Diane Davidson - Killer Pancake

At the moment, Arch was still asleep, as the Elk Park Prep teachers were meeting for an in-service. School that day didn’t start till noon, my son had announced the previous night, and could we spend the morning shopping? I’d said no, I had to work . And besides, where had he been the previous day? He’d sighed. Then he’d pushed his glasses up his nose so he could give me the full benefit of his pleading eyes, which seemed huge against the background of his shaved head. Had I started purchasing any items on his birthday list? he asked.

I swallowed. I’d only bought the Palm; I hadn’t had time for anything else. Arch had hoisted his bookbag and stalked out of the kitchen. I yelled after him that no matter how much money you had, it was never enough. He’d called back something unintelligible.

I rolled another ball of ganache and longed to stuff it into my mouth. Instead, I dipped it into the dark chocolate. Marla’s warnings haunted me. What, exactly, was enough! On our day of planning, Barry Dean had told me about the jewelry-event-cum-cocktail-party guests, members of Westside’s Elite Shoppers Club. The “Elites,” as Barry called them, spent a minimum of a thousand dollars a week at the mall. Membership in the group guaranteed special coupons, special sales, valet parking, and events like the jewelry-leasing extravaganza I was catering that night. One thing I had asked Barry: Where did the Elites put all the stuff they bought? He’d winked, done his endearing-bachelor shrug, and said usually they rented storage sheds.

My business line rang. I put down the truffle, swiped my fingers on my stained apron, and actually prayed that this was not another new client.

“Goldilocks’ Catering—”

“You’re working,” Marla accused.

“No, really, I was sleeping in. Then my best friend called and woke me up.”

“Yeah, sure.” She swallowed something. I guessed it was her latest version of hot chocolate, which consisted of hot cream, cocoa, and low-cal sweetener. Even though Marla had had a heart attack almost two years before, she’d had little luck losing weight on a low-fat, high-carb, low-protein diet. So now she was trying a some-fat, some-carb, high-protein diet. She claimed she’d lost six pounds and felt much better. When I’d asked what her cardiologist thought of the new regimen, she’d hung up on me. You had to be careful with Marla.

Now I said, “OK, I was trying to roll truffles, until my best friend called and forced me to smear chocolate all over my new apron.”

“Quit bellyaching.” She started munching on something, I didn’t want to imagine what. “Yesterday I gave Arch a package for you. It’s in your freezer. I want you to open it.” I sighed, thinking of all the work I had to do. “While I’m talking to you, if you don’t mind.”

I knew my life would be much easier if I just tucked the phone against my shoulder, wrenched open the freezer door of the walk-in, and did as bidden. So I did. After a moment of groping, I pulled a very cold brown paper bag from a shelf. The bag contained—oh, joy—a pint of Haagen-Dazs coffee ice cream, hand-labeled “A,” and a brown bottle of time-release vitamins, marked “B.”

“OK, get a spoon and a glass of water,” Marla commanded when she heard the paper rustling. “Take a spoonful of A, then a capsule of B. Now”

I again followed orders. The ice cream improved my mood, no question. But when I tried to swallow the vitamin, I choked.

“I can’t believe you’re doing the event tonight,” Marla cried, not heeding my wheezing gasps. “You’ll wreck my shopping experience, and everyone else’s. You think people want a caterer who looks half dead? Shoppers want to escape reality, Goldy. They want to feel rich . They want to feel young . They’ll take one look at you and say, Why should I shop? She’s gonna die and so am I.”

I finally swallowed the vitamin and croaked, “Are you done talking about me kicking the bucket? ’Cuz I’ve got truffles to coat.”

Marla went on, her husky voice laced with anger: “I was going to lease the double strand of diamonds for the first month. They’re perfect for the March of Dimes luncheon. But six thou a month? What’ll I have left to give the March of Dimes?” She paused to devour more food. One of the whole-grain muffins I’d made her? Unlikely. “Then I heard that Page Stockham, also an Elite Shopper, wanted the same necklace. So now I’m trying to decide between a ruby chain and an emerald set in three rows of diamonds, in case Page gets it first. Oh, Page Stockham just makes me so angry . And to think I asked her to go with me to tonight’s event.”

“To think,” I murmured sympathetically.

She ignored me. “Making matters even worse, Ellie McNeely wants the double pearl strand with the aquamarine, which I’ve had my eye on forever to go with a dinner I’m giving in May, that I was hoping you’d cater, if you’re not dead. Wait a minute, there’s someone at the door.”

Waiting for Marla to return to the phone, I kept on with the truffles. Six to go. Roll, bathe, set aside. What had I been thinking about? Oh, yes, money to burn. I wasn’t resentful, though, because moneyed folks were my best clients. And anyway, who was I to judge anyone else’s shopping!

My eyes traveled to the carved wooden cupboard hanging over our kitchen table. I truly did not want to look down on folks who engaged in retail therapy. The reason was that during my divorce from The Jerk, and despite near-dire financial straits, I’d been a shop-to-feel-better gal myself. On weekends when it was John Richard’s turn to have Arch, I’d visited every shopping center I could find. I’d strolled through perfume-scented air, by gorgeously stacked goods, past gaggle after gaggle of smiling, prosperous people. I’d loitered in front of brightly lit displays of embroidered baby clothes, rainbow-hued designer sheets, sleek copper pots and pans, even sugared, sparkling cinnamon rolls. I’d allowed myself to feel rich, even if my bank account said otherwise.

Come to think of it, maybe that was what Arch had been doing the previous day: shopping. Still, there weren’t any luxury shops on East Colfax.

I retucked the silent phone against my ear, rolled another truffle, but stopped again to ponder the cupboard shelves. On each of those long-ago shopping trips, I’d bought myself a little something from the “Drastically Reduced” tables. My white porcelain demitasse cup and saucer, a tiny crystal mouse, a miniature wooden car laden with painted wooden gifts—all these had made me uncommonly happy. At home, I’d placed my minuscule treasures on the old cupboard’s shelves. Without the stores’ strong overhead lights, the little crystal mouse had not looked quite so brilliant; the cheap china cup had lost its translucence. But I’d never cared. Each piece had been mine , something for me , a small token of an inner voice, too long silenced, saying, “I love you.” So who was I to judge Marla or her friends, Page Stockham and Ellie McNeely? They all wanted someone, even if it was themselves, to say, I really, really care about you! And to prove it, have this!

Marla came back to the phone and said Ellie had arrived, and she had to go. Before the event, she, Ellie, and Page, who was driving down separately with husband Shane, would be getting the mud soak, the coconut-milk bath, and the vegetable-and-fruit wrap at Westside Spa.

“I’ll watch for a moving luau.”

“I’ll catch you at the party,” Marla retorted, undaunted, and signed off.

I rolled the fifty-eighth truffle. Then, lowering the scoop of ganache into the melted chocolate and setting it aside to dry, I made another espresso. To the far west, just visible out our back windows, a bright mist cloaked the mountains of the Aspen Meadow Wildlife Preserve. On the nearer hills, white-barked aspens nestled between dark expanses of fir, spruce, and pine. I peered at our thermometer. The red line was stubbornly stuck at twenty-nine degrees. So this is Springtime in the Rockies? newcomers always asked. This is it , I invariably replied. In June, you can take off your snow tires.