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  “I can’t let Tara do this on her own. I need to get in there.”

  “It’s done. Smith also said you’re now on the White House rear delivery gate. Effective immediately. Whoever goes in, and whoever goes out, you’ll see ‘em.”

  “You heard Tony got arrested?” Mart asked Tara as they were prepping for the First Family’s Saturday evening meal.

  “Produce Tony?” Tara blinked at Mart. She looked down at the cutting board in front of her, minding the sharp knife. “Unbelievable. Really. I don’t believe it.”

  “Yeah, that’s what I heard. Some new guy made the delivery. You should have heard him. I think he wanted me to take his picture by the side door or something.”

  “That’s Heath. He’s working Tony’s shift for now. He was in awe of the place. I told him about when I interviewed here.” She sliced the fresh pineapple into small chunks. “I still remember my first day on the job.”

  “Me, too. You were as bug-eyed as a brand-new culinary school graduate.” Mart’s tone sounded teasing, but Tara glanced at him. His eyes weren’t happy.

  “I wasn’t that bad, was I?” she asked.

  Mart nodded. “It happens to everyone. I mean, look at where we get to work. Who we get to cook for. We go places that few people have ever been.”

  “We’re doing prep work for the president’s daughter’s pizza night.” Tara grinned. “But I just think about cooking good food for good people. A regular family.”

  “I’m glad you’re satisfied with that.”

  “What?” Tara stopped slicing and stared at him. “This is a dream job.”

  “Well, I’m not going to bust my hind end working here in obscurity.”

  “Obscurity? You talked about how amazing it is that we get to cook for the leader of the free world, how we see things that people don’t. I know you wanted that executive chef position.” And it still probably got under his skin that she got the job he wanted.

  “Maybe I did. Once.” He continued slicing. “All I know is, the day after the State Dinner, I’m throwing my gear in the SUV and heading for the Big Apple. Kissing these ridiculous politics good-bye.”

  “You know it’s never about the politics here in the kitchen. It’s about the food.”

  “Not always.” Mart kept chopping.

  What was with him? “I’ve got to admit I’m almost jealous of you. Working for Eric Ripert.”

  “You’ll see. In five years I’ll have my own restaurant after I’m done at Eric’s.”

  Mart didn’t sound like he was plotting anything. She kept slicing peppers, then started shredding a block of mozzarella cheese. A moment ago he’d sounded jealous that she’d gotten the position. Maybe he was just getting in a last dig on the way out. Strange, too, that Mart should suddenly grow so chatty.

  Two of the sous chefs were preparing a soup across the way, and Adelaide was busy at her computer, going over menu plans. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary, yet Tara found herself questioning motives behind the simplest statements.

  Did Jack and his cohorts know about Tony’s arrest? They probably did.

  “Yep, I’ll be out of here soon enough. They’ll be sorry. Especially Chief Usher Kanaday.”

  “Why’s that?” She blinked at Mart’s sudden change in tone.

  “He’ll see what a mistake he made.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Mart cocked his head to the side a little and held up his knife. “Success is always the best revenge. Served up hot. Kanaday had better watch it.”

  Chapter 5

  Here’s some of the kitchen staff now,” said Marine First Sergeant Beaumont Decker, longtime guard at the White House. He flagged down the neat little blue sedan that approached the guardhouse. “They usually get here early, especially so with today’s snow.”

  Jack tried not to yawn. His uniform felt stiff, fresh off the hangers. He’d arrived here shortly before 6:00 a.m., just ahead of the first stream of employees making their way to the White House.

  “Always check ID. I don’t care who it is or who they say they are,” Decker said as he slid open the guardhouse window. “Morning, Chef Montanez.”

  “Morning, Buzz,” said the petite Hispanic woman behind the wheel of the car. Jack remembered her from his first day when he and George had checked the place out. Tara’s boss. “I’ve got an extra one today. Tara Whitley’s with me.”

  “Hey, Buzz.” A familiar voice and motion in the front seat made Jack duck his head to see into the vehicle and catch Tara’s expression as she handed her ID to Chef Montanez. Her eyes widened, and he winked at her.

  The chefs continued on their way, windshield wipers swishing away the gentle snowfall. Decker slid the window shut. “It’s been a wicked winter, Courtland.”

  “I hear ya on that one.” Jack watched the vehicle head to one of the coveted parking spots. “So everyone stops here?”

  “You bring a vehicle onto the property, you stop here.” Decker took a sip from his covered paper cup. “Otherwise, no one gets in. I don’t care if I’ve seen them fifty-two weeks a year, they stop. I see ID.”

  This was good to know. But would he get a chance to see anything beyond this small guard shack? He squinted out at the sky, now a dark gray instead of the ink black he’d seen when he’d first awakened. Dawn wasn’t too far off, but today would be cloudy with snow flurries.

  Beaumont Decker, or “Buzz,” as he liked to be called, had been appointed to the White House for nearly fifteen years. Already he’d told Jack stories of the past as they sucked down their hot coffee.

  “Has anyone ever tried to make it past you?” Jack asked him.

  “Once, in ninety-eight.” Buzz chuckled and shook his head. “They received a welcome from the Marines. Nobody’s tried since, at least not on my watch.”

  “I imagine people would think twice after hearing about that.” The Marines kept a twenty-four-hour watch on many parts of the White House. Sealed as tight as the proverbial drum, nothing would seep in—or leak out—unless it was someone on the inside.

  These employees were screened to an extent that many companies didn’t screen their workers. Even Tara, with her completely benign record, had a red flag with her cousin, simply by the fact that he’d made contact with her.

  He imagined she probably freaked out the other day when Smith and Durbin showed up on her doorstep. It had been three days, and he hadn’t seen nor heard from her since. But here came Monday morning, and he was in an ideal position to see and hear, at least to some extent, everything that was going on in and around the executive mansion.

  “You’re thinking some pretty deep thoughts there for a Monday,” said Decker.

  “I guess so.” He looked along the winding driveway at the house that had withstood wars and changes in government and American culture. “Hard to believe I’m here.”

  “Well, Chief Usher said you were part of a new security effort with the State Dinner coming up. I tell ya, I’m on top of things here.”

  “I don’t doubt that you are.”

  “So why are you here, then?”

  The man didn’t miss a thing, and if someone were to get in during his shift, it wouldn’t be because of Decker’s lack of observation.

  “I’m consulting. Always a good idea to evaluate what we do, to see how we can make it better.”

  “If you want my opinion, the heater in here works fine, but you should be sitting out here in July. I think I lose ten pounds of water weight every week, much as I sweat.”

  “Duly noted, sir.” Much as he’d dreaded the guardhouse, at least this guy was good for a laugh.

  Buzz looked at him with narrowed eyes. “But in all my years here, I’ve never seen a ‘consultant’ show up here in my guardhouse, thinking they know how to do my job better than I do.”

  “Not at all. I’m here to learn from you, actually.”

  Buzz slapped Jack on the back and took another swig of coffee.

  By the end of his shift, Jack knew that the produce
arrived early, the secretary of state had bad breath even from three feet away, and the secretary of the interior drove a vehicle older than his Camry. The delivery route of the White House wasn’t easily accessible. Definitely an inside job somehow. Jack also knew, though, that Buzz would kill for the sake of his country and to protect those he served. Fresh after his service in the Gulf War, Buzz joined the security staff and had stayed ever since.

  “This is my family now,” Buzz said.

  Jack kept hearing the White House workers were like a family. Even Tara’s hackles had raised when he brought up the idea that maybe an insider was trying to sabotage the State Dinner and attack the nation’s home for the First Family.

  He sent her a text message. I’M FREE AFTER 2. COFFEE?

  Tara checked her phone as she and Adelaide walked along to their meeting with the First Lady. Someone had sent a message. No, two someones.

  Trevor: HOWDY CUZ. SEE YOU SOON? CALL ME. BIG STUFF COMING UP.

  And even better, Jack: I’M FREE AFTER 2. COFFEE? In spite of her resolve, her heart gave a happy hop inside her chest. Then she clutched her clipboard a little more tightly. Jack had been wearing a security uniform and greeted her in the guardhouse with Buzz this morning. The wink he’d given had warmed her to her toes, once her head quit hurting after she cracked it on Adelaide’s rearview mirror.

  Was there hope for them? Would there be a them, eventually? Tara had lain awake last night, praying for an answer. No handwriting appeared on the wall, saying, “Yes, Jack is the one for you. True love will overcome all.” She half grinned at the idea. In the Bible, the handwriting on the wall hadn’t been a harbinger of good news.

  “Perfect love casts out fear,” the Bible taught her. No wonder she feared for her heart. Her love for Jack, and certainly his for her, hadn’t been perfect.

  Adelaide had kept talking about the menu and the seating arrangement she had from Chief Usher Kanaday, and now she stopped outside the First Lady’s office and faced Tara.

  “Yoo-hoo, Tara?” She snapped her fingers a few inches from Tara’s nose.

  Tara shook her head. “I’m sorry.”

  “Just making sure you’re with me.” Adelaide gave her an elder-sister smile. “I’m not running this show. Your role is just as important as mine. This is going to be the best State Dinner ever.”

  “You said that about the last one.”

  “Of course I did. And so it was.” Her round brown face crinkled in a smile.

  The door to First Lady Franklin’s office swung open, and her assistant greeted them. “Please come in. Thank you for coming. I know you’ve been very busy. But the First Lady wanted to touch base with you again.”

  Tara smoothed her chef jacket, the one she kept on hand for special occasions. Her everyday jacket was downstairs in the locker. They entered Beverly Franklin’s office.

  She rose from her desk chair, her crisp red linen jacket topping black slacks. Simple gold bangle bracelets matched her hoop earrings. The lady had style, her red-haired bob the hottest new hairstyle since the campaign and inauguration.

  “Chefs, thank you for coming,” she said in her soft Southern drawl. They’d dubbed her the “Steel Magnolia” on the campaign trail as she supported her husband on his journey to the White House. “I’m passing along more information for you about the menu. I decided I’d like to add a course with Middle Eastern food to honor the Anqaran royal family, besides giving them a sampling of our American cuisine.”

  Tara followed Adelaide’s lead and took one of the chairs in front of Beverly Franklin’s desk. She glanced at her boss, who started writing on her notepad.

  “We can do that,” Chef Montanez said. That was always her response. “Don’t tell them you’ll see about it,” she’d told Tara once. “Tell them you can. Then make it happen.”

  Thankfully, no one had ordered sushi yet.

  “Do you have any idea about the protein you’d like to serve?” Tara asked, finding her voice around the bump in her throat.

  “Lamb, something spicy,” the First Lady replied. She reached for her printer and handed a paper to Adelaide.

  “What’s this?” Adelaide asked.

  “The royal family’s chef sent this recipe, so I’d like to duplicate it, or come as close as we can.”

  Tara wrote LAMB in all caps and nodded. No pressure. It would be like making her grandma’s chicken fried steak and serving it to Cat Cora. Or even Paula Deen. Some chefs didn’t consider Paula legit, but as far as Tara was concerned, Ms. Deen definitely knew her Southern cooking. She didn’t want a poorly executed dish to be the cause of any issues between Anqara and the U.S., no matter how amicable their relationship seemed.

  Adelaide passed the recipe to Tara. It was a list of ingredients for a simple meatball and sauce. “Will this come before or after the beef course?” Tara asked.

  “I think it would do nicely after the salad, something warm, to remind them of home,” replied First Lady Franklin. “I’m a firm believer in food bringing people together.”

  “Us, too,” Tara said. She passed the recipe back to Adelaide. They had most of the spices on hand. They needed a garnish, though. One more thing to add to the produce list.

  “If you could make a test batch and have it ready for me tomorrow?” The First Lady rose from her desk chair.

  “Of course. I’ll make sure of it,” said Adelaide. They both shook hands with her, and Tara followed Adelaide from the office.

  Once they left the administrative wing where the First Lady had her office, Adelaide’s stroll kicked into a top-gear walk. Although taller than the executive chef, Tara had to keep her own pace quick.

  “Do we have enough lamb?” Tara asked.

  “For now. For the samples, anyway. Call Capital Produce. We need some extra greens for garnish—and I’m making that tomato sauce from scratch so it can blend overnight. But we’ll need more tomatoes for the sauce. Get an extra ten pounds.” Adelaide scribbled on her notepad.

  “Will do. Sounds like a great recipe.”

  “I’ll make enough for the whole crew to try. Might as well, since it’s a last-minute addition to the menu.” Adelaide slowed down once they reached the stairs. “Oh, and a Girl Scout group is coming through tomorrow morning. Plus a news team from CNN. They want to cover dinner prep.”

  Tara nodded. “It sounds like we’ll have a three-ring circus going on.” Especially now since Jack walked back into her life and her job, she realized how busy the White House was, with all the coming and going. Carefully screened, of course.

  She shivered, remembering her parents’ phone call a little more than two years ago, about the shootings on Fort Hood, just over an hour from where they lived. The shootings rocked the military base, echoed through the country. What would prevent a shooter from doing the same here, someone who belonged in this environment? Surely there were warning signs with the shooter on the base. The news had painted a picture of a disturbed individual who still had access and people either missed or ignored important clues. She thought of Mart, disgruntled. He was moving on, but what would prevent him from giving a departing jab to the White House on his way out?

  Were they missing warning signs here, even now? Lord, I surely hope not, she prayed silently as she headed back into the kitchen with Adelaide. Guide Jack. Guide me. Protect our First Family and the ones who lead us. No one is in office that You didn’t allow to be there.

  Before she called the produce company, she took out her own phone and sent Jack a message: COFFEE SOUNDS GREAT. C U THEN.

  A brisk wind blew through Farragut Park. Jack gritted his teeth. Sometimes winter liked to hang on, and on. The park probably wasn’t the best suggestion to share cups of coffee. But it was close to the White House, and both Jack and Tara were free.

  “Maybe we should go somewhere warmer,” he offered.

  “Sounds good to me. Although the cold air feels great after being in the kitchen most of the day.” Tara walked beside him, a tote bag slung over her arm, her b
oots with secure footing on the pavement.

  “How do you do early mornings like that? I’m not a fan, myself.” Of course, being up late working didn’t help either.

  “I’m used to it, I guess.” She smiled at him, pink tingeing her cheeks. “Where do you want to go?”

  He pulled out his phone and searched on the map. “Fifteenth. There’s a café.”

  They ambled along, a block over until he led her to a place called Simone’s. Ironic, the closest place was a French bistro. He glanced into the front window. Mostly deserted.

  Jack held the door for Tara as soft violin music filtered past them. Soon the hostess had them tucked into a corner booth that formed a semicircle and bordered on making Jack feel claustrophobic. He set his phone down on the table. They settled into the seat, facing the front of the café. Neither one of them wanted their backs to the window. Not in Paris, and not now.

  “You were in the guardhouse this morning,” Tara said. He’d wondered when she’d ask.

  “Yes, for now. Probably until the dinner.” He studied the menu, but he didn’t want to eat. “If you’d like to order something besides coffee, go ahead. My treat.”

  “I’m fine right now. I’m just getting coffee. A big, strong coffee.” She arranged the flatware in front of her into a more orderly appearance instead of askew.

  “Any news I should know about?” he asked after they ordered their coffees.

  “Mart actually started talking on Friday about how he felt about leaving, and not getting the position. It sounds like his beef is more with Chief Usher Kanaday. I didn’t call you about it, though, since you’re already looking at him.”

  He bit back his words. True, they were looking at Chef Welch already. “You know about the produce deliveryman being arrested.”

  “We’re shocked. I find it hard to believe. Plus, Adelaide heard that Tony claims he was framed.”

  “He was right there with the people who started throwing bottles over the White House fence. They didn’t respond to security so they were taken into custody.”