Dying for Chocolate (11 page)

There was a silence. Sissy looked wide-eyed around the room. Weezie was pinching the red chiffon of her sleeve into unnecessary pleats.

Julian said, “Why don’t you tell us what they do? If you really do know.”

Adele reached across the table and patted Julian’s free hand. Brian Harrington still eyed Julian’s other hand, which lay on Sissy’s.

Brian said, “What an interesting haircut, Julian. I imagine it gets a little cold in the winter.”

“Oh, Bri,” gushed Weezie, “when we met you wore your hair so long. You complained about how it got in your way when you swam.”

“Do you still swim, Brian?” asked Adele.

“Yes, of course,” said Brian. He watched the teenagers’ hands unravel and reknit. He said, “This is wonderful scrambled egg whatever. Should I eat more, or is there an actual main course?”

“Don’t tease Goldy.” Adele spoke with a slight edge of sharpness. “This is simply delicious.”

There were some embarrassed nun’s and ah’s, and I scurried out to fetch the next course, trusting that Real Realtors Ate Lamb Chops. The guests opened their packets with cautious solemnity. All but the teenagers studiously swilled the Cabernet. But whatever was supposed to be happening was not happening. Sissy finished examining all the costly things within reach while Adele began a long discourse on the fundraising drive at Elk Park Prep. Julian was quiet. The general, after being shushed by Adele, ate in silence. Weezie fumed. The only noise came from Brian, who continued to direct his syrupy questions and attention to Sissy. Sissy, however, took no more notice of Brian than she had of the food.

Time for the finale.

“And now chocolate,” I said with a flourish as I brought out the tray. “Chocolate has the most sinful reputation of all, because the phenylethylamine in it simulates the same feeling we get with, ah, sexual happiness—”

“Simulates or stimulates?” asked the general, bewildered.

“Simulates?” interjected Julian. “How does it do that?”

“You’re the scientific person, my dear,” said Adele in her most flattering tone. “Why don’t you tell us?”

“No, thanks.”

“Why don’t you tell us?” mimicked Brian Harrington in a high voice.

My heart squeezed for Julian and the embarrassment I knew he must be feeling. It was like the time I had tried to convince the parents of my Sunday-school kids that they should let me take the class down to help at a Denver soup kitchen. The derisive laughter still rang in my ears.

But I knew jumping to Julian’s defense would only make things worse. Instead, I concentrated on refilling the platter and glasses with cookies and Asti Spumanti. Weezie held up a piece of fudge and murmured to Julian, “I hope Adele told you Brian’s wild about this.” Julian ignored her.

When the agony was finally over and they were drinking their demitasse out on the terrace, I washed dishes as quietly as possible. After a very short while I heard rustling in the hall: Sissy and Julian. I scurried out after them.

“Thanks for coming,” I said in a low voice once I was behind them at the front door. “It was nice of you—”

But before I could finish, Julian, who had avoided my eyes, slammed the front door with such force that the knocker reverberated,
klok klok.

“—to come,” I said to empty air.

Not much later I ushered the Farquhars out. I told them I would be over in about half an hour. When I came out to get the last cups, I heard Brian Harrington snoring on the living-room sofa.

“Leave him,” said Weezie’s sour voice behind me. “Let him wake up with a sore back, see if I care. He can swim it off at the club.”

“I’m sorry about tonight,” I said. “Maybe next time—”

“We’ll make it dinner for two,” said Weezie through clenched teeth. “And try a more potent
venenum.’”

12.

Sunday I tried to put the events of the previous evening out of my head. I missed Philip, and I still did not know when his funeral would be. The Farquhars, sensing my low mood, invited me to go with them to church and then to the country club for the afternoon. I accepted for church but politely declined the afternoon at the club. My calendar indicated I had two big catering events coming up. The first was a western barbecue for forty the following day, Monday the sixth. And then there was the Farquhars’ anniversary party, a cookout for thirty, on Tuesday the fourteenth. With all the turmoil in my life, I had neglected to cook for the former and plan for the latter, and so had a load of work to do. Onward and upward.

Before we left for church I started beans simmering, put country-style ribs slathered with homemade barbecue sauce into the oven, then basted chickens before skewering them on the rotisserie for a brief cooking that the grills would complete the next day. When the Farquhars dropped me off after the service, you could have floated into the kitchen on the heady smell of roasting meats.

I kneaded dough for the rolls and wondered why things had gone so wrong the previous night. The dinner had resembled a wedding I’d done once where three-fourths of the family members were not speaking to each other. Elaborate maneuvers to avoid visual or verbal contact took place both on the dance floor and at the buffet table. By the time it was over I’d felt like a wrung-out dishrag.

And the nerve of Brian Harrington to ask me if Philip talked to me about his clients! I pressed hard into the dough as I kneaded out, folded in. Perhaps it was because his attempt at flirtation had ended so badly that he now felt he had to put me down at every opportunity.

When the roll dough was satiny smooth, I buttered a bowl, turned the ball of dough until butter blanketed the top, then put it all aside to rise. I set new red potatoes on to boil for potato salad, then shredded mountains of cabbage, carrots, and onions for coleslaw. When both salads were mixed into perfect creamy mounds, I covered them with wrap and placed them in the refrigerator, before the temptation to indulge became overwhelming. While I was making out a menu for the anniversary party, a sigh welled up. I looked at my watch. Five o’clock.

For most of the world it was cocktail time. The previous evening’s bad vibes still clung like depression. I felt as if I had failed in some way. And I missed Philip. I missed Arch. What the heck, I even missed Schulz.

The cooking and menu done, I wandered out to the living room. My eyes fastened on Adele’s crystal dish filled with individually wrapped Lindt Lindors, Mozartkugels, and London Mints. I was feeling bad. Adele had told me many times to help myself. Settling on the couch, I reached for the dish.

Opening a wrapped imported chocolate is like a moment from Christmas Eve. Your mouth waters. Each tiny crinkle of paper, each flash of colored foil is agony. You think if you don’t get this chocolate into your mouth in the next five seconds, you’re going to die.

The first Mozartkugel dropped into my hand like a smooth, dark ball from heaven. I bit into it very slowly. As the chocolate melted I closed my eyes and waited for nirvana.

And oh, it came. When you roll chocolate around on your tongue, the dark creamy sweetness invades all your senses. Delight worms its way down your spine. Your ears tingle. You have to say
Mmmm
because you just can’t help it. Some people say the taste of chocolate is second only to sex. I say putting it second is in dispute.

I ate two more Kugels, then a couple of Lindors, and finished off with several London Mints, which are of a cloudy softness that defies description. Well, so much for dinner. Arch and the Farquhars would be home late. Julian was at a rock concert. I cleaned up the pile of wrinkled wrappings and decided to go to bed. I was exhausted, and as I snuggled down between the sheets I consoled myself with the thought that at least chocolate caused no hangover.

Dreams of Mozart’s face on the wrapper of the Kugel awoke me at sunup Monday morning. Clouds the color of much-washed pink crinolines skirted the eastern horizon. Out my window, birds sang in a lush concert. Beautiful, but too early. Despite the best efforts of the avian philharmonic, I was able to get back to sleep until seven, when Tom Schulz called.

To my groggy greeting, he said, “Sloth is one of the Seven Deadly Sins.”

“Is murder on there? That’s what I’m going to do to you if you start up again with these early-morning calls.”

“Want me to call you back?”

I told him I could do nothing without coffee and would call him back when I was drinking something very black—within the next five minutes, I hoped. I crept down the stairs and was packing a double measure of espresso into the Gaggia basket when the motion detector began its high shrieking
wheee.

NEW POTATO SALAD

12 new red potatoes, boiled in their skins just until tender (15 to 20 minutes)

about ¾ cup best-quality mayonnaise (preferably homemade)

whipping cream

½ teaspoon salt

white pepper to taste

about 2 teaspoons snipped fresh dill

2 garlic cloves, minced

Cool and quarter potatoes. Thin mayonnaise slightly with cream. Add salt, white pepper, dill, and garlic. Taste and correct seasoning. Chill.

Makes 4 servings

A quick check revealed that the motion it was detecting was mine. No caffeine, no intellect: I had forgotten to turn off the system. Maybe I was hung over, after all. Once the alarm was off I announced apology to the household over the intercom, called Aspen Meadow Security to interrupt the automatic dial, and turned off the loop. With hands shaking, I sat down at the kitchen desk, sipped the foam from the espresso, and waited for my brain to engage before punching in Schulz’s number.

“You doing better?” he wanted to know. His voice sounded farther away than before. Maybe the alarm had done something to my ears.

“No,” I said truthfully. “Listen. I catered my first aphrodisiac dinner Saturday night. It was a fiasco. The only thing I could find out about Sissy is that Brian Harrington, who is fiftyish and married, seems unduly attracted to her.”

“Whoa,” he said, “don’t skip the good part! What about the dinner? Did the aphrodisiacs work? I mean, not for you of course, what with your professional involvement in the food and all—”

I sighed and twirled the telephone cord, wondering idly if I could thereby set off another alarm.

I said, “I told them what all the foods were supposed to do. But it didn’t happen. In fact, the effect was most definitely the opposite. When I left, Brian Harrington was asleep on a couch.”

“Alone, I assume.”

“Alone.”

“Doesn’t sound as if your aphrodisiacs did the trick, Miss G.”

“Oh, I never was convinced of the science of the thing. Probably suggestion is all there is to it.”

“Sort of like being a psychologist. They suggest a lot except how to agree in court.”

I paused, then told him that there had been quite a brouhaha between Weezie and Philip’s sister, Elizabeth. I added, “And here’s something: Weezie Harrington knew Sissy did her junior-year internship with Philip Miller. And Philip might have been seeing her,” I added lamely, “on the side. Seeing Weezie, I mean.”

Schulz gasped a little too loudly. “And two-timing the town’s caterer? I do know Miller was in contact, but not necessarily amicable contact, with the Harringtons. Something going on in town, still need to get details. I haven’t heard anything in particular about Weezie Harrington and Miller, but I’ll check on that, too. Did he tell you anything?”

“Who, Philip? Like what?”

“Anything strange. Anything that feels out of place.”

I said, “I don’t think so.”

“Give it some thought, you might know more than you think. Call me later in the week.” When he hung up, there was another click, and I wondered briefly if the CIA was checking on General Bo.

I bustled around the kitchen making breakfast. The forty-degree weather demanded a quick bread. I had developed a recipe for Arch’s preschool that had become a favorite with clients. Perhaps the idea of eating something called Montessori muffins made people think they were learning something. Food can substitute for so many things.

I got out whole wheat flour and molasses and began to chop prunes. I supposed Schulz had the right to hang up without saying good-bye. After my business nearly collapsed last fall, we had started to date. But not for long.

I broke an egg and swirled it into oil and milk.

Schulz had been attentive, God knew. On my birthday, on Arch’s birthday, on Julia Child’s birthday, he had sent cards with pictures of mice eating cookies, rabbits downing carrot cakes, French poodles dancing through french fries. Valentine’s Day brought the arrival of the most sumptuous box of candy I had ever received. For this gift I had written him a thank-you note. When he called I told him Arch was taking a carefully wrapped piece in his lunch each day.

“What about you?” he had asked. “Did you like it?”

“Of course,” I’d said carefully. “It’s wonderful.” And then I’d begged off with a catering assignment.

Finally he had asked the dreaded question: Do you see our relationship going anywhere? How could I say I didn’t know? How could I say stop being so nice? How could I admit to running against stereotype, the first woman afraid to commit?

There are many bad ways that relationships end, I reflected as I mixed together the wet and dry ingredients. Death. Divorce. I knew all about the latter. But I had deliberately let the relationship with Schulz wane until there was little left. We had been like the hot chocolate they sell at the ski resorts. For your buck fifty, a machine first spews dark, thick syrup into a cup. This liquid gradually turns to a mixture of chocolate and hot water. Soon there is just a stream of hot water, and in a moment, drops. You wish the chocolate part would go on gushing forever, but it doesn’t.

This was what I should have told Schulz on Valentine’s Day. I simply had not been equal to the task. And then it was a week, a month, three months: His calls became less frequent, and I had heard the siren song of a more enigmatic relationship, the one with Philip Miller.

I put the tin of muffins into the oven. When I set the timer I could hear the slap-slap of Julian doing his laps. I fixed a pot of coffee for when he was done. Not that he would care or be grateful, I was sure.

Arch wandered into the kitchen carrying a large grocery bag. He looked sleepy, which he often did after spending the weekend with The Jerk. His glasses were far down on his nose, but I noticed that he had on a clean unrumpled sweat suit. Seeing him after only a two-day absence made something in my chest ache.

MONTESSORI MUFFINS

2 cups whole wheat flour

2 teaspoons baking powder

½ teaspoon salt

1 cup chopped pitted prunes

1 egg, beaten

¼ cup oil

½ cup molasses

1 ½ cups milk

Preheat oven to 400°. Combine whole wheat flour, baking powder, salt, and prunes in a bowl. Stir together egg, oil, molasses, and milk in another bowl. Combine the mixtures, mixing just until blended. Spoon into a greased 12-cup muffin tin. Bake for 20 to 25 minutes until a toothpick inserted in the center of a muffin comes out clean.

Makes 12 muffins

He looked up, pushed the glasses back on his nose, and regarded me with magnified brown eyes. He said, “You look tired, Mom.”

“You’re projecting.”

“Oh. I don’t know what that means.” He was rooting through the bag.

“Sorry. It just means when you’re tired yourself, you think I am.”

He did not answer, but drew a newspaper from the bag.

I said, “What’s that?”

“You’ll see.”

I halved fat Valencia oranges, whirred them on the Farquhars’ electric juicer to extract pulpy nectar. I poured the thick juice into another Waterford pitcher, one that had survived the garden explosion. The buzzer for the muffins went off. When I turned back from putting them on a cooling rack, Arch was carefully pouring the fresh juice
into
the newspaper.

I gasped. Arch said nothing. Trying hard not to lose my temper as the last of the juice drained into the folded paper, I said, “Please. What are you doing?”

He said, “Experimenting,” without looking at me.

Then he did look at me. He unfolded the newspaper with a flourish, paged carefully through it to show that it was just a newspaper. No liquid, no stain. Then he refolded it with aplomb. He dropped his chin, gave me another knowing look over the top of his glasses, and poured the juice out of the newspaper back into the pitcher.

“All
rightl”
said Julian from the kitchen doorway, where, unknown to me, he had been standing watching. Julian held on to his towel with one hand and enthusiastically clapped the counter with the other.

I smiled. “Let’s drink that juice,” I said. “I’ll make more for Bo and Adele.”

When the two of them had drained their glasses, Julian said to Arch, “You going to show that trick to your girlfriend?”

“She’s not my girlfriend!” came Arch’s hot protest.

I said, “Excuse me?”

Julian gave Arch a profoundly apologetic look. Then he snitched a muffin and walked quickly out of the kitchen, tossing a comment over his shoulder. Arch, he said, should be ready to go to Elk Park Prep in thirty minutes.