Dying for Chocolate

fairly complicated, I had noted on a recent reading, and pretty iffy at high altitude.

He read, “ ‘Filbertines, good with ice cream.’ ” He stuck out his chin. “Want me to?”

“Up to you. Why don’t you just tell me why you came up?”

He began to open cupboards, got out French chocolate and superfine sugar and flour.

“Did she tell you we were having problems?”

I said, “She did.” Can this relationship be saved?

Julian backed out of the refrigerator with unsalted butter and eggs.

“Who taught you to make filbertines?”

“My—” He hesitated, swiveled his head to eye me. “You’ve been talking to Sissy.”

“More like, I’ve been listening to Sissy.”

“Yeah, well, it’s my business.”

I poured myself another soft drink. “Fine,” I said, and sipped. “Sure.”

“That’s really not the problem with our relationship, anyway.”

“What isn’t the problem?”

“What I’m trying to do.”

“You mean like looking for parents, learning to be a doctor or a cook, what?”

“No, none of that. The problem with our relationship is just. . . that you don’t learn to be cool down in Navajoland.”

“Learn to be cool,” I echoed.

“I mean, you know, sex appeal and all that dumb stuff.” He began to whisk eggs in a copper bowl.

I reflected on his words. You know, sex appeal? No, I really did not.

“I’ll tell you what I do know, Julian.” I refilled my glass and watched the foam fizzle up the sides. “Sissy likes you a lot, cares about you.”

He snorted.

I said, “It’s like with Arch and me. Or even Arch with his father. Some people have strange ways of showing they care.”

He gave me his defiant look. He said, “You should know.”

As if in answer to his comment, the security gate buzzed. I flipped on the closed-circuit camera. Oh yes, Saturday afternoon, how could I have forgotten who would be arriving?

The Jerk.

19.

I called the general over the intercom. He made one of his silent appearances in the kitchen and about scared me to death. How could he get around so quietly? Of course, that immediately made me think of what else he’d said he could do without making any noise.

I said, “He’s here.”

“Right. Call Arch. Meet me in the front hall.”

I obeyed orders, alternating between feeling cold waves of fear and a sense of silliness. Were these elaborate troop movements really necessary? Five minutes later we all reconnoitered in the foyer. The general was wearing a shoulder holster.

Arch said, “Wow! Is that cool!”

“Oh please,” I said, “not a gun.”

The general narrowed his eyes. He said, “Deterrent.”

“This is Aspen Meadow!” I cried. “Not Beirut, for crying out loud.”

The Jerk’s Jeep horn blew. Braat! Braat!

The general leaned into my face. “Let me tell you something,” he said. “They thought I was crazy in Washington. They may think I’m crazy here. But. It’s all the same, Goldy. All over the world. You have to be ready.”

Arch said, “Can we go? I’m ready.”

And so the three of us walked slowly to the end of the driveway. Seeing John Richard made my heart involuntarily twist. He wore a white shirt, white shorts, white socks with his Nikes. His long fingers threaded through the bars of the fence. Sunlight caught gold glints in his brown hair. A tennis racket lay across the back seat of the Jeep. We used to play tennis quite a bit. Was he going to play with someone now? Was that what he had done this morning? Why did this still hurt so much?

“Is the show of force really necessary?” he called through the gate.

I did not answer and neither did the general, who gazed stonily forward once we had let Arch through. When Arch was in the Jeep, John Richard paused before getting in. Always the parting shot.

He said to me, “I was nowhere near that damn cafe, you bitch. Just think of how many patients I lose when your cop buddies come around, and what that does to my ability to make money, and how that can affect you and Arch, and maybe you’ll be a little less eager to bug me.”

“Say nothing,” the general instructed me under his breath. “Walk slowly back to the house. I’ll stay here until he’s gone.”

This I did. So Schulz had not waited for me to report the incident in the cafe. Somehow this did not make me feel better, and my shoulders felt terribly heavy as I walked. Worse, the aches in my arm and chest began to pound, as if they had been awakened by the menace in John Richard’s voice. Not Beirut, I reminded myself.

When I came back into the house the phone was ringing. To my surprise it was Elizabeth Miller, who asked if I wanted to have lunch on Monday. I said that I would love to, which was true. People who are grieving need to be with other people. Unfortunately, an unwanted skepticism crept into my voice. Why go out for lunch? This was a new activity for me, and it was fraught with problems. Did the person who asked intend to pay? Marla had paid for mine at the Aspen Meadow Cafe, but I had been under duress. Besides, she had money. I felt as if I should treat Elizabeth.

Elizabeth must have thought my silence meant I was meditating. She jumped in with, “Let’s picnic out by the Aspen Meadow.”

Another picnic. I said, “I don’t want to look at any birds.”

“Oh! Philip was the bird expert. Not me. Listen. I’ll bring tabbouleh and Tassajara bread. You bring whatever you feel moved to bring.”

The next morning after the early church service I felt moved to make tomatoes vinaigrette and a pound cake. As I beat the butter for the latter, the phone’s twang cut through the morning air. My spirits plunged. For heaven’s sake, it was Sunday! The day of the week did not matter to some people, apparently. I was the designated answerer. The general and Julian were out getting equipment for the next experiment. Adele was in the pool and had just started her slow, slow laps that were supposed to help strengthen her back. She would not be available for phone duty for a long while. For Adele, crawl was the perfectly named stroke.

“Farquhars,” I said brightly.

“This is Joan Rasmussen.”

Without actually willing it, I looked over at the eggs on the counter. What had Adele said? This woman needed to be coddled.

“Yes,” I replied, still bright, “how are you? This is Goldy the caterer.”

Silence. She was not meditating, I felt sure.

Eventually she said, “I understand your son is having some kind of party.”

“Yes. We were thinking about this Tuesday evening, the fourteenth. He wants to demonstrate his tricks.” I cleared my throat. “Er, magic tricks, uh—” Did I call her Joan, since we were both parents of students, or did I call her Mrs. Rasmussen, since I was the Farquhars’ cook?

“He’s invited my daughter.”

“Wonderful,” I said without feeling it.

“The last time I talked to you,” she went on, apparently unsure by what name I should be addressed, “you did not indicate enthusiasm for our pool fund-raising efforts.”

“Ah—”