Dying for Chocolate

1.

Brunch is a killer. I hate it, and among food people I’m in good company. James Beard found the idea of a heavy meal between meals idiotic. He said, “You don’t have something called lunny-dinny, do you?”

Actually, the reason professional caterers dislike brunch is that it means getting up at an ungodly hour. As I lay in bed at 4:45 the morning of June 3, I realized that in a little over four hours I had sixty people to feed. There were mountains of fruit to slice. Muffins and breads to bake fresh. Thick-sliced bacon to bring to sizzling. Egg strata to cook slowly until layers of hot cheddar melted over warm custard. And finally, there was coffee to grind and brew. In this case, lots and lots of coffee that I would have preferred to have been drowning in.

With eyes closed, I imagined floating in a warm lake of cappuccino. The cocoon of pima cotton sheets and down comforter begged me to stay, to ignore the upcoming meal.

But no. The lake of predawn consciousness yielded a few troublesome bubbles. The Elk Park Prep brunch was a popular annual gathering to which my ex-husband, Dr. John Richard Korman, might wangle a ticket. This would not be fun for anyone.

Without thinking I touched my right thumb, the one he had broken in three places with a hammer a month before we finally divorced, four years ago. Anyone else would have said, Four years without abuse? You must feel safe now.

But I never felt safe. Especially now.

Here’s why. In the last month John Richard had started acting strange. Or rather, stranger than usual. In the evenings he had taken to driving slowly past my house off Main Street in Aspen Meadow. He called repeatedly, then hung up. One afternoon his lawyer phoned and threatened a reduction in child support for our eleven-year-old son Arch. That night, John Richard drove more slowly than ever past the house.

Given John Richard’s violent temperament, I’d decided that Arch and I should vacate the house for a while. I’d accepted a summer job. General Bo and Adele Farquhar had just moved from the suburbs of Washington, D.C., to the Aspen Meadow Country Club area. They’d built a Victorian-style mansion on land Adele had owned for years. This was where I was now, between sheets I’d only seen in ads, under a comforter I’d only dreamed about. Arch and I occupied two bedrooms on the top level of the enormous (three floors plus basement) gingerbread-trimmed residence. I didn’t know why the Farquhars, wealthy, childless, and in their early fifties, needed such a huge place. But that was not my concern. What was my concern was that they both hated to cook.

Adele had said they needed someone to take charge of the mammoth kitchen with its state-of-the-art gadgets and appliances. Lucky for me, their kitchen had passed the eagle eye of the county health inspector. So I had jumped at the chance to become a temporary live-in cook in exchange for a haven. During the summer, this was also the center for my business, Goldilocks’ Catering, Where Everything Is Just Right! Also lucky for me, the income from the job and the business was enough to send Arch to the summer session at Elk Park Prep, where I was catering this morning.

Best of all, the Farquhars’ house had more alarms than the Denver Mint.

I opened my eyes and studied the sloped ceiling of my new bedroom. The gray light of five A.M. seeped through Belgian lace curtains and licked the edges of the room. There was no movement on the floor below; Adele and the general were still asleep.

Outside, a fierce June wind pummeled the house. Branches slapped against the gutters of the other guest room on the third floor, but there was no noise from Arch. When he was little, he would awaken if the doorbell rang. Now he could snore through wind, through hail, through the unfamiliar creaks of this museumlike house.

Arch had not wanted to move. I had promised it was just for two months, while new doors, windows, and a security system were installed in our old house. Insofar as possible, I had tried to put Dr. John Richard Korman— whose initials and behavior had led his other ex-wife and me to dub him The Jerk—out of my mind as well as out of my presence. Unfortunately, I did not know if he would be making an appearance at Elk Park Prep’s annual brunch.

My second problem with this highly publicized meal: A man I Was seeing was going to be there. The renewal of my relationship with Philip Miller, a local shrink, resembled those silver mines they’re always reopening in Colorado. The vein may still be strong and the price of silver has just gone up. Philip’s large blue eyes and so-happy-to-see-me smile had heated up my social life, no question about it. That’s why they called it old flame, right? Anyway, I wanted to see Philip, but not at the expense of a confrontation with The Jerk.

The wind slammed against the house, causing it to crack and moan. A stray branch scuttled across the roof. In late spring the Rocky Mountains frequently spin off a chilly whip of air to announce a cold front. Wind screamed through the window jambs. Then it died and the undaunted mating call of a robin pierced the air.

I did a few stretching exercises before checking the thermometer on the windowsill: thirty-four degrees, with ominous clouds to boot. Nice June weather. I slid out onto the floor and eased my body through the yoga positions of Cobra, Morning Star, Locust. My spiritual life is an amalgam of yoga, transcendental meditation, and Episcopalianism. The only ones who would be bothered by this, I thought, were the Episcopalians.

And then I began to think about Philip Miller.

One thing I had learned as a thirty-one-year-old single mother: no matter how your body aged, your feelings did not. At any time of life you could be subject to a high-school-vintage infatuation. Another late-teen aspect to Love in the Thirties: you could feel as if you loved two people at the same time.

For seven months I had been seeing Tom Schulz. He was a policeman who had helped me through a rough time when my fledgling business was threatened with two attempted poisonings. He had the build and appetite of a mountain man. Tom Schulz doted on Arch and me, and he made me feel safe.

But in the last few weeks, perhaps because I was trying to block out the specter of the omnipresent Jerk, Philip Miller had once again stolen into my psyche and my daydreams. Eons ago Philip and I had dated at the University of Colorado. Dated? Listen to me.

In any event, Philip was good-looking, well-off, and intelligent. He looked and dressed like a golf pro. When I talked, he listened with great intentness. Since early May we had been doing crazy things like toting backpacks bulging with exotic foods on long Saturday hikes. One Monday morning Philip had sent me ten bunches of gold Mylar balloons. No reason. Before the move, I had taken my morning cup of espresso out on the wooden deck where the balloons floated, tied to the railing, for two weeks. I would sit and watch them move languidly in the cool morning breeze. I would listen to the silky brushing sound their crinkled surfaces made when they touched. I thought, Somebody loves me.

I had pushed John Richard out of my head. Schulz was on emotional hold. I made up elaborate excuses while off on excursions with Philip. And I felt guilty. But not too much.

Now I reluctantly hauled myself up to do battle with cantaloupe, strawberries, and kiwi. What a mess. The social life, that is; I was used to the fruit. But sometimes the Philip Miller-Tom Schulz problem felt like a nice mess. So much better than worrying about The Jerk. I was taking care of that crisis; I had moved. But the two-man mess . . . that was the mess of a glutton. After dieting for years, the glutton gorges herself on Chocolate Marble Cheesecake and Hot Fudge Sundae. Simultaneously.

I showered, dressed in my caterer’s uniform, and reminded myself that gluttony was one of the Seven Deadly Sins. Not to mention lust.

I combed out corkscrew-curly blond hair and put makeup over freckles on slightly chubby cheeks. With tap shoes and a big smile, I could have done Shirley Temple. Yes, slightly chubby, yes, occasionally gluttonous. But in the lust department I was pristine in the four years since divorce. Listening to friends’ stories had convinced me that casual sex was anything but. Unfortunately, no one was interviewing me on the subject of promiscuity. Interesting topic, though.

I made my way down the back staircase, crept along the second-floor hall past the framed photographs of General Farquhar with Jimmy Carter, Ronald Reagan, and Margaret Thatcher, and tiptoed down the main steps. One of my jobs in this house was to disarm the first-floor security system every morning. I pressed the buttons to deactivate the motion detectors on the first floor and house perimeter. Then I banged open the door to the basketball court-size kitchen.

Well, maybe not that big. But it was gorgeous, the kind you drool over in household magazine centerfolds with captions like Kitchens That Are Really Built! Clusters of geraniums brightened deep interior windowsills. Next to the Montague Grizzly stove with its six burners, flat grill, and two ovens, counters patterned in brilliant yellow and green Italian tile glistened in the light of a glass-and-brass chandelier. Burnished copper pans hung from the ceiling, and rows of custom-made oak cabinets glowed pristinely, without a single grubby fingerprint. It was picture-perfect, typical of a home without children.

In the center of this vast culinary sea was an island the size of Antarctica. It was a good bet no kitchen designer ever had to do housework for a living. But the task of washing the expansive tile floor was left to the other staff person, a teenager who had moved into the Farquhars’ basement level. For me there were muffins and breads to make, not to mention the stacked fruit on top of Antarctica. I took the smooth lumps of Sally Lunn dough out of the refrigerator for their final rising and then picked up my knife.

“Take that!” I whispered as I whacked my way through juicy green kiwi, fat, ultra-red strawberries, and pineapple so sweet you wondered why they’d let it leave Hawaii. One of the secrets of catering is that you have access to high-quality ingredients unavailable in the grocery store. If you have a good supplier, you can even get delicacies on short notice.

The cantaloupes were luscious, their juicy dark orange centers dense with a caviar of seeds. By half past six I had carved ten of them into centerpiece baskets and used a garnishing tool to give each a scalloped edge. I took the Sally Lunns out of the oven and put them on racks, where they filled the kitchen with the rich scent of baked bread. The last step was to scoop sour cream batter thick with inky blueberries into muffin tins and put them in to bake. The rest of the food was at the school. Once I’d poured the champagne and managed the buffet, the alums could eat while the headmaster made his money pitch.

The kitchen telephone rang. Unfortunately, this was no ordinary ringing but a sustained beeping from a complicated radio contraption boasting three lines, an intercom, and various other functions unknown to me. Two lines in my own house I could handle. But this gadget of General Farquhar’s—he had brought it with him from the Pentagon, I was convinced—had been a headache from the time of its installation two days ago. The phone was like the security system. It needed to be disarmed.

I stared at the flashing light and tried to remember how the buttons worked. Between General Farquhar’s associates and Adele’s various committee people, the phone rang constantly. Who could be calling at this hour? Someone from the East Coast, no doubt. This inconsiderate person would be thinking, Oh, the time change. Well, they’re probably already up.

I lifted the receiver and stabbed at what I hoped was the right button.

“Farquhars?” I said hesitantly, and prayed that I was not speaking into the intercom.

“Goldy,” said Philip Miller.

I was immediately flooded with relief, desire, and other teenage-type feelings. Why he was calling so early I did not know.

I said, “Are you okay?”

“I have a doctor’s appointment before the brunch,” he said. “I’ll be late.”

“We are indeed meeting at your high school, Philip. But I can’t give you a tardy excuse.”

I could hear his grin when he said, “Not to worry. Listen. May I see you afterwards? There’s something about food I need to discuss.”

“Sure,” I said warily, perusing my appointments calendar on the kitchen bulletin board. For June 3, a hastily penciled Brunch was followed by Prep Harrington Aphrodisiac Dinner. As good as my supplier was, she had been unable to bring some items for the dinner before she went on vacation. I was going to have to shop for substitutions later in the morning. This afternoon would be given over to cooking for the Harrington affair, which was set for Saturday night.

“No problem,” I said, as if to convince myself. Philip did not sound good. There was caution in his voice. I said, “Should we get together before your first appointment? I need to be near your office to shop, anyway. We could have coffee at Aspen Meadow Cafe.” I hesitated as the wind whipped aspen branches against the kitchen windows. “Are you sure you don’t want to talk now?”

He said, “Not over the phone.”

“Don’t get paranoid on me, shrink-man.”

“Don’t play fast and loose with psychological terms, food-woman.”

I said, “Fast and loose?”

But before he could reply, one of the other lines into the Farquhars’ house lit up. Through the insistent beeping I told Philip to hold. Then I took a breath and hit a few buttons.

“Farquhars?”

“Miss Goldy,” said Tom Schulz.

I looked at my watch: six-forty. What was going on here? I said, “It’s a little early, Tom.”

“You’re hard to reach,” he said. I said nothing but felt guilty for the latest creative rash of excuses. He went on, “Besides. As I recall, sometimes you’re an early riser.”

I could imagine him shifting his big body from side to side on one of the too-small chairs of the Furman County Sheriff’s Department. I could see him cocking his head, looking into his coffee as if that dark liquid could give him answers to all his questions.

He said, “You cooking or something?”

“Excuse me, Tom, but yes,” I said, irritation masking my conscience as the light for Philip’s line continued to blink.

“I won’t keep you. It’s just that I have today’s issue of the Mountain Journal in front of me. They deliver it to the Sheriff’s Department first, I think.”

“So?”

“Well, now, I was thinking this was one issue you might want to skip.”

“Is that why you’re calling so early?”

“Now, Miss G. Don’t get huffy. I just wanted to tell you not to pick up today’s paper. Avoid a nasty surprise that way.”

“What are you talking about?”

He cleared his throat, then said, “Don’t read the paper, Goldy. The guy’s crazy.” Another pause. “You know I think you’re a great cook. The best.”

“Cut to the chase, Tom. I’ve got fruit to slice.”

He took a deep breath. “Seems our local rag has up and gotten itself a food critic. Name of Pierre; must be French.” He took a sip of what I imagined to be coffee. Then he said, “Pierre doesn’t like you, Goldy.”

Philip’s line was still blinking. Sweat sprouted on my forehead. I said, “Read it to me.”

“Not a good idea, Miss G. That was what I was trying to avoid.”

“Read it to me or I will never fix you my famous Strawberry Super Pie. That would be a shame, it being strawberry season and all.”

He groaned, then read, “ ‘The queen of Aspen Meadow catering cuisine, the unfortunately named Goldy Bear, lays false claim to her throne, we fear.’ ” He stopped. “You sure you want me to go on?”

I clenched my teeth. “Yes.”

“Okey-doke.” More throat-clearing. “ ‘At a recent fête for the Colorado Symphony, we began with heavily sauced eggs for hors d’oeuvres, then plowed onward through avocado cream soup, beef Stroganoff, fettuccine Alfredo, salad with mayonnaise, and finished in a daze with chocolate fondue. Where did this woman learn to cook, the National Cholesterol Institute?’ ” Schulz stopped. He said, “I’ve never heard . . . I mean, is there such a thing?”

“Oh, for crying out loud, of course not.” I stopped shouting and took a deep breath. I felt as if I’d been punched. My voice was shaking when I said, “And it wasn’t Stroganoff, it was London broil. With egg noodles. Is there any more?”

“ ’Fraid so, but not much.” He read, “ ‘How many of us came home and threw up? I know I did.’ And then it’s signed, ‘Pierre.’ What an idiot.”

I pondered the gleaming knife I’d set down near the cantaloupe. I said, “Any more good news?”

“I miss you.”

“Really.”

“Course. Evenings have been pretty warm lately. Big spring sunsets. I was wondering if you’d like to bring Arch over. You know, we could cook out or something.”

“Let me think about it. We could have hamburgers. Direct from the National Cholesterol whatever.”

“While you’re thinking about it, I got a question—”

The third line into the Farquhars’ house lit up and began its insistent beep.

“Tom, could you hold—” I said in a panic, and pushed more buttons for what must surely be some dork on the East Coast.

“Farquhars!” I yelled into the phone.

“Need to cut back on the caffeine, Goldy?” The husky voice belonged to my best friend, Marla Korman. Although Marla and I both had been married to John Richard—at different times, this being Colorado and not Utah—we had become allies after the final divorce. It was through Marla that I had landed my present job. Adele Farquhar was her older sister.

I said, “Oh, jeez, Marla, what are you doing calling so early?”

“No time to talk?”

“Not if it’s about the newspaper.”

“What newspaper? I left two messages for you.”

Another pang of guilt; I’d meant to call her back. But I was not a secretary, and I could not juggle three phone lines before seven o’clock in the morning.

“I can’t talk,” I said breathlessly. “I’ve got Tom Schulz on line two and Philip Miller on line one—”

“You slut.”

“Just tell me what you want.”

Marla groaned. She said, “You asked, my dear, if I would take Arch to his orientation at that snob school. The one where you’re catering this morning. I was merely calling to find out what time you wanted me to come by.”

I had forgotten. Not about the summer school, but about the orientation. Arch was probably still asleep, couldn’t care less. He was supposed to be at the school— I racked my brain, it wasn’t on the calendar—around nine?

“I’m sorry,” I said. “Eight-thirty all right?”

Marla agreed, and I tried to get back to Tom Schulz and Philip Miller.

Both lines were dead.