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The words hadn’t left my mouth before one of the assistants, Faber, appeared in the doorway. “Five minutes.”
Marcel and I didn’t waste another moment. “Bucky, come on,” I said, inviting him to join us. “I’d like you to be part of this, too.”
Pleased, he hurried along with us to don clean jackets-crisp, white, recently pressed-and our tall toques. While we kept them here in the kitchen for occasional use, we always wore them for media events. I liked the fact that wearing one made me seem taller.
Marcel was repeating things to himself in a low voice.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
With an abashed look, he whispered, “I am trying to remember key words to respond when the First Lady asks me the questions.”
He and I had been provided with scripts, ahead of time. Nothing in them was difficult or unusual, but I understood his discomposure. We were supposed to recite from our prepared scripts, but make it look conversational. Sure. Get in front of the cameras and all memorization, all practice, goes out the window.
I’d surprised Bucky by inviting him to participate with me. My intention was not to make him eat his words about being left shorthanded in the kitchen but to foster a sense of inclusion. Henry was my idol where that talent was concerned, and I was eager to prove myself a worthy pupil. As my second-in-command, Bucky wasn’t likely to be called upon to answer any questions on camera. But you never could completely predict these things.
Bucky’s eyes were wild as he straightened and re-straightened his white jacket. “Do I look okay?” he asked.
“You look great,” I said. And it was true. Though he and I occasionally bumped heads and ideas in the kitchen, we had a mutual respect and I was, if not glad, then resigned to the fact that he would always be part of our crew. No doubt about it: In the kitchen, he was an asset. Unfortunately, he was also a pain in mine.
“Where’s Yi-im?” I asked Marcel. “Didn’t he want to be part of this? He’s done so much lately.”
Marcel wagged his head sadly. “He has taken ill.”
I’d seen him this morning, and he’d looked fine to me. I said so.
Marcel gave a very French shrug. “What can I say? He tells me he is sick; I have to believe him. We do not want germs on our precious creations.”
“That’s true.”
Faber led the three of us up, using the stairs closest to the usher’s office. I felt the nervous jitters myself and I, too, started to rehearse my lines for when the First Lady would ask about menu preparations.
On our way up, we met Curly coming down. Looking a lot like an angry bulldog, he seemed not to even notice us until we passed him. But then he grabbed my arm and looked directly into my face. “You seen Ma
“No,” I said wiggling my arm to dislodge his hand. But he held fast.
Faber cleared his throat. “We are on our way to the official opening-”
“I know where the hell you’re headed,” he said, his voice a growl that matched the bulldog visage to perfection. The long, pinched scar throbbed red. “But since you’re always chasing after Ma
Although he let go of my arm, he stood right in front of me, blocking my passage.
“So I’ll ask you again,” Curly said. “Where are they?”
Faber stood two steps higher than I did. “Ms. Paras,” he said, meekly. “It’s almost time.”
“I don’t know what your problem is, Curly,” I said. “But I have a commitment and I believe in doing my job. Maybe it’s time you started doing yours.”
His face whitened even as his scar burned crimson. I stepped around him, shaken by the altercation. With Gene around all these years, I’d never had to deal with Curly directly before-at least, not so often. I sincerely hoped Paul would not see fit to promote him from “acting” to “permanent” chief electrician.
When we finally got upstairs, I was blown away by the number of people. Sure, we’d been given a list and a head-count, but it’s one thing to expect a specific number of guests, and another to see them up close. On paper, and during pla
The holiday opening was, indeed, one of the more family-friendly events the White House threw each year and I was pleased to see so many little ones in attendance.
Camera crews behaved themselves, maintaining the decorum prescribed to them by social secretary, Marguerite Schumacher. She was on hand, of course, overseeing every minute detail. This was her moment, as well as Kendra’s. The two had worked side-by-side with the First Lady to create the rich, warm, welcoming festival that was the official begi
Faber led us through a cordoned-off walkway where Marcel, Bucky, and I were directed to stand. He waited with us, one hand low, keeping us behind the ropes, until one of the other ushers nodded. Continuing along the cordoned-off path, we smiled at the reporters, who lobbed questions at us as we passed.
All three of us nodded, looking as happy and content as possible. We knew that we were not to answer any questions directly. The only time we were to speak to the reporters was in the Red Room, and only when we were addressed by the First Lady.
Marcel stood to the right of the gingerbread house. I stood to its left, with Bucky next to me. Had Yi-im been here, he would have taken my position, and Bucky and I would have stood a bit farther away. Photo-op-wise, however, it looked better to have the house flanked by two chefs. Symmetry and all that.
The crowd was currently enraptured by the show in the Blue Room behind us, while we waited, practically standing at attention. I twisted to peer into the next room, to watch the delight wash over the faces of the kids and the adults when the marvelous White House tree was lit.
I stifled a sigh. Marcel shifted his weight and adjusted his neckline.
We waited.
In the next room, the First Lady was answering questions. I could just make out her words, high and clear over the crowd sounds. The tree hadn’t yet been lit, and she was explaining the logic behind this year’s theme, and how she, Marguerite, and Kendra had worked together for nearly half a year, pla
I let my gaze wander toward the First Lady.
In the doorway that co
Bindy was right, after all. I guess the temptation of seeing her children’s creations up close and personal when the world got its first look was too much for Mrs. Blanchard to pass up.
Little Trey broke away from his mother and made his way over, all smiles. He pointed. “Those are ours,” he said, with more than a little pride.
“They sure are,” I said in a soft voice as I bent down to talk with him. “I bet you’re glad now that you made them.”
He gave me a face that looked out of place in someone so young. Cynical and amused. “We didn’t really make those,” he said, inching closer. “But we helped a little bit. I helped the most.”
“I had a feeling you did.”
Mrs. Blanchard had turned around to look for her son. When she saw him talking with me, she came over, carrying the youngest Blanchard on her hip, the middle one toddling behind. “I’m so sorry,” she said in a stage whisper. “I hope he hasn’t been bothering you.”
Her eyes raked the gingerbread house and her gaze settled on the three gingerbread men just above it.