“Yes, of course,” said Brian. He watched the teenagers’ hands unravel and reknit. He said, “This is wonderful scrambled egg whatever. Should I eat more, or is there an actual main course?”
“Don’t tease Goldy.” Adele spoke with a slight edge of sharpness. “This is simply delicious.”
There were some embarrassed nun’s and ah’s, and I scurried out to fetch the next course, trusting that Real Realtors Ate Lamb Chops. The guests opened their packets with cautious solemnity. All but the teenagers studiously swilled the Cabernet. But whatever was supposed to be happening was not happening. Sissy finished examining all the costly things within reach while Adele began a long discourse on the fundraising drive at Elk Park Prep. Julian was quiet. The general, after being shushed by Adele, ate in silence. Weezie fumed. The only noise came from Brian, who continued to direct his syrupy questions and attention to Sissy. Sissy, however, took no more notice of Brian than she had of the food.
Time for the finale.
“And now chocolate,” I said with a flourish as I brought out the tray. “Chocolate has the most sinful reputation of all, because the phenylethylamine in it simulates the same feeling we get with, ah, sexual happiness—”
“Simulates or stimulates?” asked the general, bewildered.
“Simulates?” interjected Julian. “How does it do that?”
“You’re the scientific person, my dear,” said Adele in her most flattering tone. “Why don’t you tell us?”
“No, thanks.”
“Why don’t you tell us?” mimicked Brian Harrington in a high voice.
My heart squeezed for Julian and the embarrassment I knew he must be feeling. It was like the time I had tried to convince the parents of my Sunday-school kids that they should let me take the class down to help at a Denver soup kitchen. The derisive laughter still rang in my ears.
But I knew jumping to Julian’s defense would only make things worse. Instead, I concentrated on refilling the platter and glasses with cookies and Asti Spumanti. Weezie held up a piece of fudge and murmured to Julian, “I hope Adele told you Brian’s wild about this.” Julian ignored her.
When the agony was finally over and they were drinking their demitasse out on the terrace, I washed dishes as quietly as possible. After a very short while I heard rustling in the halclass="underline" Sissy and Julian. I scurried out after them.
“Thanks for coming,” I said in a low voice once I was behind them at the front door. “It was nice of you—”
But before I could finish, Julian, who had avoided my eyes, slammed the front door with such force that the knocker reverberated, klok klok.
“—to come,” I said to empty air.
Not much later I ushered the Farquhars out. I told them I would be over in about half an hour. When I came out to get the last cups, I heard Brian Harrington snoring on the living-room sofa.
“Leave him,” said Weezie’s sour voice behind me. “Let him wake up with a sore back, see if I care. He can swim it off at the club.”
“I’m sorry about tonight,” I said. “Maybe next time—”
“We’ll make it dinner for two,” said Weezie through clenched teeth. “And try a more potent venenum.’”
12.
Sunday I tried to put the events of the previous evening out of my head. I missed Philip, and I still did not know when his funeral would be. The Farquhars, sensing my low mood, invited me to go with them to church and then to the country club for the afternoon. I accepted for church but politely declined the afternoon at the club. My calendar indicated I had two big catering events coming up. The first was a western barbecue for forty the following day, Monday the sixth. And then there was the Farquhars’ anniversary party, a cookout for thirty, on Tuesday the fourteenth. With all the turmoil in my life, I had neglected to cook for the former and plan for the latter, and so had a load of work to do. Onward and upward.
Before we left for church I started beans simmering, put country-style ribs slathered with homemade barbecue sauce into the oven, then basted chickens before skewering them on the rotisserie for a brief cooking that the grills would complete the next day. When the Farquhars dropped me off after the service, you could have floated into the kitchen on the heady smell of roasting meats.
I kneaded dough for the rolls and wondered why things had gone so wrong the previous night. The dinner had resembled a wedding I’d done once where three-fourths of the family members were not speaking to each other. Elaborate maneuvers to avoid visual or verbal contact took place both on the dance floor and at the buffet table. By the time it was over I’d felt like a wrung-out dishrag.
And the nerve of Brian Harrington to ask me if Philip talked to me about his clients! I pressed hard into the dough as I kneaded out, folded in. Perhaps it was because his attempt at flirtation had ended so badly that he now felt he had to put me down at every opportunity.
When the roll dough was satiny smooth, I buttered a bowl, turned the ball of dough until butter blanketed the top, then put it all aside to rise. I set new red potatoes on to boil for potato salad, then shredded mountains of cabbage, carrots, and onions for coleslaw. When both salads were mixed into perfect creamy mounds, I covered them with wrap and placed them in the refrigerator, before the temptation to indulge became overwhelming. While I was making out a menu for the anniversary party, a sigh welled up. I looked at my watch. Five o’clock.
For most of the world it was cocktail time. The previous evening’s bad vibes still clung like depression. I felt as if I had failed in some way. And I missed Philip. I missed Arch. What the heck, I even missed Schulz.
The cooking and menu done, I wandered out to the living room. My eyes fastened on Adele’s crystal dish filled with individually wrapped Lindt Lindors, Mozartkugels, and London Mints. I was feeling bad. Adele had told me many times to help myself. Settling on the couch, I reached for the dish.
Opening a wrapped imported chocolate is like a moment from Christmas Eve. Your mouth waters. Each tiny crinkle of paper, each flash of colored foil is agony. You think if you don’t get this chocolate into your mouth in the next five seconds, you’re going to die.
The first Mozartkugel dropped into my hand like a smooth, dark ball from heaven. I bit into it very slowly. As the chocolate melted I closed my eyes and waited for nirvana.
And oh, it came. When you roll chocolate around on your tongue, the dark creamy sweetness invades all your senses. Delight worms its way down your spine. Your ears tingle. You have to say Mmmm because you just can’t help it. Some people say the taste of chocolate is second only to sex. I say putting it second is in dispute.
I ate two more Kugels, then a couple of Lindors, and finished off with several London Mints, which are of a cloudy softness that defies description. Well, so much for dinner. Arch and the Farquhars would be home late. Julian was at a rock concert. I cleaned up the pile of wrinkled wrappings and decided to go to bed. I was exhausted, and as I snuggled down between the sheets I consoled myself with the thought that at least chocolate caused no hangover.
Dreams of Mozart’s face on the wrapper of the Kugel awoke me at sunup Monday morning. Clouds the color of much-washed pink crinolines skirted the eastern horizon. Out my window, birds sang in a lush concert. Beautiful, but too early. Despite the best efforts of the avian philharmonic, I was able to get back to sleep until seven, when Tom Schulz called.
To my groggy greeting, he said, “Sloth is one of the Seven Deadly Sins.”
“Is murder on there? That’s what I’m going to do to you if you start up again with these early-morning calls.”