Marla and Albert stood inches apart. Like boxers in the thirteenth round, both swayed slightly. Whatever their argument was about, it had exhausted them both. Tony stood off to one side, his head in his hands.
Marla’s wet dress was plastered to her body and her damp hair had slipped askew in weedlike clumps. Lean-built Albert Lipscomb staggered uncertainly. I suddenly wished I’d had the means to call 911 while I was under the tent. But Arch is always scolding me for overreacting. Marla and Albert hadn’t hit each other. They’d only been arguing. At least, I hoped they were only arguing.
“I swear… I swear…” Albert’s voice had hardened. Ah sweah, ah sweah … Without warning, he straightened. “The Eurydice is going to produce!” he yelled. The Yer-ih-dahsey. “You don’t understand, this mine was closed by the government during the height of its gold production! The assays show an average of two troy ounces of gold per ton of ore! Do you have any idea how good that is? When are you going to listen to me?”
Tony dropped his hands from his face and groaned. He said, “Could we please, please discuss this down at the office?”
Marla ignored Tony, ducked, and scooped up the sodden paper Albert had thrown into the mud, “But… but… look at this report!” she shouted. “The only way to test ore reliably for gold is to do a fire assay. This guy at the Colorado School of Mines says ? “
“Oh, dear God,” Tony grumbled. “I do not believe this. Do not, do not. If you just would have let me ? “
“What the hell is this?” Marla screeched, undeterred. She thrust the sodden, muddy sheet under Albert’s nose. “What difference does it make if you have the best geologist in the universe? You have to have a good assay! I want my hundred thousand dollars back, you scum! Tony says you’ve got it!”
“Do something!” I begged Tony.
Tony’s mouth hung open beneath his bedraggled mustache. His eyes were on Marla. He didn’t seem to hear me.
“Marla, will you listen to me?” Albert protested angrily. “That might be from the wrong ? “
I’d had enough. “Okay, look,” I told Tony. “I’ll get : Marla. You get him.”
Tony snapped to attention and nodded. Tall and thin as a whippet, he strode obediently in his partner’s direction. I approached Marla, shaking my head. I couldn’t imagine what they’d say down at her cardiac rehab program Monday morning. Of course, it was unlikely that she would tell them she’d engaged in an ear-splitting dispute with her financial adviser. In a hailstorm, no less.
“Look, just go home,” Tony shouted to Albert through the spatter of hail. He glanced nervously toward the tent. He seemed suddenly frantic that this collection of guests ? their best clients ? not end in disaster. A few partygoers had gathered by the unbudgeable flap to watch the sideshow. Tony lowered his voice. “For heaven’s sake, look at you, Albert. You’re going to get pneumonia. So will Marla if I don’t take care of her. Please go home. We’ll talk later, okay?”
Albert yanked away from him and wiped hail off his bald head. “You’ve got a problem, Tony! And your problem is that lying woman! I am leaving this party, you bet! I will be delighted to leave!” De-lahted. And with that he tucked his wet blue shirt into his yellow trousers, straightened his tie, and slogged through the mud in the direction of his car. Tony shot after him.
I put my arms around Marla and murmured what I hoped were calming words. Her skin was cold and wet and she was shivering. Still, she wrenched herself away from my grasp and hollered after Albert’s retreating form. “I want to see you, you creep! Monday morning, nine A.M.! Do you hear me? And have a reliable assay report ready for me! Or else!”
Albert Lipscomb did not acknowledge her challenge. I looked back at the curious partygoers gaping at the quarrel. A huge argument, caterer in the middle, I imagined them thinking. Must be something Goldilocks’ Catering did wrong, don’t you think?
Marla screeched: “Nine sharp, Albert, at your office! With the paperwork! Have you got that? Nobody steals from me!”
“Some crummy idea this party was, Marla!” Albert flung over his shoulder. He was drenched and mud- spattered. Beside him, even handsome Tony didn’t I look much better. Albert added with vicious gusto, “You! Your friend! Weird beer! And who ever heard of crab quesadilla?”
The partygoers all burst out laughing. Hello, failure.
3
Pain descended on my head. Until Albert hollered his criticism, I tried to convince myself as I watched him stumble off, the party had been going well. No matter what he claimed, the guests had seemed to be enjoying the crab quesadillas, the tomato-Brie pie, even the raspberry-flavored beer. But when the clients’ attention became riveted to the parking lot, the festive atmosphere underwent a sea change. The Vivaldi ended and the pleasant chattering stopped. The only noise was the sifting sound of hail changing back to rain.
I gritted my teeth as Albert’s car engine caught and growled away. Tony hustled over to Marla and hoarsely commanded me to take care of the guests. Marla was gasping.
“I can’t seem to catch my breath,” she said. “I can’t…”
“All right,” I told Tony, “see if you can find some towels and warm her up in the large shed. You have a cell phone on you?” He mumbled something unintelligible as he held onto Marla with one hand and groped in one of the khaki pockets with the other.
When he finally handed me the flip phone, I tucked it into my apron and returned to the tent. The clients parted to let me through. Without Tony or Marla to query, they watched my every movement with narrowed, suspicious eyes. Whispers rose all around. What happened? they asked each other. What’s going on? What was the fight about? And chief among their questions: Is there a problem with the mine? To each person who tried to corner me, I replied cheerfully, “Oh, just a little disagreement. Something about corn futures, I think.” Ha. Serious and somewhat sullen, the clients reluctantly turned their attention to Macguire. He had assumed a blank expression and was dutifully serving ales to go with the dumplings.
I made a clandestine call to Marla’s cardiologist. The answering service replied that Dr. Lyle Gordon was in surgery but should be able to call back within half an hour.
Tony Royce reappeared in the tent and murmured to me that Marla was resting. His thin face was tight with strain. Marla’s breathing, he reported, was back to normal. Tony then moved through the crowd ? touching arms, patting backs ? like a politician visiting the site of a tornado. I could just hear his reassurances: Everything is fine, fine, there’s only a silly dispute about a stray piece of ore. Yes, that beer might muddle people’s thinking! And then, sadly, Oh, undoubtedly. Everyone’s on edge since we lost poor Victoria.
I heaped freshly ground coffee into the filter for the large pot, plugged it in, and set out paper cups. When I could slip away, I visited Marla. Wrapped in frayed, mismatched towels, she was sitting in front of a space heater in a tin-lined bathroom. Her limp green silk dress hung on a bent nail close to the heater. Near tears, she said in a thick voice that she didn’t want to talk about that damn Albert. That slime-ball! That bald buzzard! How dare he—! But no, she wasn’t going to talk about it. She gasped and plunged right back into talking about it. Me, Tony, everybody ? we’re just being swindled! But Tony won’t listen! He and Albert have been friends since they went to that damn military school! I begged her to calm down. She took a deep breath and vowed that she would. She was going to leave as soon as the clients had departed and her accursed dress was somewhere close to dry.
When the appetizers were gone, Macguire trundled through the tent collecting debris. I poured the first cups of coffee and busied myself arranging a tray of white chocolate truffles and fudge wrapped in gold foil. Finally, Dr. Gordon beeped the cellular. I handed the desserts to Macguire. The good doc seemed not in the least surprised to hear that Marla Korman, the most irascible cardiac patient in the history of Southwest Hospital, had become involved in a blistering debate with a party guest. Didn’t I remember, he asked mildly, what had happened after the atherectomy? Marla, citing her generosity to the hospital, had demanded a private room, a private nurse, and meals sent in from a delicatessen fifteen miles away. Yes, I told her doctor as I watched Macguire circulate with the truffle tray, I remembered. And didn’t I recall that Marla had threatened to whack him, Dr. Lyle Gordon, with her IV if he didn’t let her out of the hospital earlier than he felt was advisable? Ah, no, I wasn’t there for that part. I merely had a vivid memory of the time she’d threatened from her hospital bed to cut off Southwest Hospital from future gifts.
That warning had produced both the services and the discharge her damaged heart desired.
Was Marla having chest pains or any trouble breathing now, Dr. Gordon wanted to know? I asked her; she was not. Make sure she gets rest, Gordon ordered crisply, especially since she’s taking this cockamamie trip to
