Crunch Time

In the kitchen, I helped Yolanda finish the packing. Rorry was providing her table linens, china, crystal, and silver, all of which she had told us her live-in maid would wash the next morning, and that we were not going to have to bother with it that night. She’d also told me the Abundance of Fall flower arrangements would be delivered that afternoon.

When I’d talked to Rorry, she’d said Etta, her live-in maid and factotum, had a set of paring knives, but she had only one roasting pan. I stuffed my knives and several pans into one of our last boxes. The big problem, equipment-wise, was a deep fryer. Once everyone in the country had decided not to eat fried chicken anymore (unless it was from takeout), I’d donated my electric frying pan to the church rummage sale. But Yolanda had told me it would be helpful if she could use one, to make the Navajo fry bread. I’d put in a call to Rorry that morning, and she had said she would ask Etta if they had one. If not, we would make do with some kind of pot, of which Rorry assured me they had plenty.

Once everything on our list was checked, I was in the mood for an espresso, as was Yolanda. Boyd announced he had to find an outfit suitable for catering, so I pulled Yolanda and myself double shots. She doused hers with sugar, I did the same to mine with cream, and we sipped amiably until Boyd returned to the kitchen.

I had to suppress a smile at his impeccable black pants and freshly ironed white shirt. When had he gotten hold of them? Had he gone back to his house? When I asked, he confessed that he had taken to keeping clean catering clothes in the trunk of his car, just in case Tom wanted him to come help me with an event—one where I might need protection.

I said, “Oh, for crying out loud.”

Poor Boyd. He hated catering. But he clearly was head over heels for Yolanda. Bless his heart, I was sure he’d do whatever it took to make sure no harm came to her.

I wondered if that desire would be enough to keep Yolanda safe. Then I shook that thought away, too.

The Breckenridges’ long, meandering driveway rose from Flicker Ridge’s main road to a palatial estate that was perched on an east-facing granite outcropping. This made for a breathtaking view of Denver. But the drop-offs were so steep, I couldn’t even look down as we got close to the house. I wondered how Sean and Rorry had been able to train their son to keep away from the edge of the cliff.

The answer was plain enough when we pulled into the driveway. Surrounding the large, flat, sodded yard was a ten-foot-high fence made from sections of thick plastic. If I was not mistaken, this was the same kind of plastic used to fabricate doors in newer upscale houses. The plastic for the doors is stained and painted to look like wood, and it is free of the upkeep wood requires. But here it was clear, like the edge of an infinity pool. Hmm. I wondered if the fence acted to deter strong-minded elk from jumping into the yard to eat the Breckenridges’ flowers, shrubs, and grass.

The yard boasted an expansive wooden swing set and slide, a sandbox, and a metal jungle gym. At one edge of the property was a brown playhouse with the word Saloon painted over the doorjamb. I smiled and wondered if Sean and Rorry’s son would be allowed to attend the dinner.

Several cars were already parked in the driveway. I checked my watch: It had just turned four, which was when we were due to start setting up. Was this like a kids’ birthday party, when the invitees were so excited they often showed up early?

I couldn’t remember Rorry telling me if our catering team was supposed to come in through a side door or the front. With guests already arriving, a side door would have been preferable. I found the side door and knocked on it. There was no response. Rorry was probably busy entertaining her early arrivals.

We marched to the front door and rang the bell.

A long singsonging echoed into the interior. After a few moments, Rorry appeared to usher us in.

“Sorry, so sorry.” She smiled, but she sounded wretched. Fortyish, short, dark haired, and very pretty, Rorry nonetheless had dark circles under her brown eyes. She hid her wide hips under a flared, embroidered purple skirt and a puffed-sleeve white blouse, which gave her a designer-homemaker kind of look. Marla said Rorry was one of the nicest, most generous people in the church, but that she kept her munificence quiet. She’d kept the misery she was undergoing quiet, too . . . although perhaps not from Ernest McLeod.

“People have been coming in and out all day to bring food,” Rorry explained as we hauled our first boxes across the threshold. “It’s been like a train station. I’m so sorry I didn’t have a chance to open the side door for you.” She eyed me apologetically. Rorry’s accent was elegant, only slightly distinguishable as southern. Having attended boarding school in Virginia, I’ve had a pet peeve over the years at how Hollywood folks trying to portray a Southerner affect an ear-grating, bumpkin-from-the-farm style of speech. Those actors make me wish they’d actually visit the places whose accents they’re trying to imitate. Listening to Rorry speak in her genteel, soft voice, one would know she was the real deal.

“You must be an incredible cook!” she said now. Perhaps she knew she was projecting unhappiness, so now her smile was wide and sincere. “I’ve never had so many extra people decide they have to come to an expensive dinner at the last minute. We even advertised for this supper in the Mountain Journal, with no takers except church people. It’s lucky we had cancellations! Folks seem to have gotten wind that you were doing the cooking. The people Father Pete and Sean and I talked to? When they asked if they could come? They all asked if you were catering.”

“Well, that is flattering,” I replied. I wasn’t that popular, was I?

Rorry led the way across the large, marble-floored foyer. The tawny walls were lit by brass and crystal sconces. A cherry bench upholstered with gold brocade stood between a pair of dark cherry cabinets. Both brimmed with pink-and-beige Limoges china, French crystal, as well as polished silver platters and bowls. It certainly did not look like any of the contemporary mountain homes where I usually catered, which were uniformly stuffed with heavy lodge-type furniture and cabinets. In the dinnerware department, I usually saw only stainless-steel cutlery and nondescript dishes.

Rorry said over her shoulder, “Sean’s entertaining four people already. First to arrive were Father Pete and Venla Strothmeyer. To bring an elderly widow like that? He is such a sweet man. He even said Venla bought the tickets for them both.”

I could hear voices, Father Pete’s low rumble, Venla’s occasional gravelly comment. Even Sean’s high-pitched voice was sometimes audible. They must have been outside, or in a section of the house so well upholstered that all sounds were muffled. I said that Father Pete was indeed a wonderful man, even though Yolanda rolled her eyes.

“And to think it snowed last night,” Rorry said. “Our son is in heaven. Etta took him up to our condo in Beaver Creek to spend the night, even though the lifts aren’t open. They’ll be back early tomorrow. Remember, I don’t want you cleaning up tonight! Etta would have a fit if you put things where they didn’t belong. Anyway, Seth was so excited about seeing snow. Those ski resort owners must be hoping the blizzards never stop.”

“They must be,” I murmured.

Rorry said, “Follow me,” and turned. Her leather flats made soft clopping noises on the part of the foyer that was floored with stone and not Kirman rugs. Rorry seemed hassled, but not so self-centered that she didn’t want to make us feel welcome. I appreciated that.

When Boyd, Yolanda, and I entered the kitchen, I gulped. The ceilings were at least twenty feet high. I bet someone had to build a scaffolding to change the lightbulbs. The decorating scheme of the enormous space was yellow cabinets with brass pulls; blue and yellow tiles on the island, countertops, and backsplashes; and a tiny flowered print of blue, yellow, and red for the matching wallpaper and curtains. I was pretty sure the kitchen table and chairs were solid cherry. The whole effect was like something you’d see in a fifties magazine for living in the South, not Colorado in the twenty-first century.

“This is a gorgeous kitchen, Rorry,” I said as I put my box on one of the counters. Especially for someone who doesn’t cook, I added mentally.

Rorry blushed. “It’s an exact replica of our kitchen in New Orleans. Sean thought I was crazy, but I missed home so much, I wanted it to be the same.” Tears appeared suddenly in her eyes, but she blinked them back. She still misses home, I thought. Maybe she’ll go back there, if and when she gets rid of Sean.

“I’m going to get another box,” Boyd announced.

“Shall I get the plates out, the way I usually do?” Yolanda asked me. When I nodded, Yolanda said to Rorry, “Do you want to show me which ones you want to use?”

Rorry waved toward one of the cherry cabinets in the front hall. “Just the pink and gold Limoges in there.