The light changed and she walked along the sidewalk bordering Lafayette Park. Ava was quiet on the other end of the phone and a sliver of guilt wormed its way up Marin’s spine. Her cousin’s childhood hadn’t been unhappy by any means, but her relationship with her estranged mother was always a source of tension.
“She hasn’t responded yet,” Ava finally said. “But that’s why I’m calling. I’m working on the seating chart, and you haven’t let me know if you’re a plus-one.”
Marin sighed as she passed the statue of French General Rochambeau, pointing with his right hand in the direction she was walking. Ava’s wedding was destined to be the society event of the year. Over three hundred guests were expected to attend the nuptials at their family’s flagship hotel in New Orleans’s French Quarter.
“I’ll be extremely busy that weekend working on the wedding cake.” Marin crossed Pennsylvania Avenue and followed two West Wing staffers through the metal detectors of the White House’s northwest gate. She gave the officer from the Uniformed Division of the Secret Service a smile as he scanned her ID. “I don’t think it’s fair to bring a date when I’ll just end up neglecting him.”
The officer winked at her. “I’d be okay with you neglecting me on a date,” he whispered as she passed by him.
Marin blushed furiously, but her confidence received a much-needed boost after her cousin’s comments.
“What you mean to say is that you don’twantto bring a date, so, as usual, you’re using your status as White House pastry chef as an excuse not to,” Ava said. “Well, Rich and I don’t really care about the wedding cake, so let me take that off your very broad shoulders. I’ll have one of the chefs here prepare it. Everyone else in the wedding party will have a plus-one. I need you to do the same so that the aesthetics at the head table aren’t off. Do you think you can manage that?”
Ava’s words stopped Marin in her tracks, which was a good thing. She was about to pass through Stonehenge—the area of the White House lawn between the driveway and the press briefing room where networks set up their cameras on tripods for live broadcasts. Several of the cameras had their lights shining on reporters who were likely on-air with the morning news programs. The last thing Marin needed to do was have a meltdown on the phone with her cousin while passing in front of the cameras broadcasting to half the kitchens in America.
“You can’t do that. It’s my gift to you and Rich,” she protested. “Every bride wants a gorgeous wedding cake. At least they ought to. And who cares about the aesthetics of the bridal party’s dinner table?”
“I do,” Ava snapped. “So please, if you want to contribute something to my wedding day, you’ll bring a date.” And with that, her cousin hung up.
Stunned, Marin stared at her phone. Had Ava—the woman who was practically her sister—just said that to her? Tears stung the back of her eyes and Marin wasn’t sure if they were due to anger or hurt feelings. Not that it made a difference. Ava never cared about other people’s feelings.
She shoved her phone into her purse and—checking the television cameras—trudged up the driveway toward the north portico of the White House.
“Hey, you!”
Marin looked up to see Diego Ruiz, her sous chef, heading toward her from the opposite end of the driveway. “You keep stomping like that and someone might mistake you for one of the nut jobs crashing the building,” he joked. “This place is a magnet for psychos, you know.”
Her friend’s teasing had the desired effect, calming Marin so her steps became less forceful and her shoulders relaxed. “Sorry. The only psycho is my cousin. I’m afraid she’s become a bit of a bridezilla. Now she’s insisting that I bring a date to her wedding. Or else.”
They passed under the covered part of the driveway and climbed the steps. “The nerve of that wench,” Diego said. “Insisting that you bring someone to dance with, get tipsy with, and possibly get naked with. Nope, not a good time at all.”
Marin laughed at the face Diego made. She stopped briefly to rub the soft ear of one of the dogs that routinely patrolled the grounds of the White House. Otto was a favorite of Marin’s. The dog wasn’t technically on duty any longer; he’d been retired for a couple of months. His handler was in charge of training the new dogs and he often brought Otto to work with him to use as a model for the canine recruits. The big Belgian Malinois sat quietly next to the entranceway, his body on guard, but an ever-present twinkle in his whiskey-colored eyes.
“Good boy, Otto,” she whispered as they passed. “What are you doing here so early anyway, Diego? It’s rare to see you at the House before nine.”
“Just between you and me, my boss is a bit of a pastryzilla. She has me making hundreds of marzipan bunnies for Monday’s Easter egg roll.” He playfully nudged her shoulder with his as they entered the wide entrance hall.
“Good morning, Miss Chevalier. Mr. Ruiz.” The chief usher nodded to them both as he exited the usher’s office on their right. “What’s this about the Easter egg roll? All is proceeding according to plans, I assume?”
“The pastry kitchen won’t let you down, Admiral,” Marin said. It was her first Easter at the White House, and she was determined that the desserts and centerpieces would be better than they ever had been. Of course, she could manage to create several hundred marzipan figures, thousands of mini-cakes and cookies, but she couldn’t find the time to meet an eligible bachelor to take to her cousin’s stupid wedding. Irony was a bitch.
“See that no one is let down, Chef.” With a brisk nod, the chief usher headed past them and climbed the main staircase to the second floor, presumably for his morning meeting with the First Lady.
“That guy gives me the heebie-jeebies,” Diego whispered.
“That’s because you still think you’re in the navy and he can have you swabbing decks or whatever it is you sailors do.”
Diego shot her a bemused look. “I spent four years in the Navy Mess downstairs,” he said. “The only water I ever saw was the swimming pool in the West Wing. And that was just fine by me.” He gestured toward the stairs the chief usher had just ascended. “I didn’t think I’d still be answering to an admiral when I got out.”
Admiral Sedgewick had retired from the navy to take the position as chief usher two years ago when President Manning’s term began. As such, he was in charge of the executive mansion and its staff, including Marin and Diego. Running the White House was similar to running a ship, Marin supposed. Aside from his formal manner, she had no complaints about her boss.
“Speaking of the Navy Mess,” Diego said, “I came in early to catch up with a friend still working there. He’s having a bit of a hard time. Do you mind if I swing by the West Wing for a few minutes? I promise my marzipan menagerie will be finished on time.”
“Go ahead. I’m headed upstairs to the pastry kitchen to whip up some sugar cookie dough for this afternoon. I promised Arabelle I’d help her make some bunny cookies for her preschool class.”
Diego grinned at her. “The President’s granddaughter has you wrapped around her cute little finger. It’s no wonder you don’t have a life.”
Marin halted in her tracks and stared at him. “You too, Diego?”