place?”

“They were planning to have this talk with me a few years from now,” he said. “But Bill’s stroke changed their timeline. They don’t expect me—expect us—to drop our lives here and move there immediately. They want us to take our time and think about it.”

I tried to digest without panicking. “That would mean me leaving the White House.”

“There may be options we’re unaware of.”

“Like what?”

“Erma and Bill employ a good group of workers, people they trust. There may be an extended period of time where I wouldn’t have to be there at all. And don’t forget, Bill and Erma don’t plan to retire yet. They fully intend to keep working there and to keep running the place themselves for years to come.”

“But they want to know now if you’re willing.”

Gav nodded, but said nothing.

My mind raced. “What did you tell them?”

“Nothing,” he said quickly. “They knew I needed to talk with you, first.”

I nodded, buying time. We’d been married less than six months. Wasn’t this the sort of major upheaval that cropped up after the first anniversary? Not that major changes respected timetables, of course.

The biggest question hung between us. “What do
you
want?” I asked. “I mean, if you’re bringing this up in this way, you must be considering it.”

He frowned, but nodded. “It’s not my nature to reject an opportunity out of hand. I need to at least consider what this means.”

“I thought you were already where you always wanted to be. You told me that you’d turned down other opportunities because working with the Secret Service in the capacity that you do is what you’ve always wanted.”

“It is.”

“You’d give that up?” I couldn’t help it. Silently, my selfish side asked, “And you’d be asking me to give my career up, too?”

He looked directly into my eyes. “What I want is what’s right for both of us.” He placed his glass down and motioned for me to do the same. I complied. After I did, he took both my hands in his. “I will never ask you to give anything up that’s important to you for something that’s important to me.”

“But”—I knew I was arguing against myself here—“isn’t that what people do in a marriage? And if we don’t take it on, won’t you be giving up this chance for me?”

He let go of my hands. “I will never ask you to give up your life here in D.C.,” he began again, “but what if? What if when the next president comes in, you tender your resignation, and he or she accepts it?”

That was a constant fear I harbored in my heart.

“Would you be content working in a hotel kitchen?” he asked. “Would you start your own restaurant?”

“I don’t know yet.”

“Which is why I’m hoping you and I can talk about this. I can’t work in the field forever. Even though I’m recovered from my recent injury, I know that agents don’t have lengthy careers in positions where physical stamina and prowess are requirements. There are always younger, stronger, savvier young recruits eager to take our spots.” He stared away for a moment, and I wondered what he was seeing. “I would feel claustrophobic in a desk job. I’ve always known that, and I constantly fight the demons that warn that my days are numbered.”

I reached forward to touch him. “You’re nowhere close to being finished in the field.”

“I know,” he said, turning to me again. “I plan to push myself for as long as I can. But this recent injury has been my wakeup call. I can’t deny the fact that there will come a time when I’m no longer assigned to hunt down the bad guys. What then? I’ve never allowed myself to think that far ahead.”

He gave me a sad smile. “Future plans and I never seemed to get along very well.” He grasped my hands again. “Until you came into my life, Olivia Paras.”

I swallowed at the emotion laid bare in his eyes.

“Now,” he said, “I’m less afraid of making plans, but I’ve avoided the whole issue for so long that I don’t know where to begin.” His shoulders raised up, ever so slightly. “This situation with Bill and Erma came out of the blue. I need your help to decide what we ought to do about it.”

I still didn’t have an answer and knew I wouldn’t for what might be a long time. “What will happen if you turn them down?”

When he let go of my hands again, he smiled. “Apparently, they’ve already written their will, leaving everything to me. Whether I choose to run the winery or not is completely immaterial. They hope I will, of course—they want me to—but once ownership transfers to me, the property is mine to do as I see fit. I can sell it, lease it out, hire others to run it—whatever I choose. They made it clear that this was a gift with no strings attached.”

“They are incredibly generous people.”

“And if I had my wish, they would run Spencer’s Vineyards forever. But they’re making future plans, and that’s causing me to assess mine, which means ours.” He lifted my glass and handed it to me, then picked his own glass back up. “For now, we can put this on the back burner. No pressure, Ollie. None at all.” He raised his glass as though in a toast. “To our future together. Whatever it holds.”

We clinked our glasses.

“To our future,” I said.

“You look exactly like Cyan did when word came down about the sequester,” Bucky said when he walked in the next morning. As he removed his windbreaker and began donning his smock, he added, “She wasn’t thrilled to be temporarily laid off, but she knew this was the kick in the pants she needed to assess her future.”

Bucky was far more astute than I sometimes gave him credit for. I’d been thinking about my conversation with Gav the night before, but wasn’t ready to share this new dilemma with my assistant. “I desperately want her back,” I said, “but I know that her best direction may lie elsewhere.”

“Don’t change the subject.” Bucky crossed his arms. “Your eyes are animated, yet your expression says dread.”

“Is that so strange?” I asked, feigning innocence. “We finally have an event to plan—at Blair House, which makes it special—and Virgil might be gone for good. Why wouldn’t I be upbeat about that?”

“You skipped over the ‘dread’ part of my comment. What’s bothering you, chief?”

I told him about Marcel’s chocolate. “I managed to find the leftovers in the chocolate shop. It’s safe in our refrigeration area.” I pointed in the general direction. “Top shelf where no one ever looks,” I said. “I’ll take half of it home with me tonight so that Gav can have it tested.”

The Saardiscan foursome walked in. “Good morning,” I said, hoping they hadn’t heard any of the prior conversation. What with Marcel’s allegations about Kilian, Tibor’s unpleasantness, and the reluctant cooperation from Hector and Nate, I didn’t fully trust any of them. I made a mental note to pull the chocolate out from its top-shelf position and hide it elsewhere, just in case.

“Good morning,” Tibor said, surprising me with his cheery tone and the hint of a smile on his craggy face.

Three of the men appeared to be in particularly jovial moods. Kilian was the lone exception. He barely met my eyes. I wondered what was up. “How are you all this morning?”

With their backs turned to me, the others donned aprons and I couldn’t see their expressions, but Tibor continued the conversation. “Today is looking to be a strong and good day,” he said.

“What happened?” I asked.

Tibor scowled. “Nothing of consequence to you.” He must have read my reaction because he hastened to explain, “We are happy because we have successfully completed our first week. Kilian has submitted reports to our superiors, and all have been approved.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” I said. “That must be a relief. Is it, Kilian?”

The doughy-faced man glanced up, his normally pink cheeks pale and damp. “Yes,” he said. “Yes.”

*   *   *

Later that morning, after we’d finished preparing breakfast, I pulled them all together. One of the items we intended to serve at Kerry Freiberg’s dinner was a traditional Saardiscan dish that, based on the ingredient list Kilian had provided, resembled a version of my squash soup.

“The Secret Service delivered the final ingredients we needed,” I said to Kilian. “Apparently the first several establishments they visited were out of pears.”

“I am looking forward to instructing you both.” His mood had not improved greatly. As he addressed his colleagues, I got the impression he had his game face on. “We have all made a variation of
bazadyn
, no?”

The three men nodded.

“And we all have our unique touches that make
bazadyn
our own.” Kilian held a pencil aloft, like an orchestra conductor holding a baton. “We will all share our secret ingredients and methods so that we are all
bazadyn
brothers.” He nodded to me. “And sisters.”

The men nodded again, though I noticed Nate did so hesitantly. The peculiar look in his eyes led me to believe that he was worried. I would even go so far as to say there was a flash of terror there. A chef caught without his tools. As though he didn’t have a secret ingredient or method to share with his brethren and was worried they might think less of him.

We took up positions around the central counter, forming a rough circle. This way. we could follow along with every step and be able to compare, contrast, and learn as we went along.

Kilian stood with his back to the westernmost door and I stood directly across the stainless steel workspace. Bucky and Nate were to my left along one side, Hector and Tibor to my right. “Shall we begin?” I asked.

Kilian’s chubby cheeks, still pale, grew ever more pink as he began the instruction. “Have you ever appreciated the beauty of the lowly squash?” he asked as he hefted a ridged green globe. “You Americans call this the acorn squash. And this”—he picked up one of the other gourds in front of him—“the butternut squash, yes?”

He looked to me for acknowledgment. I nodded.

“As ingredients go, the squash is not especially attractive. But it is solid.” He knocked his knuckles against the pale sitar-shaped vegetable. “And delightfully versatile.”

If Kilian planned to wax poetic about every ingredient and every step, we could be at this countertop all morning. Good thing the First Lady was out today, and the president was lunching in the Navy Mess. There were still a few things I needed to do before dinner tonight, however. I made a mental note to keep an eye on the clock.

The rotund man leaned forward, eager to corral our attention. “Let us talk further about these menu mainstays. As our esteemed hosts know, there are many varieties to choose from.” He smiled at me and at Bucky, then turned his attention to his colleagues. “I have tasted Tibor’s version of
bazadyn
but have not had the pleasure to sample yours, Nate. Nor yours, Hector.” His head turned from side to side as he addressed the men. “I know that your provinces are not always as well stocked as ours. Which types of squash have you had the opportunity to work with?”

Put on the spot, Hector opened his mouth. Instead of an answer, he made a strange gargling noise. His eyes went wide, and he grasped at his neck.

“Are you all right?” Kilian asked.

I started for Hector, who was now gasping and coughing. He sat on the floor, one hand still at his neck, the other pressing against his forehead. “I’m all right,” he managed to say. “I was dizzy for a moment there.”

“Do you need us to summon the doctor?” I asked.

“I will be fine.” He put his face down and wrapped both hands around the back of his head. “Please. I need only to sit.”

I crouched next to him. Bucky came around the other side. “Let’s get you somewhere more comfortable,” he said.

Kilian came around the counter. “What is wrong?”

“Have you eaten today?” I asked Hector.

He shook his head. Swallowed, with difficulty.

Kilian lowered himself to the floor. “You had only coffee this morning, yes?”

Hector nodded.

“Maybe he’s feeling faint then?” I asked. Turning to Bucky, I said, “You’d better get the doctor here, just in case.”

Hector put a hand out as though to stop him, but Bucky paid him no mind.

In an effort to keep Hector alert and talking, I asked, “Nothing besides coffee? Do you need to eat?”

Kilian answered for him. “We all had coffee. At the hotel. Nothing more.”

“Were you feeling ill this morning?” I asked. “Is that why you didn’t have breakfast?”

Kilian was perched on the balls of his feet, knees bent, so close I could touch him if I wanted to. He leaned forward, pressing a hand to the ground in front of him, as though stopping himself from losing his balance. “Oh,” he said.

His face had gone white as bleached flour.

“Are you all right?” I asked.

He didn’t answer. Struggling not to topple over, he thrust a hand upward, grasping the side of the countertop. “I must have moved too quickly,” he tried to say. “My head.” But his words had begun to slur.

“Kilian,” I said. “What’s going on?”

I looked around for help. Tibor edged away and Nate stared down at me, blinking as though confused. I was crouched between two ailing men in a particularly narrow portion of the kitchen, wedged between stainless steel cabinets. To my right, Hector groaned. His head dropped forward, and he toppled sideways.

Kilian coughed, then sat on the ground, hands at his head. He’d grown even more pale and his skin was shiny with sweat. His mouth opened and a deep gurgle erupted from within. “I am—” he said, then froze.

“Kilian,” I said, but the unfocused look in his eyes stopped me. I reached to grab him as I called to Nate to come around the other way. “Help Hector,” I said. “Get behind him and pull him into the corridor. We need to get him some air.”

Tibor had backed into the doorway, the horror in his expression making it clear that he’d be no help at all.

Nate was attempting to drag Hector out where he could be more easily administered to, whispering what sounded like assurances to the stricken man.

Hector was conscious at least, looking frightened, but alert.

I couldn’t say the same for Kilian. The portly man had passed out, falling backward and hitting his head against a metal edge. He’d clutched his chest with one meaty hand, but as I leaned over him, his grip loosened and his arm fell slack to the floor.

I turned Kilian’s face toward mine, but his fixed gaze confirmed the worst. Bucky rushed in with the doctor close behind, as I desperately tried to bring Kilian back by sheer force of will. “Kilian.” I leaned forward to begin CPR. “Breathe,” I ordered him.

The doctor pulled me to my feet, taking my place in the small space between cabinets. He began CPR compressions as he called for resuscitation equipment. I stared down at the motionless chef at my feet.

Kilian was gone. I had no doubt.

Shaking myself back into awareness, I forced myself to think, to prioritize. “Hector was struck down, too,” I said to the doctor. Pointing toward the small group now outside the kitchen’s walls, I added, “He’s still alive. Help him.”

The doctor acknowledged me. He continued to try to revive Kilian, as I knew duty required, while I made my way to where Bucky was helping Hector. To my great relief, the young Saardiscan was still alert. Someone had brought him a glass of water, and although color hadn’t returned to his face, he was able to answer each of the medical assistant’s questions.

Bucky nudged my arm. “Kilian?” he asked.

I kept my lips tight and shook my head.

“First Marcel, now this. What is happening here?”

“I wish I knew.”