Dying for Chocolate (12 page)

I echoed, “Girlfriend?”

Arch let out a deep breath. He took a bite of muffin. He looked at me and shrugged. Said, “Remember I told you Julian really likes your cooking, Mom? He even told me he wants to, like, take lessons from you.”

“Please don’t change the subject. You never mentioned a girlfriend.”

“She’s not my girlfriend! I need to go get dressed.”

“You are dressed.”

Another sigh.

I tried another tack. “You don’t have to tell me about this if you don’t want to.”

He said, “Good. Because I don’t want you asking forty questions.”

“How about two?”

He shrugged.

“Was your dad nice to you?”

He nodded.

“How’s school?”

His cheeks turned pink. “Fine.” Then he pressed the rest of the muffin into his mouth and reached again into the grocery bag. “This is for you,” he said with his mouth full. He handed me a thick manila envelope. To my chagrin, it was labeled
Parent Packet
—
Please read immediately.

“Apparently paying tuition isn’t enough,” I said, to no one in particular.

Adele’s distant tap-step announced her approach. I slapped down the manila envelope, set her a place at the oak table, and started slicing oranges for more juice.

“Better go get ready,” I said quickly to Arch.

“Okay, but I need to ask Adele something.”

“What?”

“You’ll see.”

Smart kid. Arch knew the best way to get what he wanted was to try for it when I was in a rush to prepare food. I nabbed Adele’s muscle-relaxant medication from the cabinet and pressed the orange halves into the whirling juicer. Just when I had extracted a new pitcherful of the sweet orange liquid, Adele appeared at the kitchen doorway. Her face was drawn in pain from morning back stiffness.

Arch said, “Good morning, Mrs. Farquhar. That’s a really pretty robe.”

Unbelievable. Not only was Arch learning tricks, he was taking charm lessons from The Jerk. Even Adele looked at me in surprise. I noticed that the shiny dark blue Chinese silk robe with its red-and-green embroidery was indeed lovely. The astonishing thing was that Arch had noticed it.

“Why thank you,” she said with a smile that eased the wrinkles of pain. “The fragrance of those muffins is indescribable.” Carefully, Adele lowered herself into her chair.

Arch echoed the movement and sat down in the chair next to her.

“Mrs. Farquhar?” he said when she had taken her pills with dainty sips of juice.

She looked at him with eyebrows raised. When I stepped forward to offer support, Arch shot me a forbidding, dark look. I stood still.

“Mrs. Farquhar,” he began again, “I was wondering if you would mind if I had some kids over one of these days.”

Again there was a radiant smile from my employer. I pressed my lips together. I didn’t want Arch to see me grin.

“A pool party!” said Adele with enthusiasm. “It sounds lovely. Let’s have it as part of our anniversary celebration.”

“I don’t know about a pool party,” said Arch. “I don’t want them to swim. I want to do an act.”

“An act?” I said, incredulous. This from a child who had balked at show-and-tell for six years?

“What kind of act?” asked Adele. “Of course, I mean, it’s fine, dear. But what will you be doing?”

Arch stood. He reached into the bag and then walked with great drama to Adele’s side. He held up a half-dollar in one hand, showed it to us, and then had it disappear. With his other hand he snapped behind Adele’s ear and the coin reappeared. He looked at us both and gave a slight bow. Then he straightened up.

He said, “Archibald the Magnificent’s Traveling Magic Show.”

13.

“What a precocious child,” said Adele as she turned back to her muffins and the pot of Constant Comment tea I had set on the table. I could not read her tone. And as usual, just when you thought you were getting somewhere in this household, the phone rang. Adele slumped her shoulders in defeat: the shackles of noblesse oblige.

I picked it up and said sweetly, “Farquhars.”

“Uh, Goldy the caterer?”

“Speaking.”

“This is the
Mountain Journal.
There’s going to be another review of your cooking in Friday’s paper, and the, uh, editor told me to call to say you could, like, do a rebuttal next week, if you want. Okay? Deadline for your copy is Wednesday noon. I need to go.”

“Who is this? Put that editor on or I’m never going to advertise in his newspaper again.”

The phone clicked off. So much for my consumer vote. I replaced the receiver in the cradle. This was Monday. I had four days to worry about the new review, which was clearly not going to be glowing, and a little over a week to think of something to say. Actually, I didn’t even have time to cook, much less worry, because all the phones did in this house was
ring.

I answered less sweetly this time. “Farquhars.”

“I need to speak with Adele Farquhar, please. This is Joan Rasmussen from the Elk Park Prep pool committee. It’s extremely important.”

“Ah ha,” I said, and turned to Adele with raised eyebrows. “Joan Rasmussen from the pool committee.” Adele waved her off with half a Montessori muffin.

I said, “Mrs. Farquhar is not available at the moment. She’s swimming.”

“Some
people have a pool already,” said the uncharitable Ms. Rasmussen. “And with whom am I speaking, may I ask?”

I assumed a businesslike tone. “This is Goldy the caterer, live-in cook for the Farquhars. My son, Arch Korman, is a summer student at Elk Park. Shall I have Adele call you?”

“Yes, you need to do that. But I can talk to you. As the parent of a student, you need to be brought up to date on parents’ responsibility for pool fund-raising.”

“Oh, no—”

“Have you read the contents of your packet yet?”

“Well, no, Ms. Rasmussen, I just got it a couple of minutes ago—”

“You
need
to read it, then. And when you’re done, you need to go around to local businesses, solicit donations, and
then
you need to give them a decal for their window—”

I said, “Look, Joan honey, the only thing I
need
to do right now is get off the telephone.” I slammed the receiver down. Honestly, some people.

“Don’t tell me,” said Adele. “I’ve just lost Joan Rasmussen as co-chair.”

“Trust me,” I said, “you’re better off.” I began to search through the refrigerator for the food I’d prepared yesterday for the western barbecue. When I emerged with the last of the platters, Adele was taking another pill. Reluctantly, it seemed to me.

“Goldy,” she said finally, “I know you have a lot on your mind. But I just feel so frustrated trying to raise funds in this town. In Washington we worked hard on it!” She gestured with her teacup. “There were committees for charity balls, fashion shows, luncheons, everything! Everyone worked! The headmaster said the alums would be supportive. They haven’t been. Neither have the parents. I’m at a loss.”

I put the platters down and sat next to her. “I’m sorry.”

She shrugged. “I know you have other things to worry about, dear. I know you’re upset about this Miller fellow, and of course there’s Arch and your business. It’s just that when I set my mind to something, I do it. I know people here have money! But do you think I can get them to work on this committee during June, July, and August? No. The only person who’ll do any work is Joan Rasmussen, and she beats people over the head. It’s the wrong time of year, the headmaster says. It’s hard to get people to work now. But why?” She shook her head and sipped from her cup.

“Oh, my dear Adele,” I said with a smile. “It’s because the residents have to work on their Colorado Summer Merit Badges.”

She choked on the tea. “Their
what?
”

I got a cup, poured myself some of the pale brown liquid, and settled back beside her. “Here’s how it works. You’ve got money and you live in Colorado. Every summer vacation, you’re duty-bound to work on your badges. Sometimes they come with a star.”

“I beg your pardon? These are actual things?”

I shook my head. “Of course not, although sometimes you get a T-shirt.” When she still looked puzzled, I explained: “Coloradans are going to recite their summer achievements to you as soon as they see you in the fall. You say,
How was your summer?
They roll their eyes.
Well! First we hiked ten of the state’s fourteeners.
Hiking merit badge. Only earned for hiking repeatedly at fourteen thousand feet above sea level.
Then we climbed the Flatirons, about lost two of the kids when we were rap-peling down!
Rock-climbing merit badge.
Then we back-packed into the most remote area of Rocky Mountain National Park.
Camping merit badge.
When we got back we ran a 10K road race over by Vail and did the 60K bike race over the Rockies.
Running and biking badges, the latter with a star.”

She grinned. “What about bird-watching? Or . . . or . . . fishing?”

“Well,” I said huffily, “I haven’t gotten there yet. Of course, the only merit badge you can get in fishing is for fly-fishing. Only a novice uses bait.”

“So that’s why I can’t get anyone to work on a committee. I thought the parents and alums might be on vacation, but then I see them in town.”

“Dear Adele. You haven’t asked them about their summer! Just listening to them would make you need a muscle relaxant.”

Adele smoothed her lips with her finger. Finally she said, “I’ve got it!” She was beaming. “A bird-watching fund-raiser picnic. Catered by guess who. We set it up for this Saturday, say it was an impromptu sort of affair.”

I groaned. “You’re not serious.”

“Could you work it into your catering schedule? Figure on tripling the cost of your supplies. Then I’ll double that and give half to the school. Could you?”

I looked at the yellow kitchen tiles and calculated. I still had to come up with the final payment on my security system. Arch’s summer-school costs had put a painful dent in my budget. And this job would be exceptionally profitable. I said, “Sure.”

“It’s the perfect thing! You’ll make money, the school will make money, we can invite Julian and Arch and the Harringtons and all kinds of people! It’ll be a smash hit. Oh, Goldy, you’re wonderful! I never would have thought of it if you hadn’t told me about the badges.” She put her finger to her lip again, a bad sign. “And about Joan. She just needs to be coddled.”

Right. Rasmussen the Egg. More like hard-boiled, I’d say.

“Brought along, you know.” As usual, I didn’t. “I suppose I should invite her over for lunch today.”

I had been trying to give her comfort. Be a soul friend, the way I was with her sister, Marla. Suddenly, everything was backfiring.

Adele continued, “Could you just do a little soup and salad? Please? I know you need to get your van, but Bo and I can get it for you.” Her hazel eyes implored me.

Okay, I’d screwed up with the Rasmussen woman. Here was Adele, new to the community, walking with a cane, trying to make friends, using her time and money to be helpful when she couldn’t get people to raise money in the summer, and her employee had just blown off the co-chair. Well, I
needed
to.

I swallowed and said, “Sure. Lunch is no problem. Rolls and fruit salad with Goldilocks’ Gourmet Spinach Soup?” She nodded. Good, I’d brought a container of frozen soup from my house. “I can have it done before I leave for the picnic.”

Adele smiled in relief. Then she rose like a queen and picked up the phone to call Joan Rasmussen about lunch and the birding expedition. Rasmussen must have thought it was a good idea, because then Adele called Bo on the intercom and asked him to call his golfing friend whose wife was in the Audubon Society. Then with a wink she took the van keys I gave her and tap-stepped her way out of the kitchen.

Adele was like and unlike Marla, I reflected as I stirred molasses into the bubbling pot of baked beans. Like Marla in being used to wealth and the power it confers. Unlike Marla in that Adele never discussed her back problems, she just poured the pain into energy for good deeds. If Marla was in pain, she made sure that it was news for the entire county. And to Marla, good deeds were for the Rockefellers.

Arch reappeared at the kitchen doorway.

“Mom,” he announced, “I need two hundred dollars for a silk cape and top hat.” He grinned.

“Excuse me?”

“I can ask Dad if it’s too much for you.”

“Arch, don’t. You know he’ll say no, that it should come out of the child-support money. Come on, hon. Can’t you do without it?”

He looked at me, a child’s freckled face wrinkled in adultlike dismay. “Well, I have to have them for the magic show,” he insisted. “Maybe Dad will get them since I talked him into paying for the other stuff.”

“What other stuff? Like that newspaper?”

Arch ducked into his bag and brought out a pair of handcuffs and a set of Chinese manacles. This latter I recognized as his favorite trick from our visits to magic shows when he was little. He couldn’t seem to decide between the two tricks. Finally he held up the handcuffs with his eyebrows raised.

“Lock these behind me, please.”

This was turning into a busy morning. But I acquiesced.

There was a pause as he leaned forward slightly. Then he triumphantly brought up his hands and the cuffs.

“How did you do that?”

“A magician never tells, Mom. Anyway, wait until you see me do it under water.”

“Under water! You can hardly do the doggie paddle. And remember the doctor said you should be extra careful because of that bronchitis and asthma you had in February—”

GOLDILOCKS’ GOURMET SPINACH SOUP

5 tablespoons unsalted butter

¼ A pound fresh mushrooms, washed, dried, trimmed, and diced

1 scallion, chopped

5 tablespoons all-purpose flour

2 cups chicken broth

2 cups milk

½ teaspoon salt (optional)

black pepper (preferably freshly ground)

ground nutmeg (optional)

¼ A pound cream cheese, softened and cut into cubes

1 cup grated Swiss cheese (recommended: Jarlsberg)

¼ pound fresh spinach, washed, trimmed, cooked, and chopped

Melt the butter in a large saucepan. In it slowly sauté the mushrooms and scallion until tender. Add flour and stir just until flour is cooked, a couple of minutes. Whisk in first chicken broth and then milk, stirring until thickened. Add salt if desired, pepper, nutmeg if desired, cream cheese, and Swiss cheese; stir until melted. Then stir in spinach. Heat and stir very gently. Season to taste. Serve hot.

Makes 4 to 6 servings

Arch turned away. When I opened my mouth to say I was sorry, Julian’s honk sounded from outside.

“Gotta go. Oh,” he said as he ducked to retrieve something else. “One more thing.” It was the tone of voice he used when he knew I wasn’t going to like it. These things he always saved until the last moment before his school bus came, so we wouldn’t have time to argue. Apparently, summer school was no different.

I said, “I hope this one more thing will mean I can get all my cooking done today.”

“Here,” he said as he handed me
The Complete Works of Edgar Allan Poe.
“All the parents are supposed to read along so you can help with the final project. There’s a note inside,” he indicated a mimeographed sheet, “that explains the project. The teacher’s really nice, she’ll talk to you about the different projects, if you want.”

Julian honked again and Arch whipped out the front door. Behind them, Adele and the general waved from the back of the Range Rover. I opened the sheet Arch had given me. It detailed all my Poe homework:
Read two short stories. Discuss them with your child. Develop ideas for projects. You could make a model of a gold bug.
Sure.
You could make a tape of the beating of a telltale heart.
Uh-huh.

I wondered if the teacher would like to be a caterer. What was I paying tuition for, anyway? Oh yes. Arch said she was nice.

The phone was ringing in the kitchen. It was the Audubon Society. Would I please have the general call about an outing? Was it this Saturday, the eleventh, that he wanted? You bet I’d have him call. I wanted to add,
You and General Farquhar have nothing in common,
but refrained. Instead, I stabbed the block of frozen soup so that it would heat more quickly. I had an hour before I had to rush off to do the barbecue for George Rumslinger’s ranch hands and staff.

I put the phone recorder on and did a yoga centering exercise. Arch had a girlfriend and wanted two hundred dollars for a magician’s costume. Adele needed lunch for two before I did a picnic for forty. There was going to be another rotten review in the
Mountain Journal.
I needed to call my lawyer about the name change. I had a birding expedition and picnic to plan, while Edgar Allan Poe homework awaited me. I chewed the inside of my cheek. How much worse could things get?

The phone rang and I listened to the message as it recorded. It was Marla.

The funeral for Philip Miller was at two P.M. the next day.

Somehow, I finished the cooking and set the table on the Farquhars’ covered porch. I banished thoughts about the funeral, went out to the garage and found a small pair of pruning shears next to the camping equipment. The new flowering plants Julian and General Bo had put into the smoothed-over garden crater yielded an acceptable arrangement for the luncheon with the Irascible Rasmussen. Adele and the general arrived in convoy with my van.