Recipes for Disaster (22 page)

I have come here today, to do just one thing:

Apologize.

It’s harder to do than you think, and not because I tear up at the memory of my mother or at the shame I have because I couldn’t stop the assassin who took Robert’s life. The truth is that I can’t seem to get Catherine alone. From POTUS on down, it seems that, like me, everyone feels the need to have a personal word with the grieving widow.

Before I give up on this very personal mission, I’ve decided to wait it out in the Martins’ beautiful box hedge garden, just outside the rambling farm home’s library. I’m only out there a mere ten minutes when I hear Catherine’s voice, on the other side of the open library’s French doors. 

I turn around to see her pacing back and forth. Her body is rigid, like a rock holding its own against a menacing cyclone. 

The cell phone she holds in her hand is hot pink.

It was the mysterious phone that concerned Robert to no end. If the person on the other end of the phone is a lover, what is he saying to make her so upset, on this day of all days?

Just then she turns toward the window. I whip around in another direction, shielding my eyes with one hand while feigning interest in a plane flying overhead.

A few moments later, I hear, “Yoo hoo! Donna! So glad I could catch you before you left,” Catherine says, as she walks my way. Her mouth is set in a thin, firm line.

I hope my wave puts her at ease. “Oh … I’m so glad you found me here. You were busy with so many others that I thought it best to wait until the crowd thinned a bit to pay my respects.”

Her relief that I don’t acknowledge the scene I just saw in the window is evident in her eyes. She sits down beside me on the bench. “We’re old friends, Donna. The fact that you and your family came all this way to support me—and Evan, of course—means a lot to me.” Her brittle smirk proves otherwise.

Still, I’m ready to take her at her word. “Catherine, I want to say I’m sorry.”

Her eyes lose all brightness. “You want me to forgive you for Robert’s death.” She states it as a fact, not a question.

“No ... I mean, I want to apologize for all the hate I’ve felt for you, all these years.”

Her lips turn down at the edges. “Oh, really? Donna, admit it! You’re still nursing the little girl crush you had on him!”

“No, of course not!” Jeez, can’t the woman take an apology? Trust issues, anyone? “This has nothing to do with Bobby … 
Robert
. What I meant to say is that I hated you because of your relationship with my mother.”

She tilts her head, intrigued. “I … I don’t remember—”

“You visited her, when she was sick, with cancer.” The thought still chokes me up.

Her eyes are blank. Almost soulless. 

She doesn’t remember.

And I’ve never forgotten.

“Surely you remember. My father was out, and I had to go back to school to … to get something.”

A kiss. My very last one, from Bobby.

“In fact, just as I walked in, she called you … by my name.” My cheeks feel as if they’re on fire.

She searches her memory. It comes to her with a snap of her finger. “Ah, yes! That was somewhat embarrassing, to say the least.”

I nod, relieved that she finally gets it. “Yes, exactly. I felt the same way.”

She shrugs and looks up at the sky. A stray news helicopter is still circling overhead. “I guessed her drugs were making her hallucinate. I mean, anyone in her right mind would have known better, right? You were such a pudgy little thing back then! And the way you wore your hair—it was always a mess!”

“I wouldn’t exactly say I was pudgy.”

“No, I guess you wouldn’t. But Bobby did. He’d know, of course. Because you let him feel you up.” Her eyes bored holes through me. “But your stomach roll 
grossed him out
.” She bares her teeth into a smile. “He made a great decoy, didn’t he? He didn’t want to do it, but I begged him. I made him realize how important it was. He finally said yes.” She swats the air, as if any memory of her scheme deserves a quick dismissal. “While he kept you busy, I asked your mother for her recipe, and she gave it to me.”

“Only because she thought you were me.” I turn to face her. “You did that on purpose, didn’t you?”

“Perhaps.” She shrugs. “Let’s just call it a lucky accident—for me, anyway. You see, without it, I would have never won the county fair prize. And it served me well as my talent entry for Miss Tip Top Teen. From that, I got a scholarship to college—to Bobby’s school, then on to Harvard Law. And the rest is history. So I guess I owe my political career to your mother.” She pats my hand and rises. “Or Bobby, for being willing to do anything I asked of him. You see, I was always his one and only love.” She mocks me with a sigh. “My Bobby was 
such
 a big strapping boy, a regular Adonis. But darling, lifelong love trumps first love every time. We both know that.”

It would be so easy to punch her in the gut.

To crush her larynx with my fist.

To bury her under her well-pruned box hedge.

But I’m too much of a lady for that.

Instead, I get up and walk back into the house with my head held high.

Besides, I’ve already erased my mother’s pie recipe from her computer, so that she can never use it again.

Jack sees me eyeing the door. Together, we gather up the kids, and we’re out of there.

I try hard to hold my tears on the flight back to Orange County. But the moment we are home and the children are tucked in bed, I go to my own room and pull the blankets over my head.

Jack is there to kiss the tears away.

Catherine is right about one thing: Lifelong love trumps first love every time.

Chapter 16

Convention

A national meeting of a political party, where delegates formally select a party's nominee. In most cases, they aren’t casting their ballots based on who they may necessarily want to see as their party’s candidate, but acting as sheep and reiterating the results of the party’s chosen frontrunner—just like the primary voters in their respective states did before them.

However, every now and then, renegade delegates will summon the gumption to eschew the primary winner, and vote for the candidate they feel will do right by their vision of the party, as reiterated in the “platform”—or goals—of their favorite candidate.

However, in doing so, they can kiss their delegate status goodbye for the next convention, because it ain’t a “party” if you make your host angry by snubbing the guest of honor: the presidential nominee with the most primary votes.

I’m sure that a lot of wonderful food is served at these events (unless you’re one of the protesters standing outside the police barricade—in which case, get used to prison food). Since I’ve never been to a delegate convention, I'll take this opportunity to use a little word play ("convection" as opposed to "convention") in order to demonstrate the joys of cooking with a convection oven, which circulates the heat within the oven, allowing your dishes to cook evenly on all sides:

Convection Oven Roasted Stuffed Turkey Tips

(Molly Stevens, author, “
All About Roasting
”)

These tips will help the turkey cook more evenly, brown more readily and give you plenty of crisp skin (and because it’s stuffed).

• •
  Set your temperature to a lower or moderate oven heat — no higher than 325 degrees convection, and consider 300 degrees convection if you have the time.
  
• •
  To brown evenly, rub butter or oil on the skin before roasting. 
  
• •
  Your turkey should be done within three to four hours, depending on the size. The best way to know is to test it with an instant read thermometer, the stuffing should register 165 degrees.
  

Another hint on getting crisp skin: let the turkey sit uncovered in the refrigerator for twenty-four hours before cooking. 

The day after we get home, I get the summons I’ve been waiting for, from Ryan.

Jack and I have just shut his office door behind us when he roars, “What the hell were you thinking?” 

If his glass-walled office is indeed soundproof, why has everyone in the office turned their heads our way?

Granted, you could make a case that they are fixated by the way in which he is pacing the floor and tearing at what little hair he has left—until he realizes they are staring, and bangs on the glass with his fist as a warning that any one of them may be next on the cutting block.

That certainly sends them ducking back below their cubicle walls.

“It’s my fault, Ryan,” Jack insists. “I asked her to shadow us. Heaven knows we needed an extra set of eyes on this mission. And frankly, if she hadn’t been there, we wouldn’t know where to find the shooter.”

Ryan’s eyes slide from Jack to me. “That’s just it. You missed your chance to take him down—and in doing so, you made things worse for yourself, Donna.” 

“But until last night, none of the candidates we covered were killed, let alone in any physical peril,” I countered. “That’s got to count for something!”

“My dear Mrs. Stone, have you noticed that each of their campaigns imploded the moment you were sent in to cover them?” Ryan shakes his head in awe. “Let me congratulate you. With Robert Martin’s death, you’ve officially earned the reputation of political cooler.” He shrugs. “Trust me, his kill is a major stain on Acme’s reputation as well. Now, neither party wants anything to do with us.” 

“Ryan, I get it. I screwed up royally, and an innocent man paid with his life. If you want to sideline me for a month or two—”

“I don’t think you get the severity of the situation.” Ryan leans in over his desk. “Depending on the DOJ investigation now in progress—not to mention any lawsuit the DNC wants to throw our way—you may be looking at permanent termination at the very least, if not an obstruction-of-justice indictment.”

Jack slams his fist against the wall. “But Acme has a security contract!” 

“Had, not has. As we speak, their lawyers are filing a breach-of-contract suit, on the basis that Donna was specifically asked to stay away, by the candidate herself. I’m sure there will be a major-damages suit to follow.” Ryan shrugs. “And the fact that Donna’s fingerprints are on the shooter’s rifle is cause enough for a DOJ investigation.”

“I’m sorry about that, Ryan—and not because I give a hoot what either the Dems or the GOP thinks of me, but because Robert was a very old and very dear acquaintance who … who happened to be in the wrong place, at the wrong time.”

“Maybe. Maybe not,” Jack mutters.

I turn to him. “I beg your pardon?”

Jack shrugs.“Doesn’t anyone else find it somewhat convenient that he should have died, just before the Democratic Convention? Have you seen how it’s spiked her ratings in the polls?”

Ryan frowns. “But she had the damn nomination practically sewn up anyway.”

“The nomination, yes. But not the election,” Jack counters.

It’s wishful thinking on his part.

I shake my head adamantly. “You’re wrong, Jack. Robert was the love of her life.”

He shrugs. “Yeah, I know. Childhood sweethearts, yada yada.”

“It’s much more than that. They’ve already been through so much together.” I stop myself there. I shudder at the thought of reliving my last conversation with Catherine.  “As much as I personally have never liked the woman, I think I know her well enough to say she’d never cross such a line.”

Even in death, I feel the obligation to honor Robert’s secrets and doubts about their marriage. 

If that means saving Catherine’s ass, then so be it.

Jack may want to argue the point, but I don’t. 

I walk out Acme’s front door, wondering if I’ll ever be invited back.

“Can you believe it? The delegates are falling over themselves to vote for that woman!” Mary, who has been staring at the televised DNC convention proceedings, shakes her head in disgust.

“Well, of course she’d zip up the nomination,” Jeff says through a mouthful of peanut butter and jelly. “The polls have shown the congresswoman spiking since the funeral. Even committed delegates have been changing their votes, they’re so inspired by her strength under such adversity.”