Sean, who had been working in my kitchen just twenty-four hours ago-was dead. I couldn’t get my mind around that. I couldn’t grasp how he could have been here, so alive, so much fun, and now no longer exist. But I also knew I couldn’t dwell on that right now. My first duty was to Mrs. Campbell.

She finally raised her head to face Teska. “You said, ‘incident. ’ What do you mean?”

The two agents exchanged a glance. Teska squinted, as though he were fighting a hard internal argument. “His death is under investigation.”

“What are you not telling me?”

Teska’s face twitched. He spoke slowly. “Sean Baxter may have taken his own life.”

“No!” Mrs. Campbell said, starting to stand. “I don’t believe that.” Berland’s gentle touch on the First Lady’s shoulder was enough to keep her seated. “What happened? Where is he?”

At this point the two agents seemed to forget I was there. But the First Lady hadn’t forgotten-she reached out and clasped my hand with hers. It was very cold.

Berland spoke. “Preliminary reports suggest that Mr. Baxter shot himself.”

“No,” Mrs. Campbell said again. This time, however, it was not an exclamation of disbelief, it was a flat refusal. “Sean didn’t like guns. He never would have done that.”

“Let me assure you, ma’am, the Metropolitan Police will fully investigate this as a homicide until the evidence proves otherwise. But…”

“But?”

“He left a note, ma’am.”

Mrs. Campbell crumpled in on herself, her silent crying more poignant than if she’d wailed and screamed. I reacted instinctively, forgetting this was our nation’s First Lady and seeing only a woman who’d suffered immeasurable loss. I stood next to her, putting my arm around her shaking shoulders, murmuring how sorry I was.

Berland’s eyes met mine. “Let’s get her upstairs,” she mouthed.

I leaned in to whisper to Mrs. Campbell that it might be best to return to her own rooms. She nodded and stood, keeping her face covered with one hand, grabbing my arm with the other.

“We’ll help you,” Berland said, stepping between me and the First Lady.

She didn’t release her hold. Instead, she tugged me close so that her whispered words were almost inaudible. “He cared about you, Ollie. He told me he saw a future with you.” Though tears raced down her face, she managed a wobbly smile. “He asked me to fix you two up.”

I opened my mouth, but no words came out.

“He would have wanted you to know,” she added, and she finally let go of my arm. Turning to face Berland, she gave a quick nod. “I’m ready now.”

For the second time that week, I fought scalding pain in my throat, my eyes, and my heart.

CHAPTER 10

I WOKE UP CRAMPED AND ACHY FROM SPENDING the night on the small bed in my third-floor office. The mattress was comfortable enough, but I suffered from the dual distractions of not being in my own apartment and anxiety as I replayed the prior day’s events.

Throwing on spare clothes I kept in my office for emergencies such as this, I made it downstairs to the kitchen while it was still dark. I usually loved the morning’s solitary quiet-moving about at my own pace, transforming this cool stainless steel room into a warm, bustling nest of activity. I always felt as though I held the power to wake up the world.

Today, however, that simple pleasure eluded me. Despair weighed me down because again, one of our White House “family” had died-and again, under horrific circumstances.

I pulled biscuits out of the freezer, set them on the counter, and fired up one of the ovens. Sean hadn’t struck me as despondent or suicidal. And yet the Secret Service had mentioned a note. That made no sense.

So acute was my concentration on Sean, and on preparing breakfast for what would be a long, grueling day for the First Family, that I didn’t notice one of the butlers come in until he was almost next to me.

My head jerked up. “Red!”

His pale eyes widened in alarm. “I’m sorry,” he said, taking a step back.

Red had been here forever, and though the man was spry, he’d crossed the line to elderly at least a decade ago. Along the way he’d lost the hair color that had given him his nickname. I hadn’t meant to shake him. Waving off his apology, I pointed up, toward the residence. “How is she?”

“Bad times here,” he said, with a sad shake of his head. “And no one is stopping long enough to grieve.”

My puzzled expression encouraged him to explain.

“The president returned last night. He’ll be taking breakfast early with his wife,” he said. “Then he will depart for a meeting in New York.”

I hoped that didn’t mean the First Lady would be left alone at a time like this. “Is Mrs. Campbell going with him?”

Lines bracketing Red’s eyes deepened. “The First Lady will remain in the residence to host the Mother’s Luncheon this afternoon.”

“What?”

“The luncheon will proceed as scheduled.”

This couldn’t be right. “But, after the news. After what happened to Sean…”

He stopped me with a sigh. “Yes,” he said, “the family has much to deal with today. And on top of everything else, Gene Sculka’s family is holding his wake tonight.”

Dear God, I’d almost forgotten about that. I was about to ask if the president and First Lady were planning to attend, but Red anticipated my question.

“The president will not return to the White House until Saturday. The First Lady has called the Sculka family to pay respects.”

I made a mental note to make an appearance myself this evening. But right now only one thing was on my mind. “I thought they would cancel the luncheon.”

Red sighed. “Mrs. Campbell doesn’t want to disappoint all the women and kids who have flown from all over the country-at their own expense-to be here today.”

“But surely people would understand-”

“You know our First Lady.”

I did. Selfless to a fault, she was notoriously stubborn but always looking out for the greater good. I admired her-and I hoped to achieve that serenity someday myself. “Well, then, I suppose I’d better move a bit faster here.”

Cyan arrived moments later, followed by Bucky, Rafe, Agda, and a few more SBA chefs we’d hired for the day. I was glad I hadn’t canceled the extra staff. Even if today’s luncheon had been scrapped, we had a great deal of work ahead of us. The holiday season officially began Sunday afternoon-two days from now-when the president and First Lady would attend a presentation at the Kennedy Center. Extra hands in the kitchen were never a waste.

While managing breakfast and cleaning up, we got to work on the afternoon’s event. Buffets were so much less stressful than plated dinners-for us, and for the waitstaff. We’d prepared as much as possible ahead of time, but there was still a lot to be done before the guests arrived.

More than two hundred moms and tots were expected, and we’d been careful to include plenty of kid-friendly fare in our offerings. One of the president’s favorite sandwiches, peanut butter and banana, was on the menu today. We would offer a choice: served on plain white or on cinnamon bread. In fact, the staff had taken bets on which would be more popular with the kids.

Rafe expertly sliced away the crusts from a peanut-butter-on-white sandwich. “Kids will go for plain, every time.”

“Cinnamon tastes better,” Cyan said, sing-song.

Rafe raised his own voice up an octave, continuing the sing-song cadence. “Won’t matter if they refuse to try it.”

Shaking her head so her ponytail wagged, Cyan slathered peanut butter on yet another slice of cinnamon bread. “They’ll try these.”

I was happy to hear their chitchat. Although normalcy was not to be expected-not so soon after the two unexpected deaths-any little bit of happiness was worth grabbing.