Diane Davidson - Sticks & Scones

Buddy Lauderdale, standing by one of the windows overlooking the moat, turned slowly to face me. He touched the lapels of his camel’s-hair coat, narrowed his glassy eyes, then straightened his swarthy face into a passive, self-consciously blank expression. Next to his father, sixteen-year-old Howie Lauderdale shifted his feet. Howie wore de rigueur shabby-chic khaki shirt and pants, along with his fencing jacket. He was short for his age, with a chubby, angelic face, dark curly hair, and a smile I had always found endearing, especially when he encouraged Arch with his fencing. How such a great kid could have been produced by Buddy Lauderdale was beyond me. Then again, I hadn’t known the ex-wife Buddy had dumped to marry the lovely Chardé. Probably she’d been a great mother.

“Hi, Goldy,” said Howie in a low voice. He colored when his father touched his arm.

“I am very sorry to hear you’ve moved yourself in here,” Chardé spat in my direction.

“Now, Chardé,” Eliot began soothingly. Today he wore tweed pants and a smoking jacket. Did the man even own a pair of jeans? He said, “You and Buddy and Goldy have merely had an unfortunate misunderstanding. Howie, chap, come on over here and help me figure out how to defrost this thing in the microwave.”

Chardé snorted; Buddy crossed his arms and didn’t budge. Michaela set her lips in a scowl. Howie and Eliot busied themselves with the microwave while Sukie ran the faucet full blast to rinse out the coffeepot. When the microwave beeped and Eliot pulled out the strudel, poor Howie looked from one adult to another, probably hoping someone would somehow break the tension.

“Uh,” Howie said to me, his face crimson, “Arch is doing real well with the foil. The whole team is amazed at how he’s come along.”

“I’m glad,” I said. Since no one had told me what they were doing in the kitchen at this hour, I ventured, “Do you all have an early practice today?”

“No, no,” Howie replied, as Eliot handed him a piece of pastry that looked like iced cardboard. “I was just working with Michaela in her loft. My dad and Chardé wanted to watch. We’re going to school as soon as Chardé leaves her stuff … and then I guess we’ll see you, uh - “

Sukie finished drying the coffeepot and wiped her hands on her apron. “Buddy, Chardé, Howie,” she murmured. “Goldy and her family and her friend are staying with us through the fencing banquet.”

“That’s a mistake,” Chardé announced. I turned away and searched in the Hydes’ refrigerator for unsalted butter and eggs. When I headed for the mixer, Chardé cocked her head at Eliot. “I hope she’s paying you rent, Eliot.”

Michaela interrupted to say it was time for her to leave. After she clomped out, Eliot slumped at the kitchen table, looking as chilled as the strudel. I pulled a loaf pan out of a cupboard and glanced at Buddy, who was stroking his dimpled chin and frowning. Should I ask him where little Patty was? With a nanny? Better off with a babysitter than with her parents, right? I rummaged in the cupboards and pulled out two types of dried fruit: pineapple and sour cherries. I found a cutting board and a knife, and placed everything on the kitchen table across from Eliot. Just concentrate on the cooking.

Buddy Lauderdale sauntered forward and pulled a fat catalog out from under the mountain of paint chips. With annoying deliberateness, he laid it on top of the cutting board. Then he asked in that oily voice 1 knew only too well, “Ever heard of Marvin, Goldy? They make windows.”

Taken aback, I stared at the catalog jacket for Marvin Windows, casements and bays floating against a background of blue sky.

“Are you trying to tell me something, Mr. Lauderdale?” I managed to say. “Or would you rather tell my husband, upstairs?”

“Oh, yeah,” said Buddy, as he tapped his cheek in mock thoughtfulness, “how is your husband?”

I turned to Sukie, who was standing in front of the microwave cabinet. “I need to make a call. Someplace private.”

“Don’t you dare call the police again,” Chardé Lauderdale shrieked at me as she began gathering up her swatches and chips. She stopped only long enough to stab a scarlet-painted nail in my direction. “I am a good person. I don’t want you to get in my way anymore. I don’t want to run into you at Elk Park Prep, I don’t want to run into you here, I don’t want to see you at the luncheon tomorrow. You stay out of our lives, do you understand?”

“Please, people - ” Eliot faltered. He had a pained expression on his face, like a king whose courtiers’ conflicts were giving him a headache.

“I’m going to Elk Park Prep today, I’m staying here, and I’ll be catering the lunch tomorrow,” I informed Chardé, getting angry myself. “So if you don’t want to run into me, you’d better stay home. Oh, and that includes the banquet Friday night, too.”

Sukie hustled over to Buddy, Howie, and Chardé, helped scoop up the paint chips and catalogs, and murmured about coming another time to work on the new color schemes. Howie muttered that he needed to get to school, and Eliot announced that Buddy should take a look at his car. When they all left, I didn’t offer any goodbyes.

Instead, I returned to the sweet bread I intended to make for breakfast. The combination of dried pineapple and cherries would make a not-too-sweet-or-too-tart, gloriously colorful loaf. I closed my eyes and imagined holding a bread slice up to the light.

Don’t think about the Lauderdales, just cook.

I chopped the fragrant dried fruits, set them to soak, and revved up the mixer. The beaters whipped through the butter and sugar until it resembled spun gold. By the time I was adding flour, leavening, and orange juice, I had a name for the concoction: Stained-Glass Sweet Bread.

“Dear Goldy, I am so sorry about the Lauderdales,” Eliot announced in his kingly, regretful voice, as he swung through the door from the dining room. “Everything to them is a drama, and I do get tired of being their audience. We were at their New Year’s Eve party, but did not see the conflict that so upset everyone.” I stifled a response: No one saw it except for me. That’s the problem. Meanwhile, Eliot turned his attention to the mixer bowl. “Let’s chat about something more pleasant. Historic menus. “

I nodded an assent, finished scooping the thick batter into the prepared pan, and decided to let it rise a while to lighten the texture.

“May I use the phone first?” I asked him. “I need to make a couple of important calls. I’d like to do it where I won’t be interrupted.”

He wrinkled his brow, a sure sign of mental wheels whizzing. Is my caterer spreading more bad publicity for my castle? “Yes, yes, of course,” he said, with effort. “My office is more private.”

I set the timer, glanced at my watch, grabbed my extra sweater, and followed him out. We ran into Julian in the hallway. His brown hair was wet from his postswim shower, and he looked dapper in black chef pants and a white shirt. I begged him to preheat the oven, and put in the bread. He said he’d love to, then whistled cheerfully as he banged into the kitchen.

“Damn!” he yelled as the door swung closed. “It’s cold in here! Who opened that window again?”

“Eliot?” I asked as he held open a door that led through the courtyard. “If you’ve got a loose catch on a window, why don’t you have it fixed?”

Eliot’s voice was rueful. “It’s original glass.”

Stained-Glass Sweet Bread

1 ˝ cups dried tart cherries ˝ cup chopped dried pineapple 4 tablespoons(1/2 stick) unsalted butter, softened 1 1/2 cups sugar 2 eggs 4 cups all-purpose flour (High altitude: add 2 tablespoons) 4 teaspoons baking powder (High altitude: 1 tablespoon) ˝ teaspoon baking soda 2 teaspoons salt 1 1/2 cups orange juice