We nodded, but were silent. Paul patted me on the shoulder on his way out. “Things will start to get better soon. I’m sure of it.”
He left, and we set to work on dinner, eventually settling back into our comfortable rhythms. When I signed onto the kitchen computer, I found a note from the First Lady:
Welcome back, Ollie-to you and to your staff. My husband and I are very much relieved to know you’re back in charge. Thank you for your patience during these trying times.
I shared the note with Cyan and Bucky who, respectively, were cheered and unfazed. Tonight’s dinner, capitalizing on the fresh veggies from my garden on the third floor, boasted a little Italian flair. We were serving a spring greens salad, bruschetta, and pasta primavera with chicken, asparagus, cherry tomatoes, and baby squash. Marcel, I knew, was planning the big finish of warm Brie with walnuts and maple syrup, garnished with fresh berries.
After we got the bruschetta topping started, I turned to Bucky. “I haven’t spoken with the Secret Service yet about picking up the eggs.”
He raised his head in acknowledgment but didn’t respond.
“I’ll talk to them as soon as we’re settled here. But I’m sure they’re going to want specifics. Do you have a good time I can ask them to be there? Will Brandy be home?”
Bucky’s head snapped up. He made an imperative, unintelligible noise-halfway between a gasp and a “Shh!”
“What?” I asked, not understanding.
He gestured the two of us closer, his eyes wide with anger. “Do not say another word,” he said, his voice menacing. He looked about the kitchen but there was no one else around. Keeping to a whisper, he said, “You will not refer to her in any way that might bring notice to our… our…”
“Relationship?” I prompted.
His glare darkened. “It does not exist.”
“Uh…” Cyan ran her fingers over her lips. “What?”
Again the unintelligible noise. “The relationship you refer to is private. It does not exist”-he jammed a finger onto the countertop-“here. You will not refer to it, or to her, in that regard. We refuse to make ourselves a spectacle.”
Perhaps reading the expressions on our faces, he quickly added, “We want to keep things private.”
“Sure,” I said, but his words hit me in a way I hadn’t anticipated. As I went back to preparations-cleaning the asparagus and baby greens-Liss’s not-so-subtle threat to make my relationship with Tom public sent a shooting pain of fear up the back of my throat.
“What’s wrong, Ollie?” Cyan asked. “You’re pale.”
To tell the truth, I felt pale. A sadness I couldn’t reach sickened me. And I knew this queasy dread wouldn’t go away until I could make things right. The question was, how? I took a deep breath. “I need some air,” I said. “Give me a minute.”
Even as I strode out of the kitchen, I was pulling my cell phone out of my pocket. I made my way outside into one of the courts that flanked the North Portico. “Tom,” I said when he answered.
“What’s wrong?”
The fact that he could tell so quickly that something was wrong was not lost on me. He and I had gotten to that point where we could often anticipate what the other would say. Comfort. We’d had that. For a while, at least.
I wanted to talk. But I knew this wasn’t a conversation for the phone. “Something’s come up.”
“Are you all right?”
“Yes, yes.” Gosh, I was not handling this very well. “Everyone is fine. But Liss-Howard Liss.”
“You’re back in the White House, aren’t you? I heard you got the all-clear today. I wanted to call, but I’m in training today.”
“Oh, you’re busy?”
“We’re on a break right now. Your timing is phenomenal.”
“At least something is.”
“Talk to me, but make it quick. We’re being called back in for the next session.”
There was no way to put this in a thirty-second conversation. “Just do me a favor and call me when you get out, okay? Call me first before you do anything. Will you do that?”
“What’s going on?”
“Nothing.” I cringed. That was a lie. “It will keep until you call me.” I hoped that was the truth.
“Ollie, you’re making me nervous.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll tell you later. But it’ll be okay.” I felt a swift stab in my heart. “I have it all figured out.”
He gave a short laugh. “I don’t know if that’s good news or bad news. But I do have to go. I’ll call you later.”
“As soon as you get out, right?”
“That very moment.”
I rolled my shoulders but didn’t feel any better. That queasy sensation was still there. I stared up at the sky from between the court’s side walls. Overcast today. I shivered. It was cold outside, but I just noticed it now. My sorrowful mood did not have its genesis in Liss’s threat. Liss had only exacerbated an awareness that was already there. I knew what I needed to do. But I wondered if I had the strength to do it.
The sky above held no answers, so I made my way inside to the kitchen’s warmth, where life always felt safest.
Marguerite Schumacher, the White House social secretary, met me in the hallway. “I was just coming to talk with you.” Pert and dark, she had limitless energy, and a tenacity that I admired. “Have you heard about the plans?”
I told her I had. “I’m just disappointed that they’re cancelling the post-party. Everyone always looks forward to that.”
She wrinkled her nose. “I have to tell you, at first I thought canceling the party portion was a bad idea. But after talking with Mrs. Campbell, I understand where she’s coming from.”
“Having a party just a week after Minkus’s death wouldn’t look good?”
“That,” Marguerite agreed, “and…”
“What else? What are they not telling us?”
She placed a finger on her lips. “Don’t share this with anyone else.”
I felt my heart skip a beat. “What is it?”
For the third time today, the person I was talking with looked both directions before speaking. Anyone else might have started to develop a complex. But I understood. That’s part of the world I chose to live in.
Something else clicked in that moment. That realization that I was always in the middle of things. That’s who I was.
“You remember our last big holiday?” Marguerite asked.
“How could I forget?” The days leading up to the official White House holiday open house had been eventful, to say the least.
“Mrs. Campbell doesn’t want to take any chances this time. She wants the children to have their event, but, in her words, doesn’t want ‘to tempt fate’ by entertaining all the adults later that evening.”
“ ‘Tempt fate,’ ” I repeated.
Marguerite nodded. “At least until the Minkus investigation is completed.”
“So she believes Minkus was murdered?”
“I really can’t say.”
I watched her reaction. “You don’t know, or you don’t want to tell me?”
She gave a Mona Lisa smile. “I really can’t say.” Then, deflecting my question, she brought me up to date on the expected guests, and explained that there would be additional security-more than usual-on the grounds that day.
“But they never considered canceling the entire event?”
Marguerite gave me a weary look. “You’re damned if you do and you’re damned if you don’t. Cancelling the kids’ events would be such a disappointment. There are families who look forward to this all year. Some come from across the country just for the chance to participate. Mrs. Campbell doesn’t want to let them down.”
“What about the clowns and the book readings and the magic shows?”
“Of course. We’ll still have all of that.”
“But there will be added security.”
“A lot of added security.”
“And the guests aren’t going to notice?”