“And Friday,” I finally echoed.

We weren’t quite sure what to expect. We only knew it would be fun for the attendees, and that the news folks would be all over this one like ants on spilled sugar. Not that you would ever find ants in my kitchen.

“Ollie!”

I looked up. Gene Sculka, our chief electrician, stood in the kitchen’s doorway.

“You heading down?” he asked.

I caught myself before asking, “Down where?” Darn. He was talking about today’s staff meeting. In all the excitement, I’d lost track of time.

“Hang on,” I said, grabbing my notebook and pen. “I’ll go with you.” To Bucky, I said, “If Agda shows up, put her to work.”

“Henry would have insisted on a formal interview first.”

I swallowed my frustration. If Bucky planned to challenge my every move, we were in for a long holiday season. “She’s coming from the Greenbriar, so she’s no slouch. She’s been screened and cleared.” Keeping my tone as nonthreatening as possible, I added, “I’ll risk putting her to work right away. We’ll worry about the interview later.”

He turned his back to me. “Whatever you say.”

“That’s the spirit, Bucky.” Without waiting for a reply, I hurried to catch up as Gene headed toward the elevator.

I would have preferred taking the stairs, but that wasn’t an option for our master electrician any longer. Gray-haired and big-boned, he wore his double chin and spare tire with comfort-as though he’d been born with them. He’d joined the White House staff during the Carter administration, and had worked his way up to the top position with his know-how and can-do attitude. “Can’t believe they’re still holding this meeting, what with all the hullabaloo this morning.”

“There’s a lot to be coordinated, especially over the next couple of days. This meeting is probably just to make sure we’re all on track. I’m sure it’ll be quick.”

“It better be,” he said.

“How’s the knee?” I asked, as we rode one floor down to the basement-mezzanine, often referred to as the BM level.

He slapped his right leg. “Good as new,” he said. “I told those doctors they had to get me back to work here by Thanksgiving. And they did.” With a nod to no one, he added, “Nothing was going to keep me from working on the Christmas decorations. I’ve been running the electric here for who knows how long and I’m not about to let anybody take over during my favorite time of the year. No way.”

“We’re all really glad you’re back.” It was true. During Gene’s knee-replacement recuperation, I’d had the misfortune of having to deal with Curly, Gene’s second-in-command. Although the two men were close in age, Curly was as unpleasant as Gene was friendly. I only hoped that when Gene retired, Surly Curly did, too.

We were the last two to arrive for the meeting of the dozen or so department heads. I couldn’t help but think about how much time I was spending away from the kitchen today-in the bunker this morning, and now here in the lower-level cafeteria, where a few staff members were taking lunch breaks.

Our florist, Kendra, leaned forward to talk to me around Gene’s massive form. “No samples for us today?”

I knew what she meant. Today’s cafeteria offerings were pretty basic. For our standard staff meetings, I usually made sure to have a new creation available for my colleagues to sample. Not today. “Limited facilities in the bunker,” I said as I took my seat. “Unless you’d be interested in a hermetically sealed brownie topped with freeze-dried ice cream.” Not an entirely accurate description of MREs, but it garnered a laugh.

“What kind of floral arrangement do you think I should come up with for that little delicacy?” she asked. “Maybe we ought to consider installing silk flowers in the bunker, huh?”

When we both laughed, I started to relax. Sure, this was our busiest time of the year, but now that the morning’s excitement was over, we could finally get to the work at hand.

Up at the front of the room, Bradley Clarke took a few minutes to get himself organized. I seized the opportunity to talk a bit more with Kendra. “Great theme this year,” I said.

“Do you like it?” Kendra asked, clearly not expecting me to answer. “We’ve been working on this since early summer. I think it’s a good one, given the nation’s climate of fear these days.” She shuddered, then went on. “And I like the way it dovetails with President Campbell’s peace platform.”

The First Lady was always credited with the concept, but the truth was, from start to finish, this was a team effort. It took months for the social secretary, the florist, and a myriad of designers to bring the project to life. Most of the decorations were chosen from a vast collection stored nearby in a Maryland warehouse. Our florist alone had a team of more than twenty-five designers who worked odd hours to assemble wreaths, arrange bouquets, and bring design elements from concept to reality.

“Together We Celebrate-Welcome Home,” I recited. “Who came up with the title?”

Kendra blushed. “I did.”

“I love it. And I love the way we’ve used the theme to pay tribute to diversity.”

She gave a little self-deprecating shrug, but I knew she was pleased. “My team has been working hard,” she said. “They’ve put in a lot of time.”

“It shows. I can’t wait to see it all put together.”

Bradley Clarke cleared his throat and called the meeting to order. Tall, and with a perpetually friendly smile, Bradley was the kind of man you worked hard to impress. After a few brief announcements, he said, “Let’s start with the big-ticket items before we go over this morning’s situation. Thanksgiving first. Ollie?”

I brought the staff up-to-date on our menu and made sure that the waitstaff as well as Marguerite, the social secretary, knew that Sean Baxter would be in attendance. Everyone who needed to scribbled notes, as did I when Marguerite informed me that Mrs. Blanchard had sent her regrets.

“Does the First Lady know?”

“I’m meeting with her right after this.”

“Thanks for the heads-up.” Mrs. Blanchard had been our only dietary-alert guest invited to dinner Thursday. “That opens up some possible last-minute additions to the menu,” I said. As I wrote myself a note, I added, absentmindedly, “We’re going to be heavy on male guests this time. Sean Baxter’s coming alone, and now without Mrs. Blanchard…”

Marguerite interrupted. “Treyton Blanchard is bringing his assistant instead.”

“Bindy?” I asked.

Marguerite nodded. “It will be nice to see her.”

“Isn’t that a little odd?” I asked. “Shouldn’t he be with his wife on Thanksgiving?” I knew I’d blurted my thoughts before corralling them, but this was a staff meeting, after all. It was where we were supposed to air our questions.

“Senator Blanchard’s family is hosting dinner at their home later that night for both sides of the family,” she said with a sniff. “Mrs. Blanchard appreciates the invitation, but she knows the Thanksgiving luncheon at the White House will be mostly business. She’d rather stay home with the kids and keep their traditions alive.” Turning down an invitation to the White House was considered sacrilege. “All of this according to Bindy, that is.”

Bindy Gerhardt had been part of the White House staff until she’d accepted a position on Treyton Blanchard’s team. She’d fast-tracked her way into his inner circle, and I started to hear Sean Baxter’s refrain in my head. These people weren’t coming to share a Thanksgiving meal, they were intending to conduct business.

As a former colleague and White House staffer, Bindy would be uniquely qualified to secure Mrs. Campbell’s ear. I was suddenly glad Sean would be at dinner. And especially glad the president would be there to back up his wife.

Marguerite added, “And you know Helen Hendrickson is bringing Aloysius Fitzgerald, right?”

Her attorney. “Yeah,” I said. “And who is Nick Volkov planning to bring? His financier?”