the room, doing their best to look ominous and imposing. I recognized all but two as members of the Presidential Protective Division, the PPD. A second later, I reassessed. The two unfamiliar men standing together at the back of the room were definitely not part of the PPD. I’d bet a week’s worth of onion chopping on that. I wasn’t close enough to see if they wore Secret Service lapel pins, but it didn’t matter. The pair studied the room differently. They both wore gray suits with jackets open, but their manner was off enough to make them stand out—at least to me. The reporters probably paid them no mind, and because the Secret Service agents in attendance weren’t alarmed, I wasn’t, either.
The taller of the two men caught me watching. He glanced away, though not before chilling me with an icy stare. What was up with that? I concentrated on Sargeant again, but a random thought flashed and I chanced another look at the two men. There was something familiar about the way the taller one—the one who’d caught me looking at him—moved. His manner and build teased at my memory, but I knew I’d never seen his face before. I tried shrugging it off. Their presence here was none of my business, but I still wanted to know who they were. Couldn’t help it. It was my nature.
For his part, Sargeant looked like a prisoner about to be executed. He stood apart from the others: the First Lady, the White House press secretary, and the myriad assistants who were there to ensure a quick and smooth event. With consternation on his face, and index cards in hand, his lips moved, as though practicing his speech in silence. He was so fidgety, I realized that if a person could pace in place, he was doing it.
It wasn’t until I was almost to the lectern, saying, “Good luck, Peter,” that he blinked. His eyes were bloodshot, like those of a man who’d been abruptly roused from sleep by an air horn.
“Do you suppose they’ll ask me questions?” he asked. Without waiting for me to reply, he went on. “I’ve been trying to come up with answers for whatever they might ask. I’ve been up all night imagining they might try to get me to comment on some of our foreign guests. Especially with the Durasi president due here soon. I don’t want to cause an international situation. You don’t think they will, do you?” He waved the white cards between us. “I wrote a few notes, in case they do.”
He held them in both hands now, staring down. I could only read what was written on the top one. Even upside down it was easy to make out the words he’d jotted so precisely: “No comment.”
In my opinion, rather than corner him for his views on foreign affairs, it was far more likely they’d ask about his background and want to know what he thought he might bring to the position that was new and different. Reporters would be eager to discover what Sargeant’s unique stamp on the position might be.
Our new chief usher’s fastidious nature was well-known within the residence—his meticulousness was legendary. If I could hazard a guess, those attributes were probably what had helped seal his appointment to this position. The local newshounds didn’t know these facets of Sargeant yet. They would no doubt. Soon.
“I’m sure they’ll ask a few things about your career thus far,” I said, “but their goal, mostly, is to get to know you. Don’t worry about them pressing you for anything you aren’t comfortable sharing. You’re surrounded by the First Lady and her assistants, don’t forget. The White House press secretary is here, too. He’s good at putting out fires.”
“So you
are
expecting them to press me on specifics?”
At that moment, the press secretary stepped away from the First Lady and approached Sargeant. “We need you over here,” he said, indicating a spot near the far window. “The First Lady and I will say a few words, then introduce you.” To me, he said, “It’s nice to have you here, Chef. Why
The taller of the two men caught me watching. He glanced away, though not before chilling me with an icy stare. What was up with that? I concentrated on Sargeant again, but a random thought flashed and I chanced another look at the two men. There was something familiar about the way the taller one—the one who’d caught me looking at him—moved. His manner and build teased at my memory, but I knew I’d never seen his face before. I tried shrugging it off. Their presence here was none of my business, but I still wanted to know who they were. Couldn’t help it. It was my nature.
For his part, Sargeant looked like a prisoner about to be executed. He stood apart from the others: the First Lady, the White House press secretary, and the myriad assistants who were there to ensure a quick and smooth event. With consternation on his face, and index cards in hand, his lips moved, as though practicing his speech in silence. He was so fidgety, I realized that if a person could pace in place, he was doing it.
It wasn’t until I was almost to the lectern, saying, “Good luck, Peter,” that he blinked. His eyes were bloodshot, like those of a man who’d been abruptly roused from sleep by an air horn.
“Do you suppose they’ll ask me questions?” he asked. Without waiting for me to reply, he went on. “I’ve been trying to come up with answers for whatever they might ask. I’ve been up all night imagining they might try to get me to comment on some of our foreign guests. Especially with the Durasi president due here soon. I don’t want to cause an international situation. You don’t think they will, do you?” He waved the white cards between us. “I wrote a few notes, in case they do.”
He held them in both hands now, staring down. I could only read what was written on the top one. Even upside down it was easy to make out the words he’d jotted so precisely: “No comment.”
In my opinion, rather than corner him for his views on foreign affairs, it was far more likely they’d ask about his background and want to know what he thought he might bring to the position that was new and different. Reporters would be eager to discover what Sargeant’s unique stamp on the position might be.
Our new chief usher’s fastidious nature was well-known within the residence—his meticulousness was legendary. If I could hazard a guess, those attributes were probably what had helped seal his appointment to this position. The local newshounds didn’t know these facets of Sargeant yet. They would no doubt. Soon.
“I’m sure they’ll ask a few things about your career thus far,” I said, “but their goal, mostly, is to get to know you. Don’t worry about them pressing you for anything you aren’t comfortable sharing. You’re surrounded by the First Lady and her assistants, don’t forget. The White House press secretary is here, too. He’s good at putting out fires.”
“So you
are
expecting them to press me on specifics?”
At that moment, the press secretary stepped away from the First Lady and approached Sargeant. “We need you over here,” he said, indicating a spot near the far window. “The First Lady and I will say a few words, then introduce you.” To me, he said, “It’s nice to have you here, Chef. Why
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