Chopping Spree

The previous week, I’d given him the chocolate during our second meeting in Westside’s new shoppers’ lounge. Quickly downing three truffles, Barry had vented his frustration over the chronic delays in Westside’s second remodeling in five years. His construction manager had quit in a huff and moved to Arizona; his volatile excavator promised one thing, then did another. Since I’d had my own remodeling disaster, I’d murmured sympathetically.

Barry had eaten six more truffles—the man was stressed out—as we hammered out the party details. He offered to drive me back to my van. On the way, he promised, as he downed his tenth truffle, he’d take me out for coffee. Just like the old days.

At the espresso drive-through known as The Westside Buzz, the barista had recognized Barry. A Denver newspaper had just named him The Mile High City’s Most Eligible Bachelor, and the barista went nuts. After she got over squealing, making change, and handing us our drinks, Barry had demonstrated the turbo on his new Saab (bought because someone had crashed into his Mercedes) to zoom away. At a red light, he’d shown me the car’s stereo, CD player, fan ventilation of perforated leather seats, and other bells and whistles. The man loved cars, no question about it. I’d laughed and asked if he wanted another truffle. He’d placed his drink into the retractable cup holder, mouthed a drumroll, and popped another truffle—his eleventh—into his mouth. To my delight, he’d opened his gorgeous brown eyes wide and yodeled as he soared into a state of chocolate euphoria. Upon recovering, he’d ordered sixty. He feigned amnesia and panted, Construction? What construction?

I smiled, remembering. I bathed the fortieth ganache ball in dark chocolate, set it on the rack, and gave it a stiff appraisal. I had to admit, it had amnesia potential.

I took a deep breath and ordered myself not to indulge in another taste until all sixty of the chocolates were made. Instead, I had to start planning Arch’s birthday.

At the moment, Arch was still asleep, as the Elk Park Prep teachers were meeting for an in-service. School that day didn’t start till noon, my son had announced the previous night, and could we spend the morning shopping? I’d said no, I had to work. And besides, where had he been the previous day? He’d sighed. Then he’d pushed his glasses up his nose so he could give me the full benefit of his pleading eyes, which seemed huge against the background of his shaved head. Had I started purchasing any items on his birthday list? he asked.

I swallowed. I’d only bought the Palm; I hadn’t had time for anything else. Arch had hoisted his bookbag and stalked out of the kitchen. I yelled after him that no matter how much money you had, it was never enough. He’d called back something unintelligible.

I rolled another ball of ganache and longed to stuff it into my mouth. Instead, I dipped it into the dark chocolate. Marla’s warnings haunted me. What, exactly, was enough? On our day of planning, Barry Dean had told me about the jewelry-event-cum-cocktail-party guests, members of Westside’s Elite Shoppers Club. The “Elites,” as Barry called them, spent a minimum of a thousand dollars a week at the mall. Membership in the group guaranteed special coupons, special sales, valet parking, and events like the jewelry-leasing extravaganza I was catering that night. One thing I had asked Barry: Where did the Elites put all the stuff they bought? He’d winked, done his endearing-bachelor shrug, and said usually they rented storage sheds.

Perhaps buying wasn’t the future of retail, Barry had added. Take jewelry leasing, for example, for which there was no need to store anything permanently. You, too, Goldy, for two thousand, four thousand, or six thousand bucks a month, could wear a different piece of ultraglam jewelry every thirty days. Twenty percent off the cost of the yearly lease for all mall employees! I’d laughed and told him that none of the pieces I’d glimpsed—diamond, emerald, ruby, and sapphire necklaces—matched a single one of my aprons.

My business line rang. I put down the truffle, wiped my fingers on my stained apron, and actually prayed that this was not another new client.

“Goldilocks’ Catering—”

“You’re working,” Marla accused.

“No, really, I was sleeping in. Then my best friend called and woke me up.”

“Yeah, sure.” She swallowed something. I guessed it was her latest version of hot chocolate, which consisted of hot cream, cocoa, and low-cal sweetener. Even though Marla had had a heart attack almost two years before, she’d had little luck losing weight on a low-fat, high-carb, low-protein diet. So now she was trying a some-fat, some-carb, high-protein diet. She claimed she’d lost six pounds and felt much better. When I’d asked what her cardiologist thought of the new regimen, she’d hung up on me. You had to be careful with Marla.

Now I said, “OK, I was trying to roll truffles, until my best friend called and forced me to smear chocolate all over my new apron.”

“Quit bellyaching.” She started munching on something, I didn’t want to imagine what. “Yesterday I gave Arch a package for you. It’s in your freezer. I want you to open it.” I sighed, thinking of all the work I had to do. “While I’m talking to you, if you don’t mind.”

I knew my life would be much easier if I just tucked the phone against my shoulder, wrenched open the freezer door of the walk-in, and did as bidden. So I did. After a moment of groping, I pulled a very cold brown paper bag from a shelf. The bag contained—oh, joy—a pint of Haagen-Dazs coffee ice cream, hand-labeled “A,” and a brown bottle of time-release vitamins, marked “B.”

“OK, get a spoon and a glass of water,” Marla commanded when she heard the paper rustling. “Take a spoonful of A, then a capsule of B. Now.”

I again followed orders. The ice cream improved my mood, no question. But when I tried to swallow the vitamin, I choked.

“I can’t believe you’re doing the event tonight,” Marla cried, not heeding my wheezing gasps. “You’ll wreck my shopping experience, and everyone else’s. You think people want a caterer who looks half dead? Shoppers want to escape reality, Goldy. They want to feel rich. They want to feel young. They’ll take one look at you and say, Why should I shop? She’s gonna die and so am I.”

I finally swallowed the vitamin and croaked, “Are you done talking about me kicking the bucket? ’Cuz I’ve got truffles to coat.”

“No!” Marla wailed. “I need to bitch some more, and you’re the only one who’s home.”

I refired the espresso machine, tucked the phone against my ear, and resumed work on the truffles.

Marla went on, her husky voice laced with anger: “I was going to lease the double strand of diamonds for the first month. They’re perfect for the March of Dimes luncheon. But six thou a month? What’ll I have left to give the March of Dimes?” She paused to devour more food. One of the whole-grain muffins I’d made her? Unlikely. “Then I heard that Page Stockham, also an Elite Shopper, wanted the same necklace. So now I’m trying to decide between a ruby chain and an emerald set in three rows of diamonds, in case Page gets it first. Oh, Page Stockham just makes me so angry. And to think I asked her to go with me to tonight’s event.”

“To think,” I murmured sympathetically.

She ignored me. “Making matters even worse, Ellie McNeely wants the double pearl strand with the aquamarine, which I’ve had my eye on forever to go with a dinner I’m giving in May that I was hoping you’d cater, if you’re not dead. Wait a minute, there’s someone at the door.”

I mm-hmmed and continued dipping. Ellie McNeely, whom I’d done fund-raising with over a decade ago in the Episcopal Church Women, was an old friend from my rich-doctor’s-wife years, one of the few old friends who’d remained a pal in my postdivorce, service-industry years. Page Stockham was the wife of Shane Stockham, Arch’s lacrosse coach, and I knew her not at all. But the key fact from a caterer’s perspective was that Page, Ellie, and Marla all had money to burn.

Waiting for Marla to return to the phone, I kept on with the truffles. Six to go. Roll, bathe, set aside. What had I been thinking about? Oh, yes, money to burn. I wasn’t resentful, though, because moneyed folks were my best clients. And anyway, who was I to judge anyone else’s shopping?

My eyes traveled to the carved wooden cupboard hanging over our kitchen table. I truly did not want to look down on folks who engaged in retail therapy. The reason was that during my divorce from The Jerk, and despite near-dire financial straits, I’d been a shop-to-feel-better gal myself.