Prime Cut

department. Foodie magazines these days eagerly screamed a new trend: Today’s caterer should offer pretty servers in addition to beautiful food! Submit head shots along with menus!

I pushed the butter balls onto the counter, keenly aware of my unfashionably curly blond hair and plump thirty-three-year-old body beneath a white shirt, loose black skirt, and white apron. I hadn’t submitted a photo.

Of course, neither had Andre, who was now fuming at a kitchen intruder. I sighed and moved the plate of juicy honeydew melon and luscious fat raspberries onto the counter. With one hand still gripping the tray, I inhaled uncertainly, then parted the cloth folds of the breadbasket. The tower of butter-flecked rolls, moist cornbread biscuits, and sourdough-thyme baguettes had not toppled, thank goodness. Self-doubt again reared its head. Will the fashion folks eat this?

“And while you’re at it, take off your pants!” the same female voice barked.

“For sportswear?” a man squealed in dismay.

I turned and peered past the bentwood chairs and sleigh-bed frames the workers had piled higgledy-piggledy in the dusty, sun-steeped space. By the far bank of windows, a solitary, beautiful young man stood in front of a trio of judges. The judges—two women and a man, all of whom I knew—perched on a slatted bench. None of them looked happy.

Nearest was Hanna Klapper—dark-haired, wide-faced, fiftyish, recently and unhappily divorced. Hanna was familiar to me from my stint as a volunteer at Aspen Meadow’s Homestead Museum. With her authoritarian voice and exacting ways, Hanna had designed exhibits installed by trembling docents, yours truly included. She had demanded that we put on surgical gloves before moving woven baskets or antique Indian pots even two inches. If we forgot, or, God forbid, dropped an item, she’d kick us out faster than you could say Buffalo Bill’s bloodstained holster. According to Andre, Hanna had been appointed as the new artistic director at Prince & Grogan. I was amazed to see that she had shed her gingham-smock-and-sensible-shoes wardrobe for an elegant black silk shirt, tie, and pants. Her mahogany-colored hair, formerly pulled into a severe bun, was now shaped into a fashionably angled pageboy. This wasn’t just a new job. It was a metamorphosis.

Hanna opened and closed her fists as she chided the male model. The gorgeous fellow, whose hair might have been a tad too black to be real, argued back. I wondered how Harma’s exhibits on Cattle-Rustling Meets Cowboy Cooking and Gunslingers: Their Gripes and Their Girls had prepared her for ordering models to strip. In any event, I certainly wouldn’t want her judging my body.

Savory Florentine Cheesecake

2 cups dry bread crumbs, preferably made from homemade brioche bread

8 tablespoons (1 stick) unsalted butter, melted

1 (10-ounce) package frozen chopped spinach

3 (8-ounce) packages cream cheese, softened

? cup whipping cream

? teaspoon salt

? teaspoon prepared Dijon mustard

4 eggs

1? cups freshly grated Gruyere cheese (about 4 ounces)

1? cup freshly grated imported Parmesan cheese

? teaspoon paprika

? teaspoon cayenne

? cup chopped scallions

Preheat the oven to 350°F. Combine the bread crumbs and melted butter and press on the bottom and sides of a buttered 9-inch spring-form pan. Bake for 8 to 12 minutes, or until very lightly browned. Set aside to cool.

Cook the spinach according to package directions, place in a strainer, and press out all the liquid. In a large bowl, beat together the cream cheese, cream, salt, and mustard until smooth. Add the eggs, one at a time, and beat well after each addition. Add the spinach, grated cheeses, paprika, cayenne, and seallions. Beat on low speed until well combined.

Pour the mixture into the prepared crust and bake for approximately 1 hour and 5 minutes, or until the filling is set and browned. Cool for 15 minutes on a wire rack. Serve with sliced fresh fruit and a green salad with vinaigrette dressing.

Makes 12 servings

The woman next to her on the bench was a bit younger. Leah Smythe, small-boned and delicate-featured, wore her blond-streaked black hair in a shaggy pixie cut. She had jumped up and was now holding out her hands in a pleading gesture to the model. Andre had confided to me that Leah was the big cheese here today, the woman with the power: the casting director for Ian’s Images. Leah also owned the cabin. When Ian’s Images was not engaged in a shoot, Leah allowed Merciful Migrations to use the space for elk-tracking, fund-raising, and salt-lick distribution.

The beautiful young man who wouldn’t take off his shirt looked as if he could use a lick of salt, especially on the side of a glass of tequila. My heart went out to him.

The man seated next to Hanna and Leah, photographer Ian Hood, had a handsome, fine-boned face, wavy salt-and-pepper hair, and a trim beard. Ian’s photos of trotting elk, grazing elk, big-buck elk, and mom-and-baby elk graced the libraries, grocery stores, post offices, banks, and schools of Aspen Meadow and Blue Spruce. My best friend, Marla Korman—the other ex-wife of my ex-husband—had sent Ian a dozen elk burgers when he’d criticized her fund-raising abilities. He hadn’t spoken to her since.

“Do you want this job or not?” Hanna brusquely asked the model. Seeming to take no notice, Ian squinted through the lens of a camera.

No, as a matter of fact, my inner voice replied. I don’t want this job. No matter how much I tried to deny it, my heart was as blue as the gas flame on Andre’s old restaurant stovetop. Quit fretting, I scolded myself as I counted out glasses and lined them up.

I sneaked another peek at the male model still being appraised by Ian, Hanna, and Leah. He was in his mid- twenties, indisputably from the Greek-god category of guys. His ultradark curly hair, olive complexion, and perfectly shaped aquiline features complemented wide shoulders above an expansive chest, only slightly paunchy waist, and long legs. But his handsome face was pinched in frustration. Worse, his tall, elegant body—clothed in fashionably wrinkled beige clothing—didn’t seem too steady on its feet. Hands on hips, Hanna looked intensely annoyed. Leah sadly shook her head. Ian gestured angrily and squawked something along the lines of You have to be able to compete. If you can’t compete, get out of the business.

“I hate competing,” I muttered under my breath.

Apollo-in-khaki put his hands behind his head and scowled. He snarled, “We’re having a few problems. So what? I’m the best guy for this job, and you know it.”

I smiled in spite of myself. A few problems?

“Didn’t your agent tell you about the cruise section?” asked Leah Smythe, in a pleading tone. Ian Hood popped a flash, then stared quizzically at the camera, a Polaroid. When nothing happened, he lifted the apparatus and thwacked it loudly against the bench. I gasped.

“Spit out the picture!” Ian yelled at the camera, then lofted it back to his eye. Another flash sparked; no photograph emerged.

From the cabin’s far door, footsteps and the clank of tools announced one of the workers who’d set up the scrim. Tall and gangly, this fellow traipsed into the great room hauling a load of bulging canvas bags. He writhed to get loose of his load, then dropped the sacks and thoughtfully rubbed a beard so uneven and scruffy it looked pasted on his ultrapale skin. After a moment, he picked up a framed picture and centered it on the wall. I broke out in a sweat and turned back to the buffet.

Please, I prayed, no hammering. Unfortunately, the crack of metal hitting log wall conjured up my commercial kitchen—retrofitted into our old house—as it was being