Diane Davidson - Prime Cut

Savory Florentine Cheesecake

2 cups dry bread crumbs, preferably made from homemade brioche bread

8 tablespoons (1 stick) unsalted butter, melted

1 (10-ounce) package frozen chopped spinach

3 (8-ounce) packages cream cheese, softened

¼ cup whipping cream

½ teaspoon salt

½ teaspoon prepared Dijon mustard

4 eggs

1¼ cups freshly grated Gruyère cheese (about 4 ounces)

1¼ cup freshly grated imported Parmesan cheese

¼ teaspoon paprika

⅛ teaspoon cayenne

¼ cup chopped scallions

Preheat the oven to 350°F. Combine the bread crumbs and melted butter and press on the bottom and sides of a buttered 9-inch spring-form pan. Bake for 8 to 12 minutes, or until very lightly browned. Set aside to cool.

Cook the spinach according to package directions, place in a strainer, and press out all the liquid. In a large bowl, beat together the cream cheese, cream, salt, and mustard until smooth. Add the eggs, one at a time, and beat well after each addition. Add the spinach, grated cheeses, paprika, cayenne, and seallions. Beat on low speed until well combined.

Pour the mixture into the prepared crust and bake for approximately 1 hour and 5 minutes, or until the filling is set and browned. Cool for 15 minutes on a wire rack. Serve with sliced fresh fruit and a green salad with vinaigrette dressing.

Makes 12 servings

The woman next to her on the bench was a bit younger. Leah Smythe, small-boned and delicate-featured, wore her blond-streaked black hair in a shaggy pixie cut. She had jumped up and was now holding out her hands in a pleading gesture to the model. André had confided to me that Leah was the big cheese here today, the woman with the power: the casting director for Ian’s Images. Leah also owned the cabin. When Ian’s Images was not engaged in a shoot, Leah allowed Merciful Migrations to use the space for elk-tracking, fund-raising, and salt-lick distribution.

The beautiful young man who wouldn’t take off his shirt looked as if he could use a lick of salt, especially on the side of a glass of tequila. My heart went out to him.

The man seated next to Hanna and Leah, photographer Ian Hood, had a handsome, fine-boned face, wavy salt-and-pepper hair, and a trim beard. Ian’s photos of trotting elk, grazing elk, big-buck elk, and mom-and-baby elk graced the libraries, grocery stores, post offices, banks, and schools of Aspen Meadow and Blue Spruce. My best friend, Marla Korman—the other ex-wife of my ex-husband—had sent Ian a dozen elk burgers when he’d criticized her fund-raising abilities. He hadn’t spoken to her since.

“Do you want this job or not?” Hanna brusquely asked the model. Seeming to take no notice, Ian squinted through the lens of a camera.

No, as a matter of fact , my inner voice replied. I don’t want this job . No matter how much I tried to deny it, my heart was as blue as the gas flame on André’s old restaurant stovetop. Quit fretting , I scolded myself as I counted out glasses and lined them up.

I sneaked another peek at the male model still being appraised by Ian, Hanna, and Leah. He was in his mid-twenties, indisputably from the Greek-god category of guys. His ultradark curly hair, olive complexion, and perfectly shaped aquiline features complemented wide shoulders above an expansive chest, only slightly paunchy waist, and long legs. But his handsome face was pinched in frustration. Worse, his tall, elegant body—clothed in fashionably wrinkled beige clothing—didn’t seem too steady on its feet. Hands on hips, Hanna looked intensely annoyed. Leah sadly shook her head. Ian gestured angrily and squawked something along the lines of You have to be able to compete. If you can’t compete, get out of the business .

“I hate competing,” I muttered under my breath.

Apollo-in-khaki put his hands behind his head and scowled. He snarled, “We’re having a few problems. So what? I’m the best guy for this job, and you know it.”

I smiled in spite of myself. A few problems?

“Didn’t your agent tell you about the cruise section?” asked Leah Smythe, in a pleading tone. Ian Hood popped a flash, then stared quizzically at the camera, a Polaroid. When nothing happened, he lifted the apparatus and thwacked it loudly against the bench. I gasped.

“Spit out the picture!” Ian yelled at the camera, then lofted it back to his eye. Another flash sparked; no photograph emerged.

From the cabin’s far door, footsteps and the clank of tools announced one of the workers who’d set up the scrim. Tall and gangly, this fellow traipsed into the great room hauling a load of bulging canvas bags. He writhed to get loose of his load, then dropped the sacks and thoughtfully rubbed a beard so uneven and scruffy it looked pasted on his ultrapale skin. After a moment, he picked up a framed picture and centered it on the wall. I broke out in a sweat and turned back to the buffet.

Please , I prayed, no hammering . Unfortunately, the crack of metal hitting log wall conjured up my commercial kitchen—retrofitted into our old house—as it was being destroyed by our general contractor, Gerald Eliot. One of the reasons I’d been interested in catering here at the cabin was that, apparently, Merciful Migrations had hired Gerald to do some remodeling, then fired him before paying him a cent. I wish I’d been that smart. I’d told André I didn’t mind dealing with models; it was remodelers who’d made my life a living hell.

As the hammer banged methodically, I pictured Gerald Eliot, his yellow mane spilling to his shoulders, his muscled arms broadly gesturing, blithely promising he could easily install a new bay window—my ex-husband had destroyed the original—over my sink. Won’t take more than three days , Eliot had vowed at the beginning of August, with a wide grin.

The pounding reverberated in my skull. Eliot had brandished his power saw, destroyed the window’s casing and surrounding wall, then accidentally ripped through an adjoining cupboard. The entire cabinet, along with its load of dishes and glasses, had crashed to the floor. Just an additional day of work to fix that , he’d observed with a shrug. No extra charge. Start first thing tomorrow .

I groaned, checked my watch, and turned my attention back to the tray. Swiftly, I plugged in the electric warmer and moved the cheesecakes on top. I was here; I was working. I would even be paid. And I needed the money. Before Gerald Eliot had sliced into our kitchen wall, the new catering outfit in town had cut my business by thirty percent. And unfortunately, on Day One of the two days Gerald Eliot had actually worked for me, he’d pocketed the full seven-hundred-dollar down payment on the new window installation. On Day Two, he’d covered the gaping hole he’d made with plastic sheets, hopped into his pickup truck, and roared away.

I straightened the row of spring rolls bulging with pink shrimp. Focus . At least at this cabin there’s a kitchen —although it wasn’t in very good shape, either.

“What else?” I asked André cheerfully when I strode back into his domain. He was fingering the plywood on the wall beside the oven.

“Drinks, serving utensils, and ice.” He looked up from the wall, his wide blue eyes merry. “Guess what I just found out? They fired Gerald Eliot for sleeping with a model!” I sighed; André loved gossip. It was one of the reasons he’d despised retirement.

I swung back out to the buffet with my newly loaded tray. Sleeping with a model, eh? At least he was getting some sleep. This was not the case with my friends the Burrs, whose house was to be the site for the second part of this fashion shoot. Neither one of them was getting much sleep at all these days, thanks—once again—to good old Gerald Eliot.