Dying for Chocolate

Her brow furrowed. “Remember the morning of the brunch? I never really had the whole picture of what was going on in his life, you know. He just didn’t share. But I did want to talk to him, because this time I knew he was stressed out.”

“About what?”

“A couple of clients, I think.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. One was homicidal, can you imagine? That’s all he told me. He said, Guess there are crazies everywhere.”

I was stunned. “That’s all he told you?” Schulz had found no notes, nothing indicating this, I was sure.

“Yeah, it was something that had just come up. He was getting some research done on it. The other was some woman who had been abused.”

“Excuse me?”

“I don’t know who it was. He’d been seeing her for about a month.”

About a month? I felt as if I’d been punched in the solar plexus. Elizabeth, I was quite sure, did not know why my marriage had broken up. I said, “Really?”

“Yeah, he said he hadn’t broken through to the abuse yet, but that it was a puzzling case because he’d known her a long time ago. She was a strong woman, or so he thought, but she ended up staying with this abusive guy for seven years. His question was, how could somebody who was so competent in other areas be that self-destructive?”

“That was his question, huh? So she was a client?”

“Well, I just assumed she was,” said Elizabeth as she helped herself to more tabbouleh. “She must have been important to him. Oh, I don’t want to make you jealous or anything. I think he really wanted to study her. Wanted to help her, you know?”

“No,” I said carefully, “I guess I don’t.”

Elizabeth and I parted when the raindrops began to fall. I was a good actress. I let my words fall as lightly as the pinpricks of water coming down. “Can’t wait to get together again.” “Everything you brought was so delicious.” “Call me anytime.”

There was a ringing in my ears. I was not aware of crying, only aware of wetness on my cheeks. I batted it away. Crying was a volitional act. Therefore, I was not crying.

Didn’t know how someone could flunk relationships, but be so competent in other areas? Hadn’t they taught him anything in Shrink School?

It felt strange to have been betrayed by someone who was now dead. If indeed that was what had happened— although it was hard to believe one of his clients had exactly the same history as mine, or presented the same psychological puzzle to be solved. I had been an idiot. It was like someone had shot an entire round of ammunition at me a month ago. The bullets were just now reaching their mark.

And here I thought he’d liked me.

I stayed for seven years with an abusive spouse because I was afraid I would lose Arch. I stayed for seven years because I was afraid I would not be able to make a living. But let me ask you about our relationship, Philip, yours and mine. In that relationship, who abused whom?

Within half an hour I had driven back to Aspen Meadow and renegotiated the road to Elk Park Prep. Of all people, I knew the dangers of Highway 203, especially when it was wet. And yet I found myself whipping around its curves as if defying death.

About a hundred feet past the school’s entrance I vaulted my first speed bump. The van caught a foot of air and landed hard. I downshifted. The engine whined in protest. No question about it, I was not driving the way a good prep-school parent should. But I was furious.

I pulled alongside a man-made clump of perfectly planted wildflowers. These mounds, like mock ruins landscaped into nineteenth-century gardens, were placed at irregular intervals along the split-rail fence that ran the length of the drive. This was why they had put up the electrified gate to keep out flower-eating deer. Profusions of asters, daisies, columbines, and poppies spilled every which way. My guess was that the desired impression ran something like, We can tame the wild! This was undoubtedly similar to what they wanted to do with teenage prep students. But our state’s annual rainfall averaged only fifteen inches. Even Mother Nature could never grow flowers that densely. As if in answer, a hidden sprinkler erupted with a tent of mist.

To my right, past the fence and the border of old blue spruce trees planted during the hotel days, more sprinklers gushed over closely shaved, too-green hockey and soccer fields. The shush sound of the water filled the air. I shook my head. If Philip had truly been concerned with the state’s ecology, he should have started with his alma mater’s depletion of the water table.

I began driving again, slowly, up toward the pool construction site. Warning signs—Building in Progress. Keep Out!—were enough to make me swing wide of the chain-link extravaganza. No more speed bumps, I thought with glee, as I pressed the accelerator.