Dying for Chocolate

They beamed. They were so willing to be supportive.

Adele sat outside on a lounge chair while the general and Arch splashed about and screeched “Marco!” and “Polo!” to each other. I began to fix the anniversary meal in earnest. The tricolored rotini bubbled merrily, a riotous, bleached version of the Italian flag. That was probably what the pasta makers had in mind. I ran cold water over it and remembered Andre’s admonition never to add dressing to hot pasta if your ultimate objective was to serve it cold. Hot pasta acted like sponges, sopping up the sauce and turning a light noodley texture into a sodden mass.

“Not at this soirée,” I muttered as I drained the asparagus and ran cold water over it to set the color.

I had just begun to mix the biscotti dough when Adele appeared with her cane. She was wearing a blue bathing suit and a smile frozen with pain.

“Pills,” she said. “I should know better than to attempt the frog kick. It always throws my back out. I would have sent Bo up, but he had to check something in his precious magazine.”

“Oh my,” I murmured. “Just sit down and I’ll look for them.”

But I did not have a chance, because at that moment the general appeared, fierce as a warrior in one of the heavy bathrobes given to him at his retirement by his West Point classmates. Embroidered across the back of this one were the words SUPPORT THE ACLU—CUSS IN PUBLIC.

“I’m missing a detonator,” he boomed as he began to pull out canisters from the kitchen shelves.

“I don’t think it would be out here,” I said in a low voice, but they both ignored me. Adele still hadn’t found her pills. The two of them began to sort through the gadgets, foodstuffs, flowerpots, and knickknacks on the counters. When no pills and no detonator turned up, they started through the kitchen desk drawers.

“Where’s Julian?” the general demanded finally.

“Downstairs, I think. Have you looked in the garage?”

“What’s this?” said Adele as she leaned over the biscotti dough.

The general and I exchanged panicked expressions. Adele looked up at me when I didn’t answer.

“Dessert,” we said in unison.

“I’m going upstairs to find my pills,” she announced, and limped out.

“Did you really lose a detonator?” I asked. “Or have you misplaced the Italian ring?”

“I haven’t misplaced anything.” The general’s voice was gritty as sand. “I have the ring. I do not have the detonator.” He stalked out.

“Alone at last,” I said under my breath. I finished rolling the biscotti dough into loaves and put them into the oven. While I whisked together the salad dressing, I called the rest of Arch’s friends.

First name on the list was female. Arch had put an asterisk beside her name: Andrea Coburn. She lived on Arnold Palmer Avenue. Coburn père was extremely nice.

“Oh yes, Arch! He’s been over here. We love his magic tricks. He made my wife’s diamond earrings disappear!” At this he began to laugh uproariously. Clearly Arch also had made the diamond earrings reappear. The father agreed to bring Andrea over that night for dinner and to pick her up. One down, five to go.

I got lucky: all but one of the kids were available. The others were all eager to come. So much for advance notice.

The sun had begun its slow descent over the mountains and I had refrigerated the orchid corsage and set out the six bouquets from Aspen Meadow Florist when Sissy buzzed the front gate. Since I never knew what kind of mood she was going to be in, I put on a happy face in hopes that she would mirror it. Miraculously, she did, and after watching me work in the kitchen for a while, she clopped down the stairs to see Julian. I had not seen Arch since . . . when? I reviewed the cooking: two salads for the adults plus a molded lime concoction with pineapple and marshmallows for the kids, asparagus, biscotti, hamburgers. . . yes, I distinctly remembered my hands immersed in ground beef the last time I had seen Arch. When he came up for more soft drinks, I had told him his friends were coming and he could do his magic tricks after all.

“Oh no!” he’d squealed. “I have to go get ready!” And I had not seen him since.

The doorbell rang: the Harringtons. To my chagrin I realized that Weezie had bourbon on her breath. I sneaked a glance at my watch: five-thirty. It was going to be a long evening. I hadn’t even started the fire; I asked Brian to do it.

He leaned in close to me. “Starting fires is one of my favorite pastimes.”

I thrust the lighter fluid at him. “I’m so glad. Men can’t resist starting a charcoal fire. It brings out their caveman persona.”

Between the arrivals of the Rasmussens, other Elk Park friends, golf partners, and Arch’s pals, I squawked over the intercom to the general and Adele the news of the guests’ arrival. The general reported that Adele had awakened from a nap. Would I please entertain their guests?

And cook, too? Arch was the magician, not me. But I told him it would be no problem.