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
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
12 new red potatoes, boiled in their skins just until tender (15 to 20 minutes)
about ? cup best-quality mayonnaise (preferably homemade)
whipping cream
? 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.
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.
