“Yeah, thanks. It’s not any trouble, is it?”
He laughs. “Sir, this is what we’re paid to do.”
This kitchen is huge and full of commercial-grade equipment, whereas the one upstairs in the residence is a normal family kitchen—if any kitchen in the White House could ever be considered “normal.” Down here, sounds echo through the space and it doesn’t feel so lonely with the staff busily handling their tasks.
While Martin preps the sandwich with cheddar and gouda and other cheeses, I watch him work. “How’s the wife and twins?”
He smiles. “Sandra’s well. She just received a promotion at work.”
“Cool! Congrats.”
“And Tony and George are in their first semester at Stanford.”
“Holy cow, they’ve grown up.”
“Yes, sir. They sure have.”
We chit-chat as he cooks and the other assistant chefs, or whatever they’re called, scurry around us looking nervous as hell at not just my presence, but the extra detail agents who are now in here with me.
I feel badly about that, too. As long as they do their jobs I’m hands-off in this domain. Martin runs the kitchen and has full control over it. I have no desire to interfere with his operations.
I’ve always liked Martin, felt comfortable talking with him. I’ve known him for twelve years now, first through Shae’s two terms and now mine. He was an assistant chef before that. When the previous head chef informed Shae he would retire at the end of Fullmer’s term, Martin was who he recommended to take his place.
She agreed, and the rest is history.
“Did you want anything to drink, sir?” he asks as he’s putting the finishing touches on my sandwiches.
“Don’t suppose we have any ginger beer, do we? Ginger ale’s fine, if we don’t.”
“I’m certain I can scare some up for you.” He waves over one of his assistants, who immediately heads off in search of it after receiving his orders.
I roll over to a nearby stainless worktable, which happens to be the perfect height for me in my chair. I set the briefing books on it as Martin walks over to present the plate to me, along with a cloth napkin and silverware.
“Here you are, sir.”
“You are a genius.” I mean it, too. I don’t know why his grilled cheese sandwiches are so damned perfect, but they are. A crisp, buttery crust and the combination of cheeses melted to perfection inside.
My ginger beer arrives with a glass of ice, as well as a glass of ice water. I make a point of addressing the man who brought them. “Thank you very much. What was your name?”
“Joe, sir.”
“Thank you, Joe. I appreciate it.”
“You’re welcome, Mister President.” He nervously smiles and gets back to work.
Martin lingers, thankfully, because I can always talk to him. “We don’t see you down here very often. And never without Jordan.”
Jordan is a fixture in the kitchen. He’s spent countless hours down here throughout the years talking and learning from the staff, and he knows all of them on a first-name basis.
My heart lurches at the thought of my sweet boy no doubt suffering over what happened. “Jordan ended up separated from me in the confusion and got scooped up by Leo Cruz and other agents. He’s pretty shook up over what happened. I asked Leo to look after him for the rest of the day, and the detail transported them both to Leo’s.”
“Ah.”
I motion to a stool at the end of the table. “Please, sit for a few, if you can.” I bite into the first sandwich and, of course, it’s amazing. “Oh, my god, this is so good.”
“Thank you, Mister President.” Martin sits.
“You’re never too old for the comfort of a grilled cheese sandwich, I suppose,” I say. “I didn’t realize how much I needed this right now.”
