Dying for Chocolate

Marla waved off this comment with both hands. “Please. The Jerk is not going to be threatened by a cop who looks as if he belongs in the woods with a camouflage suit, a high-powered rifle, and a six-pack. A gorgeous professional fellow, a wealthy shrink fellow at that, is another thing altogether.” She signaled the waitress.

I said, “I never thought dating would cost me the installation of an expensive security system.”

The waitress rushed up.

“Darling,” Marla said to her. “My friend has just been mugged and she needs better coffee than this. Was it made from ancient beans? Do us all a favor and make a fresh pot. Please,” she added with a smile that fooled nobody.

The waitress sniffed. “We serve one hundred percent Colombian coffee.”

Marla opened her eyes wide. “Really. Then it must be from the District of Columbia, honey, and I’m not drinking any more of it. Neither is my friend. So either make us some fresh or bring us tea. Your choice.”

“I’m sorry,” the waitress said, although she didn’t sound it. “Things have been crazy. During your. . . accident the people at that table over there,” she motioned, “stiffed us for a twenty-two-dollar tab. Comes out of my salary.” Before we could say anything, she whisked away.

I said, “Poor woman. Don’t be hard on her.”

“I swear,” said Marla, “I wish that damn food critic would come to this place.”

“That reminds me—”

“Don’t. You don’t want to see it. Have your lunch first.”

“Marvelous. Let me get sick on a full stomach.”

Marla tsked. She said, “Before we got sidetracked by coffee, we were going to have a little mini-meeting. Talk about relationships.”

“Apart from a strained friendship with Schulz, I don’t have any at the moment.”

“But you did.”

Our salads arrived. I thought of Philip, the balloons and chocolate, the lovely inviting smile. I remembered sitting on the deck of my old house each morning. Somebody loves me. I thought of Philip’s rumored affair with Weezie Harrington.

I said, “I cared about him. I thought he cared about me.

“But you’re not sure.” I did not answer. She went on, “You wanted something.” She began on her salad. “Did the two of you do things with Arch? Hike, go to a movie?”

I felt a flood of embarrassment. I was unmasked. I said, “I’ve just been physically attacked, for God’s sake.” I paused. “No, nothing with Arch. Philip used to say things like, It’s nice to have you to myself. Besides, we’d only been seeing each other for a month, and he seemed so interested in knowing all about me. I just was hoping so much for . . .”

She leaned across the table, held my hand snugly in hers.

“Hoped for more than was there? Forget about it, Goldy. Maybe even hold out for the cop.”

I pulled my hand away. “Can we change the subject?”

“Tell me how you’re getting along with my sister.”

I looked at Marla, my best friend. Her probing did not bother me. I knew she cared. Living with an abusive husband all those years had revealed my own skills at denial. Especially when it came to men.

“Are you doing okay with Adele?” she asked again.

I said, “Fine.”

“The general?”

I said, “Ditto. He’s odd, but nice.”

Marla was shaking her head. “I don’t understand their attraction. Of course, I really don’t know either of them very well.”

I said, “Your own sister?”

The red onion tart arrived. The smell of basil was deep and wonderful, and I remembered that, with its high concentration of plant oils, basil was a reputed aphrodisiac. Marla murmured an apology to the waitress, something along the lines of bad coffee making her crazy. The waitress accepted this with a nod and set a pot of tea on the table.

“Take this back pain, for example,” Marla said as she dug into the steaming tart. There was bitterness in her voice. She said, “Fifty-year-olds don’t walk with a cane.”

“The heck they don’t.”

Marla gestured with her fork. “Repressed emotion, if you ask me.”

“What’s this, the psychological.explanation of illness? Give me a break.”

The waitress came up to check if we were okay, and Marla ordered two glasses of chablis. Whatever it was she wanted to talk about, she needed wine to do it: the psychological explanation of alcohol.

Marla waited until the glasses arrived.

“Adele and I were close when we were little,” she said after a few sips. “I mean, we fought, you know, and she was so much older. But we cared enough about each other that when she left for college there were lots of tears, hugs, and daily letters. That kind of thing.”

“And when you weren’t little anymore?”

She lifted one shoulder in a tiny shrug. “You go your separate ways. Her first husband was a doctor.” She laughed harshly. “Runs in the family.”

“Divorce?”

Marla drank again, shook her head. “He died. Massive heart seizure at a cocktail party. One minute Dr. Marcus Keely was talking to his lovely wife Adele, the next minute he was dead in her arms.”

“Good God. How old was she?”

Marla pursed her lips in reflection. “Nineteen years ago. She was thirty-one.”

“How old was he?”