I glanced to Virgil, but his expression was inscrutable. Valerie’s manner as she handed us printed updates gave nothing away. I was sure she not only knew which one of us was the head of the kitchen, I was absolutely certain she’d recently been consulted on that very matter. All business, Valerie asked us several questions about the menu. “I like the menu, very interesting,” she said.
“Thank you,” I said. “We like to feature American food at every opportunity. I have ingredients being brought in for the tasting and if all goes well, I ... er, that is ...
we
will be placing orders for the dinner next week.”
She nodded. “Of course.”
She had several more questions about procedure that Virgil wasn’t able to answer, and after about ten minutes, headed back toward the East Wing to consult with the calligraphy department.
The moment she left, Virgil started toward the China Room. I pointed slightly farther ahead. “Let’s use the Vermeil Room instead.”
Nodding agreeably, he let me enter first. Often called the Gold Room, and featuring a collection of vermeil—goldplated silver—the space also featured famous paintings of many First Ladies. I wondered, idly, if Mrs. Hyden’s portrait would ever hang here alongside those of Jackie Kennedy, Pat Nixon, Eleanor Roosevelt, Nancy Reagan, and others. I was sure it would. The walls were soft yellow, the fireplace similar, if not identical to the one on the China Room’s adjacent wall. I ran my fingers along the mantel and tried to encourage the quiet cheer of the room to bolster my spirits. I had no idea what Virgil Ballantine was about to say. I was just glad we weren’t in the kitchen.
Leaving the door open, he joined me at the fireplace. “I think we may have gotten off to a bad start,” he said.
I opened my mouth to answer before I knew exactly what I planned to say—a habit I hoped to break one of these days—but was spared by the arrival of an older woman who knocked at the door and walked in. Although we hadn’t yet met, I knew her immediately as Grandma Marty, Mrs. Hyden’s mother. “Excuse me,” she said with a wide smile. “Am I interrupting?”
“Not at all,” Virgil and I said in unison.
I was about to ask if I could help her in any way, but she was clearly making a beeline for Virgil. “How are you, dear?” she asked, reaching both hands out to clasp his. With only a flash of crow’s-feet next to her eyes, and tiny, shallow lines around her mouth, Grandma Marty looked a lot younger in person than she really was. She carried a few extra pounds around her middle, and she’d let her short, tight hair go gray, but I would never have tagged her as the mother of a woman over forty.
“I’m doing very well,” Virgil said.
Grandma Marty released Virgil and turned to me. “I’m the children’s grandmother,” she said politely. “And who are you?”
My throat caught. Was I still the executive chef or wasn’t I? “Olivia Paras,” I said, “but I much prefer that you call me Ollie.”
Still smiling, she gave me a head-to-toe once-over. “Well, I can tell you work in the kitchen. And what a lovely name, Olivia. It suits you.”
“Thank you.”
“Virgil, dear,” she said, returning to her original conversation. “I’m planning to have a few of my old friends come to visit next week. Do you think you can pull something together for a bunch of old ladies?”
“What did you have in mind?”
She waved her hands in front of her face. “Oh, you always work such magic. And you know what I like. Just surprise us.”
He nodded.
She winked at him. “Good, I knew you wouldn’t mind.” She started toward the door. “It was very nice to meet you, Olivia. Don’t let Virgil work you too hard.” This time she winked at me. “From all reports he cracks the whip over his employees, but they love him for it.”
I could feel my temples throb. Every inch of me wanted to scream. I couldn’t just hand my livelihood over to a man who had never run—never even
worked
—in the White House before. This wasn’t fair. Instead, as she walked out of the room, I tried to quell the buzzing in my brain, the rush of heat from my chest to my face, and the sheer panic that was making my fingers twitch. I swallowed around sandpaper in my throat.
“She’s such a nice lady,” Virgil said.
Was he completely oblivious to my angst? In one wild and angry moment, I wished he
would
take over the kitchen. Right now. Today. Let him run this house and the upcoming state dinner. Let’s see how well he would do, coming in cold like this.
I blew out a breath, and, at the very moment I let that thought take hold, I also realized he would do just fine without me. He would still have Bucky and Cyan. They were professionals who excelled at their jobs. Even if all Virgil did was sit in a corner and drool, Bucky and Cyan would make the man look good.
I swallowed again. It still hurt. There wasn’t much I could do at this point except make a graceful exit. “Well, good luck,” I said.
“I forgot to ask her which day next week.”
“Excuse me?”
Virgil made a face at the doorway. “I’m sure Valerie will know. But I was so preoccupied with our conversation,” he used his index finger to make a you-and-me gesture, “that I wasn’t concentrating on what Grandma Marty was saying. But I do know what she likes, and I’ll come up with a good menu. She’s always so easy to please.”
“That’s great,” I said blandly. There were a thousand questions running through my brain. I wanted to know if I was still employed. Since Paul wasn’t here to deliver this bad news, I assumed I still had a job at least. I wondered what my new title would be. I wondered what the media would have to say about this shake-up. I could almost hear the reporters’ glee. There had been too many instances where my name appeared in the paper when it had nothing to do with food, and I worried that they would take advantage of an opportunity to sell more papers.
I realized Virgil was waiting for me to speak. But I couldn’t imagine what else there was to say. Holding my hands up, I asked, “Well?”
“I’m very sorry,” he said.
I knew what was coming and I steeled myself to hear the actual words.
“When I came here to the White House, I knew that I had been hired as the family’s main chef ...”
All I could think was:
Cut to the chase, already!
But he droned on about how much the Hyden family meant to him and why this position was the culmination of all he’d worked for. Yadda, yadda, yadda.
“Or so I thought,” he said.
My silent critiquing came to a screeching halt. “What do you mean?”
“I’m trying to apologize.”
“For what?”
He looked away, then back to me, then away again. “I came to this job under the assumption that I was taking over control of the kitchen—all the kitchens. I was wrong.” The faraway look on his face told me that if he’d known better, he might not have been so eager to relocate to D.C. “I am not the executive chef, nor has there ever been any intention to appoint me as such. I misunderstood.” He frowned. “I really blew that one.” Meeting my eyes he continued, “Not that I would have turned this position down. I want to be here. This really is an important step for me. It’s just that I ... misunderstood what the circumstances would be.”
He was obviously uncomfortable, but all I felt was a rush of excitement. “You’re not taking my job?”
“I can only imagine how much of a pompous ass you think I am,” he said, shaking his head.
I didn’t think he was looking for me to comment, so I kept silent.
Pointing toward me with both hands, he kept going, as though talking to himself. “I mean, come on. You’re the first female in the job. It would be political suicide to replace you with a man right out of the box.” He was quick to add, “No offense. I’m sure you’re fine at what you do.”
So he was saying he was the better chef after all. I said nothing.
As though finally hearing himself, he held up his hands again. “What I mean is, I believed I was getting your job. I even think I deserve it. But I’m not getting it. And I’m sorry for any problems my misunderstanding caused.”
A peculiar apology if I’d ever heard one. But I was so happy I didn’t care. “How do things stand now?” I asked. “Are you working upstairs alone, or are you in the main kitchen with us?”
His eyes clouded. “Main kitchen. With you.” After a beat, he added, “I ... I report to you.”
“That’s good to know.”
“I hope there won’t be any hard feelings,” he said. “It really was a misunderstanding.”
So euphoric was I, at not only
not
getting sacked but also discovering I was still the chick in charge, that I held out my hand to shake his, trying to tamp down my obvious glee. “No hard feelings,” I said. Heck, I would be working with this man going forward and there was no gain in holding a grudge. “None at all. I’m just glad we got everything settled early.”
“Yeah,” he said.
Cyan and Bucky looked up in alarm when we returned. They must have read the relief and happiness on my face because, in tandem, their expressions softened.
I was about to bring Virgil over to my two staffers and to explain the reporting structure going forward, but from behind me, Virgil spoke. “I’m sure you’re all wondering what we were talking about out there.”
Surprised, I turned. Virgil held his hands out, inviting not only Bucky and Cyan to listen, but our two Secret Service attendants as well.
With a voice too loud for the relatively small space, he continued. “And you all have a right to know. I intend to clear the air immediately. Olivia here”—his expression didn’t make me feel particularly warmed—“remains your executive chef. And although I will be working here, with all of you, I will be responsible for the day-to-day meal preparation for the First Family. That is not to say that you won’t be called upon to step in on my days off. Nor does it preclude my helping out from time to time when situations require my assistance.”
I stood speechless for half a second. Even though he was stating that I was in charge, his method of delivery managed to usurp my position nonetheless. Time for me to take control.
“Thank you, Virgil,” I said, cutting him off from whatever he was about to say next. “I’m sure you know how much your help will be appreciated, especially as we prepare for the state dinner next week.” Clapping my hands together the way Paul always did whenever he wanted us to focus, I concluded with, “Right now we need to focus less on our reporting structure and get moving on plans for the tasting. So, let’s get started.”
I felt the mood in the room shift. The drama was over and we were back to work. I had done that. Feeling empowered once again, I turned to Bucky. “How are things going?” He brought me up to date on the agnolottis I’d started. We would make a fresh batch for Friday’s tasting, but we needed to test, sample, and adjust to ensure they were just right before we even offered them to the First Lady as an option.
The White House kitchen is not huge, so carving out a spot for Virgil to work presented a challenge. The upside, of course, was that we were free to use the rest of the space for state dinner preparations, and could focus on that project without having to stop every few hours to make breakfast, lunch, and dinner.
Much later, while I was back at the computer, inputting expense numbers, Cyan sidled up. “I miss working on the family’s meals,” she whispered.
I shot a quick look around the kitchen, but Virgil was across the room. No way he could hear us. “Me, too,” I said. “Take a look at the stuff he’s preparing for them.” I pointed at the screen.
“Holy moley,” Cyan said. “The man has expensive tastes.”
“I hope he cleared all this with Mrs. Hyden,” I said. “I’m going to have to have a talk with him. Virgil probably doesn’t realize that the First Family is responsible for their own food expenses. This is pricey stuff.” In addition to the normal items we might have expected him to order, such as fresh fish, cuts of meat, and organic vegetables, Virgil had requested a hefty supply of caviar, truffle oil, and a vintage of wine that even I recognized as expensive.
Cyan noticed it, too. “Is he planning to use that for
cooking?
”
I nodded, indicating the recipe he’d ascribed it to. We had always created excellent meals at the White House, but we’d done so within reason. Most families had certain favorite dishes but rarely were these favorites the sort of meals Virgil had planned. While we might go all out and bring in unusual and expensive items for a state dinner, food served to the First Family was generally simpler fare. All the families so far had preferred it that way.
I turned to speak with him, “Virgil,” I began.
Just then, the room exploded with activity. Abigail and Josh came in, their faces pink from being outside. Agents Bost and Zeller crowded in behind, their eyes rapt on their young charges.
“Virgil!” Josh ran up to my new assistant chef with an expression of pure excitement on his face. “Do you really mean it? My mom said you’re going to let me work here with you.”
Virgil grinned, but I could tell it hurt him to do so. “Well, Josh, I’m not so sure anymore. Things have changed a little bit.”
The boy’s expression fell. “What do you mean?”
“This morning, when I spoke with your mom about you helping out in the kitchen, I thought you could learn a few things down here with the staff while I took care of the family food.”
My ears perked up. Not that I hadn’t already been paying close attention.
“It turns out that I’m going to be down here, and Ms. Paras is in charge.” He held a hand out toward me and shook his head regretfully. “I thought the staff here might be able to teach you a few things while I was busy upstairs, but it turns out I’m not the boss.”
Josh’s jaw dropped. “You’re not?”
“Sorry, kiddo.”
“Hang on,” I said. “Josh, don’t you remember? You’re welcome here in my kitchen any time at all.” I’d accidentally said “my kitchen” but it felt good coming out of my mouth.