Dying for Chocolate

“Cut to the chase, Tom. I’ve got fruit to slice.”

He took a deep breath. “Seems our local rag has up and gotten itself a food critic. Name of Pierre; must be French.” He took a sip of what I imagined to be coffee. Then he said, “Pierre doesn’t like you, Goldy.”

Philip’s line was still blinking. Sweat sprouted on my forehead. I said, “Read it to me.”

“Not a good idea, Miss G. That was what I was trying to avoid.”

“Read it to me or I will never fix you my famous Strawberry Super Pie. That would be a shame, it being strawberry season and all.”

He groaned, then read, “ ‘The queen of Aspen Meadow catering cuisine, the unfortunately named Goldy Bear, lays false claim to her throne, we fear.’ ” He stopped. “You sure you want me to go on?”

I clenched my teeth. “Yes.”

“Okey-doke.” More throat-clearing. “ ‘At a recent fête for the Colorado Symphony, we began with heavily sauced eggs for hors d’oeuvres, then plowed onward through avocado cream soup, beef Stroganoff, fettuccine Alfredo, salad with mayonnaise, and finished in a daze with chocolate fondue. Where did this woman learn to cook, the National Cholesterol Institute?’ ” Schulz stopped. He said, “I’ve never heard . . . I mean, is there such a thing?”

“Oh, for crying out loud, of course not.” I stopped shouting and took a deep breath. I felt as if I’d been punched. My voice was shaking when I said, “And it wasn’t Stroganoff, it was London broil. With egg noodles. Is there any more?”

“ ’Fraid so, but not much.” He read, “ ‘How many of us came home and threw up? I know I did.’ And then it’s signed, ‘Pierre.’ What an idiot.”

I pondered the gleaming knife I’d set down near the cantaloupe. I said, “Any more good news?”

“I miss you.”

“Really.”

“Course. Evenings have been pretty warm lately. Big spring sunsets. I was wondering if you’d like to bring Arch over. You know, we could cook out or something.”

“Let me think about it. We could have hamburgers. Direct from the National Cholesterol whatever.”

“While you’re thinking about it, I got a question—”

The third line into the Farquhars’ house lit up and began its insistent beep.

“Tom, could you hold—” I said in a panic, and pushed more buttons for what must surely be some dork on the East Coast.

“Farquhars!” I yelled into the phone.

“Need to cut back on the caffeine, Goldy?” The husky voice belonged to my best friend, Marla Korman. Although Marla and I both had been married to John Richard—at different times, this being Colorado and not Utah—we had become allies after the final divorce. It was through Marla that I had landed my present job. Adele Farquhar was her older sister.

I said, “Oh, jeez, Marla, what are you doing calling so early?”

“No time to talk?”

“Not if it’s about the newspaper.”

“What newspaper? I left two messages for you.”

Another pang of guilt; I’d meant to call her back. But I was not a secretary, and I could not juggle three phone lines before seven o’clock in the morning.

“I can’t talk,” I said breathlessly. “I’ve got Tom Schulz on line two and Philip Miller on line one—”

“You slut.”

“Just tell me what you want.”

Marla groaned. She said, “You asked, my dear, if I would take Arch to his orientation at that snob school. The one where you’re catering this morning. I was merely calling to find out what time you wanted me to come by.”

I had forgotten. Not about the summer school, but about the orientation. Arch was probably still asleep, couldn’t care less. He was supposed to be at the school— I racked my brain, it wasn’t on the calendar—around nine?

“I’m sorry,” I said. “Eight-thirty all right?”

Marla agreed, and I tried to get back to Tom Schulz and Philip Miller.

Both lines were dead.

2.

I creaked my way back up to the third floor and gently shook Arch’s shoulder. No response. I tried again. A blue sweatshirted arm and balled fist reached out in protest. I sighed. The arm withdrew, pulled back to warm sheets like a turtle head to a shell.

The sweat suit was part of a stage. Arch wore them all day and all night. The parenting trick with this all-purpose wardrobe was occasionally to insist that there be a change—for example, from a gamey green set to a clean gray one. After his swim the previous night in the Farquhars’ heated pool, I had convinced him to put on the blue. This was to avoid an argument over clothes the first morning of summer school. Now I just had to get used to the idea of my child spending the day in his pajamas.

I said, “Time to get up, kiddo.”

“Oh, why, why, why?” said Arch as he stretched and moaned and burrowed beneath pillows and sheets. “Why do I have to get up?”

I said, “Summer school.”

He burrowed deeper. “I’m not going” was the muffled reply.

“Arch.”

“No, no, no, I’m never going. I hate that school. This is supposed to be my vacation. Go away.”

“You don’t even know anything about that school.”

He growled.