Diane Davidson - Tough Cookie

“Sorry I snapped,” Arthur moaned. “I’ve got a blizzard and a crew in revolt. Plus, my boss says our show has to raise money. The annual fund-raiser got canceled, so we’re up.” He moaned again, pitifully. I registered the clink of a bottle tapping glass. “One of our PBS people was killed a while back. This fund-raiser is a memorial for him. We have to do it.”

I sighed and murmured a few consoling words. I didn’t ask why it would be a good idea for us to risk our lives remembering someone who was already dead.

“Killdeer’s been dumped big time,” Arthur reported dourly. “We’ve already got thirty-five inches of new snow. I couldn’t open my door this morning.” He stopped to drink something. “Are you getting any?”

In Colorado, this meant snow, not sex. “About a foot today,” I replied. Our mountain town lay forty-five miles east of the Continental Divide and forty miles west of Denver. Five to six feet of snow over the course of a six-month winter was normal. This was much less than the snowfall registered in Vail, Keystone, Breckenridge, and Killdeer—all ski resorts west of the Divide.

Arthur groaned. “The snowboarders and skiers? They’re ecstatic! They’ve got an eighty-inch base in December! How’m I supposed to get our van up a road covered with seven feet of white stuff? My crew’s having a late-night drinking party, like a farewell before our broadcast.” I heard him take another slug of what I assumed was wine. “Know what that crew’s thinking, Goldy? I’ll tell you. They’re thinking Donner Pass .”

Tucking the receiver under my ear, I started heating some milk: It was definitely a night for hot chocolate. “Arthur,” I answered calmly, “why does the show have to be live ? Why don’t you just postpone the taping?” I adjusted the flame under the milk. “Better yet, why not tell me exactly what’s going on?”

“Look.” I heard another gulp. “High winds closed the bistro early tonight. Whenever gusts reach forty miles per hour, Killdeer Corp closes the gondola, so tonight’s telethon was canceled. That’s why the kitchen crew couldn’t do your prep.”

I tapped the gleaming new Carrara marble counter and glanced at my watch: half past ten. “So we have to raise money during our show?”

He cleared his throat. “The show was an annual telethon. It brings in about ten thousand bucks each year, and the station uses the money to buy equipment. So tonight, when the telethon got canceled, my boss announced to viewers that instead of seeing our show Saturday morning, viewers could tune in tomorrow morning for a live version of Cooking at the Top! ” He took a gulp. “We have to do it tomorrow, Goldy. The professional fund-raiser folks say that if you put people off for long, they’ll stow their checkbooks. Don’t worry, I’ve got phone-bank volunteers.”

“You said it was a memorial,” I reminded him.

“Haven’t you ever watched it?”

“Never. I can’t take telethons. Too much tension.”

“It’s in memory of Nate Bullock. High Country Hallmarks , you must have watched that .” Arthur took another desperate swig. Nate Bullock , I thought. A pang of regret wormed through my chest. Yes, I had watched High Country Hallmarks . And I’d known Nate. His wife, Rorry, had once been my friend.

“Wait a minute,” said Arthur. “My other line’s ringing. Probably a supplier telling me he slipped into a ditch with a truckload of champagne. Can you hold?”

I said yes. I gripped the phone cord, glanced out at the snow, and thought back. Eleven years ago, Nate and Rorry Bullock had been our neighbors in Aspen Meadow. Rorry . She and I had had good times teaching Sunday school at St. Luke’s Episcopal Church. But our work and our relationship had ended when the Bullocks moved to Killdeer. High Country Hallmarks , Nate’s hugely popular, locally produced PBS show, had covered exciting aspects of Colorado life, from tracking cougars to evacuating in advance of flash floods. Safe at home, snuggled inside cocoons of comforters and sipping cocoa, Arch and I had watched it together often when he was little.

Tragically, Nate had been killed in an avalanche three years ago—tracking lynx for one of his own shows, reports said, although the television station denied knowledge of such a dangerous project. The papers had reported that the cause for the avalanche, and the reason for Nate’s being in its path, were a mystery. Investigations had led nowhere, and his death remained shrouded in unanswered questions and pain. Poor Rorry. The thought of my widowed friend brought sadness. Although I’d written to her after Nate’s death, I’d received no response.

Arthur returned to the line and announced he’d just calmed one of his cameramen. He tried unsuccessfully to conceal a burp and went on: “All right. At six, two cameramen, a handful of volunteers, and I will drive up our equipment van on the —plowed , they promised me—back road. Is your van four-wheel drive?”

“No. And my tires are marginal.” Another side-effect of my cash-flow problem.

“Then take the gondola up the mountain. Since the bistro staff couldn’t do any of the prep, the owner and her head chef,”—here he sighed—“will be helping you. Now listen, going live is just a bit different. People expect mistakes. Don’t worry, it’s part of the fun.”

“Oh, gee, Arthur. It doesn’t sound like fun.” Overseeing a close friend who knew nothing about food prep and her chef-cum-boyfriend chopping mountains of scallions in time for a live broadcast? Fun? A wave of queasiness assaulted me.

“Just be there by seven, Goldy,” Arthur said, ignoring my protests. “Don’t come early. I have too much to do and you’ll be underfoot. When you get there, you can tell Eileen and Jack what you need and I’ll run you through the telethon scenario. We’ll start filming at eight. Ciao! ”

He hung up. The wind wailed around the house. I whisked cream and sugar into a heap of dry Dutch-style cocoa, beat in the steaming milk, and liberally doused the cocoa with whipped cream. Worries about the next morning crowded in as I set two fragrant, filbert-studded fudge cookies on a china plate. I took a bite of cookie and nearly swooned over the combination of life-restoring dark chocolate and crunchy toasted nuts. Forget the show! Consume chocolate! Oh, and get some sleep , I ordered myself. Otherwise, people will call in to complain that the chef looks half dead .

The phone rang again.

“Hey, Goldy, honey, how you doing?” Doug Portman’s obnoxious greeting sent ice down my spine. “Coming up to Killdeer tomorrow?”

“Yes, Doug.” What strange bedfellows failed remodeling makes, I thought as I sipped the cocoa. Doug Portman and I had history. We’d dated unhappily after I’d rid myself of The Jerk, my abusive ex-husband. But pretentious, penny-pinching Doug was a well-known collector of military memorabilia, and our drains-crisis had brought him back in our orbit.

“Still want to sell those World War Two skis?” Doug asked imperiously, his voice as gruff as ever. “The ones Ike signed?”

“If the price is right.” Tom’s historic skis had belonged to a veteran, a member of the 10 thMountain Division. On the skis, the soldier had carved the names of each of the Alpine towns where he’d fought. More importantly, the trooper had somehow convinced Eisenhower himself to carve Ike onto the left ski. An antiques dealer had told Tom the skis could sell for as much as ten thousand dollars, of which we, unfortunately, would get only half . Remembering Doug and his insatiable passion for military memorabilia, plus the fortune we’d need to replace the drains, I’d called him two weeks ago and offered him the skis for nine thousand. He’d turned me down.