Meadow Florist called. Did General Farquhar really want three rare orchids on the corsage, at fifteen dollars each? Yes, I said. What could it hurt? Then Brian Harrington called. Was sweet Sissy going to be at the anniversary party? What business was it of his, I wanted to know, but only said yes. Then I heard a click and couldn’t get a dial tone. Either the Farquhars were having trouble with their phone or the person who kept picking up the line was doing it again.
“Damn, damn, damn,” I said as I slammed the phone repeatedly into its cradle. Whoever it was, I thought savagely, that shouldn’t feel too pleasant on the ear.
“Now what’s wrong?” Arch demanded.
“I can’t get the phone to work,” I said crossly. After a few more receiver-slams the dial tone finally popped back, and I tried four of the names on Arch’s list. Three no-answers and one busy signal.
“I’m sorry, Arch, I’ll keep trying once I get the pasta going for the salad. Nobody’s home, so it’s really not my—
“Nothing is ever your fault! Whose fault is it?” He stomped out of the kitchen. When he got into the hall, he yelled, “Sometimes I just want to go and live with
I let cold water gush into deep pots, then set them on to boil. I gritted my teeth. All my motherly work for nothing. Go and live with your father, I wanted to yell back. But I would not. I dumped the almonds into the food processor. The blade made a huge noise, as if it were grinding gravel. It was strangely comforting. I was not going to get angry. I was not going to say what I knew to be true.
Your father doesn’t want you.
23.
Adele and the general entered the kitchen. They were together, they were quiet, they avoided my eyes. I figured I was either going to get sympathy or get fired.
To my surprise, it was the former.
“Let’s go out on the veranda, shall we?” said General Bo in a time-for-the-staff-meeting tone. “We couldn’t help but overhear.”
I mumbled in the affirmative. Before we could move in that direction, though, Julian padded across the kitchen tiles. Ignoring the Farquhars, he lightly touched the fudge he had made that morning before he left for school.
“You’re home early,” I observed coolly.
“Yeah, I skipped my lab because I thought Arch might need some help.”
I said I would indeed send Sissy down when she arrived. Pressing my temples with my fingers, I followed the Farquhars out to the porch. I welcomed anyone’s willingness to help Arch.
“Goldy,” said the general once he was seated and had fixed me with his ice-blue gaze, “you’re under a lot of fire. Let us give you a hand.”
I explained to them that I was just trying to get Arch’s party set up, the party that was going to be at the same time as their anniversary soiree. I turned to Adele. Which was your stupid idea, I almost said to her, but did not.
Adele clucked. “Oh, and I was so hoping it would make him happy.” She paused. “I think children go through ungrateful periods. Marla had tough teenage years, I remember.”
I looked out at the sky. It was a liquid blue that permeated the air and brought the hills, the trees, the lumps of mountain grass into sharp focus.
I said, “I don’t want Arch to go off the deep end. You can’t imagine what a shock it was to see him walking into town today. I thought he was running away. I ended up doing a money-binge at Aspen Meadow Drug on something extravagant that he doesn’t even need.”
The general cleared his throat. “If you really don’t want him to be going AWOL on you,” he said in a conspiratorial tone, “I can just set the perimeter alarm whenever he’s in the house. If he tries to run away, we’ll know.”
“No. I would never. . . but thanks very much. Really.” I regarded them both, a pair of tilted heads, two pairs of empathetic eyes. “Keeping him prisoner won’t work. I’ll call his friends while I’m cooking. Maybe you two could invite him out now for a swim.”
They beamed. They were so willing to be supportive.
Adele sat outside on a lounge chair while the general and Arch splashed about and screeched “Marco!” and “Polo!” to each other. I began to fix the anniversary meal in earnest. The tricolored rotini bubbled merrily, a riotous, bleached version of the Italian flag. That was probably what the pasta makers had in mind. I ran cold water over it and remembered Andre’s admonition never to add dressing to hot pasta if your ultimate objective was to serve it cold. Hot pasta acted like sponges, sopping up the sauce and turning a light noodley texture into a sodden mass.
“Not at this soiree,” I muttered as I drained the asparagus and ran cold water over it to set the color.
I had just begun to mix the biscotti dough when Adele appeared with her cane. She was wearing a blue bathing suit and a smile frozen with pain.
“Pills,” she said. “I should know better than to attempt the frog kick. It always throws my back out. I would have sent Bo up, but he had to check something in his precious magazine.”
“Oh my,” I murmured. “Just sit down and I’ll look for them.”
But I did not have a chance, because at that moment the general appeared, fierce as a warrior in one of the heavy bathrobes given to him at his retirement by his West Point classmates. Embroidered across the back of this one were the words SUPPORT THE ACLU—CUSS IN PUBLIC.
“I’m missing a detonator,” he boomed as he began to pull out canisters from the kitchen shelves.
“I don’t think it would be out here,” I said in a low voice, but they both ignored me. Adele still hadn’t found her pills. The two of them began to sort through the gadgets, foodstuffs, flowerpots, and knickknacks on the counters. When no pills and no detonator turned up, they started through the kitchen desk drawers.
“Where’s Julian?” the general demanded finally.
“Downstairs, I think. Have you looked in the garage?”
“What’s this?” said Adele as she leaned over the biscotti dough.
The general and I exchanged panicked expressions. Adele looked up at me when I didn’t answer.
“Dessert,” we said in unison.
“I’m going upstairs to find my pills,” she announced, and limped out.
“Did you really lose a detonator?” I asked. “Or have you misplaced the Italian ring?”
“I haven’t misplaced anything.” The general’s voice was gritty as sand. “I have the ring. I do not have the detonator.” He stalked out.
“Alone at last,” I said under my breath. I finished rolling the biscotti dough into loaves and put them into the oven. While I whisked together the salad dressing, I called the rest of Arch’s friends.
First name on the list was female. Arch had put an asterisk beside her name: Andrea Coburn. She lived on Arnold Palmer Avenue. Coburn pere was extremely nice.
“Oh yes, Arch! He’s been over here. We love his magic tricks. He made my wife’s diamond earrings disappear!” At this he began to laugh uproariously. Clearly Arch also had made the diamond earrings reappear. The father agreed to bring Andrea over that night for dinner and to pick her up. One down, five to go.
I got lucky: all but one of the kids were available. The others were all eager to come. So much for advance notice.
The sun had begun its slow descent over the mountains and I had refrigerated the orchid corsage and set out the six bouquets from Aspen Meadow Florist when Sissy buzzed the front gate. Since I never knew what kind of mood she was going to be in, I put on a happy face in hopes that she would mirror it. Miraculously, she did, and after watching me work in the kitchen for a while, she clopped down the stairs to see Julian. I had not seen Arch
