not take a spot over there.” He pointed to the northeastern corner of the room. “When Mr. Sargeant’s promotion is announced and he steps forward, I’d like you to move in behind him, next to me and the First Lady. It will make a perfect publicity shot.”
I whispered, “Good luck,” to Sargeant and headed for the far corner.
Within moments, the press secretary had silenced the already tranquil crowd and talked briefly about Paul Vasquez’s tenure as chief usher. I missed Paul. I’d heard from him a couple of times since his departure. His wife remained seriously ill, but at least there was hope on the horizon. I knew he missed working here and all of us, but he was where he was needed most.
The press secretary skimmed over Doug’s on-the-job performance, stressing the fact that he’d been appointed as an interim chief usher, suggesting that Sargeant’s permanent appointment had been the ultimate plan all along.
Two days ago, as soon as it had become clear that the rumor of Sargeant assuming the position was, indeed, fact, Doug had demanded an explanation as to why he’d been passed over. While no one considered him to be a security threat, his loud grumbling and out-of-control deportment brought Secret Service agents running. He was allowed to gather his things before being escorted out.
We all would have preferred a smooth transition, but Doug’s knee-jerk angry response put a quick end to that plan. Doug would have a hard time getting references after that stunt.
The First Lady spoke next, also briefly. She talked about how she’d gotten to know Peter Everett Sargeant, and how he’d impressed her from the start with his devotion to duty and attention to detail.
By the time it was Sargeant’s moment in the sun, little beads of perspiration had formed above his brow. Though the lighting in the room was by no means hot or glaring, the brightness above sparkled, making the man’s glistening discomposure obvious to all. As he cleared his throat, I did as instructed and eased in to stand slightly behind him, to his left.
He began with the requisite thanks for being given the opportunity to serve. I held my breath, concerned by the faint tremble in his voice. As he went on, however, his words shook a little less, became a little stronger. He spoke for about two minutes and as his cadence shifted I could tell he was moving to close. Nice. Brief. All good. I felt myself relax.
A twenty-something male reporter raised his hand. He didn’t wait to be called upon to speak. The guy had a scruffy, who-cares air about him. Skinny, with a Mick Jagger haircut, he wore a dingy, white button-down shirt that was at least two sizes too small. “Daniel Davies from
The People’s Journal
,” he said, introducing himself to Sargeant as well as to the rest of the small audience.
I’d never heard of him, though his publication was well known.
He tilted his head, squinting. “My readers will want to know how you plan to handle the chef’s antics and maintain control over her tendency to interfere with the workings of government. She
has
been in the news frequently.” At that, he gave an insouciant nod in my direction.
Blood rushed, squeezing hot behind my eyes as Davies went on, “I’m sure I don’t have to remind you—or my esteemed colleagues—of her many extracurricular activities. If I understand correctly, Mr. Sargeant, you were involved in one of these exploits recently, yourself. Will your obvious friendship with Ms. Paras impact your ability to manage her?”
My cheeks warmed, and I fought to keep my expression neutral.
Obvious friendship?
If this reporter only knew the rocky and treacherous journey Sargeant and I had traveled just to get to where we were today. We’d finally gotten to the point of mutual respect, more or less. Friends? Not yet. Maybe not ever. How dare this un-put-together pipsqueak take that tone?
My brain roared with anger.
Exploits?
If this guy knew the truth . . . I took an
I whispered, “Good luck,” to Sargeant and headed for the far corner.
Within moments, the press secretary had silenced the already tranquil crowd and talked briefly about Paul Vasquez’s tenure as chief usher. I missed Paul. I’d heard from him a couple of times since his departure. His wife remained seriously ill, but at least there was hope on the horizon. I knew he missed working here and all of us, but he was where he was needed most.
The press secretary skimmed over Doug’s on-the-job performance, stressing the fact that he’d been appointed as an interim chief usher, suggesting that Sargeant’s permanent appointment had been the ultimate plan all along.
Two days ago, as soon as it had become clear that the rumor of Sargeant assuming the position was, indeed, fact, Doug had demanded an explanation as to why he’d been passed over. While no one considered him to be a security threat, his loud grumbling and out-of-control deportment brought Secret Service agents running. He was allowed to gather his things before being escorted out.
We all would have preferred a smooth transition, but Doug’s knee-jerk angry response put a quick end to that plan. Doug would have a hard time getting references after that stunt.
The First Lady spoke next, also briefly. She talked about how she’d gotten to know Peter Everett Sargeant, and how he’d impressed her from the start with his devotion to duty and attention to detail.
By the time it was Sargeant’s moment in the sun, little beads of perspiration had formed above his brow. Though the lighting in the room was by no means hot or glaring, the brightness above sparkled, making the man’s glistening discomposure obvious to all. As he cleared his throat, I did as instructed and eased in to stand slightly behind him, to his left.
He began with the requisite thanks for being given the opportunity to serve. I held my breath, concerned by the faint tremble in his voice. As he went on, however, his words shook a little less, became a little stronger. He spoke for about two minutes and as his cadence shifted I could tell he was moving to close. Nice. Brief. All good. I felt myself relax.
A twenty-something male reporter raised his hand. He didn’t wait to be called upon to speak. The guy had a scruffy, who-cares air about him. Skinny, with a Mick Jagger haircut, he wore a dingy, white button-down shirt that was at least two sizes too small. “Daniel Davies from
The People’s Journal
,” he said, introducing himself to Sargeant as well as to the rest of the small audience.
I’d never heard of him, though his publication was well known.
He tilted his head, squinting. “My readers will want to know how you plan to handle the chef’s antics and maintain control over her tendency to interfere with the workings of government. She
has
been in the news frequently.” At that, he gave an insouciant nod in my direction.
Blood rushed, squeezing hot behind my eyes as Davies went on, “I’m sure I don’t have to remind you—or my esteemed colleagues—of her many extracurricular activities. If I understand correctly, Mr. Sargeant, you were involved in one of these exploits recently, yourself. Will your obvious friendship with Ms. Paras impact your ability to manage her?”
My cheeks warmed, and I fought to keep my expression neutral.
Obvious friendship?
If this reporter only knew the rocky and treacherous journey Sargeant and I had traveled just to get to where we were today. We’d finally gotten to the point of mutual respect, more or less. Friends? Not yet. Maybe not ever. How dare this un-put-together pipsqueak take that tone?
My brain roared with anger.
Exploits?
If this guy knew the truth . . . I took an
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