Diane Davidson - Prime Cut

Julian’s voice cracked when he asked, “Is Arch … at your place?”

“He’s just doing some errands with Tom,” I replied. What was going on? His face fell. “What is it?” I demanded. He said nothing. “Listen, let’s go home, okay? How long can you stay? We were just talking about you and—”

He lifted his jaw and I saw a trace of the Julian I’d first known. Rebellion, hostility, and insecurity raged below a forced external calm. “I’m warning you,” he said stiffly. “You’re going to be very disappointed in me—”

“Never.” But I felt increasingly uncertain. So much had been going wrong lately. “What is it?” I asked lamely.

“I quit my summer job at the hotel restaurant. The owner was weird, wanted me to take over the kitchen while she took off. Even the other employees told me I should pack it in. I was wondering if you, if you would be willing …” He cleared his throat. “Could you take me back for a while? Just until I get my act together.”

I wondered vaguely about the opening of school, but jumped in with, “Of course! Why would you even think we wouldn’t—”

He held up his hand. “Wait.” His voice crackled with defiance. “Before you say yes, there’s something you should know. It’s not for a short time. I … didn’t just quit my job. I dropped out of Cornell.” His eyes were wet. “I was miserable.”

I said, “Welcome home, Julian,” and hugged him.

This time, he didn’t pull away.

Chapter 7

Marla’s Mercedes purred to the curb. We loaded Julian’s boxes and bag into the trunk and took off.

Jake barked ecstatically when he spotted Julian, even though the dog had only met our former boarder briefly at Christmas. But no matter. When we came through the back gate, the hound jumped up, howled, sniffed Julian’s neck and licked his face. Arch was always telling us that bloodhounds belong to the canine equivalent of Mensa. Now Jake seemed to remember that Julian was the great friend and protector of his beloved Arch. In any event, Julian seemed pleased to be so effusively welcomed.

Inside, he eagerly accepted the offer of warm cherry cobbler piled with scoops of vanilla ice cream. Marla and I drank iced coffee and gingerly worked our way toward asking what had gone wrong.

He began by saying he’d wanted to go away to college. He’d been eager to try a new place, far away from the West. But he’d quickly become disillusioned, and missed Colorado. His assigned roommate smoked, watched television till midnight, then snored until noon. So Julian couldn’t study, breathe, or sleep. Worst of all, he’d become intensely lonely.

“I didn’t have anybody to eat with.” His spoon traced a circle on his empty plate. “It’s something you don’t think about, you know? How much of eating is just being with other people. I always thought the important thing was the food, how it tastes. But it isn’t.”

Contemplating these problems while Jay Leno squawked each night on the roommate’s TV, Julian had resigned himself to self-doubt. He’d felt his confidence ebb away. His misery had exacerbated the embarrassment he already felt over Marla and Tom paying so much for him to be in college. With the illogic of the desperate, he’d stopped going to class. He’d begun waiting tables at a coffee shop in Ithaca. Working in a kitchen and being around other food workers had helped his frame of mind. Unfortunately, all those skipped classes and missed assignments had wreaked havoc on his freshman transcript.

At the urging of the coffee shop owner, Julian had taken a high-paying summer job in an upstate New York hotel. But his new boss had required eighteen-hour workdays. Julian had thought about quitting, but he hadn’t wanted to return to his hometown of Bluff, Utah. Although he’d learned to make candy and Navajo tacos there, the town possessed few prospects for a food service career. He’d finally phoned a Cornell administrator and talked to various deans. All the university folks had been very understanding; they’d told him to stay in touch. Officially, his departure was classified as a leave of absence. To Julian, it was escape from a black hole.

“So,” he said finally. He registered the distress in my face. “Don’t take it so hard, Goldy. I’ll go back to college eventually. I’ll even get better grades. Now, though, I can help with any food job you can think of.”

“I don’t care about the transcript,” I replied. “I’m just sorry you were so unhappy.”

Marla interjected, “You know that here in Aspen Meadow, you don’t ever have to eat alone.”

“Yeah, okay, enough about my problems.” Julian pointed to the hole over the sink. “Who did that, your ex-husband?”

“Yep,” Marla and I said in unison.

I added, “Right before he was arrested. He’s still in jail though, so don’t worry. And anyway, the hole was actually made a lot worse by a kitchen contractor. And he’s dead , I’m sorry to say.”

Julian exhaled. Then he appraised Marla. “You look so different,” he observed. “I mean, besides the dress. Where’s all your jewelry?”

“In a strongbox in my garage.” Marla giggled. “I’ve got twenty thousand in hundreds under my bed, too. You want to live at my place? You can be my chef and yard man. Be paid in cash,” she stage-whispered, “and have untaxed income!”

“Thanks,” Julian said with heartfelt appreciation. “But I need to do more work with food.” He cleared his throat, then turned back to me. “So, will you have me? Do you still need an assistant?”

“ We want you. You’re part of our family. And of course I can use you,” I replied. “You’re one of the most talented cooks I’ve ever met.”

“Ooh-ooh,” said Marla. “High praise from Miss Golden Butter herself.”

“How’s the business?” Julian asked. “I applied to a catering outfit in Ithaca. It was a huge operation. But they said they couldn’t justify another guy, even for a few hours a week. They said times are really tough for caterers.”

“For heaven’s sake,” I replied. “It doesn’t matter how the business is.”

He raked his long hair with his hands. “What do you mean, it doesn’t matter?” He narrowed his eyes. “What’s going on? Is it good news? Bad news? I’ll work for room and board, if that’s easier.”

His questions dangled while I tried to think of an honest way to inform this proud, easily irritated young man about the recent downward course of events. There wasn’t an easy way.

“Better tell him, Goldy,” Marla said glumly.

I picked up his plate. Only a few cobbler crumbs remained. “Okay. Tom’s been suspended. Charged with insubordination. Scratch his salary. So if you want extra cash , you might have to cut Marla’s lawn.”

“Wait a minute, you skipped the good part!” Marla charged. “Miss Caters-With-Cholesterol attacked the assistant district attorney herself. He really ticked her off.”

“What?” said Julian.

“Oh, it’s a long story.” I gave Marla a furious shut up look. “Plus, business is down,” I admitted before Marla could jump in again. “You know, the competitor I told you about. Craig Litchfield. Somehow, he got ahold of my client list—”

“Your client list? With all your prices and menus?” interrupted Julian. “That’s stealing, isn’t it? How’d he do that?”

The phone jangled. I reached for it without answering Julian.

“This is Craig Litchfield.” The imperious tone sawed in my ear. Startled, I glanced at Julian, afraid he could tell who was on the line. But Julian was angrily clanking silverware into the dishwasher. Litchfield continued, “I’m coming over. I have something to talk to you about.”