Diane Davidson - Prime Cut

“I don’t understand—” But the door was already closing. Figures out what? Gratefully, I stepped out into the pine-scented fresh air.

When I darted past racks of clothing, a sapphire-winged hummingbird swooped by. Sixty feet off the deck, the creek gurgled over a bed of rocks. Two mountain chickadees flirted on the elephant-shaped boulder. When a breeze tossed the aspens’ lacy tops, movement caught my eye. Across the creek, a small herd of elk lowered their long necks to graze in a meadow that sloped to a broken wooden fence. Everything was serene and ordered: utterly unlike the contentious scene inside.

The redwood deck wrapped around the cabin. I made a path through the clothing racks and deck chairs, then arrived at another row of windows. I carefully placed the covered cheesecakes and spring rolls on a picnic table and checked my watch: ten more minutes. I trotted back to the front door.

Suddenly, the deafening noise of breaking glass split the air. Two feet in front of me, the picture window exploded. Shards burst over the deck. Across the creek, the elk bolted. I froze and waited for my heartbeat to slow. The projectile that had done the damage lay on its side among sparkling slivers of glass. It was Ian Hood’s Polaroid.

I wondered if we’d ever get to lunch.

Chapter 3

Inside, all was chaos. The models whispered fearfully. The handyman, his hammer in his hand, gaped at Ian Hood. Ian was shaking his fist at the shattered window.

“How many times have I asked for three new Polaroid cameras?” he screeched. “And I go to look for one, and trip over that damn compressor! Rufus, get the hell over here!”

Leah Smythe made soothing noises while the scruffy construction worker dropped his hammer and trotted to Ian’s side. Hanna Klapper stood with her hands on her hips, judging the scene. Her face was a mask of fury.

I looked in horror at the buffet. The camera had cut a straight path through the food. The salad lay upended on the floor. Vinaigrette had spilled down the row of napkins and now dripped on strands of endive. Liquid-soaked rolls had landed topsy-turvy on the marble shelf. I scooted toward the kitchen.

André was leaning against the doorjamb with his arms crossed. He gave me a dry, appraising look. “Eccentric diners always provide the best stories,” he observed. “Is my lunch canceled?”

“Let me check.”

Ian Hood stomped past me, headed for the cabin door. Leah Smythe followed at his heels, urging, “C’mon, baby, we’ll get the compressor out of the way, you won’t trip over it again, don’t give up—”

“Any chance we’re still going to try to—” I began. But Leah ignored me and raced down the steps after the seething Ian.

At the buffet, Hanna delicately picked up the ruined rolls and piled them back into the basket.

“Ah, Hanna?” I ventured. “Goldy Schulz. I worked on your museum exhibits. Congratulations on your new job with P & G.”

“Thank you.” She sniffed and smoothed her clipped hair behind her ears. Her dark eyes challenged mine. “Do you know what my duties are?” But before I could answer, she went on, “Choosing the clothing to be photographed. Arranging the catalog layout. Selecting models. Overseeing the shoot.” Not temper-tantrum cleanup, in other words.

“Leave the pick-up to me,” I exclaimed cheerfully, as if photographers flung cameras through windows and ruined my buffets all the time.

“We promised the models lunch.” The authoritarian tone I knew so well was like a steel shaft through her voice. I nodded meekly, booted the metal housing that had come loose from the compressor back toward the rustic furniture, and leaned over to snatch a lettuce leaf from the floor. Hanna continued, “We must serve it.”

Of course, I instantly recognized the clients’ universal we , which means you, caterer . “It won’t take ten minutes to set up on the deck.” I turned and winked at her. “André is incredibly versatile,” I lied.

“That is certainly a good thing,” Hanna muttered skeptically.

In the kitchen, André had flicked on the oven light and was peering at his cake. “Lunch or no?” he demanded impatiently.

“Yes.” I dumped the garbage and washed my hands.

He grurnted. “You should take the backup food, and leave.”

Right , I thought as I set a kettle of water on to boil for the chafing dish, and leave you with this mess . Within two minutes I had checked on the soup, loaded another tray with the backup platters of salad, vinaigrette, rolls, and butter, and was whisking it out to the picnic tables. I checked my watch: five past twelve. We weren’t doing too badly, considering. I filled the chafer’s bain-marie with the boiling water. André poured in the mushroom soup, then retrieved the burnt sugar cake. The smell was divine and I told him so. A rap at the kitchen door preceded Hanna’s entry. Imperiously, she tapped at her watch.

“Right now,” I promised as André lofted the cake platter and I picked up the bowl of whipped cream.

I half expected the lunch to be rocky. The red-haired crew member with the thin beard introduced himself to me as Rufus Driggle, set-builder and still-life photographer. He told me to call him Rufus; he hated his last name. The work made him a hearty eater, Rufus went on to inform me, but he never gained any weight because he always had indigestion from dealing with Ian. He paused and stroked his beard. “I prefer working with the elk, actually.” I nodded vaguely and replenished the buffet as the male models piled their plates high with cheesecake, salad, baguettes, and spring rolls.

The female models depressed me. Eschewing the cheesecake, breads, and salad dressing, they uniformly arranged a few greens on their plates next to one or two Asian spring rolls. Then, like bio-class dissectors, they pulled the rolls apart to extract the shrimp. I hoped André wasn’t watching, but of course he was. He hrumphed and concentrated on cutting the cake.

Hanna curtly announced that the cattle call for that day was over except for two more female models: Rustine and Yvonne. The agents of the remaining models would be called later about a resumption of auditions. A groan went up from the group. Then all the women except for Rustine and the sharp-faced blonde, who I assumed must be Yvonne, made a beeline for André’s burnt sugar cake. They sliced themselves fat wedges, smothered them with whipped cream, then skulked to faraway chairs to eat in solitary silence. I started transporting dirty dishes back to the kitchen.

To my surprise, André stood waiting at the front door. He held a basket bulging with a zipped bag of salad, a plastic-wrapped platter of spring rolls, and a steam-clouded jar of soup.

“Take this to your friend whose wife has pneumonia,” he told me. “Your check is inside. I know what it is to have a sick wife, Goldy. Cater to your friend, and forget these other men upsetting you.” He waved his free hand and enumerated them. “That idiot builder. That conniving caterer, Litchfield.”

“You’re the best,” I replied, and meant it. I took the basket and thought of the pork butt I’d already roasted and wrapped. Cameron Burr would have food for three days. If only food could make his wife well again …

André murmured, “Where is the much-praised Julian Teller? Can’t he help you beat this monster Litchfield?”

I shook my head. Two months ago, Julian had finished his freshman year at Cornell. He’d considered himself lucky to land a summer kitchen job at a swank upstate New York hotel. “Julian was supposed to come visit, but he never showed up. And his classes start next week.” We had all been disappointed not to see Julian this summer. Arch, though, had felt Julian’s absence most acutely.