Dying for Chocolate

“Well. I just wanted to tell you. I’m definitely going to ask Dad if I can go live with him for a while.”

Somebody had told me once, In times of crisis, do nothing. I wished I had remembered that before The Poseidon Adventure.

Now I said, “Let’s talk about this tomorrow. You’ve got guests downstairs.”

The show went on. The biscotti-cum-sparklers were a hit. Now that the excitement was over, both adults and children conversed quietly. I felt low. I didn’t know whether I wanted to eat a dozen biscotti or none at all, so I settled on three. They were heavenly: the thin coating of dark chocolate blended exquisitely with the breath of anise and crunch of almonds, and melded perfectly with the hazelnut-flavored French roast coffee. The planet Venus floated in a dazzle of brightness just above the western horizon. The perfumed evening breeze brought the guests’ voices down to hushed tones. The guests discovered the delights of dipping biscotti into their demitasse before eating them, and there was much exclamation over the result.

That afternoon the general had placed torches at the edges of the concrete. Around nine o’clock, he lit them. He sat down next to Adele and drew a small jewelry box out of his pocket.

He said, “For my bride,” and smiled with such adoration that something closed in my throat. Adele unwrapped the ring and held it up. Sapphires and diamonds glittered in the torchlight.

But Adele’s smile was forced. After the gift she avoided Bo’s eyes. Maybe her back was bothering her. Perhaps she felt bad that she didn’t have something for him. Maybe it just wasn’t a very good party.

I could sympathize with that assessment; I wasn’t very happy either. I didn’t want to think about Arch, about his living with John Richard, about how John Richard would ignore him. The guests filtered out. Their voices full of gratitude rose into the night air. I did the dishes and crawled upstairs, exhausted.

Scout the cat sensed sadness. He followed me up to my room and gathered himself into a ball in one corner of the bed. I thanked him for his company, treated myself to an emergency chocolate in the form of a Toblerone bar, and reflected on the rest of the evening. The interchange with Brian Harrington had been bizarre. I guess I hoped he would call Schulz, although I didn’t really care. The implications of Harrington’s political and social conflia with Philip Miller could lead to a maelstrom of gossip in our little town. Good, that would serve Brian Harrington right, if he was indeed Pierre.

I closed my eyes, let the chocolate melt slowly in my mouth, and tried not to think about the Mountain Journal. This same group of people (minus kids and extraneous adults) had been at Weezie’s aphrodisiac banquet, subject of the last derisive review. Had I once again entertained Pierre the critic? Alias Brian Harrington? He would probably interpret the pool incident as my trying to save Arch from an earthquake.

People will tell you chocolate is a relaxant, but I don’t believe it. The soothing power evaporated once the Toblerone was no more. I couldn’t sleep. I remembered my rebuttal for the Mountain Journal was due the next day. If Brian Harrington was not the critic, who could it be? Julian and Sissy were both in high school, which was a little young to be so venomous. The general and Adele seemed sympathetic. Weezie. Maybe she had indeed been sleeping with Philip Miller. The criticism could be her revenge against me. But that didn’t feel right either. You never know who your enemies are. I turned on the light and got out pen and paper.

To my anonymous, misspoken critic, the infamous Pierre,

Perhaps I should not say he misspoke himself, like someone working for Richard Nixon. This was someone who really did not like me. His taste buds had deteriorated. After his lobotomy.

Dear misguided son of a bitch,

No, that wouldn’t do either. I put down my pen and tried to think positive thoughts. Let go of it. For all the time I had denied, stuffed, repressed, and done other unhealthy things with anger during my marriage to John Richard, I had paid for it with rage during the divorce. Ventilate first. I went into the bathroom, twisted a towel into a rope, bit on it, and screamed. Okay. I splashed cold water on my face and opened the bathroom window.

Again I thought I heard splashing noises out by the pool. It was probably Julian. Whoever it was, I’d be damned before I would try to save two people from drowning in one night.

I plopped down on the bed and frowned at the paper. What was my real worry with this cruel person? Did I really care about him or his silly ideas? I did not. I only cared about preserving my business. This dolt would not get the satisfaction of a response from me.

Dear supportive clients and friends,