Dying for Chocolate

Brian Harrington was fanning smoke madly when I stepped onto the brick patio. Weezie had helped herself to a drink from the outside bar. I tried not to think of how drunk she would be by the time the shrimp and burgers were ready. Arch and his friends milled about the pool self-consciously. All except for Andrea, that is. She was serious-looking, with straight brown hair and bangs that fell to her nose. She was giving Brian Harrington cheerful, unwelcome advice on how to start the fire.

I hopped back up to the kitchen and made a tray of soft drinks and popcorn for the young set. Since some of them had mistakenly thought this was Arch’s birthday, there were presents to open. We occupied ourselves with this enterprise until the Farquhars made their appearance and we all sang “Happy Anniversary.” It was a good moment, marred only by the concluding hyena laugh from Weezie as the fire once more went out.

General Farquhar offered to work on the charcoal. I rushed back to the kitchen to start the parade of food. I put the burgers and shrimp on a large tray, and prayed for balance.

When I came back out, Sissy and Julian had appeared on the patio. Bo, Adele, Weezie, and most of the other adults were sitting on white Adirondack chairs, chatting amiably. Julian sat apart, alone. Weezie cast occasional smoldering glances in the direction of Brian and Sissy. Julian was more direct: he glared. I followed his line of vision in time to see big Bri lean forward, ostensibly to tell Sissy something important, but really just to glance down her dress.

“Brian!” screeched Weezie. “Come over here! We’re talking about Philip Miller!”

My heart ached. I wanted to hear what they were going to say, but I had to get the salads and asparagus. When I was almost to the sliding glass door General Farquhar trotted up behind me and caught me lightly by the arm.

“This is a party,” he said forcefully. “I want you to enjoy it.”

“Yes, sir! Just like the bird-watching!”

He said, “You’re part of the family.” Behind us the hostile voices of Weezie and Brian careened into shrieking.

I said, “You bet. Just let me go get the rest of the food.” I smiled in what I hoped was a familial manner. “Did you ever find your detonator?”

“No. The biscotti come out?”

“Beautifully,” I said, and turned to go back to the house.

In the kitchen I had the sudden hollow feeling that dusk often brings. I tried to put the feeling aside as I balanced covered bowls on a large tray. I wished Schuiz were here. Arch had his friends. Among the adults I was odd woman out. Why hadn’t I invited him? You should be used to solitude by now, I told myself. I had seen him just this morning, and he had said he would be in court all afternoon. Could he possibly have some other engagement on a Tuesday night? I put down the tray and punched in Schulz’s office number.

“Speak!” he answered gruffly. His voice flooded me with warmth.

“Hi, it’s me, the Farquhars are having a dinner party and I was wondering if you’d like to join us, sorry about the late notice.” I ended out of breath.

“You getting lonely or something?”

I bristled but held it in. “Just trying to be nice.”

“You are nice. And I miss you, too.” Wonderful words. Why should I be upset if he could read my mind? John Richard had always said I expected him to read my mind. Schuiz said, “No can do, sorry to say. I’m waiting for a couple of calls back on that background check.”

We promised to see each other the next day and rang off. I felt much better until I hoisted my tray and reemerged onto the patio. Brian and Weezie were still arguing. Let the mood fit the food. I tried to think festive. But the squabble had become so heated that even Arch and his friends were watching from beside a stand of shrubs.

“My family owned Flicker Ridge,” Weezie was saying. “J was the one who brought it to the,” she spat out the last word, “marriage.”

“Salad, anybody?” I said brightly. I proffered the tray. “I’m just about to put them out here on the buffet—”

Weezie interrupted me, her voice still scathing. “Philip Miller and his Protect Our Mountains group got in the way, didn’t he, Bri? He had an ecological strategy for the ridge; he even talked to me about it right before he died. But he doesn’t seem to have left it to anybody. What luck for Brian Harrington Associates.”

Adele turned a miserable face to me. Some party.

“Let’s eat!” I cried. Grateful for a diversion, the group rushed toward the buffet. I concentrated on the grill, and shortly the shrimp and burgers threw off luscious barbecue smoke. The hostilities ceased while people ate.

When I brought around a second tray of the mixed grill, Arch murmured to me, “Thanks, Mom, this is really great.” I told him to be ready to do tricks when the food was gone.

When the guests had revisited the buffet for thirds and begun to look around expectantly for dessert, I said, “Who’s ready for a magic show?”