Diane Davidson - Prime Cut

“Don’t say the word thin to me,” she wailed. “These days, I can’t do what I love most. Eat out. Spend money . It’s a prison sentence.” She eyed the demolished window. “Ah, speaking of jail? Heard from John Richard?”

I emerged from the refrigerator balancing a crystal pitcher and two plastic containers. “He calls Arch. Tom or I take him down to visit.”

She downed the sparkling water and nodded at the pitcher of iced tea. “I heard the case against Cameron Burr is weak. I want to personally kiss him for ridding the town of Gerald Eliot.”

“Marla!”

“Oh, don’t. Eliot was a fraud. Did you get a look at the Merciful Migrations cabin kitchen? Eliot was supposed to put in a row of windows. But he fell for a model instead. They didn’t just roll in the hay. They frolicked between four-by-fours, screwed in sawdust, porked on plywood—”

“Marla!” I gasped in mock surprise. Then I asked, “Do you know the model’s name? Or who caught them—er, frolicking?”

“All I know is that it got Eliot canned.”

I shook my head. “How’d he keep getting jobs? How come you didn’t tell me he was so bad?”

She sighed noisily. “I didn’t know you were going to hire him until after he’d made this mess.” She gestured at my gutted wall. “Plus, other people hate to admit their failures with contractors. When Cameron wanted to hire Eliot as a night guard at the Homestead, I was in charge of doing the background check, but I was only supposed to find out if he stole stuff, not if he was a good contractor—Cameron already knew his shortcomings in that department. I called his last three jobs. The only thing that disappeared from people’s homes was Gerald Eliot himself.”

“Nobody told me.”

She shrugged. “He was a terrible guard at the museum. He swore he’d broken up with that model, but he was pouring tequila for somebody into the society’s antique shot glasses. Monday morning, we’d come in for a meeting? The place would smell like a bar.”

I shook a dollop of nonfat cottage cheese into a crystal cup and surrounded it artfully with sliced strawberries. When I put it in front of her, she smiled her thanks and reached for a spoon.

“Okay, enough chatter,” she said after a few bites. I groaned, but she pressed on: “What’s going to happen to you? Will you still be able to pick up half of Julian’s college expenses?”

My shoulders slumped. I’d forgotten about our responsibility for Julian’s expenses. Before we were married, Tom had promised to pay half of our young friend’s tuition, room, and board. Marla paid the other half. Also, I realized with a start, I had no idea if John Richard had made any provision to pay for Arch’s fall tuition at Elk Park Prep. Before he’d gotten himself into jail, he had been ordered by the court to pay Arch’s tuition bills. How could he fulfill his financial obligations if he was behind bars?

“Have you heard from Julian?” I asked Marla. “He called here yesterday but didn’t leave a number.”

She downed a strawberry and raised her eyebrows. “Talked to him last night.”

“You did? Where was he? Is he coming to visit?”

She shrugged noncommittally. “Don’t know where he was exactly. He sounded better than he did a few weeks ago, when I told him about the audit and my plans to act poor and virtuous. He even recommended the secondhand store between Mountain Rental and Darlene’s Antiques and Collectibles. That’s where I found this creation.” She smoothed the gray dress and struck a pose. “But it’s my turn to ask you questions.”

“What about Julian? What did he say?”

“Not much, I keep telling you!” She finished her fruit plate and nudged it aside. “So much for the money situation. Does Arch have a girlfriend yet?”

“No. And please don’t ask him, he’s extremely sensitive.”

“Well, then, if we can’t discuss cash or young love, is that cobbler done yet?”

“I thought you were going to be virtuous.”

“I am being virtuous. It’s exhausting me.” She stood and brought her bowl to the sink, where she ostentatiously rinsed it, to underscore just how virtuous she was endeavoring to be. “Don’t worry, I’m not having any of your yummy, artery-clogging cobbler. I need to take you somewhere. So finish your cooking.”

“Take me where? To book an event with the IRS? Audit-Time Appetizers? Penalty-Plus-Interest Pizza?”

Her eyes twinkled. She did look much younger without makeup. “Can’t tell you. It’s a surprise.”

Groaning, I slid the puffed, golden cobbler out of the oven and set it aside to cool. Marla, who stubbornly refused to explain further, led me out my front door and motioned down the street. The warm, sweet summer air swished through the aspens and evergreens as we trekked the short block and a half to Main Street, then turned left and climbed the sloped steps to the Grizzly Saloon. There, Marla pointed to one of the old wooden benches lining the porch. She scrutinized the street in both directions. After a moment, she sat down, frowning. Evidently, whatever it was she intended to surprise me with hadn’t yet arrived.

The pungent smell of spilled beer and old wood wafted out the saloon doors. Tourists clutching shopping bags came and went from Darlene’s and the secondhand store. A runner trotted very slowly down our street, then turned left by the Grizzly. An emerald-green halter top and pants clung to her tall body and set off her gleaming chestnut hair, drawn up in a ponytail. It was Rustine, the model. I was not aware that she lived in Aspen Meadow, much less made slow jogs along Main Street. She glanced up briefly and I smiled. She immediately looked away, as if she didn’t recognize me. Maybe this time she didn’t need any coffee.

“Why are we here?” I asked Marla after another five minutes. “Are we waiting for somebody?”

“Secret,” she said knowingly. “Ah, here we go.”

An ancient Toyota with New York license plates sputtered to the curb. A moment passed while the driver and passenger conversed. Then the passenger-side door creaked open. A handsome young man with longish dark hair and a square jaw climbed out of the car, squinted at the bright sunlight, and scanned the front of the saloon. He held his hand up to his forehead to shield his eyes, and frowned. Then he spotted Marla and me and waved.

It was Julian.

He’d let his hair grow out from its bleached Dutch-boy cut. The short, tough, muscled body that I’d usually seen plowing down the lap lanes of our community pool now seemed thinner beneath a faded blue T-shirt and tattered jeans. When he let the hand shielding his dark eyes drop, I could see they were smudged with fatigue.

“Goldy!”

By the time I stood beside the sputtering car, Julian had already unloaded three boxes and a tattered duffel bag from its trunk. Marla trundled up beside me, beaming. The Toyota growled, belched a cloud of exhaust, and chugged away. I hugged Julian tightly. Marla embraced both of us.

“We thought your summer job wasn’t over, or that you weren’t coming—” I stammered.

Julian pulled away from me. He seemed awkward and disoriented, as if he’d just disembarked from a long flight. His cheeks turned pink. Was he embarrassed? Happy to be home? Impossible to tell.

He said, “Good to see you all, too.”

“Marla didn’t tell me,” I went on, “and I had no idea …”

“Marla.” Julian grinned. “Great outfit,” he told her.

“Thanks,” she purred.

The three of us were suddenly silent. Julian swallowed and shifted from foot to foot. Something is wrong , I thought.

Marla chirped, “I’m going to let you two visit. I’ll go get my car.” She took off before I could protest. Get her car for what?