Diane Davidson - Chopping Spree

Barry Dean had pushed through the glass doors and was striding along the sidewalk. Liz and I stepped off the end of the plankway spanning the drainage lake and started up the sidewalk toward him. Clad in a bright green sport shirt, khaki pants, and loafers, Barry acknowledged us with a hearty wave. Tripping along behind him was a young woman wearing a black halter top, white short-shorts, and chartreuse-green platform sandals. The woman was slender-hipped and big-busted. About thirty platinum ponytails stuck out from her head. She looked like a blond plant that had sprouted.

The young woman laid her hand on Barry’s arm to slow him. When he turned to face her, she did a little wiggle. Showing off her outfit? Demonstrating how all the pony-tails could jiggle at once? I groaned, shifted my load, and turned to check on Liz. She had stopped dead in her tracks. Luckily, she recovered quickly enough to grab her boxes before they fell.

Plenty of fish in the sea , I wanted to tell her.

“Honestly,” Liz murmured. She rebalanced her cargo, moved forward, and made her tone light. “That man would hit on my daughter.”

Enthusiastic honking kept me from having to reply. From between the trucks, I could see a white Range Rover rocketing over the dirt ruts: Julian. He swung in next to my van, hopped out with a bag in his hands, and hightailed it toward the plankway. Meanwhile, Barry and the blond bombshell conversed in low tones.

“Hiya,” Julian said, once he’d caught up to us. He put down the bag and expertly pulled off one of the boxes I was carrying. He’d cut his dark hair quite close to the scalp. (Not bicked , I wanted to tell Arch.) Julian was also clean-shaven and as handsome as ever. Plus, he was compact and muscled, dressed in balloon olive pants and a black T-shirt, and as usual, had come to work. Seeing Liz and her load, he immediately rejuggled my box so he could take one of hers. The kid was great: mature, bighearted, talented, and kind. I thought of Arch with a pang.

Julian swung the two boxes to one side as if they were nothing. “Hey, Goldy, I brought you one of those hot lattes made with cream from The Westside Buzz. You know, that drive-through place? I figured you’d be pretty tired by now, and since you gave up coffee, well—” He blushed and turned to Liz. “Sorry. We just met that once. I’m Julian Teller. Actually, I brought two lattes. One’s for you, Liz.”

“Thanks, Julian, but no,” Liz told him. “You have it. And it’s good to see you again, too.”

“I’m so bad!” Julian enthused, as he proffered me the bag. “I’ve already had two of those things, and each Buzz latte has four shots. I’m pretty wired, I can tell you that.”

“We can always use your energy,” Liz said, warming to him with a smile. Julian had that effect on people.

“Is that the Barry guy?” Julian asked. He lifted his chin at Barry and the blonde. “Down there?”

Barry Dean tilted his head toward the blonde, roared with laughter, then sauntered toward us. The young woman teetered along behind him.

“Hey!” Barry called. His grin flashed as he winked at me and opened his arms in greeting. “Speak of the devil!”

“I certainly hope not,” Julian muttered.

I introduced Julian to Barry, who in turn presented us to his “dear friend,” Pam Disharoon.

Pam Disharoon? I thought. Was that a combination of dish and macaroon? I’m a cute dish; my hair’s a macaroon?

“I’m Liz,” my new assistant politely announced to Pam. But Barry Dean could have introduced her, couldn’t he? Instead, he squinted at Liz and pressed his lips together.

“Hello, catering team!” Pam’s tone was bright. She lifted her pointed chin, sending the ponytails a-wiggle. “I’m sure you’ll make great chow for our jewelry event!”

Liz Fury, master of cuttlefish pasta, flourless chocolate cake, and salade composée , turned green around the gills. Chow , indeed.

“Pam is the star seller in Prince and Grogan’s lingerie department,” Barry announced with pride. “She’s the top saleswoman at the mall.”

Liz made her voice falsely cheerful as she reshifted her box. “Goldy? Julian? I’m taking this up. See you all in the lounge.” And before I could say anything, she took off.

“Well,” said Pam into the awkward silence that followed. She gave Julian the once-over. In a coy, seductive tone, she addressed him: “So you’re a caterer?”

“Pam,” said Barry, “these people are here to work—”

“Caterer’s assistant,” said Julian, not fooled by Pam’s attempt to flirt. “Goldy, give me your other box. I’ll take this load up and come right back.”

Pam took a sashaying two-step toward Julian, extended her red-nailed hands, and cupped his cheeks and chin. “Want some help?”

The well-coordinated Julian slid away from her. “I’ll meet you at your van, boss,” he told me cheerfully, and headed toward the doors.

I hastened back to my van, eager to retrieve the refrigerator-bound supplies. Through the windshield, I could see Barry and Pam walking across the plankway over the water. Without warning, Barry whirled and held up his index finger, as if to correct her. Suddenly, their conversation didn’t look friendly. Guess that meant Barry wasn’t going to help with the boxes, after all. Thank God for Julian—although maybe Barry Dean felt differently.

By the time I’d unloaded the shrimp-roll and crab-dip boxes from the van, Julian had returned from the mall. “Liz is guarding the food in the lounge. The jewelry people are already there.”

I nodded. On the list of catering rules you shouldn’t break was Never leave food where it can be swiped. Sadly, half a dozen of my beef tenderloins had disappeared before I’d learned this.

“Oh,” Julian went on, “and Barry and what’s-her-name are having a lovers’ spat.”

“Let’s avoid them.”

Hoisting our loads, Julian and I avoided the ruts and hurried down the dirt path that led to the plankway. Ahead of us, Pam was stomping away from Barry. Her barely covered rump bounced as she tried to trot in the silly sandals. The plankway jiggled with each of her steps. The construction workers stopped and gaped. So did Barry Dean. Then he turned and again marched toward us. He looked as if he’d swallowed a frog.

“Goldy,” he said once he’d met up with us on the dirt path, “could you and I have a talk?” Barry’s endearingly handsome face and brown eyes, changed so little from our time together at C.U., beseeched me. “The mall has been turned upside down lately—”

“Can we just talk upstairs ?” I suggested, panting. “I really need to get this food inside.”

“I’d rather visit now,” Barry insisted firmly, “if you don’t mind. I’ll take one of those boxes.” Julian, who was now halfway across the plankway, turned back and lifted his eyebrows. Want me to rescue you from that guy? Probably sensing my reluctance, Barry implored, “Goldy, please. This is important—”

He was interrupted by the sound of a revving engine. It was loud, then very loud, like an airplane being warmed up. A short distance away, one of the dump trucks rolled away from the neat line of vehicles. The sun winked off the windshield as the truck plowed through the water. I couldn’t see the driver.

“Oh, no, I knew it!” Barry cried. “No!”

“What?” I called to him. He knew a truck was going to start up? “Barry, what’s the matter?” But he’d dropped his box and started running toward the construction gate. Where was he going? Was he going to try to outrun the truck?

My heart plunged. The truck roared and spewed exhaust. I glanced at Julian. The truck was headed right toward him.