Tough Cookie

Once we arrived at the clinic, my doctor checked for internal injuries and put a butterfly bandage on my arm. She told the ambulance driver to take me home. I should call her that night if I felt worse. I either thought or said, Welcome to Aspen Meadow, an old-fashioned kind of town.

This, then, was the scene that Marla told me she witnessed from the front seat of her Mercedes, parked in front of our house: an ambulance driving up—she knew I’d be in it, she said drily—followed by two handsome paramedics coaching me down onto our sidewalk. Me hollering that I was fine, to quit touching my arm. According to Marla, the hunky paramedics wisely declined to comment.

Beneath her fur coat, Marla’s bulky body featured one of her pre-Christmas outfits, a forest-green silk shift highlighted with silver and gold threads, plus matching suede boots. She clucked, fussed, tossed her brown curls, and asked how I’d hurt myself this time. She shook her head when I said I’d been fine when I left Killdeer, but then there’d been this pileup.…

She said I shouldn’t have been driving. My van hacked and sputtered just getting across town, she pointed out. Forget making it home from a mountainous ski area. In a blizzard, no less. I agreed with her—what else was I supposed to do?—while she fixed me tea. As I drank a cup of strong, delicious English Breakfast, Marla brought a merlot out of our pantry. It had been a gift from Arthur Wakefield, who’d commanded me to sample it only with roast beef. Because of her heart medication, she couldn’t have any. But she felt strongly that I should have some.

As I was finishing my first no-meat-accompaniment glass of wine, Tom called. I filled him in on my latest accident without too much detail, ignoring Marla’s smirks. Tom said he was bringing Arch home from Todd’s. My son was worried about me; he’d changed his mind about staying with Todd and wanted to be in his own place. Tom also said he’d called Julian. Julian was skipping his night of old films to join us for dinner—dinner that he would fix.

Marla told me to sit still while she set our oak kitchen table. She lamented that the library board was having a dinner meeting that evening, so she wouldn’t be joining us. I watched her work. No question about it, the glass of merlot was killing the pain in my arm. I’d have to suggest tea with it to Arthur instead of beef…. Marla hugged me gently and left, promising to call.

Two hours later, Tom, Julian, Arch, and I dug into Julian’s succulent, lemon-and-garlic-laced sautéed jumbo shrimp—his scrumptious version of scampi—served over spinach fettucine. I took a good look at Julian. His handsome, haggard face, dark-circled eyes, and ear-length brown hair gave him the look of a typical sleep-deprived college student.

He sensed my mood. “Don’t you like the shrimp?” he asked earnestly.

“It’s out of this world,” I replied, and meant it. But the events of the day had taken away my appetite. Arch and Tom, their mouths full, made mm-mm noises.

Julian put down his fork. “Goldy, now that your van’s totaled, I want you to take my Rover. If I stay in Boulder, I don’t need it.” Julian’s deluxe white Range Rover had been a gift from former employers. Before I could protest, he persisted: “My apprenticeship pays enough for me to share an apartment with some friends I’ve made. And I will be able to get around, oh mother of all mother hens.”

“Julian,” I murmured, “don’t. Who are these friends, anyway?”

He laughed while Tom looked doubtful. Arch, stricken, exclaimed, “So you’re moving out? You’re leaving us?”

“Guys!” cried Julian. “If you’re going to miss me so much, I’ll come back every weekend!”

We agreed that I would take the Rover, and I thanked him. Julian beamed. I didn’t know how difficult it would be to drive that vehicle for a personal chef assignment, especially with a bandaged arm. But the Rover was luxurious. More importantly, it had four-wheel drive. Julian then further mollified us with helpings of his pears poached in red wine and cinnamon sticks, surrounded with golden pools of crème anglaise. The first mouthful of juicy, spiced pear accompanied by the silky custard sauce was almost enough to make me forget my troubles. Still, I found that I couldn’t take more than three bites.

When the dishes were cleared, I searched for and found a bottle of generic buffered aspirin. Tom announced that he was doing the dishes, no easy task, as our lack of kitchen drains still dictated use of the ground-floor tub. I was to relax, he insisted, and Arch and Julian should go do something fun.