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1.
Brunch is a killer. I hate it, and among food people I’m in good company. James Beard found the idea of a heavy meal between meals idiotic. He said, “You don’t have something called lunny-dinny, do you?”
Actually, the reason professional caterers dislike brunch is that it means getting up at an ungodly hour. As I lay in bed at 4:45 the morning of June 3, I realized that in a little over four hours I had sixty people to feed. There were mountains of fruit to slice. Muffins and breads to bake fresh. Thick-sliced bacon to bring to sizzling. Egg strata to cook slowly until layers of hot cheddar melted over warm custard. And finally, there was coffee to grind and brew. In this case, lots and lots of coffee that I would have preferred to have been drowning in.
With eyes closed, I imagined floating in a warm lake of cappuccino. The cocoon of pima cotton sheets and down comforter begged me to stay, to ignore the upcoming meal.
But no. The lake of predawn consciousness yielded a few troublesome bubbles. The Elk Park Prep brunch was a popular annual gathering to which my ex-husband, Dr. John Richard Korman, might wangle a ticket. This would not be fun for anyone.
Without thinking I touched my right thumb, the one he had broken in three places with a hammer a month before we finally divorced, four years ago. Anyone else would have said, Four years without abuse? You must feel safe now.
But I never felt safe. Especially now.
Here’s why. In the last month John Richard had started acting strange. Or rather, stranger than usual. In the evenings he had taken to driving slowly past my house off Main Street in Aspen Meadow. He called repeatedly, then hung up. One afternoon his lawyer phoned and threatened a reduction in child support for our eleven-year-old son Arch. That night, John Richard drove more slowly than ever past the house.
Given John Richard’s violent temperament, I’d decided that Arch and I should vacate the house for a while. I’d accepted a summer job. General Bo and Adele Farquhar had just moved from the suburbs of Washington, D.C., to the Aspen Meadow Country Club area. They’d built a Victorian-style mansion on land Adele had owned for years. This was where I was now, between sheets I’d only seen in ads, under a comforter I’d only dreamed about. Arch and I occupied two bedrooms on the top level of the enormous (three floors plus basement) gingerbread-trimmed residence. I didn’t know why the Farquhars, wealthy, childless, and in their early fifties, needed such a huge place. But that was not my concern. What was my concern was that they both hated to cook.
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 meal: 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 windowsill: 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.
