Chopping Spree Read online

  The client for that night’s cocktail party was Barry Dean, an old friend who was now manager of Westside Mall, an upscale shopping center abutting the foothills west of Denver. I’d previously put on successful catered parties at Westside. Each time, the store owners had raved. But Barry Dean, who’d only been managing the mall for six months, had seemed worried about the party’s dessert offering. I’d promised him his high-end spenders, for whom the party was geared, would flip over the truffles.

  Maybe I’d even get a big tip, I thought as I scraped down the sides of the double boiler. I could spend it on a new mattress. On it, I might eventually get some sleep.

  I stopped and took three deep breaths. My system craved coffee. Of course, I hadn’t given up espresso entirely. I was just trying to cut back from nine shots a day to two. Too much caffeine was causing my sleeplessness, Marla had declared. Of course, since we’d both been married to the same doctor—consecutively, not concurrently—she and I were self-proclaimed experts on all physical ailments. (Med Wives 101, we called it.) So I’d actually heeded her advice. My plan had been to have one shot at eight in the morning (a distant memory), another at four in the afternoon (too far in the future). Now my resolve was melting faster than the dark chocolate.

  I fired up the espresso machine and wondered how I’d gotten into such a mental and physical mess.

  Innocently enough, my mind replied. Without warning, right after Valentine’s Day, my catering business had taken off. An influx of ultrawealthy folks to Denver and the mountain area west of the Mile High City had translated into massive construction of trophy homes, purchases of multiple upscale cars, and doubling of prices for just about everything. Most important from my viewpoint, the demand for big-ticket catered events had skyrocketed. From mid-February to the beginning of April, a normally slow season, my assignments had exploded. I’d thought I’d entered a zone, as they say in Boulder, of bliss.

  I pulled a double shot of espresso, then took a sip and felt infinitely better.

  I rolled the first silky scoop of ganache into a ball, and set it aside. What had I been thinking about? Ah, yes. Success.

  I downed more coffee and set aside the porcelain bought-on-clearance cup, a remnant of my financial dark days. Those days had lasted a long time, a fact that Arch seemed to block out.

  When I began divorce proceedings against the ultracute, ultravicious Doctor John Richard Korman, I’d been so determined that he would support our son well that I’d become an Official Nosy Person. Files, tax returns, credit card receipts, check stubs, bank deposits—I’d found and studied them all. My zealous curiosity had metamorphosed into a decent settlement. Wasn’t it Benjamin Franklin who’d said, God helps those who help themselves? Old Ben had been right.

  I bathed the first dark ganache globe in chocolate. OK, I’d replaced marital bitterness with bittersweet chocolate and bitter orange marmalade, right? And my life had turned around. Two years ago, I’d married Tom Schulz. As unreal as my newly minted financial success might seem, I did not doubt the miracle of my relationship with Tom, whose work as a police investigator had actually brought us together in the first place. Tom was bighearted and open-armed toward both Arch and me. So far, Tom and I had passed the tests that had been flung our way, and emerged still together. In this day and age, I thought, such commitment was commendable.

  And yet, I reflected as I placed the sumptuous truffle on a rack to dry, one of the reasons I’d been so happy about my sudden financial success was that I’d vowed never to depend on Tom’s income. My earnings were now on a par with Tom’s. After the money battles with The Jerk, financial independence was a phenomenon I’d sworn to attain and keep. Unfortunately, before marrying Tom, my profits had stayed in a zone between Can feed Arch and keep gas in van to Going down fast; write for law school catalogs.

  I rolled ganache balls, bathed them in chocolate, and set them aside to dry. Scoop, bathe, set aside. Marla could grouse all she wanted; I savored my new success. I was even considering purchasing a new set of springform pans, since I’d already bought a new computer, printer, and copier, not to mention new tableware, flatware, and knives—a shining set of silver Henckels. I relished no longer renting plates, silverware, and linens! I laughed aloud when I finished the twentieth truffle, and made myself another espresso. The dark drink tasted divine. No wonder they called financial solvency liquidity.

  I rewarded myself with a forkful of ganache, which sparked more fireworks of chocolate ecstasy. I did a little two-step and thanked the Almighty for chocolate, coffee, and business growth.

  Roll, bathe, set aside. I was appreciative that I had scads of new clients. In hiring me, they offered testimonies from friends (Marla in particular), or claimed they’d caught the reruns of my short-lived PBS cooking show. Some even said they just had to hire this caterer they’d read about, the one who helped her husband solve the occasional murder case. Well, why they hired me didn’t matter. New clients were new clients, and glitzy parties paid the bills. It had been stupendous.

  For a while.

  Now I looked and felt like zabaglione, frothy after being beaten too hard. And I was unsure of what was going on with my son. I rolled, bathed, and set aside more truffles, all the while avoiding my reflection in the kitchen window. I knew what I’d see there: a haggard face with licorice-black bags under bloodshot eyes, not to mention a fretwork of worry-wrinkles. My freshly shampooed, too-busy-to-get-a-cut blond hair, which people had always likened to Shirley Temple’s corkscrew curls, now gave me the look of a soaked poodle.

  You’re obsessing again, I scolded myself as I set the thirtieth truffle on the rack. You’ll just make things worse.

  I focused on the ganache. As if to prove my truffles were indeed worthy of Westside’s best-heeled shoppers, I’d offered one from an earlier batch to handsome, brown-haired Barry Dean, who, years ago, had taken a psych class with me at the University of Colorado. Back then, he’d flirted with me, he’d given me notes when I missed a lecture, he’d taken me out in his Mercedes for coffee after class. I’d patted his basset hound, Honey, who lay in regal repose on a blanket in the backseat. Tucking into our cappuccinos, lattes, and espressos con panna, Barry and I prided ourselves on being the only two coffee connoisseurs on the Boulder campus. I’d enjoyed our outings immensely.

  The previous week, I’d given him the chocolate during our second meeting in Westside’s new shoppers’ lounge. Quickly downing three truffles, Barry had vented his frustration over the chronic delays in Westside’s second remodeling in five years. His construction manager had quit in a huff and moved to Arizona; his volatile excavator promised one thing, then did another. Since I’d had my own remodeling disaster, I’d murmured sympathetically.

  Barry had eaten six more truffles—the man was stressed out—as we hammered out the party details. He offered to drive me back to my van. On the way, he promised, as he downed his tenth truffle, he’d take me out for coffee. Just like the old days.

  At the espresso drive-through known as The Westside Buzz, the barista had recognized Barry. A Denver newspaper had just named him The Mile High City’s Most Eligible Bachelor, and the barista went nuts. After she got over squealing, making change, and handing us our drinks, Barry had demonstrated the turbo on his new Saab (bought because someone had crashed into his Mercedes) to zoom away. At a red light, he’d shown me the car’s stereo, CD player, fan ventilation of perforated leather seats, and other bells and whistles. The man loved cars, no question about it. I’d laughed and asked if he wanted another truffle. He’d placed his drink into the retractable cup holder, mouthed a drumroll, and popped another truffle—his eleventh—into his mouth. To my delight, he’d opened his gorgeous brown eyes wide and yodeled as he soared into a state of chocolate euphoria. Upon recovering, he’d ordered sixty. He feigned amnesia and panted, Construction? What construction?

  I smiled, remembering. I bathed the fortieth ganache ball in dark chocolate, set it on the rack, and gave it a stiff appraisal. I had to ad
mit, it had amnesia potential.

  I took a deep breath and ordered myself not to indulge in another taste until all sixty of the chocolates were made. Instead, I had to start planning Arch’s birthday.

  At the moment, Arch was still asleep, as the Elk Park Prep teachers were meeting for an in-service. School that day didn’t start till noon, my son had announced the previous night, and could we spend the morning shopping? I’d said no, I had to work. And besides, where had he been the previous day? He’d sighed. Then he’d pushed his glasses up his nose so he could give me the full benefit of his pleading eyes, which seemed huge against the background of his shaved head. Had I started purchasing any items on his birthday list? he asked.

  I swallowed. I’d only bought the Palm; I hadn’t had time for anything else. Arch had hoisted his bookbag and stalked out of the kitchen. I yelled after him that no matter how much money you had, it was never enough. He’d called back something unintelligible.

  I rolled another ball of ganache and longed to stuff it into my mouth. Instead, I dipped it into the dark chocolate. Marla’s warnings haunted me. What, exactly, was enough? On our day of planning, Barry Dean had told me about the jewelry-event-cum-cocktail-party guests, members of Westside’s Elite Shoppers Club. The “Elites,” as Barry called them, spent a minimum of a thousand dollars a week at the mall. Membership in the group guaranteed special coupons, special sales, valet parking, and events like the jewelry-leasing extravaganza I was catering that night. One thing I had asked Barry: Where did the Elites put all the stuff they bought? He’d winked, done his endearing-bachelor shrug, and said usually they rented storage sheds.

  Perhaps buying wasn’t the future of retail, Barry had added. Take jewelry leasing, for example, for which there was no need to store anything permanently. You, too, Goldy, for two thousand, four thousand, or six thousand bucks a month, could wear a different piece of ultraglam jewelry every thirty days. Twenty percent off the cost of the yearly lease for all mall employees! I’d laughed and told him that none of the pieces I’d glimpsed—diamond, emerald, ruby, and sapphire necklaces—matched a single one of my aprons.

  My business line rang. I put down the truffle, wiped my fingers on my stained apron, and actually prayed that this was not another new client.

  “Goldilocks’ Catering—”

  “You’re working,” Marla accused.

  “No, really, I was sleeping in. Then my best friend called and woke me up.”

  “Yeah, sure.” She swallowed something. I guessed it was her latest version of hot chocolate, which consisted of hot cream, cocoa, and low-cal sweetener. Even though Marla had had a heart attack almost two years before, she’d had little luck losing weight on a low-fat, high-carb, low-protein diet. So now she was trying a some-fat, some-carb, high-protein diet. She claimed she’d lost six pounds and felt much better. When I’d asked what her cardiologist thought of the new regimen, she’d hung up on me. You had to be careful with Marla.

  Now I said, “OK, I was trying to roll truffles, until my best friend called and forced me to smear chocolate all over my new apron.”

  “Quit bellyaching.” She started munching on something, I didn’t want to imagine what. “Yesterday I gave Arch a package for you. It’s in your freezer. I want you to open it.” I sighed, thinking of all the work I had to do. “While I’m talking to you, if you don’t mind.”

  I knew my life would be much easier if I just tucked the phone against my shoulder, wrenched open the freezer door of the walk-in, and did as bidden. So I did. After a moment of groping, I pulled a very cold brown paper bag from a shelf. The bag contained—oh, joy—a pint of Häagen-Dazs coffee ice cream, hand-labeled “A,” and a brown bottle of time-release vitamins, marked “B.”

  “OK, get a spoon and a glass of water,” Marla commanded when she heard the paper rustling. “Take a spoonful of A, then a capsule of B. Now.”

  I again followed orders. The ice cream improved my mood, no question. But when I tried to swallow the vitamin, I choked.

  “I can’t believe you’re doing the event tonight,” Marla cried, not heeding my wheezing gasps. “You’ll wreck my shopping experience, and everyone else’s. You think people want a caterer who looks half dead? Shoppers want to escape reality, Goldy. They want to feel rich. They want to feel young. They’ll take one look at you and say, Why should I shop? She’s gonna die and so am I.”

  I finally swallowed the vitamin and croaked, “Are you done talking about me kicking the bucket? ’Cuz I’ve got truffles to coat.”

  “No!” Marla wailed. “I need to bitch some more, and you’re the only one who’s home.”

  I refired the espresso machine, tucked the phone against my ear, and resumed work on the truffles.

  Marla went on, her husky voice laced with anger: “I was going to lease the double strand of diamonds for the first month. They’re perfect for the March of Dimes luncheon. But six thou a month? What’ll I have left to give the March of Dimes?” She paused to devour more food. One of the whole-grain muffins I’d made her? Unlikely. “Then I heard that Page Stockham, also an Elite Shopper, wanted the same necklace. So now I’m trying to decide between a ruby chain and an emerald set in three rows of diamonds, in case Page gets it first. Oh, Page Stockham just makes me so angry. And to think I asked her to go with me to tonight’s event.”

  “To think,” I murmured sympathetically.

  She ignored me. “Making matters even worse, Ellie McNeely wants the double pearl strand with the aquamarine, which I’ve had my eye on forever to go with a dinner I’m giving in May that I was hoping you’d cater, if you’re not dead. Wait a minute, there’s someone at the door.”

  I mm-hmmed and continued dipping. Ellie McNeely, whom I’d done fund-raising with over a decade ago in the Episcopal Church Women, was an old friend from my rich-doctor’s-wife years, one of the few old friends who’d remained a pal in my postdivorce, service-industry years. Page Stockham was the wife of Shane Stockham, Arch’s lacrosse coach, and I knew her not at all. But the key fact from a caterer’s perspective was that Page, Ellie, and Marla all had money to burn.

  Waiting for Marla to return to the phone, I kept on with the truffles. Six to go. Roll, bathe, set aside. What had I been thinking about? Oh, yes, money to burn. I wasn’t resentful, though, because moneyed folks were my best clients. And anyway, who was I to judge anyone else’s shopping?

  My eyes traveled to the carved wooden cupboard hanging over our kitchen table. I truly did not want to look down on folks who engaged in retail therapy. The reason was that during my divorce from The Jerk, and despite near-dire financial straits, I’d been a shop-to-feel-better gal myself. On weekends when it was John Richard’s turn to have Arch, I’d visited every shopping center I could find. I’d strolled through perfume-scented air, by gorgeously stacked goods, past gaggle after gaggle of smiling, prosperous people. I’d loitered in front of brightly lit displays of embroidered baby clothes, rainbow-hued designer sheets, sleek copper pots and pans, even sugared, sparkling cinnamon rolls. I’d allowed myself to feel rich, even if my bank account said otherwise.

  Come to think of it, maybe that was what Arch had been doing the previous day: shopping. Still, there weren’t any luxury shops on East Colfax.

  I retucked the silent phone against my ear, rolled another truffle, but stopped again to ponder the cupboard shelves. On each of those long-ago shopping trips, I’d bought myself a little something from the “Drastically Reduced” tables. My white porcelain demitasse cup and saucer, a tiny crystal mouse, a miniature wooden car laden with painted wooden gifts—all these had made me uncommonly happy. At home, I’d placed my minuscule treasures on the old cupboard’s shelves. Without the stores’ strong overhead lights, the little crystal mouse had not looked quite so brilliant; the cheap china cup had lost its translucence. But I’d never cared. Each piece had been mine, something for me, a small token of an inner voice, too long silenced, saying, “I love you.” So who was I to judge Marla or her friends, Page Stockha
m and Ellie McNeely? They all wanted someone, even if it was themselves, to say, I really, really care about you! And to prove it, have this!

  Marla came back to the phone and said Ellie had arrived, and she had to go. Before the event, she, Ellie, and Page, who was driving down separately with husband Shane, would be getting the mud soak, the coconut-milk bath, and the vegetable-and-fruit wrap at Westside Spa.

  “I’ll watch for a moving luau.”

  “I’ll catch you at the party,” Marla retorted, undaunted, and signed off.

  I rolled the fifty-eighth truffle. Then, lowering the scoop of ganache into the melted chocolate and setting it aside to dry, I made another espresso. To the far west, just visible out our back windows, a bright mist cloaked the mountains of the Aspen Meadow Wildlife Preserve. On the nearer hills, white-barked aspens nestled between dark expanses of fir, spruce, and pine. I peered at our thermometer. The red line was stubbornly stuck at twenty-nine degrees. So this is Springtime in the Rockies? newcomers always asked. This is it, I invariably replied. In June, you can take off your snow tires.

  I slugged down what I vowed would be my last coffee. Once again, worry surfaced. Where had Arch been yesterday? The rumor was that the rookies on the lacrosse team had been told their initiation would not be complete until they shoplifted something worth more than fifty dollars. Thinking about that possibility, my heart plummeted.

  I disciplined myself to roll the next-to-last truffle. It broke into two pieces when I dunked it in the dark chocolate. Oh, darn! Guess I’ll have to eat it, maybe with a fifth espresso! I pulled out the chocolate chunks swimming in the dark coating, placed them on the rack, then refilled the espresso doser. I rinsed the old porcelain demitasse cup and closed my eyes. Worry for Arch nagged at me. I balanced on one foot. I was so tired…. And then my much-loved cup slipped from my fingers. It shattered on the floor with a heartbreaking crash. Shards raced across the wood; bits of china smashed into the molding and sent reverberating tinkles throughout the kitchen.