you, and wondering how you’re going to manage casing a new venue while buying more supplies while doing a kick-ass new amount of new cooking. So…are you staring at your computer now, or what?”
I sighed. “You’ve got it.”
“All right, e-mail me your shopping list and recipes, and I’ll get it done tomorrow. Plus, I know, I’ll have to make an extra layer or two for the wedding cake. I always leave the assembly to the last thing, so that’ll work. And I’ve already asked for the day off from the bistro.”
“But Saturday is your busy day there! And you can’t possibly do all this in one day!”
“Don’t worry, okay? You’ve got enough on your plate. Speaking of which, boss, have you eaten anything?”
“I’m heating up dinner now. Jack’s with Marla, and she’s going to bring him over. Tom will be home late, and Arch is with Gus and Todd.”
“Okay.” He sounded relieved. “Now tell me you’re not sweating seeing that prick of a spa owner Victor Lane too much.”
“I’m not sweating it,” I lied.
“You don’t sound convinced.” When I said nothing, he said, “All right, just e-mail that stuff over, and I’ll get cracking. I know a fancy-food store here that carries caviar by the case, and they have organic free-range eggs, too. I can get some fresh new potatoes, dill, artichokes, and haricots verts at the farmers’ market first thing in the morning.”
“Okay, listen, I’ve got plenty of pasteurized crab to do an extra hundred crab cakes, plus sauce. That should be way more than enough. You’re welcome to do all the rest. Please know I’m grateful. I’m so glad we don’t have to dump all the extra work on Yolanda out at the spa.”
“Wouldn’t she just love that?”
“No, she wouldn’t. And by the way, you’re the best.”
“Oh, and don’t I know it,” he said. But he didn’t. Julian was the most humble twenty-something I’d ever met. “Now be sure to get plenty of rest to night. Any word from the Attenborough coven?”
“Charlotte called. She’s going to have to come over to night so we can do the extra contract. But my big worry is Jack. I have to try to comfort him. I mean, he’s just lost his best friend. I’m going to try to convince him to eat here.”
“Yeah, good plan. Did they ever find out exactly what happened to Doc Finn?”
“Car accident is all I know. Tom should be able to tell me more later.”
He signed off after again urging me not to worry about the Attenborough wedding. “Just think,” he said, trying to sound jovial, “in just forty-eight hours, it’ll be over!” When I didn’t say anything, Julian concluded, “And don’t worry about Victor Lane either.”
Right, I thought as I checked the pecan-butter crust. It was cool enough to fill, so I set about picking over and carefully washing the raspberries and blueberries Julian had brought from the same Boulder farmers’ market where he’d be going tomorrow.
Don’t worry about Victor Lane, Julian had said. But how could I not worry about the obstreperous owner of Gold Gulch Spa? Victor Lane had stabbed me in the back once. Figuratively speaking, of course. Still, what was to prevent him from doing it again?
I spooned the luscious coeur filling into the cooled crust, and carefully dried enough berries to make the top of Marla’s pie both gorgeous and appetizing. Then I told myself,
But as I dropped the berries into precise place, I reflected, trying not to, on Victor Lane. When I’d finished my Denver apprenticeship to Andre Hibbard, I applied to work at the only catering business serving the mountain area, an enterprise with the ridiculously unappetizing name Victor’s Vittles, owned and operated by Victor Lane. As far as I knew, Victor had gotten into the food business because he’d seen the need the wealthy of Aspen Meadow had for giving parties. He’d seen an easy way to make money, and he’d taken it.
I thought back to those difficult years right after I’d divorced the Jerk. I’d gotten the house, in the parlance of divorced people, and I wanted to be able to do food service when Arch was in school or with babysitters, without subjecting him to the grueling routine of restaurant work. I thought I’d have a perfect fit with Victor’s Vittles.
Boy, was I wrong.
Victor did not like to work with food—far from it. His idea of catering a summer party was to go down to one of the ware house clubs in Denver, buy corn chips and cheese dip, several tubs of prepared potato salad, a variety of packages of hot dogs, hamburgers, steaks, and/or chicken legs, all of which he slathered with bottled barbecue sauce and threw onto the grill while he tossed packaged salads with ranch dressing made from a mix. For dessert, he ordered either the ware house chocolate cake, carrot cake, or cheesecake.
I’d learned from one of the young men who worked for Victor that he tripled the cost of his “ingredients,” as he called the processed foods he bought…and he made out like the kind of bandito who’d once populated Aspen Meadow.
So I’d made an appointment to see Victor, and promised him—modestly? immodestly? I still didn’t know— some new taste sensations. I showed up at his door with platters of homemade new-potato salad with handpicked dill and creme fraiche—the same recipe we were going to have at Billie’s reception—marinated grilled chicken breasts, a flawless baby spinach salad, a loaf of homemade Cuban Bread, and a flourless chocolate cake. He’d tasted everything and curled his lip. Then he’d leaned back in his chair, crossed his arms, and turned me away with a curt, “Women don’t know how to cook.”
Pushing the memories away, I put the pie in the walk-in, pulled out a case of crab, and printed out my recipe for crab cakes. Then I checked that I had plenty of fresh celery, my only concern, and began mixing up the ingredients for all the extra crab cakes I would need for Billie Attenborough’s reception.
Oddly, my own beloved godfather featured in this story early on. Jack happened to call me after I had stomped back into my kitchen with the remains of my offerings for Victor Lane. Jack had been saying for months how worried he was about me since I’d kicked out the Jerk. He repeatedly asked if there was anything he could do for me. Would I consider moving back to New Jersey? Did I need money? Could he at least pay for house keeping help for me? No, no, no thank you, I’d always said.
When Jack had called this particular time, I was still so upset I ended up giving him a blow by blow of my interview—a euphemism for rejection, if ever there was one—with Victor Lane, although I didn’t use his name. I think I was too afraid Jack might fly out and shoot him—Jack was a crack shot. But Jack had made no threats. He had only said quietly, “I think you should open your own catering business. And I’m going to send you the money to do it.”
I protested, of course, the way I always did. I wanted to make it on my own. Jack had said, “Gertie Girl? You got merit scholarships to go to prep school and college. You had a child while that creep treated you like dirt. You dumped the creep, you worked your way through an apprenticeship at a restaurant to learn the food business, and you think you haven’t already made it on your own?”
“Jack, don’t.” And then I burst out crying again.
“Gertie Girl! Don’t say another word. And stop crying. I’m sending you a check. No loan, mind you. A gift, and I’m paying the gift tax. I’ve made more money in the lawyering business than I know what to do with. Now get used to receiving a gift, dammit, and make this catering business work so you can show this new creep just who knows how to cook and who doesn’t.”
The next day, FedEx delivered a check for fifty thousand dollars. Aghast, I called Jack. I simply couldn’t accept a gift that large. Or maybe I could, I didn’t know…but I needed to thank my godfather, or do something. But Jack’s secretary said he was in court. He’d told his secretary to say he didn’t want to hear from me until I’d driven “some stupid creep,” as she gleefully put it, “into the poor house.”
It had taken only six months. I’d bought equipment and had my kitchen retrofitted to pass the vulture’s eye of the county health inspector. I’d found Alicia, my supplier; I’d had cards and brochures made up; I’d given clients who referred me to new clients a 10 percent discount. And I’d cooked. Madly, insanely, with all the energy of a woman scorned. Victor’s Vittles had quietly closed its doors.
