Eggs Benedict Arnold (48 page)

“
I
’
m not,
”
said Suzanne.
“
Not really.
”

“
Do you own a food processor?
”
asked Sam.

“
Of course,
”
Suzanne replied, reaching for a slice of molasses bread, the house specialty.

“
How about a wire whisk and mandolin for slicing pa
per-thin potatoes and veggies?
”

“
Yes,
”
she said, spreading a thin layer of unsalted butter
on her bread.

“
Subscription to
Food and Wine
?”

Suzanne nodded.
“
Guilty as charged.
”

“
Then there
’
s no denying you
’
re a
foodie
,
”
said Sam.
“
Maybe you
’
re not a pilgrimage-to-Le Bernadin, quaff-
the-Beaujolais-nouveau-
foodie
, but you
’
re right up there.
”

“
Could we please change the subject?
”
asked Suzanne.

“
No,
”
said Sam.
“
I enjoy talking about food. It
’
s one of my passions, too. Of course, what I really prefer is
eating
it. Really good food, that is.
”

Suzanne toyed with her salad fork, thinking about their
gourmet dinner tomorrow night. Should she invite Sam?
Would it be too soon to see him again? Would she appear
too eager?

Bag those thoughts, she told herself. Do whatever the heck you feel like doing.

“
You know,
”
she said to Sam,
“
the Cackleberry Club is
hosting a gourmet winners dinner tomorrow night.
”

“
Winners,
”
said Sam.

“
That
’
s right,
”
said Suzanne.
“
The winners of our cake-decorating contest will be there along with a few other folks who bought tickets.
”
She hesitated.
“
I don
’
t know if you already have plans, but I
’
d sure like it if you came.
”

Sam dropped his chin into his hand and stared at her
across the table.
“
Mmm, really? Tell me the menu.
”

“
Oh, now you
’
re being selective!
”

“
I
’
m curious,
”
he told her.

“
Let
’
s see,
”
said Suzanne, feeling slightly flustered.
“
Well, our starter course is going to be salmon medallions with mustard sauce and dilled cucumber. Then Boston bib lettuce with walnut dressing and Maytag blue cheese. Squash soup with fennel and onion garnish. And fillet of beef with potato gratin.
”

“
That
’
s it?
”
said Sam.

“
Dessert will be honey-poached pears with gingerbread
and fresh-brewed espresso.
”

Sam
’
s dark eyes stared intently at her.

Uh-oh,
she thought.
“
So ... what do you think?
”

“
Are you kidding?
”
he exclaimed.
“
I wouldn
’
t miss a dinner like
that
for anything! Thank you!
”

That seemed to really break the ice, or what small chip
was left of it. Sam had the grilled rib eye while Suzanne or
dered the Muscovy duck. They ate, chatted, ate some more,
drank wine, gabbed, and laughed. By the time dessert ar
rived, a cheese sampler accented with thin slices of Granny
Smith green apples and a balsamic vinegar reduction, the
candle in the center of their table had burned low, and the
wine bottle was pretty much empty.

Sam pushed what was left of the Camembert toward Su
zanne, drew a breath,
th
en said,
“
I know that your husband
passed away . . . what? . . . maybe six or seven months ago?
”

Suzanne nodded. She figured the subject would rear its
head sooner or later. How could it not?

“
You seem very . . . pulled toge
th
er,
”
said Sam.
“
Like
you
’
re really charging ahead with your life.
”

“
You think so?
”
she asked.

He nodded.
“
Absolutely. Otherwise you wouldn
’
t be sit
ting here with me.
”

“
You
’
re probably right,
”
said Suzanne.
“
No, you
are
right. But I want to tell you something, okay? A little story.
”

Sam nodded.
“
Sure.
”

“
One rainy Tuesday night,
”
Suzanne began,
“
I was going
through Walter
’
s top dresser drawer when I came across a
lovely white shirt.
”
She gazed at Sam.
“
The shirt had never
been worn. In fact, it was still carefully swaddled in tissue
paper.

Then I remembered that Walter had bought that shirt
a couple of years earlier at a fancy shop on Michigan Av
enue, when we
’
d driven up to see the
Ma
t
isse show at the
Chicago Art Institute. I
’
d ribbed him mercilessly about the
price of the shirt and he
’
d taken it to heart. He was, obvi
ously, saving the shirt for a special occasion.
”

Sam continued to gaze at her, brows arched, not quite certain where she was going with this.

“
So,
”
continued Suzanne,
“
I took the shirt from the
dresser drawer and laid it next to the suit I was planning to
take to the funeral home the next morning.
”

Silence hung between them.

“
Now I don
’
t wait for anything,
”
said Suzanne, in a quiet
voice.
“
No more waiting for planets to align, the economy
to rebound, or someone to hand me a blank check. And I
particularly try not to worry about what others think. To be
perfectly honest, I don
’
t much care what they
’
re thinking.
Now I just try to push ahead and do my best to be optimis
tic, hopeful, and fearless.
”

“
Does it work?
”
asked Sam, reaching for her hand.

Suzanne smiled back at him.
“
Sometimes.
”

Chapter twenty seven

By
ten o
’
clock Saturday morning, it really did look as though
the circus had arrived, pitched camp, and was operating in full force. Like mainsails from gigantic, oceangoing
schooners, two shimmering white tents billowed heroically
in the front parking lot of the Cackleberry Club. Riding
the soft breeze were the mingled aromas of Jamaican Blue
Mountain coffee, fresh-baked orange muffins, brown sugar
scones, melted chocolate, fresh marzipan, and powdery confectioners
’
sugar.

In the largest of the two tents, cake-decorating demonstrations had just gotten under way. Cece Bishop from the
Culinary Arts Program at Darlington College and Jenny Probst from the Kindred Bakery had teamed up to demonstrate fondants and frostings. Cece had arrived with a
three-tiered cake that was covered in vanilla icing and just waiting to be turned into a majestic art deco-inspired work
of art.

Suzanne presided over the second tent. Jammed with ta
bles she
’
d positioned in a large U-shape arrangement, gor
geous cake entries had been pouring in all morning. After wrestling with her choice of categories, Petra had finally
settled upon four different cake-decorating divisions: wed
ding cakes, tiered cakes, sheet cakes, and sugar arts. This last division being the most popular and encompassing all
sorts of imaginative designs from floral romps, to swans
and swags, to pulled and blown sugar sculptures.

Much to Toni
’
s dismay, Petra had jettisoned her idea
for a weird cake recipe contest. So no deep-fried tempura
cakes, chocolate chili cakes, or potato pecan cakes. At least
not this year.

Suzanne sat at the registration table, checking in cake entries and handing out name tags and programs. About
fifteen cakes had come in so far, and she expected another thirty or so to arrive by their 2:00 P.M. cutoff time. She
suspected that more than a few hopeful bakers were still struggling to perfect their fondant frills!

“
So how was the big date?
”
Toni asked, sidling up next
to her.

“
Really nice,
”
said Suzanne, jotting a note to
herself.

“
Nice?
”
said Toni, looking slightly askance.
“
Nice is when somebody knits you a pair of argyle socks for your birthday.
”

“
Okay,
”
said Suzanne.
“
If you must know, I had a pretty
terrific evening. It was fun, challenging, and even a teensy
bit romantic.
”
She peered sideways at Toni.
“
There. I
’
ve spilled my guts. Happy?
”

Toni clasped her hands together in a grand theatrical
gesture.
“
Ah
,
sweet romance. I so adore hearing the details.
Hugs, kisses ...
”

“
And that
’
s
all
I
’
m going to reveal for now,
”
cut in Suzanne.
“
This dating thing is brand-new territory for me.
”

“
Sounds like code for
you’
re planning to take it slow.
”

“
Absolutely I am,
”
said Suzanne.
“
Think snail speed. Or
better yet... classier, yet... escargot speed.
”

“
No, no, no,
”
said Toni, dancing about and twirling a
finger at her.
“
Bad idea. Romance is all about being wildly
impetuous and crazy!
”