Buffalo West Wing (24 page)

She and I both knew better. The First Lady had final say, but I appreciated her gesture. “We already have a garden,” I began.

“I don’t mean the greenhouse. I mean something more substantial.”

“We have a real garden,” I said. “In addition to the greenhouse on the third floor. The White House garden has been in existence now for several years.” I knew because I’d started it. “We always have quite a bountiful harvest.”

“Why haven’t I heard about this before?”

I couldn’t really answer that, and I said so. “In the coming weeks I would have consulted with you to discuss what you would like planted there—”

She cut me off. “How large is it?”

“About three hundred square feet, I’d say. Give or take.”

Valerie jumped in. “That’s pretty small. We need to look at expanding, don’t you think? Let’s design a significant space, maybe three times bigger.” She turned to her boss. “If we do this well, we can garner a lot of great media attention. We can donate the excess to local food pantries, maybe have school kids help plant. This could be huge.”

All the women started talking at once, throwing out ideas about how to maintain the garden, what media outlets to contact, and a lot of other things. It seemed as though they’d forgotten I was there.

I heard one of the assistants say, “That Virgil Ballantine really comes up with great ideas, doesn’t he? I can see why you brought him on.”

I wanted to remind them—again—that we already had a garden in place. A good one. And we already did donate excess food to local pantries. But not wanting to appear petty, I again held back. I needed to find a way around that problem of mine. Maybe if I could just get them to see me in the same way they viewed Virgil. I cleared my throat. “I have another idea,” I said.

Surprisingly, they quieted to listen.

“What we don’t have nearby is a local farmer’s market. What if we opened up part of the south grounds, say weekly or monthly, to local producers to sell?”

One of the assistants gave me a skeptical look. “Oh, I don’t know about that.” She turned to Mrs. Hyden. “Don’t you think that would be a security nightmare? Would every farm stand owner have to submit to a background check? What about people who just come to buy a couple of cucumbers? Can you imagine how crazy it would be here if the public was allowed in every week?”

“That’s a very ... ambitious idea, Olivia,” Mrs. Hyden said. “We’ll think about it. Thank you.”

Dismissed, I left the Family Dining Room. The butlers would clean up while Bucky, Cyan, and I took care of the kitchen. Every single menu item I’d recommended had been approved. So why didn’t I feel more triumphant?

CHAPTER 20

I HAD SATURDAY OFF, SO I RAN ERRANDS, cleaned my apartment, thought about getting a cat for the thousandth time, and dismissed the idea for the thousandth and first. Subjecting a pet to my oddball hours wouldn’t be fair.

But when I dropped my keys in the bowl by the door and carried my groceries in to the kitchen, I couldn’t help but think how much nicer it would be to come home to a warm welcome. Even if it were from a four-legged friend.

Just before I left to meet Henry that evening, I thought about calling the White House to check on Bucky and Cyan. I resisted. I didn’t usually make a habit of calling in on my days off, and I knew my staff would handle the kitchen expertly. That wasn’t what was bothering me. After Mrs. Hyden’s group meeting last night that had turned into a virtual lovefest where Virgil was concerned, I felt as though any time away from my position was one more opportunity for him to grab a handhold and crawl his way up.

The restaurant Henry and I had agreed on was about a half hour away, so I set off at 5:15, always preferring to be early rather than late. Those of us in the world of haute cuisine were always nosy about other chefs and I was probably the nosiest of all. I’d chosen a restaurant that was getting very good buzz because it was overseen by a top chef from television. Broken Crown was the establishment’s unlikely name, and it featured Mexican food served counter-style. I hoped there wouldn’t be a long wait for a table.

Henry was waiting outside when I arrived. “And there she is,” he said grandly. “My Olivia.”

I reached up to give him a big hug. “Gosh, it’s good to see you.”

He squeezed back, hard, then held me at arm’s length. “You’re looking wonderful, as always. How’s our kitchen treating you?”

We joined the line to place our orders. Even though I had already told Henry a little over the phone, I started at the beginning. “It’s Laurel Anne all over again,” I said, referring to the woman I’d vied against for the executive chef position. “But this time his name is Virgil and he clearly has the inside track.”

“You thought that about Laurel Anne, too,” Henry said.

We both knew better than to share specifics where others could be listening in, so I kept things vague as I told him how “The Mrs.” had brought one of her favorite people to join our group and how he had set his sights on my job. Henry’s expression went from jovial to concerned.

At the counter, I decided on two steak tacos with rice and beans and Henry chose one of their signature burritos. Nothing fancy. Grabbing a couple bottles of water, we paid for our meal and found a nice quiet table in the restaurant’s back corner to wait for runners to bring our orders.

“Ah, privacy,” Henry said as he sat.

I brought Henry up to date on everything, and by the time our food arrived, he was peppering me with questions. “I’ve been through several new administrations as executive chef,” he said, “but this is your first experience in that role. I confess I’ve never had to deal with a family bringing on their personal chef.” His voice rose. “We always provided every meal for the ...” Stopping himself just in time he continued in a whisper,” We always handled the family.” With a slow shake of his head, he stared at me sorrowfully. “I don’t know what to tell you.”

We talked for more than an hour about Bucky, Cyan, and his lady friend, Mercedes. My tacos were the best I’d ever tasted, and Henry had good things to say about his burrito as well. He had only one small gripe. “They could be a bit more generous with the avocado.”

As our conversation wound down, and I reached to take a last swig from my water bottle, he covered my hand with his. “This situation with the new guy is a challenge, Ollie. But I know you’re up to it. Follow your gut. Remember, your instincts haven’t steered you wrong yet.”

I took immense comfort from the warmth of his hand and the strength of his words. “Thanks, Henry.”

We parted in front of the restaurant with promises to make time for each other more often. I left feeling a little better. Nothing had been decided, but knowing that Henry had faith in me gave me a welcome boost.

 

On my way home, my cell phone buzzed. Gav texted:
Still with Henry?

I dialed his number and he answered on the first ring. “How’s it going?”

“Great,” I said. “What’s up with you?”

I could almost hear him shrug. “I’m still in D.C. for a while longer. Done for the day and I find myself flipping channels here in my hotel room. I don’t know why I texted you. Maybe just thought ...”

“Flipping channels, huh?” I looked at my watch. It was a little past 8:00. “Does that mean you have time to meet?”

“Now?”

“Unless it’s past your bedtime.”

He laughed. “I’m not that old. Yet.”

“Did you eat?”

“I grabbed some peanuts and an apple earlier.”

“That’s not dinner.”

“It is when I’m on the road.”

Impulsively, I said, “Come over. I’ll make you something.”

“ ‘Come over’?” he repeated. Then asked, “How soon?”

He had shadowed me at least once after an attack on my way home, so I knew he knew where I lived. “I’m heading there now,” I said, as I mentally inventoried my refrigerator and cupboards. Thank goodness I’d gone shopping earlier. “I should be there in twenty minutes and I’ll get started cooking right away. Call me when you get there, and I’ll buzz you in.”

“I don’t want to cause you to work on your day off ...”

I felt a lightness in my heart I hadn’t felt in a while. Not even when I was talking with Henry. “Well, okay,” I teased, “if you’d rather just sit in your hotel room eating peanuts, instead of enjoying a homemade dinner ...”

“You sold me,” he said. “I’ll be there in twenty.”

 

I made it back to my apartment building by 8:30. As I crossed the parking lot, I spotted a lone figure in the shadows, leaning against a nondescript car. I’d been around enough of them to recognize a government issue when I saw one. “Hey, Gav,” I said as he pushed himself up to walk over.

He stepped into the spill of overhead light and I could see he was smiling. I was used to seeing him in a suit and tie, so it took a little adjustment to get used to the blue jeans and sweatshirt. He looked a lot younger than I remembered. How long had it been since we’d spoken in person? A year? Two?

“Aren’t you cold?” I asked, pointing to his leather jacket, which he’d left unzipped.

He shrugged. “You get used to it.”

“You made good time.”

“For a home-cooked meal? You bet,” he said, falling into step beside me.

“I thought it was the pleasure of my company.”

He chuckled softly, sending puffs of air swirling into the night to disappear in front of him. “After all the grief you put me through?”

I laughed.

We stepped up onto the sidewalk in front of the building at the same time. Without warning, he stopped and turned to me.

I stopped, too. “What?”

“It’s good to see you, Ollie,” he said, looking as confused by his unexpected pronouncement as I was. “Really good.”

Like a fog lifting from my brain, I felt it, too. I smiled up at him. “I know,” I said, realization dawning. “I ... I think I missed you.”

He grinned and started walking again. A sudden, pleasant awkwardness had just settled upon us, but I liked it.

James was asleep at the front desk and we tiptoed past him. “That’s James,” I whispered.

“I know.”

I shot him a look. “How much background checking did you do on me when we first met?”

A smile twitched at his lips. “Enough.”

We rode up in companionable silence, and I couldn’t get over how different he appeared when not dressed like an agent. “You look good,” I said.

He stopped staring at the numbers and turned to me. “So do you.”

The elevator dinged loudly and I wasn’t terribly surprised to see Mrs. Wentworth’s door crack open to spy on my arrival. One very surprised eye stared out at me before she opened the door full wide. “Ollie,” she said, stepping out into the hall, effectively blocking our path. “Is everything okay?” Although she addressed me, her scrutiny was on Gav. “You look familiar,” she said to him. “Have we met?”

“This is ...” I had been about to introduce him as Special Agent in Charge Leonard Gavin, but I changed my mind midsentence. “This is a friend of mine. Leonard.”

“Nice to meet you, Mrs. Wentworth,” he said.

His knowing her name rendered her almost speechless. She narrowed her eyes. “Oh, so you’re one of them, are you?” She fixed me with a smile, then returned her attention to Gav. “You take care of this girl, you understand?”

“I promise,” he said.

“Have a good night,” she called as I pulled out my keys.

As I shut the door behind us, I cringed. “Sorry about that. I bet Mrs. Wentworth is thinking all sorts of wild and crazy things right now.”

“I like that she looks out for you,” he said, “but one thing ...”

I threw my keys in the bowl by the door and turned to face him. “What’s that?”

“How about next time you introduce me as Gav? I hate the name Leonard.”

“You got it,” I said, then thought,
next time?

I took his jacket and hung it up in my tiny front closet. “Well, this is it,” I said, leading him into the living room. “Believe it or not, I cleaned today, so I’m less embarrassed than I normally would be.” I turn into my kitchen and flipped on the lights. “A lot smaller than the one at the White House, wouldn’t you say?”

He followed me in. “I would have thought you’d have a monster kitchen with every newfangled tool out there. This looks so ... normal.”

“Disappointed?”

“Not at all,” he said. “I like it. It’s comfortable.”

“Have a seat.”

He did and we talked while I asked him for food preferences. Lucky for me, I’d impulsively left some pork chops in the refrigerator after food shopping, rather than freezing them. As the oven preheated, I prepared them the way my mom used to when I was a kid—with crushed ranch-flavored chips as breading. “These will only take about a half hour to bake,” I said. “That okay?”

“I have all night.” His cheeks went pink, as though hearing how that came out. “I mean, sure. I’m more concerned about you. I know you get in superearly.”