Diane Davidson - Prime Cut

In April, Cameron and Barbara Burr had been convinced the sun room Gerald Eliot was adding onto their house would be completed by August. That was when Ian’s Images was scheduled to set up the P & G catalog’s outdoor shots, using as a backdrop the Bum’s spectacular view of the Continental Divide’s snow-capped peaks. Gerald Eliot had already been working on the sun room for eleven months—admittedly, off and on—but what was left to be done?

Ah, but the windows had been delayed; for some reason, the drywall couldn’t go up until the windows were in; Eliot had had a cash flow problem; he’d sailed off to his next job. Mountain breezes swirling through the house at night had forced Barbara Burr into the hospital—with pneumonia. Cameron Burr had moved into their guest house. The last I’d heard, Barbara’s pulmonologist had put her on a ventilator.

Maybe when the P & G catalog was done, all of Gerald Eliot’s former clients could have lunch and form a chiseled-by-a-contractor support group. But not today. Today, I was catering with André, watching models undress, taking food to malnourished, depressed Cameron Burr, trying to think of new ways to make money, worrying about my husband’s conflicts with an arrogant prosecutor, and calling down to Lutheran Hospital to see if Barbara Burr had died.

I admired the beautiful dishes on the buffet. That was enough for one day, wasn’t it? Don’t ask .

Chapter 2

The angry voices on the far side of the room intensified; I glanced out the picture window above the counter. A hundred feet below the cabin, a crowd of young men and women streamed through a stand of white-skinned aspens profuse with lime-colored leaves. The waiting models had briefly taken their nervousness outside, apparently, but now they were coming back. Clouds of cigarette smoke obscured their faces as they ascended the stone steps. Behind them, the rippling creek glittered in the morning sun.

I hustled back to the kitchen. I was surprised that so many young people had even been able to find this turn-of-the-century cabin. The six-mile dirt road that led to it meandered beside a long-abandoned stagecoach trail. In summer, the narrow byway alternated between treacherous mud and sandstorm-thick dust. In winter, the road was closed.

When I returned with the knives and forks, the popping noise of a battery-operated screwdriver ceased abruptly. Hanna’s enraged voice grated through the still air. “One last time, do you want to do swimwear or not? You know the rules! We have to see your body.”

I glanced around to see the Greek god slowly unbuttoning his shirt. The faces of the three judges swiveled; their eyes drilled into me. Embarrassed, I whirled and clattered together a batch of serving spoons.

“Go away!” Andre’s strained voice rose from the kitchen. “No food until later! Guard my buffet, Goldy!” A door slammed.

My palms itched. I glanced at the spread on the marble, then back out the window. Guard the buffet? How? The models, massed at the cabin door, were filtering inside. Beyond the aspens, a warm August breeze wrinkled the dark expanse of the creek, which bent in a ragged U-shape around the cabin. Sunlight played over a huge boulder abutting the creek. I smiled and briefly wished Arch were with me: My son would have instantly pointed out how much the enormous rock resembled an elephant. And it did.

I clattered the ice bath onto the marble shelf and topped it with the gold-rimmed china bowl of butter balls. Carefully, I smoothed plastic wrap over the bowl and unloaded the pewter bread-and-butter plates. Next to these I set the container of red wine-pear vinaigrette. I picked up the tray and tried to summon up some of the old resolve I felt so lacking these days.

“You know, Bobby, we don’t really care that you were out partying last night,” Hanna was saying earnestly to the Greek god. “We don’t care why you’ve gained ten pounds. And we can’t care that you drank a lot of coffee waiting for us. Your stomach’s not flat and your eyes are bloodshot. Bloodshot and bloated don’t sell swimwear.”

“You’re too damned hard to please!” Bobby-with-the-slight-paunch shrieked.

I sighed, checked all the foodstuffs one last time, and squared the cheesecakes between the spring rolls and breadbasket. With infinite care I turned back, determined to invite Bobby over for a bite to eat and a glass of sparkling water.

Too late. Bobby, his beige shirt open, was pulling up his trousers. Now his much-criticized stomach hung over his undies like a hot-water bottle; his thighs jiggled as he grappled with the pants waistband. Clasping his trousers closed with one hand and his unbuttoned shirt with the other, he pushed his way clumsily through the rustic furniture. Suddenly, he tripped and flailed wildly.

“What is this damn thing?” he yelled as he regained his balance and savagely kicked a piece of equipment resembling a cannister vacuum across the room.

“Sorry, sorry,” muttered the screwdriver-wielding construction worker. He loped across the wooden floor and yanked at the cannister’s cord. “It’s not our air compressor,” he apologized to Bobby, who ignored him. “It was left here by Gerald Eliot.” As if on cue, everyone groaned at the mention of the infamous contractor.

Bobby’s no-longer-handsome face was wracked with fury and humiliation. As he rushed across the room, his ebony curls whipped behind him and his khaki shirt flapped open. What is the deal with this guy? I wondered.

“Please—” I began, gesturing toward the array of food.

“Forget it!” Bobby barked as he swept past me.

Across the room, Leah, Hanna, and Ian conferred. Hanna bellowed, “Peter!”

Beside the windows, the scruffy-bearded handyman pushed the air compressor aside and plugged in an ornament-bedecked Christmas tree. Sparkly lights flashed as a breathtakingly tanned male model, the presumptive Peter, strode across to the bench and the trio seated there. He was dressed in a snowy-white shirt and blue jeans. His very straight, very shiny brown hair swung forward as he bent to say a few words. When the judges responded, Peter’s plump lips curved into a confident smile. He flipped the glossy hair out of his eyes and handed what looked like an oversized scrapbook to Leah. She leafed through it briefly while Hanna looked over her shoulder. Ian Hood murmured to Peter, who quickly started unbuttoning.

This time, the white shirt dropped swiftly past muscled shoulders, a well-built chest, and concave, washboard abs. While the shirt puddled noiselessly on the floor, Peter undid his pants and dropped them. He hooked a thumb around the side of dark, shiny bikini briefs and struck a pose. I hastened back to the kitchen.

“Did you keep the marauders away?” André regarded me impatiently, then turned back to the stove.

“I tried to, but nobody … They’ve started to …”

He grunted, shook his head, and whacked his wooden spoon on a plate. Then he gave me the full benefit of his heart-shaped face with its button nose and sharp, dimpled chin. “Do you think I came out of retirement to fail? Are you going to doom me to playing checkers and visiting the cardiologist? To making small talk with my wife’s nurse?”

I sighed. “André, I’m sorry—”

“Close the door,” he ordered sternly. “Four people have already interrupted me this morning. Looking for cups of soup!” His silver eyebrows climbed his forehead. “Does this look like a deli?” His forehead wrinkled in disgust as he lovingly swirled a spoon through the steaming pot of his thick, herb-scented mushroom soup. “Now. My cake. It needs to be served warm, with cream.” He paused and considered the pan on the front burner. “Ah, Goldy, I’m not certain I taught you to make this syrup. You must be very quick….” André touched the scar on my arm where I’d accidentally burned myself years ago retrieving a batch of Cornish hens from his restaurant oven. He’d never forgiven himself for not showing me how to handle his oversized roasting pan.