Dying for Chocolate

“You are mean,” he said. He pushed his glasses into place and regarded me with magnified brown eyes. “None of those rich kids will like me. They all play tennis and have fancy parties and they never invite kids like me.”

“What kind of kid are you?”

He groaned, a deep guttural sound warning against further probing. He looked at the wall and said in a low voice, “Not cool. That’s what kind.” He turned away from the wall but avoided my eyes. He said, “I had bad dreams again.”

Before I could reply, he stumbled past me into the bathroom. I stared at the wall. The lush pink roses on the Farquhars’ cheery wallpaper stared back. A few mementos from our house—Arch’s new paraphernalia for magic tricks, his sixth-grade class picture, and a glass container of dice for his role-playing games—were propped up on shelves around the room, but they offered scant comfort.

Bad dreams.

I remembered the night three years ago, a year after the divorce was final, when John Richard had slashed my van tires, trashed my mailbox, and kicked in my front door. He was drunk. Arch was asleep and I had rushed into his room, blocked the door with a dresser and a desk, and screamed so loudly that John Richard left. John Richard had never harmed his son. Yet Arch still had faceless nightmares in which I died. Oh yes, the flimsiness of our house, compared with a week at the Farquhars’ palace, had shown Arch and me what it was to be not rich and not cool. But we were going to be all right. Safe, once Aspen Meadow Security finished with our old home. And soon the bad dreams would end.

“Listen, Arch—” I began softly when he came out of the bathroom. But words failed. “Look, I have to go over to Elk Park for that brunch. I’m going to meet Philip afterwards—” I stopped to check his face. He was rolling his eyes, a modest indication of his opinion of Philip Miller. I went on, “There are fresh blueberry muffins in the kitchen for you. Marla will be by. In forty minutes.”

He glanced at me ever so briefly, then pulled the rumples out of the blue sweat suit. He gave me the full benefit of his large brown eyes, so vulnerable behind the thick glasses. He said, “I’ll be okay. Don’t worry about me.

Sprinkles of rain blew across the windshield of Adele’s Thunderbird just before the turnoff to Elk Park. Her car was the day’s transport vehicle because my VW van was undergoing a clutch transplant and would not be out of the shop until Monday. It would take twenty minutes to drive up Colorado Highway 203, which rises to eighty-five hundred feet above sea level, five hundred feet above Aspen Meadow. Blasted out of hillsides, 203’s few straight stretches are bordered by sheer drop-offs. I piloted the T-bird carefully around the mountains’ curves, then dipped with a little more speed into the high mead-owlands. The meadows burgeoned with the gold-green of lush mountain grasses and goldenrod, like green onions melting in a pool of butter. . . .

I clenched my teeth. Melted butter. As is served at the National Cholesterol Institute. How could someone say such a thing? Pierre hadn’t even gotten the menu right. For the Symphony dinner I had made deviled eggs. A long way from heavily sauced. The soup had been gazpacho garnished with avocado. The London broil was sliced thin with a variety of accompaniments, one of which was sour cream with horseradish. And he hadn’t even mentioned the steamed green beans.

What a simpleton! I braked to slow down around one of the road’s lethal curves. I was going to find this Pierre, whoever he was, if I had to picket the office of the Mountain Journal for a week.

Think about the scenery, I told myself. Calm down. Look at the mountains. People move here to get away from stress, remember?

The mountains, the meadows, Aspen Meadow, Elk Park—these had been cool summer havens for wealthy Denverites before the advent of interstate highways. This was one of the places I had hiked with Philip only last week. We had made it as far as Elk Park Prep, the stucco and tile-roofed villa that had begun as an elegant hotel early in the century.

How idyllic the school had looked when a brief snow shower ceased that Saturday afternoon. The electrified gate meant to keep out flower-and-shrub-eating deer had been left open. Philip and I trudged silently up the muddy winding driveway. We breathed air that was like milk. Steam from the snow melting on the red tile roof gave the school an ethereal look that reminded me of the southern boarding school I’d attended for five years. Up to last year, Elk Park Prep also offered boarding. Philip asked why I didn’t send Arch to Elk Park Prep as a day student, get him out of those large public school classrooms. Great idea, I said, I’d wanted to for years. If only John Richard would foot the bill. But my ex maintained I wanted Arch to go because I was an eastern snob at heart. Private school, I told Philip ruefully, was like money. You only appreciated it when you didn’t have it anymore. But how do you feel about that? he asked, ever the shrink. I said, How do you think I feel?

Now, as I swung the T-bird through the open gate and past the high stone wall with its massive carved sign, Elk Park Preparatory School, a shudder went down my back. It was as if an invisible camera were filming my entrance: Get that woman out of here! She’s plummeted from the moneyed class to the servant class! It was not until I had wound halfway up the long driveway that I realized I had not yet come to the turnoff marked “Deliveries.”

The switchboard operator and admissions officer, my ad hoc helpers, were bustling about the school kitchen. With the elimination of the boarding department, the large kitchen crew of previous years was only a memory. In fact, the other staff person at the Farquhars, an eighteen-year-old named Julian Teller, was a casualty of this recent final closing. He had been one of the last boarding students and was now one of Adele’s charity projects. Since Arch and I had taken up residence, General Farquhar had kept Julian busy putting together state-of-the-art gardening equipment and doing other odd jobs. Julian had only eaten with us once, although Arch dutifully reported that Julian said my leftovers were the best he had ever tasted. Unfortunately, I had not had the chance to get to know the teenager.

But Arch had. He adored Julian. What Julian did, Arch wanted to do, what Julian wore, Arch thought was cool beyond words. Of course I longed to point out to Arch that Julian was cool but not rich, which was why the teenager had to take a live-in job for his senior year in high school. But I didn’t want to appear too preachy. And Julian was giving Arch diving lessons in the Farquhars’ pool. In the absence of Arch’s old neighborhood pals, Julian could at least be a friend.

I slipped on my apron and returned my concentration to cooking. A local restaurant had canceled out of doing the annual brunch only the day before. The headmaster had called me in a panic. Of course, I never said no to business. I had pulled sausage coffee cakes out of the freezer, then hastily prepared cheese strata and brought the cakes and the strata to the school. I had called Elizabeth Miller, who was not only Philip’s sister but also an excellent baker, and asked her to make half a dozen of her heavenly macadamia-nut coffee cakes.

My two ad hoc helpers had remembered to place the strata in the oven. The smooth egg-and-cream layers were beginning to bubble around lakes of melted English cheddar. We laid out thick slabs of bacon, made the coffee, and put the breads and sausage cakes in to heat. I was about to head out with the fruit when the switchboard operator announced that someone was waiting for me in the dining room.

I put the first batch of cantaloupe baskets on a large tray and swung through the doors to the vast space of the formal dining room. The darkness from outside loomed large through tall wavy-glassed windows. Three rows of crystal chandeliers shone brightly on polished cherry tables and cream-colored walls. How unlike Arch’s public school cafeteria it was. There, whenever there was going to be a meeting that included a fund-raising pitch, classroom banners with messages like We Can Do It! shrieked from every available inch of wall space. Here, all was elegance, with only a hint of what was to come from a slide projector and screen. Elizabeth Miller’s head poked out from behind the screen. She gestured at her array of cakes.

“Thanks for coming early,” I said to her head of golden hair that was so frizzy it always put me in mind of cartoons dealing with electrical sockets.

Elizabeth greeted me with a sideways smile and a toss of the head of frizz that revealed five-inch-long dangling silver earrings. She walked toward me in the toe-first stride favored by women whose only shoes are ballet slippers. Her casual outfit—black leotard, tights, midcalf-length Danskin skirt—clashed with the formal surroundings. But this was typical. Elizabeth Miller’s persona was more along the lines of Tinkerbell hits thirty.

“You can’t tell a soul I made these.” Her smile revealed slightly crooked