Dying for Chocolate

When I came back into the house the phone was ringing. To my surprise it was Elizabeth Miller, who asked if I wanted to have lunch on Monday. I said that I would love to, which was true. People who are grieving need to be with other people. Unfortunately, an unwanted skepticism crept into my voice. Why go out for lunch? This was a new activity for me, and it was fraught with problems. Did the person who asked intend to pay? Marla had paid for mine at the Aspen Meadow Café, but I had been under duress. Besides, she had money. I felt as if I should treat Elizabeth.

Elizabeth must have thought my silence meant I was meditating. She jumped in with, “Let’s picnic out by the Aspen Meadow.”

Another picnic. I said, “I don’t want to look at any birds.”

“Oh! Philip was the bird expert. Not me. Listen. I’ll bring tabbouleh and Tassajara bread. You bring whatever you feel moved to bring.”

The next morning after the early church service I felt moved to make tomatoes vinaigrette and a pound cake. As I beat the butter for the latter, the phone’s twang cut through the morning air. My spirits plunged. For heaven’s sake, it was Sunday! The day of the week did not matter to some people, apparently. I was the designated answerer. The general and Julian were out getting equipment for the next experiment. Adele was in the pool and had just started her slow, slow laps that were supposed to help strengthen her back. She would not be available for phone duty for a long while. For Adele, crawl was the perfectly named stroke.

“Farquhars,” I said brightly.

“This is Joan Rasmussen.”

Without actually willing it, I looked over at the eggs on the counter. What had Adele said? This woman needed to be coddled.

“Yes,” I replied, still bright, “how are you? This is Goldy the caterer.”

Silence. She was not meditating, I felt sure.

Eventually she said, “I understand your son is having some kind of party.”

“Yes. We were thinking about this Tuesday evening, the fourteenth. He wants to demonstrate his tricks.” I cleared my throat. “Er, magic tricks, uh—” Did I call her Joan, since we were both parents of students, or did I call her Mrs. Rasmussen, since I was the Farquhars’ cook?

“He’s invited my daughter.”

“Wonderful,” I said without feeling it.

“The last time I talked to you,” she went on, apparently unsure by what name I should be addressed, “you did not indicate enthusiasm for our pool fund-raising efforts.”

“Ah—”

“Although I understand that your son is indeed learning to dive,” she said as if this concluded her thought. She sniffed. “Our daughter has been on the country-club swim team for three years.”

These subjects were related. Joan had passed Manipulative Behavior 101. Arch was learning to dive. Joan’s daughter was an excellent swimmer. The school needed a pool. If I helped with the fund-raiser, Arch would learn to swim, save the school, and get the girl. I bit the inside of my cheek. How Arch wooed his female friends was up to him. And I had no money.

I said, “I’m glad your daughter is a good swimmer.”

Joan Rasmussen tsked with impatience. “Would it be possible for you to pick up your fund-raising decals at the school tomorrow? You’re one of the very few parents who has not participated in any way.”

A shrink would have a field day with this woman. Or with me, as I succumbed to a crushing wave of guilt.

I said, “I’d be happy to pick up my decals tomorrow. Did you need to speak with Adele?”

“Is she swimming this time, too?”

“Well, yes, actually, but she’ll be at the school tomorrow for a fund-raising meeting—”

Joan Rasmussen hung up on me. I replaced the receiver with the comforting thought that type A behavior usually had its own reward.

Monday morning after I had done my yoga routine and seen everyone off for the day’s activities, I set out for Aspen Meadow, namesake for our little burg. Nothing like driving out in the unsullied Colorado high country to rid the mind of peevish folks like Ms. Rasmussen.

As I drove, I was thankful that the preservers of Aspen Meadow’s environment had held their own during the state’s boom-and-bust periods. In our town, a shaky alliance between the old-time naturalists and new-age Greenpeace and Audubon Society types had kept the lid on rampant development. Philip Miller was definitely in the latter category, although he had never talked to me at any length about his involvement. To our age group, environmental activism was as natural an activity as bridge club and Republican women’s club had been for my mother and her set in New Jersey.