The Revealed Read Free Page A

absolutely marvelous. An open bar will be located near the kitchen, over here. We all know how politicians get when champagne is offered,” my mother says, laughing lightly and bringing her hand daintily to her chest. “I’m kidding of course.”
    The reporters chuckle along with her, passing each other looks like, Isn’t she just the greatest?
    One reporter extends her phone, which she’s using as a recorder. “Can you tell us what the campaign’s been like for your family? Has it been trying?”
    My mother’s smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes. She’s annoyed at the reporter’s too-eager stance. Must be someone new.
    “Of course it has its moments,” she says and smiles, “but what job doesn’t? My husband and I have devoted our lives to serving our country. It’s all we know how to do, and we wouldn’t want anything else.” She goes in for the kill. “We know the nation feels the same.”
    The journalists all nod in agreement. They are an elite group of nationally syndicated reporters chosen for this tour. They’ll all repay the favor by talking graciously about my family. Not that they don’t normally anyway. My father led the efforts to make television media possible again. These reporters all owe him their jobs. Jobs like theirs are considered rare—a real luxury in our current world. They won’t soon forget his work on their behalf.
    My mother takes them outside and even leads them around the gardens. She shows them the rows of plush chairs being stationed where the fireworks show will close out the evening. She then shepherds them to the parking lot—that’s right, my house has a parking lot, and says goodbye.
    She walks back into the house and her mousy event planner, Charlotte, flits around her, checking the RSVP list. My mother holds out a hand. Charlotte purses her lips and scrambles, handing my mother a stack of formal, sealed envelopes. They look like fancy wedding invitations. My mother sighs and paces across the floor. Charlotte follows closely behind holding the invite list. The soft click of my mother’s heels echo through the foyer.
    “Rogers?”
    Charlotte scans the list. “He has confirmed.”
    “Hayes?”
    “She is also confirmed.”
    “Jacobson?”
    Pause.
    “He’s not on the list.” Charlotte waits behind my mother.
    My mother’s eyes narrow in thought for a moment before she concludes, “Don’t follow up.” She shrugs. “If he doesn’t attend, it won’t hurt the campaign. No one will miss him. But make sure Marg Lancing is on that list. She will bring a lot of support if she backs Mark. I want to ensure her endorsement.” The hint of a confident smile lifts the corners of my mother’s mouth.
    “Yes ma’am.” Charlotte makes a note on her list and then scurries from the room with her task at hand.
    My mother is still perturbed about the incident this morning, I can hear it in her voice as she calls upstairs to me in a strained but ladylike whisper, “Lily, would you mind going to the kitchen to see if they are on track with the menu?”
    “Sure.” I don’t even try to hide the excitement in my voice at the assignment. I move down the stairs, walk through the foyer and down the hall, and turn left.
    The main kitchen isn’t your average kitchen. It’s restaurant-style, bigger than most people’s houses. It’s complete with a walk-in freezer, a cooking line, a head chef, and full staff on duty seven days a week. There’s not just one refrigerator, but a wall of them. Stoves, large enough to cook for thousands, and every other appliance known to man fill the cavernous room. It sits adjacent to the ballroom, with the backup facilities on the other side of the house in a smaller kitchen setup, typically used for staff meals or for big events.
    I spend a lot of time in the kitchens. It’s a good way to stay busy—learning professional cooking techniques while I’m forced to stay inside. The head chef’s name is Ilan Levy. He studied with the best in