“And if we don’t, we have to wait ten years to decide again.” Mrs. Campbell sighed. “Such a peculiar requirement.”

Sean gave a wry shrug. “Not so peculiar when you think about what the founders intended. They envisioned this company as they would one of their kids. One that they all fathered. The four men who brought Zendy Industries to life were wealthy, successful businessmen in other ventures. They didn’t need Zendy’s income. They needed to believe they’d made a mark on this world.”

The bunker door opened, cutting Sean off. Special Agent Martin gestured us out. “Follow me,” he said.

CHAPTER 3

“ALL CLEAR?” MRS. CAMPBELL ASKED. “WHAT A relief. Was it actually a bomb? Or was this all just precaution?”

Kevin Martin licked his lips. “We are confident that the White House is currently safe from any explosive or incendiary device.”

We’d made our way into the Center Hall. Mrs. Campbell turned to face Martin. “But earlier you said that a bomb was located on the property,” she said. “Is that true? Was it really a bomb?”

He flicked a wary glance at Sean, who clearly understood his cue. “I have to be going anyway,” he said. “See you both on Thursday. Take care, Ollie.”

Another agent stepped up to escort Sean out, but before I could make my own hasty exit, Kevin Martin answered the First Lady’s question. Incurable snoop that I am, I stayed to listen.

“The device we found was not a bomb.”

“Thank goodness,” the First Lady said. She closed her eyes for a long moment, and I felt as though I could almost read her mind. And, I could totally empathize. The relief washing over me was as powerful as it was sudden. This was Mrs. Campbell’s home, and the president’s. But in many ways, it was my home, too. A bomb had threatened to destroy the world’s symbol of freedom. I’d compartmentalized my fear while we were sequestered-I’d pushed it aside to deal with matters at hand. But now that we were back in the residence, and safe, I felt the full weight of the ordeal we’d been through.

Kevin continued. “The fact that there was never an actual bomb on the premises, coupled with the time crunch the staff is under to prepare for Thanksgiving and Christmas”-he acknowledged me with a look-“has convinced us to allow everyone back into the residence for now. However,” he added, arching his brows, “we are at a state of heightened alert. And we are asking the entire staff to be our eyes and ears wherever possible. We’ll call a meeting later with further instructions.”

“If it wasn’t a bomb you found,” I asked, “what was it?”

Kevin hated when I poked my nose where it didn’t belong-a habit I’d gotten into quite often recently, and one he repeatedly tried to quash.

Before he could tell me to butt out this time, however, Mrs. Campbell chimed in. “Yes, what was it?”

“An apparent prank. We’re investigating it now.” He fixated on some middle distance with such laser intensity that I almost pitied today’s prankster. Knowing Kevin and the rest of the Presidential Protection Detail (PPD) as I did, the guilty party would be found. Very soon. “An alert will be distributed to all departments describing what was discovered, and what to look for in the future. We’re bringing in a team of experts to educate the staff.”

When the First Lady turned the conversation to the happenings at Camp David, I made a polite excuse and hurried off to the safety of my kitchen.

Marcel met me as I walked in, his dark face tight with concern. “Where ’ave you been?” he asked. His French accent was ladled on heavier than normal. “We ’ave been very worried.”

“Long story.” I gave my staff a quick rundown of the past several hours.

Bucky frowned. “That’s nice. They put you in a bunker with the First Lady, and they make us wait out on the South Lawn in the storm.” He shook his head. “And now they tell us it’s safe and we’re supposed to believe them.”

“Outside?” I said. Although we were still in the mid-fifties this late in November, it was pouring rain, and definitely too cold to remain outside for very long. “Kevin Martin told me you were safe.”

Cyan, washing dishes, turned off the water and wiped her hands as she came toward me. “We were safe, Ollie,” she said, glaring at Bucky. Although she was at least fifteen years younger, Cyan was almost as accomplished in the kitchen as our senior chef. And in the past couple of months, I’d watched her confidence grow even more. “We weren’t out on the South Lawn; we walked down to E Street, where we sat on buses until they gave the all-clear.”

“It was still storming,” Bucky said. “And cold.”

When I glanced at Marcel, he shrugged. “Eh, the temperature was tolerable. But the boredom was not. We have much to do and this incident has thrown a… flanquer la pagaille… into my plans for the day.”

“If Henry was still here, he would’ve been out in the buses with us. Not cozying up with the First Lady in the bunker.”

Arguing with Bucky over this matter served no purpose, so I changed the subject.

“There will be another guest at Thanksgiving dinner,” I said. “Sean Baxter is coming after all.”

Bucky snorted and headed back to his station, where I could see tonight’s dinner preparations were already under way. “That SBA chef was due here over an hour ago. I’ll bet she gave up when she couldn’t get in.”

“I’m sure the bomb scare changed a lot of plans,” I said evenly. “But I do hope she shows up. We need another pair of hands here by tomorrow at the latest.” The chef in question, Agda, was the first new recruit sent to join our staff. Service-by-Agreement chefs, or SBAs, worked in the White House on a temporary, contractual basis, until a hiring decision was made, or until the SBA chef found another job elsewhere. I’d been an SBA before I accepted a position here. In my opinion, there was no better opportunity anywhere. I hoped this particular chef agreed-after all, we needed the help.

“We’re already behind schedule,” Bucky said.

I bit back the urge to snarl. Hurling sarcastic retorts at those who reported to me was petty. Worse, it was unprofessional. I was beginning to see why Henry never stooped to fight meaningless battles. It wasn’t worth the effort, and it only accomplished the lessening of oneself.

I forced a placid smile. “You’re right, Bucky. That means that we need to work faster if we hope to get tonight’s dinner together on time. Not to mention all the prep work we need to do for tomorrow and Thursday.”

“And Friday,” Cyan added.

I sucked in a deep breath. Friday promised to be a media circus day. Not only was it the last day the White House would be open to the public before the official holiday season began, it was the date of a long-awaited luncheon. Preparations for Thursday’s intimate Thanksgiving meal paled in comparison to those for Friday’s buffet.

On Friday, Mrs. Campbell would open the White House doors to mothers from all over the country. Her goal was to find commonality among all mothers, whether they be working, single, stay-at-home, or sharing child-care duties with a partner. Almost every state would be represented, and every mom was bringing kids, along with homemade decorations for Christmas, Hanukkah, and Kwanzaa. Each invited child had been sent a template of a gingerbread person on which to base his or her artwork. Continuing the theme of how we are all different, yet we celebrate together, the kids were encouraged to create masterpieces within the template’s parameters. Each hand-crafted gingerbread man-or person, in these politically correct times-brought to Friday’s celebration would be added to the hundreds we received by mail per an open call for participation. I could only imagine how tough this security nightmare would be for our Secret Service personnel.