Adele had said they needed someone to take charge of the mammoth kitchen with its state-of-the-art gadgets and appliances. Lucky for me, their kitchen had passed the eagle eye of the county health inspector. So I had jumped at the chance to become a temporary live-in cook in exchange for a haven. During the summer, this was also the center for my business, Goldilocks’ Catering, Where Everything Is Just Right! Also lucky for me, the income from the job and the business was enough to send Arch to the summer session at Elk Park Prep, where I was catering this morning.
Best of all, the Farquhars’ house had more alarms than the Denver Mint.
I opened my eyes and studied the sloped ceiling of my new bedroom. The gray light of five A.M. seeped through Belgian lace curtains and licked the edges of the room. There was no movement on the floor below; Adele and the general were still asleep.
Outside, a fierce June wind pummeled the house. Branches slapped against the gutters of the other guest room on the third floor, but there was no noise from Arch. When he was little, he would awaken if the doorbell rang. Now he could snore through wind, through hail, through the unfamiliar creaks of this museumlike house.
Arch had not wanted to move. I had promised it was just for two months, while new doors, windows, and a security system were installed in our old house. Insofar as possible, I had tried to put Dr. John Richard Korman— whose initials and behavior had led his other ex-wife and me to dub him The Jerk—out of my mind as well as out of my presence. Unfortunately, I did not know if he would be making an appearance at Elk Park Prep’s annual brunch.
My second problem with this highly publicized meaclass="underline" A man I Was seeing was going to be there. The renewal of my relationship with Philip Miller, a local shrink, resembled those silver mines they’re always reopening in Colorado. The vein may still be strong and the price of silver has just gone up. Philip’s large blue eyes and so-happy-to-see-me smile had heated up my social life, no question about it. That’s why they called it old flame, right? Anyway, I wanted to see Philip, but not at the expense of a confrontation with The Jerk.
The wind slammed against the house, causing it to crack and moan. A stray branch scuttled across the roof. In late spring the Rocky Mountains frequently spin off a chilly whip of air to announce a cold front. Wind screamed through the window jambs. Then it died and the undaunted mating call of a robin pierced the air.
I did a few stretching exercises before checking the thermometer on the windowsilclass="underline" thirty-four degrees, with ominous clouds to boot. Nice June weather. I slid out onto the floor and eased my body through the yoga positions of Cobra, Morning Star, Locust. My spiritual life is an amalgam of yoga, transcendental meditation, and Episcopalianism. The only ones who would be bothered by this, I thought, were the Episcopalians.
And then I began to think about Philip Miller.
One thing I had learned as a thirty-one-year-old single mother: no matter how your body aged, your feelings did not. At any time of life you could be subject to a high-school-vintage infatuation. Another late-teen aspect to Love in the Thirties: you could feel as if you loved two people at the same time.
For seven months I had been seeing Tom Schulz. He was a policeman who had helped me through a rough time when my fledgling business was threatened with two attempted poisonings. He had the build and appetite of a mountain man. Tom Schulz doted on Arch and me, and he made me feel safe.
But in the last few weeks, perhaps because I was trying to block out the specter of the omnipresent Jerk, Philip Miller had once again stolen into my psyche and my daydreams. Eons ago Philip and I had dated at the University of Colorado. Dated? Listen to me.
In any event, Philip was good-looking, well-off, and intelligent. He looked and dressed like a golf pro. When I talked, he listened with great intentness. Since early May we had been doing crazy things like toting backpacks bulging with exotic foods on long Saturday hikes. One Monday morning Philip had sent me ten bunches of gold Mylar balloons. No reason. Before the move, I had taken my morning cup of espresso out on the wooden deck where the balloons floated, tied to the railing, for two weeks. I would sit and watch them move languidly in the cool morning breeze. I would listen to the silky brushing sound their crinkled surfaces made when they touched. I thought, Somebody loves me.
I had pushed John Richard out of my head. Schulz was on emotional hold. I made up elaborate excuses while off on excursions with Philip. And I felt guilty. But not too much.
Now I reluctantly hauled myself up to do battle with cantaloupe, strawberries, and kiwi. What a mess. The social life, that is; I was used to the fruit. But sometimes the Philip Miller-Tom Schulz problem felt like a nice mess. So much better than worrying about The Jerk. I was taking care of that crisis; I had moved. But the two-man mess . . . that was the mess of a glutton. After dieting for years, the glutton gorges herself on Chocolate Marble Cheesecake and Hot Fudge Sundae. Simultaneously.
I showered, dressed in my caterer’s uniform, and reminded myself that gluttony was one of the Seven Deadly Sins. Not to mention lust.
I combed out corkscrew-curly blond hair and put makeup over freckles on slightly chubby cheeks. With tap shoes and a big smile, I could have done Shirley Temple. Yes, slightly chubby, yes, occasionally gluttonous. But in the lust department I was pristine in the four years since divorce. Listening to friends’ stories had convinced me that casual sex was anything but. Unfortunately, no one was interviewing me on the subject of promiscuity. Interesting topic, though.
I made my way down the back staircase, crept along the second-floor hall past the framed photographs of General Farquhar with Jimmy Carter, Ronald Reagan, and Margaret Thatcher, and tiptoed down the main steps. One of my jobs in this house was to disarm the first-floor security system every morning. I pressed the buttons to deactivate the motion detectors on the first floor and house perimeter. Then I banged open the door to the basketball court-size kitchen.
Well, maybe not that big. But it was gorgeous, the kind you drool over in household magazine centerfolds with captions like Kitchens That Are Really Built! Clusters of geraniums brightened deep interior windowsills. Next to the Montague Grizzly stove with its six burners, flat grill, and two ovens, counters patterned in brilliant yellow and green Italian tile glistened in the light of a glass-and-brass chandelier. Burnished copper pans hung from the ceiling, and rows of custom-made oak cabinets glowed pristinely, without a single grubby fingerprint. It was picture-perfect, typical of a home without children.
In the center of this vast culinary sea was an island the size of Antarctica. It was a good bet no kitchen designer ever had to do housework for a living. But the task of washing the expansive tile floor was left to the other staff person, a teenager who had moved into the Farquhars’ basement level. For me there were muffins and breads to make, not to mention the stacked fruit on top of Antarctica. I took the smooth lumps of Sally Lunn dough out of the refrigerator for their final rising and then picked up my knife.
“Take that!” I whispered as I whacked my way through juicy green kiwi, fat, ultra-red strawberries, and pineapple so sweet you wondered why they’d let it leave Hawaii. One of the secrets of catering is that you have access to high-quality ingredients unavailable in the grocery store. If you have a good supplier, you can even get delicacies on short notice.