Dying for Chocolate

teeth.

I said, “Your secret’s safe with me.” Elizabeth owned Aspen Meadow’s one remaining health-food store. She didn’t even sell white flour.

“Will we have a chance to visit before this thing begins? Once the headmaster starts his money pitch I just want to escape.”

I said, “I’ll bet.” The health-food store was not doing very well. The last time I’d been in for dried papaya, Elizabeth had tried to convince me I needed a fifty-pound bag of millet. When I told her she should switch to carrying gourmet items, she looked at me as if I’d suggested sex with an extraterrestrial.

Now she said, “Honestly. I have to pay for this meal, half of which I won’t be able to eat. Sorry, Goldy, nothing personal. It’s just that I’m into high-performance vegetarianism, and you know champagne kills brain cells.” She pointed one of her toes in front of her. “I just come to this thing to see friends. But, God! I hate to listen to six new ways we’re supposed to raise money for something the school just has to have. I end up leaving on a guilt trip. Have to unstress with coleus-leaf cocktail and chamomile tea for the next two days.”

“You could always give them a bad check,” I offered as I placed the last cantaloupe down with a flourish.

She said, “Not a bad idea,” and then regarded me with big blue eyes that reminded me of her brother’s. “Have you heard from Philip?”

I told her that I had and he would be late. I said, “Anything I can help with?”

She said, “No,” without conviction.

“Everything okay?”

She nodded. “Just fine.”

Now Elizabeth was pretending to center a cantaloupe. She said, “Did you have to cook a lot for this meal?”

“I made a multitude of goodies. Have the strata. It features high-performance cheddar.”

Silence.

I had a lot of work to do and could not visit when the guests’ arrival was imminent. Whatever it was Elizabeth wanted, I wished she’d get to it.

“Goldy—” she began. She tilted her pixie face, then pressed her lips together.

Something told me she was not here to talk about the school, or the food, or even to complain about the headmaster. I said, “Why don’t we sit down?”

“Oh, no,” she said as she bent down close to inspect one of the cantaloupe baskets. From the kitchen came the inviting smells of bacon and coffee. I knew I had to get in there and so did she. She said, “It’s just—”

“Just. . .”

“Oh,” she said with a grin, “I’m worried about Philip. I think he’s getting in over his head with some of his clients. I mean, are you all close enough to talk about this stuff? You know.”

People always say, You know, when you don’t have a clue. You know . . . fill in the blank. You know. . . make this easier for me by not having to say it.

The space of the dining room was intimidating. I leaned toward her in a confidential manner. “You mean,” I said, “does he tell me about his clients? Or are we sleeping together? Because the answer is no to both.”

She shrugged and said, “Oh no, that’s not what I was asking. You know.”

I still didn’t. I said, “You mean, like are we close enough to be thinking of getting married?”

She was relieved. She closed her eyes and gave a little shrug, as in, You brought it up.

I said, “We aren’t. Satisfied?”

“Well, you see . . .” she said with more hesitation, then stopped.

I thought, Spit it out, Elizabeth.

She went on, “I just need to talk to you, to him I mean . . . and I didn’t know what his plans were.”

I said, “I don’t know what Philip’s plans are beyond coming here for brunch. If you want to talk about health food with him, he’ll be here. If you want to talk about health food with me, I’ll be in your store later to shop for this dinner I’m doing tomorrow night. Now be a good vegetarian and come into the kitchen with me to see if the bacon’s done.”

She wrinkled her nose. “Bacon! I can’t even stand the smell—”

But she was interrupted by the first gaggle of aging preppies laughing with forced hilarity as they pushed through the carved doors of the dining room. It was the kind of laugh that said, We’re not too old to have fun. Suddenly it was too late to check the bacon or anything else. I lifted the first bottle of champagne from the ice chest and began to open it.

I whispered to Elizabeth, “Do me a favor. Pop into the kitchen and get one of the staff; I’m going to need help here. Then sashay over to your buddies and act sociable so they don’t start on the fruit. I’ll be around with the champagne.”

“Oh, sure,” she said, distracted again. She shook her head; the earrings swung like Christmas ornaments. “Just. . . please let me talk to Philip myself.”

“Elizabeth,” I said, “he’s your brother. Whatever’s bothering you, I think you should talk to him about it yourself. You know?”

3.

“And when we have brought the water line in here,” the headmaster was saying with a practiced flick of his pointer at the illuminated screen, “then we will enter into Implementation Stage Two. . . .”

At the headmaster’s table, Adele Farquhar touched the undercurl of her severe, dark pageboy. Busy as I had been, I had not seen the general deliver her in his Range Rover. It was almost eleven o’clock. The alums stirred in their seats, checked their Rolexes. Any dummy knew that Implementation Stage Two meant More Money. The alums were exchanging looks—How much longer could he go on about this? A perplexed buzz rose from the tables. Forever.

My legs ached from standing. The buffet table looked defaced. The food was almost gone, except for what I had saved for Philip. But he had not arrived. If he didn’t come soon, he’d be out of luck.

And then he strolled in, acting like he owned the place. His black blazer, white pants, and shock of blond hair gave him the look of a male model. He scanned the room from behind Ray Bans. A hum of admiration rose from the women. I took a deep breath, let it out. The only time I heard a female gurgle of approval was for congealed salad.

“How’s my favorite cook?” Philip said in a low voice once he arrived at the serving table. When he leaned his slender body over the table he was so close I could read the engraved words on his gold lapel pin—PROTECT OUR MOUNTAINS! The politically correct shrink gave me an inviting openmouthed smile.

I shook my head and stared at the sunglasses, then spoke to Philip’s aristocratic nose. “Fine. How’s my favorite psychologist? Hungry?”

“Ravenous.” He took a manila envelope out of his briefcase. “Fund-raising, I swear,” he said under his breath. “They ran out of decals and I had to bring in more.” He signaled to the headmaster with the envelope, then asked, “Is this thing almost over? Can we still get together afterwards?”

I nodded to both questions. Philip strode up to the head table and handed the envelope to the headmaster, who betrayed great relief.

Elizabeth caught my eye and waved as if she had a wand in her hand. As Philip wound back through the tables, his sister kept her eyes on him.

The headmaster started to talk about money by trying to make it sound as if he wasn’t. He had abandoned the pointer and was droning on about the Phase I Drive for Investments. This year’s desperately needed improvement, it appeared, was an Olympic-size heated outdoor pool. For the past month, alumni, parents of students, and friends of the school had been hitting on (okay, he said, “going around to”) local businesses, giving them the Pool for the Preps pitch. If they gave, the business got a GET INTO THE SWIM! decal. Parents then patronized the SWIM!-decaled businesses. The headmaster reached into the envelope and proffered one of the decals.

This sounded vaguely illegal, I reflected as Philip turned to me and grinned conspiratorially. I handed him his