Tough Cookie

“I’m so sorry,” I repeated, in spite of what she’d said. “Didn’t mean to upset you—”

“I’m not upset,” she interrupted. “Just puzzled.”

“About what?” My question sounded stupid, even to me. I shakily wired the microphone Arthur handed me through my double-breasted chef’s jacket.

“Two minutes,” he warned. “Mrs. Bullock, I don’t suppose we could convince you to say a few words for PBS—”

“No!” Rorry’s reply was nearly a shout. The hand holding the plastic cup trembled; pale green tea slopped out. Arthur rushed away.

“Rorry,” I murmured. “I just heard about the, your, other loss. I didn’t know about the baby, and I know you loved Nate—”

“Nate is the only man I’ve ever loved,” she cut in fiercely.

Why the rudeness? I didn’t get it. My cheeks reddened. Why did I always make things worse when I was nervous? “I know you did—”

Rorry lifted her chin. “You don’t know a thing, Goldy.”

She walked away from the screen, toward the spectators’ seats. Slowly, she seated herself. I gasped, stunned. During my years of marriage to my first husband, Doctor John Richard Korman, a.k.a. The Jerk, I’d seen plenty of his ob-gyn patients. I could read them pretty well. Why had no one told me about Rorry?

Three years after the death of the only man she swore she’d ever loved, Rorry Bullock was nine months pregnant.

I didn’t have time to reflect on Rorry and her condition, though. Arthur raced back and sternly ordered me to test my mike. I nodded, swallowed, and rasped, one, two, six. My tongue was dry. When Arthur moved away, I poured myself a glass of water from the hot line sink. Had Rorry remarried? Did she have a lover? What was going on?

Don’t be preoccupied while you’re on TV; everyone will be able to tell something’s wrong, Arthur had warned when we’d first begun shooting. After the turkey-boning and sauce-spilling incidents, I’d concentrated harder. Now Arthur—clutching Pepto and clipboard—murmured into his headset about the sequence of shots. He rechecked the audio for the six-person phone bank. Then he trotted over and delivered a last set of directorial laws: “Never admit you’ve made a mistake. We’ll break at the halfway point to show a clip from one of Nate’s old shows. Watch the screen, watch your time, but don’t be obvious. I’ll signal you.”

Finally he backed away. I blinked into the bright lights, forced myself to clear my mind, and shuffled through my notes. Do the egg rolls first. On the counter, the delicate wrappers lay next to the glimmering bowls of stuffing. Quickly, the crab cakes. Talk about how satisfying a hot, succulent shellfish dish is after skiing.

On the hot line’s closest stovetop, a finished set of crab cakes was waiting for the final shot of the entrée Last, do the dessert. I would have preferred a chocolate treat, but Arthur said chocolate was too tricky with dessert wine. So I was making gingersnaps. The wine Arthur had paired with them cost seventy-five dollars a pop.

Arthur morosely called for silence, then counted down loudly from five to one. The red light on top of Camera One blinked on. I took a shaky breath.

“Greetings from Killdeer!” I began, and hoped I was the only one who could hear the wobble in my voice. “A very special show today commemorates the loss of a dear friend of the Front Range Public Broadcasting System.…” And I talked on about how we remembered Nate, how special his show had been to those of us who’d been regular viewers. Then I gave the phone number where folks could call in, and segued into a cheerful review of the show’s menu.

My screen showed the visual for the egg rolls. When the camera returned to me, I mixed the cheeses with the other south-of-the-border ingredients and swiftly rolled them into the wrappers. I slid the egg rolls into a deep-fat fryer that Chef Jack, hovering on the sidelines, had set to the proper temperature, and we were on our way. If I could only ignore the two cameras intimately focused on me, I thought, I’d be fine. I’m never happier than when I’m cooking.

I launched into my patter about buying crab and mixing it with easy-to-find ingredients. I smiled at the camera, mixed the ingredients for the sauce, and patted rich cracker crumbs on both sides of the soft, luscious cakes. Then I dropped them into the hot sauté pan with a tantalizing splat. The phones rang; I gabbled on about food and love going together.

Standing beside Jack Gilkey, Eileen grinned crazily when I commented that the Summit Bistro was a cozy, romantic spot to enjoy lunch during a day of skiing. Arthur shot Jack a dark look and swigged Pepto-Bismol. I rolled on.