Dying for Chocolate

Maybe I never should have started going out with Philip Miller. More even than missing him, I missed the emotional self-sufficiency bred from years of evenings spent in solitude. I had found other things to do: help Arch with homework, talk to Marla, try out new recipes while listening to jazz. In one month, Philip’s doting presence, his evocation of memories and hopes I had had fifteen years ago, made all those activities feel less important. Schulz was a question mark, too, retreating as he had behind his cop persona. Now the future span of evenings stretched out the way they had right after the divorce: empty.

I put on my latest necessity for the business, thick-soled walking shoes I used for serving. Then I did a quick step over to the Harringtons. An aphrodisiac banquet was no time to indulge in heartache. Let the mood fit the food. Buck up, be happy, have fun.

Brian and Weezie Harrington had left the door open for me. They were nowhere in sight. Upstairs, water was running, closet doors were opening and closing, and there was the occasional hurried call between rooms. I couldn’t wait to see what Weezie was going to wear. I preheated the oven for the torta and started the soup simmering. I had been lucky to be able to get the oysters. I could see it all now: the sensual activity of digging, the sound of swallowing, the licking of fingers. Tom Jones, eat your heart out.

Weezie had told me to serve from and clear to a sideboard next to the dining-room table. I assembled trays and ice buckets for the patio and dining room, then got the liquor organized: champagne, chardonnay with the appetizers, Cabernet Sauvignon with the lamb, and Asti Spumanti to go with the dessert tray. I had delicately suggested to Weezie that coffee could help with postprandial love interest for more mature people. Sometimes I’m overwhelmed by my own tact.

The Harringtons’ brass knocker echoed through the house—Sissy and Julian. Both teenagers looked exceptionally uncomfortable, their faces reddened by sunburn or anger. The late-day sun caught gold light in Sissy’s perfectly waved brown hair. Julian’s scalp glistened like a new scrub brush. Perhaps they were put out by having to wear evening clothes. Perhaps I had interrupted an argument. Without getting verbally entangled, I ushered them out to the patio and explained that champagne was going to be the order of business as soon as everyone was assembled. Then I offered them nonalcoholic beer or wine. They were, after all, underage.

They said they were both in athletic training, thank you very much. La de da. The oysters were calling.

When I reemerged with a tray of crudités, the teens appeared to have resolved their differences. Sissy was holding one of the crystal glasses up to the light, as if she were looking for a price tag. I tried to remember what it was I had needed as a teenager, and decided it was more compliments.

“You look lovely,” I said as Sissy reached for one of the gold-trimmed crudité plates, then turned it over.

“Buckingham by Minton,” I told her. “Very expensive English bone china.”

She said, “How about the crystal?”

“What? Are you casing the joint?”

She wasn’t amused. “I’m just interested. Those glasses look expensive.”

“The pattern is called Star of Edinburgh. Scottish crystal that, to tempt fate, they use on the White House yacht. And no, it’s not cheap.” I smiled. “That’s a becoming dress.”

She shrugged. At the library she had been inscrutable. There, perhaps the mention of sexuality had embarrassed her. But if she did not want to encourage interest, she was wearing the wrong outfit tonight. The shirred white bodice of the dress was strapless, showing off superbly tanned shoulders and some cleavage. The above-the-knee black skirt hugged her hips and thighs.

“Thanks,” she said.

Julian said nothing. I wondered briefly if you could see someone blushing through a Mohawk.

After a moment Weezie floated out. A diaphanous red chiffon gown billowed around her as she walked. “Oh hello, hello,” she sang out. She stopped dead when she saw Sissy. “Nice dress,” she said sharply.

“This is Miss Stone,” I said lamely. “Er, Julian’s date. She works at the library and she did an internship with—”

“I know all about her internship,” said Weezie.

“How about something nice and cool to drink,” I offered in a rush, to fill the silence.

“Why not?” said Weezie in the same frosty voice. “Johnnie Walker Black, no mixer.”

So much for her being able to taste the nuances of the dinner. I poured the scotch over lots of ice and handed it to her. From the house came a wave of approaching voices. Brian Harrington was escorting the general and Adele out to the terrace. The general looked spiffy in a navy-blue suit that fit him like a uniform. Seeing me, he broke into his patented wrinkled smile. Behind him, Adele, elegant in a daffodil yellow linen coat-dress, let go of Brian’s arm and lightly tap-stepped her way along behind her spouse.