Dying for Chocolate Read online

  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.

  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—”