Diane Davidson - Prime Cut

“Whatever feels right to you. But as I said, your stuff was better,” Rustine commented sweetly, and turned her smile back to Julian.

“I’ll think about it,” I muttered before heading down the hall. I pulled open the drawer of Tom’s antique buffet and dumped the Homestead file inside, then stepped out the front door.

On our porch swing, my son was sitting next to an impossibly lovely blond girl dressed in a navy blue shirt and shorts. Freckles splashed over her tanned cheeks as she chatted brightly, blinked thickly lashed eyes, and twirled a French braid dotted with tiny navy blue bows. Arch sat beside her, entranced. I teetered, wondering briefly about the availability of shock medication. Arch glanced up when he felt my presence. Crimson flooded his cheeks.

“Oops—Sorry.” I cleared my throat. Lettie turned enormous questioning eyes to me. Good Lord, she was pretty. “I’m Arch’s mom. Would you two like some lemonade?”

Arch’s expression turned instantly thunderous. Miss Sparkle-Plenty scuffed at the porch floor with the toe of her sandal and gave the swing a forceful nudge. “Sure. Can you make lemonade with artificial sweetener?”

“Absolutely.” Would a snack be appropriate so close to dinner? Should I invite Lettie and Rustine to stay for dinner? When did the library close? I tried to think. Arch caught my hesitation.

“You can go now, Mom.”

Ten minutes later, a cowardly mother to the core, I sent Julian to the porch with a pitcher of lemonade and a platter of chilled poached shrimp with cocktail sauce. I averted my eyes while mixing more lemon juice with generic aspartame, and invited Rustine and her sister to dinner. Rustine replied that they could stay, if the two of them could only have shrimp and salad. She was scheduled to model on Friday. She and her sister needed to watch their figures, she reminded me. And what do you think Arch and Julian are doing , I couldn’t help thinking, but asked instead, “How long has your dad been in Alaska?”

“Since mid-July,” she said. “He’s looking for a job in Juneau. I’ve been taking care of Lettie. Our mom lives in Florida with her new family.”

“And … will you both withdraw from Elk Park Prep if your dad finds work in Alaska?”

“Well, I guess. I’m taking a year off from school anyway, and Lettie won’t start eighth grade until after the P and G shoot’s finished.”

“Why?”

“Be-cause,” Rustine replied in a you-moron tone, “we each clear a thousand to fifteen hundred dollars every day we work. We make as much as our dad, and he’s an engineer.” She slipped out of the kitchen, presumably to join the other young people on the porch. That girl did have a way of making me feel aged.

I gratefully swigged the iced latte—made with fatten ing whipping cream—and brought water, seasonings, and the lemon skins to a boil so I could poach more shrimp. With a plentiful salad, the Mexican torte, and a frozen rice pilaf quickly defrosted in the microwave, we’d be okay. I needed to talk to Tom and start prepping Weezie Harrington’s party. But most of all, I knew I absolutely had to copy the Smythe cookbook file and get it back to the museum before it opened in the morning.

“Look,” I said when Julian returned to the kitchen, “I can’t think about going out to work at the cabin right now. If you want to put together a proposal for them, I’ll look at it tonight. But right this sec I really need to do an errand in town.” I took out the frozen pilaf and pointed to the salad ingredients. “Can you defrost the pilaf and make a salad for the rest of the dinner? I’ll be back in less than an hour.”

“Sure,” he said enthusiastically as Rustine glided back into the room. I snagged the file, sprinted out the front door, and waved a hasty good-bye to the occupants of our front porch, who ignored me. In a cloud of dust, I reversed the van down the driveway. I doubt they noticed.

At the Aspen Meadow Public Library, I laid out crisp dollar bills on the copier farthest from prying eyes, and flipped through the file. The Practical Cook Book , written by Elizabeth Hiller—whose stern cameo was featured opposite the tile page—had been published in Chicago in 1910. Only two or three recipes were printed on each of the small pages. Although I’d determined to work as quickly as possible, I was puzzled by a note written after the page with Winnie Smythe’s name and the date 1914. In a different hand that featured severely slanted letters and fine long curlicues was the inscription: My Dear Wife, when you make my Favorite Dessert, remember to make the Rolls the way I taught You . It was signed, Your Loving Husband .

So, Charlie Smythe gave cooking advice in addition to being a rancher and unsuccessful bank robber, eh? Busy fellow. I slapped the file sheets madly into the machine, and frowned at two pages with random rows of letters in the outside margins. Contained the recipes for German Coffee Cake and Parker House Rolls. In the margin was a row of slanted ink letters that spelled nothing: U, A, A, Z, N, B, K, R, D, L, M, I, E, W, P, Q, R, V, Z, X, T, S, A, U, H, G, F, D, E, Y, T, R, E, P, A, S, L, W, I, C, E, X.Contained two more grids, with rows of different letters in the margin next to the recipes for Bread Pudding and Steamed Apple Pudding. This was the handwriting that made this cookbook a valuable collector’s item? What were these letters? Directions on how to make the rolls the way Charlie had taught Winnie? Now that’s what I called secret recipes.

The last item in the stolen file was a copy of the letter written to Winnie from Charles when he was in Leavenworth. I’d seen the original in the shattered case at the Homestead: My Dear Wife,

You must know how very much I love you, and how I would tear out my Heart to see you again. To get to my cell, I pass a wall in which I have tried to carve your name. I remember our cabin Kitchen with its smell of Bread and Pudding, how you would use Cookery to show your love for me. I have only read one book. Sky here is seldom seen. I long for our bed, children, Family tales, rifle, horses, cabin, and beautiful land where I believed to find Riches. One day, my Love. Your Loving Husband

Hmm. More references to bread and pudding; and it was the pages with those recipes that contained the random letters. But this eighty-year-old puzzle would have to wait until I could go over it, preferably with Tom. He wouldn’t be happy about how I’d obtained a copy of the file, but he’d live.

I finished the photocopying, reassembled the original file as well as my packet of copies, and hustled out of the library. It didn’t take long to sneak back into the Homestead, replace the original file, and tear the tape off the back door so that this time, it really did self-lock. It wasn’t until I was pulling back into our driveway that I realized I’d left my stupid baking pan on the table of the museum kitchen.

Arch was standing in the driveway when I returned. He looked embarrassed and frantic, and I had the feeling he’d been lying in wait for me. He hopped out of the way so I could pull into the garage, where I hastily tucked my photocopied file under the van’s front seat. At the moment, Tom was the only person with whom I wanted to share the contents of the pilfered book.

“Hon, what’s the matter?” I demanded when I hopped out.

“Lettie and I want to have dinner at the Chinese place.”

“Tonight?”

“Please, Mom, may I borrow twenty dollars? I don’t have time for you to take me to the bank to get into my own account, and I don’t want to ask Tom because he’s suspended with no pay. Lettie and I will walk down to the Dragon’s Breath and walk back. So you don’t need to take us.” He kicked at a pebble in the driveway and sent it hurtling down into the street. “Please.”