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 crème fraîche—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.
Women don’t know how to cook. How Victor Lane’s cruel assessment had rung in my ears all the way home that day. As my van had chugged away from his house, I berated myself for allowing tears to sting my eyes, and slapped them away when they rolled down my cheeks. Still, self-pity ruled only until I swung my van into our gravel driveway. Don’t know how to cook, huh? We would just see about that.
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.
But Victor Lane had not allowed me to take the processed cheese out of his mouth so quickly. He’d wormed his way into the affections of two food critics—one at a Denver newspaper, the other at a glossy magazine, Front Range Quarterly. He’d made sure that both critics skewered my business, Goldilocks’ Catering, Where Everything Is Just Right! The critics said my food was unoriginal, boring, and left them hungry. Since André had taught me to have photos posted in my kitchen of every food critic working in the greater Denver metropolitan area, I’d been quite sure that neither of the poseurs had ever tasted my food or even attended one of my parties.
“Don’t ever let anyone tell you this behind-your-back stuff isn’t personal,” Jack had told me. “It’s as personal as it can be. But if you keep doing the work you were hired to do by clients who love you, then this new creep can blow his despair over you driving him out of business out his ass.”
Like most lawyers, Jack did have a way with words. I’d refused to give up my catering business, which had continued to thrive, thank you very much. And Victor Lane had bought the Creek Ranch Hotel…and turned it into Gold Gulch Spa. The most delicious irony of all was that he’d hired a woman to run his kitchen. Yolanda, my friend, had confided that Victor was an absolute pain in the behind, but the spa clients, 99 percent of whom were women, were as addicted to Gold Gulch Spa as crack smokers were to their pipes. Even though Victor never, but ever, gave her any credit, she knew she deserved it…and, she said, the women who slipped hundred-dollar bills into her apron pocket at the end of their stays seemed to agree.
What ever, as Arch would say. I didn’t wish Victor Lane harm. I just wanted him to stay out of my way. Over the last four years, we’d been successful at dodging each other. But with Billie Attenborough scheduling her wedding and reception at Gold Gulch Spa, my carefully crafted avoidance of Victor Lane was about to come to an abrupt halt.
I finished molding the last crab cake, and counted them. I figured Billie could invite an extra seventy-five people to her guest list and we’d still be in good shape. I covered the platter and placed it in the walk-in, just in the nick of time, as it turned out. The doorbell rang: Jack and Marla.
Through the peephole, Marla waved at me with crazed, teen-type enthusiasm. I wondered how much of that scotch and bourbon they’d had time to ingest.
“Finally, finally!” Marla shrieked when I let her inside. The two of them stomped inside in a cloud of whiskey scent. “We’re starving, do you have anything cooking?”
“Crab cakes or pork ragout? I’ve got plenty of extra crab cakes for the Attenborough reception, and the pork ragout is yummy—”
“Both, then!” Marla replied.
I took their coats while they ushered themselves into the kitchen. Marla’s joviality was forced, while Jack, who had tightness around his eyes and wore a strained expression, looked as if he’d just lost his best friend. Which, of course, he had.
What, oh what, could I do to help my dear, sweet godfather recover? He had been uncompromisingly generous and kind to me my entire life, and I had no idea—none—how to help him.
6
I thought you were having the churchwomen over for dinner,” I said to Marla as she dug into a crab cake I’d sautéed for her.
“Dessert. You made my pie, didn’t you?” When I nodded, Marla lifted her chin in Jack’s direction. He was rubbing his forehead. He’d refused any food. Marla caught my eye and shook her head.
“Jack,” I said gently, “let me call Craig Miller for you. He’s a doctor, maybe you should have a tranquilizer or something.” When Jack grunted, I went on, “Look, maybe Craig knows a psychologist or a psychiatrist or someone professional, anyway, someone who could come out to the house to talk to you. Will you let me, please?”