Killer Pancake

And what about the Braithwaites? Charlie was obsessed by more than science, that much was clear. Had he dropped the improbably hued rose near Claire’s body? Why was Babs hanging out—literally—above the cosmetics counter, when I was hauled away by Stan White, Nick Gentileschi’s henchman? Did Babs know what was going on between Charlie and Claire, if anything?

I scooped out some of the thickened cream sauce into the dollops of cream cheese, whisked them together, then stirred the mixture back into the sauce. While this was heating I sautéed the red onion and then added the smashed cloves of baked garlic and the asparagus, covered the pan, and put it aside. The water was boiling. I dropped in the ribbons of pasta, decided to serve it with a salad of fresh raspberries and lightly steamed baby peas, and turned my attention to dessert.

If we were going to have pasta with vegetables, then we could handle a dark, rich dessert. I decided on the fudge soufflé that I’d stumbled upon in my attempt to make Nonfat Chocolate Torte. When chocolate chips and skim milk were heating in the top of a double boiler, I beat egg whites with sugar, salt, and vanilla until they were fluffed and opaque. Then I swirled the chocolate and egg white mixtures together and put the resulting dark cloud of chocolate back in the double boiler to cook while we ate dinner. Next I stirred the shredded Parmesan into the fettuccine, vegetables, and sauce, heated this until the luscious-looking concoction was just bubbling, and called the boys. I looked at my watch: six forty-five. Amazing. Not that Arch would appreciate my culinary speed and skill, however.

I put a call in to Tom and again got his voice mail. I told him we were eating the most delectable goodies for dinner that he could possibly imagine, and the later he got home, the less likely it was that he would get some. Mean, I knew, but tactics were tactics.

And delectable the meal was. The cheesy, thickened cream sauce coated every delicate strand of fettuccine and crunchy bite of asparagus. The salad was light and refreshingly tart. Arch ate hungrily. Julian consumed nearly nothing. When I asked if they wanted fudge soufflé for dessert, he merely shrugged. As I began to clear the dishes, I again suggested to Julian that he go to bed instead of trying to help dean up or work on the Braithwaites’ party. He wouldn’t be much help on the Fourth if he was too exhausted to do anything. To my surprise, he assented and trudged up to his bunk. Arch, ecstatic that he’d get a double portion of dessert, gleefully sneaked away with it to the television room.

Grateful for the quiet, I started to rinse dishes and place them in the dishwasher. It was half past eight So much for Tom making it home for dinner. But as soon as I had that thought, the front-door latch popped.

Tom strode in, stood at the kitchen threshold, opened his arms, and said, “You look beautiful.”

Hard to ignore my runaway, bleach-splotched hair, my face streaked with makeup, Pete’s oversize Virtues of Coffee sweatsuit. “Is that a joke?”

He circled me in an enormous hug. “Never,” he whispered in my ear. For the first time that day, I relaxed. But then I tensed, trying to think of how to explain my appearance.

“Some … bleach water spilled on me today.” It was sort of the truth. Half of the truth.

“Well, I wasn’t going to ask. How’s Marla?” His mouth close to my ear sent shivers down my spine.

“Surviving. Want to taste some of the lowfat food I’m teaching myself to cook for her? Want to hear how I got into trouble today?”

“Do I have to? I’d rather do something else,” he murmured.

“Incorrigible.”

“Beautiful.”

“Later.”

On that hopeful note, he reluctantly pulled away from me. I poured him a glass of red wine, started the fettuccine reheating, and asked if he’d listened to the voice mail.

“Oh, yes,” he replied with a broad smile. “Yes, yes. And I listened to my other messages too. Had a little visit with the horticultural powers that be. Seems Charles Braithwaite, Ph.D., is in the process of getting the blue rose patented, which takes quite a while. One thing you have to do when you’re patenting a flower? You name it.” I put a plateful of the steaming pasta in front of him. He wound up a spoonful of the fettuccine and downed it. His bushy eyebrows arched upward. “Gosh, Goldy, this is delicious. Lowfat?”

FUDGE SOUFFLÉ

½ cup unsweetened cocoa powder

½ cup confectioners’ sugar

1 cup skim milk

⅓ cup semisweet chocolate chips

5 egg whites

¼ cup sugar