Hail to the Chef

“This is not their concern,” she said. “Not now. Someday when it becomes their decision, I hope they’ll see the wisdom of keeping Zendy Industries under family control.”

Volkov, at the far end of the room, shouted, “Then buy us out. We can sell it and you can control it all.”

Mrs. Campbell returned to her seat. “You know I don’t have the means to do that, Nick,” she said.

I glanced up at Jackson and tilted my head toward the door, asking if he was ready to serve dessert. Maybe a little sweetness would bring these people around.

While Jackson placed the peppermint ice cream at each diner’s place, Volkov returned to his seat, grumbling. He stopped Jackson. Holding up his lowball glass, he swirled it briefly before lifting it to his lips and draining the last few drops. “Get me another one of these, would you?”

Jackson nodded wordlessly, but when he returned to the bar area of the pantry, I watched him prepare the drink differently.

“Won’t he know the difference?” I asked when Jackson added a liberal dose of tonic water.

“He’s lucky to know the difference between his hands and his feet at this point.”

When Mrs. Campbell excused herself to take a phone call, the three others talked among themselves. I hoped for a tasty piece of information-for some discussion of the recently deceased Kirsten Zarzycki-but they spoke in hushed tones, and all I could make out was their intense disappointment at Mrs. Campbell’s decision.

Helen heaved a great sigh. “I guess there’s nothing left for us to do.”

I peeked around the corner long enough to see Treyton Blanchard pat her hand. “Let me talk with her one more time,” he said.

“Fat lot of good it will do,” Volkov groused. He knocked his dessert plate away with a look of disgust and staggered to his feet. “There’s got to be another way around this. And I’m going to find it.”

By the time Mrs. Campbell returned, he’d left. The Secret Service agents on hand were only too happy to guide the blitzed Mr. Volkov out of the White House. Helen made her apologies. “I can’t tell you how disappointed I am with your choice, Elaine,” she said. “We have a couple more weeks before a solid decision must be made. Just promise me you’ll think about it.”

“Helen,” Mrs. Campbell said, warning in her voice.

“I know how much Sean’s death has affected you. Perhaps it was wrong of us to push you so soon after he died. Just take your time. I believe you’ll see our point if you just give it a little time.”

“It isn’t just Sean-”

“Please,” Helen said. “Just promise me you’ll think on this again.”

I could tell Mrs. Campbell was torn. Stick to her convictions, or give her old friend some comfort? “I won’t change my mind,” she finally said.

Helen reacted as though given a great gift. “I know. I know. But as long as you give it more thought, I believe we have a chance to find agreement.”

Helen said good-bye and was escorted out. Senator Blanchard remained. “A moment of your time, Elaine?”

They returned to their seats. A moment later, Jackson refilled both coffee cups and stood just outside the dining room. I was cleaning some of our utensils, and listening hard above the clatter from Cyan’s dish washing.

“Volkov is a loose ca

From what I could tell, Mrs. Campbell’s voice sounded weary. “If I didn’t believe I was following our fathers’ wishes, I wouldn’t be holding on so tight.”

“You were the first child born to any of them and you’re like the big sister to us all. It’s only natural you feel a stronger bond to the company. You were there when Zendy was created.”

She gave a light laugh. “Zendy was conceived when I was about five. Then Helen was born, then Nick, and then years later, you.” A long pause. “Can’t you see how wrong it is to give her up? Zendy Industries is like our sister. We can’t just sell her to the highest bidder.”

“Some of us have plans, Elaine.”

“Like a run for the presidency?”

I couldn’t hear Blanchard’s answer, but I detected sarcasm in Mrs. Campbell’s tone when she said, “Isn’t that comforting?”

Cyan turned off the water and dried her hands. Thank goodness. Now I could hear.

Blanchard’s next words were clear, and no longer held their customary friendly charm. “Let me be clear on this,” he said. “You may believe that selling Zendy Industries is akin to cutting off a sibling. But by not selling, you will cut us off. You know as well as I do that Nick is about to blow. Helen is quiet, but she’s unhappy with your decision. As for me, I ca

Mrs. Campbell’s sharp intake of breath preceded her question. “What are you saying, Treyton?”

I couldn’t help myself; I had to peer in.

He stood, hands up. “You leave me no choice. Unless you change your mind. Unless you choose your flesh-and-blood friends over the pie-in-the-sky aspirations of our fathers’ company, I will no longer support you.” He licked his lips. “And I will no longer support your husband.”

“That’s blackmail.”

“No, Elaine. That’s how important this sale is to me.”

When he glanced in my direction, I ducked away. But I’d heard enough. What pressure they were putting on the First Lady and at such a difficult time in her life. Had they no sense of honor, of decency?

Treyton Blanchard left, informing Mrs. Campbell that he would no longer consider himself a regular guest at the White House.

She pressed him, and I heard his parting words. “It has become apparent that my own aspirations conflict with your agenda. It no longer behooves me to keep company with you or with your husband.”

He added: “With that in mind, my family and I will not be present at the opening ceremonies tomorrow.”

“Treyton,” Mrs. Campbell said.

“Good night, Elaine. I hope you sleep well believing your goals and dreams are superior to those of the rest of us.”

Whispering, Cyan made a face. “Well, I guess we know what the next primary race will look like.”

In a rush I could see it play out: Treyton Blanchard would indeed make a run for the presidency. And if I were any judge of character, I believed he’d start the process sooner rather than later.

The jerk. Whether he cared or not, Senator Blanchard had just lost my vote. Permanently.

THE RED ROOM WAS NOT DIRECTLY ON OUR way back downstairs, but I pulled Cyan with me to see how great the gingerbread house looked in its setting.

Kendra and her assistants were there, adding liquid to the champagne fountain.

Cyan stepped closer to the tall device, which sloshed when two assistants inched it closer to the wall. “Is that champagne in it now?”

Kendra laughed. “No, just water. I added a couple of gallons for testing. The reception starts at noon sharp and we don’t want anything to go wrong.”

Cyan and I were about to leave when Kendra called us to wait. “This is the first time I’m using this fountain,” she said. “We just took delivery on this one. Want to see it in motion?”

Since we were done for the night, I said, “Sure.”

Kendra looked like a little kid ready to blow out birthday candles.

The two assistants had pushed the fountain into place and one stood aside, ready to turn it on. “Should we lower the lights?” I asked.

Before she could answer, the assistant plugged in the fountain and Kendra leaned forward, fingering the switch. “I’m excited,” she said. “This one is bigger than the one we had before.”

She turned it on.

A loud rumble heralded the upsurge.

With a screeching rush, water shot high toward the ceiling, like an erupting volcano.

“Aaaack!” we all cried at once, lifting our arms above our heads. Water fell down on us all, a hard and fast rain.

The assistants ducked. Cyan cried out and turned away. Mouth open, Kendra was aghast. And dripping wet.