Dying for Chocolate

“Mrs. Harrington,” I said when I finally recovered my breath. “I get paid to cook, serve, and clean up. Period.”

She squinted at me. It made her look much older.

“I thought I told you how important suggestion was with aphrodisiacs,” she said.

“But not with clothing,” I said evenly. “When I describe the food, I’ll make suggestions that are verbal.” I was careful not to say oral.

LETHAL LAYERS

? cup (1 stick) unsalted butter

? cup dark brown sugar 1 cup all-purpose flour

1 cup pecan halves

2 eggs

1 cup firmly packed dark brown sugar

1 teaspoon vanilla extract

? teaspoon salt

1 teaspoon baking powder additional all-purpose flour (see directions)

1 cup chocolate chips (recommended brand: Mrs. Field’s)

Preheat oven to 375°. In food processor, combine first 3 ingredients with metal blade until crumbly. This can also be done with 2 knives or a pastry cutter. Pat this crust into a buttered 9- by 13-inch pan. Bake for 10 minutes. Cool.

When crust is cool, spread pecans

evenly over surface. Beat eggs with brown sugar until thick. Add vanilla. Put salt and baking powder in bottom of ?-cup measure; fill rest of measure with flour. Stir into egg mixture. Pour over crust. Sprinkle chocolate chips evenly over mixture. Bake at 375° for 20 minutes or until center is baked. Cool, then cut into 32 pieces.

Makes 32 bars

She said, “Oh, all right,” and then stalked out of the kitchen. I shook my head in resignation. As I was leaving, Brian Harrington popped out from around the corner. Had he been listening? I didn’t know and didn’t want to ask. He gave me a broad wink. I did my best imitation of raw egg white and slithered out.

11.

A day given to compromises, I reflected as I heated the broth for the dumplings. No caterer-as-a-centerfold uniform, no response to the Harrington Hustle, and the fee for tonight would pay Arch’s tuition for the first two weeks of summer school.

Philip’s face floated back before me. Hungry? I had asked. Ravenous, he’d said.

I pushed him out of my mind. I was almost done. The menu was finally set.

APHRODISIAC DINNER FOR SIX

OYSTERS ON THE HALF-SHELL WITH FRESH

LEMONS AND LIMES

SHRIMP DUMPLING SOUP

SALAD OF BIBB LETTUCE GARNISHED WITH YELLOW

PEAR-SHAPED TOMATOES, AVOCADOS,

AND GRILLED MUSHROOMS, DIJON VINAIGRETTE

CHILE RELLENO TORTA

SONOMA BABY LAMB CHOPS BAKED WITH HERBS

IN FOIL PACKETS

PUREE OF ZUCCHINI

ASSORTED BREADS

TRAY OF CHOCOLATE TREATS

Only the flowers remained, I reflected as I stirred the soup. The delicate scent from the bubbling broth threaded through the air. Scent. Yes. On her list Weezie had detailed several flowers that by their smell or shape (I chose not to ask what that meant) would be appropriate for a centerpiece. I only remembered a couple of these, and the last thing I wanted was another harangue from Weezie on the subject of suggestion. The library was closed. Not that I was dying to talk to Sissy, despite Schulz’s admonition to find out what she knew about Philip. So I called it quits, phoned the florist, and hung up only after I had endured her shower of laughs at my request.

Alone back on the third floor of the Farquhars’ house, I bathed and dressed in my stodgy old caterer’s white uniform and apron. An uninvited wave of sadness swept through the room as the sunlight faded. Without work to keep my mind occupied, pain flooded in. I lowered myself to the bed and watched as the mountains’ shadows lengthened over Denver.

Maybe I never should have started going out with Philip Miller. More even than missing him, I missed the emotional self-sufficiency bred from years of evenings spent in solitude. I had found other things to do: help Arch with homework, talk to Marla, try out new recipes while listening to jazz. In one month, Philip’s doting presence, his evocation of memories and hopes I had had fifteen years ago, made all those activities feel less important. Schulz was a question mark, too, retreating as he had behind his cop persona. Now the future span of evenings stretched out the way they had right after the divorce: empty.

I put on my latest necessity for the business, thick-soled walking shoes I used for serving. Then I did a quick step over to the Harringtons. An aphrodisiac banquet was no time to indulge in heartache. Let the mood fit the food. Buck up, be happy, have fun.

Brian and Weezie Harrington had left the door open for me. They were nowhere in sight. Upstairs, water was running, closet doors were opening and closing, and there was the occasional hurried call between rooms. I couldn’t wait to see what Weezie was going to wear. I preheated the oven for the torta and started the soup simmering. I had been lucky to be able to get the oysters. I could see it all now: the sensual activity of digging, the sound of swallowing, the licking of fingers. Tom Jones, eat your heart out.

Weezie had told me to serve from and clear to a sideboard next to the dining-room table. I assembled trays and ice buckets for the patio and dining room, then got the liquor organized: champagne, chardonnay with the appetizers, Cabernet Sauvignon with the lamb, and Asti Spumanti to go with the dessert tray. I had delicately suggested to Weezie that coffee could help with postprandial love interest for more mature people. Sometimes I’m overwhelmed by my own tact.

The Harringtons’ brass knocker echoed through the house—Sissy and Julian. Both teenagers looked exceptionally uncomfortable, their faces reddened by sunburn or anger. The late-day sun caught gold light in Sissy’s perfectly waved brown hair. Julian’s scalp glistened like a new scrub brush. Perhaps they were put out by having to wear evening clothes. Perhaps I had interrupted an argument. Without getting verbally entangled, I ushered them