Dying for Chocolate

“Please don’t change the subject. You never mentioned a girlfriend.”

“She’s not my girlfriend! I need to go get dressed.”

“You are dressed.”

Another sigh.

I tried another tack. “You don’t have to tell me about this if you don’t want to.”

He said, “Good. Because I don’t want you asking forty questions.”

“How about two?”

He shrugged.

“Was your dad nice to you?”

He nodded.

“How’s school?”

His cheeks turned pink. “Fine.” Then he pressed the rest of the muffin into his mouth and reached again into the grocery bag. “This is for you,” he said with his mouth full. He handed me a thick manila envelope. To my chagrin, it was labeled Parent Packet—Please read immediately.

“Apparently paying tuition isn’t enough,” I said, to no one in particular.

Adele’s distant tap-step announced her approach. I slapped down the manila envelope, set her a place at the oak table, and started slicing oranges for more juice.

“Better go get ready,” I said quickly to Arch.

“Okay, but I need to ask Adele something.”

“What?”

“You’ll see.”

Smart kid. Arch knew the best way to get what he wanted was to try for it when I was in a rush to prepare food. I nabbed Adele’s muscle-relaxant medication from the cabinet and pressed the orange halves into the whirling juicer. Just when I had extracted a new pitcherful of the sweet orange liquid, Adele appeared at the kitchen doorway. Her face was drawn in pain from morning back stiffness.

Arch said, “Good morning, Mrs. Farquhar. That’s a really pretty robe.”

Unbelievable. Not only was Arch learning tricks, he was taking charm lessons from The Jerk. Even Adele looked at me in surprise. I noticed that the shiny dark blue Chinese silk robe with its red-and-green embroidery was indeed lovely. The astonishing thing was that Arch had noticed it.

“Why thank you,” she said with a smile that eased the wrinkles of pain. “The fragrance of those muffins is indescribable.” Carefully, Adele lowered herself into her chair.

Arch echoed the movement and sat down in the chair next to her.

“Mrs. Farquhar?” he said when she had taken her pills with dainty sips of juice.

She looked at him with eyebrows raised. When I stepped forward to offer support, Arch shot me a forbidding, dark look. I stood still.

“Mrs. Farquhar,” he began again, “I was wondering if you would mind if I had some kids over one of these days.”

Again there was a radiant smile from my employer. I pressed my lips together. I didn’t want Arch to see me grin.

“A pool party!” said Adele with enthusiasm. “It sounds lovely. Let’s have it as part of our anniversary celebration.”

“I don’t know about a pool party,” said Arch. “I don’t want them to swim. I want to do an act.”

“An act?” I said, incredulous. This from a child who had balked at show-and-tell for six years?

“What kind of act?” asked Adele. “Of course, I mean, it’s fine, dear. But what will you be doing?”

Arch stood. He reached into the bag and then walked with great drama to Adele’s side. He held up a half-dollar in one hand, showed it to us, and then had it disappear. With his other hand he snapped behind Adele’s ear and the coin reappeared. He looked at us both and gave a slight bow. Then he straightened up.

He said, “Archibald the Magnificent’s Traveling Magic Show.”

13.

“What a precocious child,” said Adele as she turned back to her muffins and the pot of Constant Comment tea I had set on the table. I could not read her tone. And as usual, just when you thought you were getting somewhere in this household, the phone rang. Adele slumped her shoulders in defeat: the shackles of noblesse oblige.

I picked it up and said sweetly, “Farquhars.”

“Uh, Goldy the caterer?”

“Speaking.”

“This is the Mountain Journal. There’s going to be another review of your cooking in Friday’s paper, and the, uh, editor told me to call to say you could, like, do a rebuttal next week, if you want. Okay? Deadline for your copy is Wednesday noon. I need to go.”

“Who is this? Put that editor on or I’m never going to advertise in his newspaper again.”

The phone clicked off. So much for my consumer vote. I replaced the receiver in the cradle. This was Monday. I had four days to worry about the new review, which was clearly not going to be glowing, and a little over a week to think of something to say. Actually, I didn’t even have time to cook, much less worry, because all the phones did in this house was ring.

I answered less sweetly this time. “Farquhars.”

“I need to speak with Adele Farquhar, please. This is Joan Rasmussen from the Elk Park Prep pool committee. It’s extremely important.”

“Ah ha,” I said, and turned to Adele with raised eyebrows. “Joan Rasmussen from the pool committee.” Adele waved her off with half a Montessori muffin.

I said, “Mrs. Farquhar is not available at the moment. She’s swimming.”

“Some people have a pool already,” said the uncharitable Ms. Rasmussen. “And with whom am I speaking, may I ask?”