by A. J. Carton
“Cara?” Mike replied to his wife’s comment. Emma could hear the “tut tut” in his voice. “I know you were impressed by Emma’s courage. You said so at the time, though you may not admit it now.”
Cara glanced at him and rolled her eyes.
It was still eighty degrees, but Emma suddenly felt she needed to put on a sweater.
“I’ll just excuse myself and peek in the kitchen,” she smirked, suddenly realizing she’d adopted Andy’s jaunty tone. “I’m cooking tonight,” she added flustered. Then she bobbed in what she later feared looked like a curtsey, and dashed into the kitchen.
To her relief, things there appeared to be under control. Celina, dressed in a black blouse, black pants and a white apron, had already prepared three trays of hors d’oeuvres. The cheeses were oozing ripe. The olives were fragrant. The prosciutto was paper thin and not too salty. The melons were orange and dripping juice. Goodness knows where they’re from, Emma wondered. Coachella perhaps?
Andy had also prepared stuffed mushrooms. Emma tried one. They tasted delicious.
“Where are the malfatti?” she asked. “They should be room temperature before we heat them.” She checked the counter. They weren’t there. Emma feared they were still in the fridge.
Andy replied without looking up from a New Yorker. “They’re in the microwave, honey. I’ll zap ‘em for three minutes before you all sit down.”
“Microwave!” Emma exclaimed. “No way. I’ve never zapped malfatti. For all I know, they’ll fall apart. We are not heating them up in a microwave. We’re heating them in the oven in a pan.”
“Relax,” Andy answered. “I’ve done it a million times. The microwave’s perfect for this sort of dish. Trust me.”
“Trust you?” Emma almost exploded, but the doorbell rang. She heard her daughter Julie’s voice.
There was no way Cara and Julie could meet without her acting as referee. “Talk about a three alarm fire,” Emma muttered racing out to the hall.
When Julie entered the living room armed in a poufy knit Alexander Wang and three-inch Prada heels, Emma watched her stare at Cara like a tigress protecting cubs.
“Wow, great to meet you finally,” Julie exclaimed pasting what Emma knew was a fake smile on her face.
“Nice of your dad to plan this,” she added, squinting mistrustfully at Jack.
“Hi,” Piers added, extending his hand to Mike. “I’m the son-in-law.”
After that, to Emma’s dismay, nobody said a word. Until the doorbell rang again. This time it was the Monroes, the couple who’d recently moved to Blissburg and opened a real estate office downtown. After they arrived, Emma noted that the guests sorted themselves into relatively peaceful factions. Julie and Piers chatted with Jane Monroe. Cara and Mike with Jane’s husband, Bob.
Jack served drinks. He never said a word to Emma. He never smiled.
After assuring herself no one was about to explode, Emma returned to the kitchen.
Andy stood by the microwave. “I’ve zapped the first two batches,” he announced.
At the sound of the word “zapped”, Emma’s heart lurched into her stomach.
Andy must have noticed her distress. “I said relax. It’s under control. Go get everyone to the table.”
The damage was done. Emma did as she was told.
“A tavola,” she announced, immediately embarrassed by the affectation.
“So soon?” Cara asked, snaring a wedge of melon and prosciutto.
Mike grabbed a couple of mushroom caps and stuffed them in his mouth. “These are delish!”
Everyone followed her into the yard. To Emma’s relief, there were place cards. Emma recognized Andy’s script alongside three well-executed grace notes. When did he have time for that? she wondered.
Thanks to Andy, she and Jack were assigned opposite ends of the table. Jane Monroe sat to Jack’s left and Julie to his right. Mike to Emma’s left; Piers to her right. Bob Monroe and Cara took the seats in between.
Once everyone sat down, there was no need to worry about awkward pauses. The food took care of that. Celina immediately appeared with individual plates of malfatti.
“Wow! My favorite,” Cara exclaimed.
Jack beamed. Genuinely pleased.
Then the dinner conversation took an unexpected turn.
Emma stared down at her plate. The spinach and ricotta dumplings looked OK. At least they hadn’t fallen apart. She gingerly scooped one up with her fork, along with some sauce. Then, bracing herself, she took a bite.
To her amazement, the malfatti were divine. Light as feathers, but they kept their shape. Delicately flavored, but they held up to the sauce. In fact, they were the best malfatti she had ever tasted. She dug into her small pile, wondering if the first bite was a fluke. But no. Every bite was perfect.
A hush had fallen over the table as everyone started to eat. Then, suddenly, the chorus began.
“Oh my gosh! What is this? It’s fabulous!”
That was Bob Monroe.
“Wow, Mom! Your malfatti have never tasted so good. What did you do?”
“Emma, you outdid yourself,” Piers added, then turned to Mike. Didn’t I tell you my mother-in-law’s a great cook?”
“I’ve never tasted anything like this,” Jane Monroe exclaimed. “At first, I thought they were Brussels sprouts in tomato sauce. But this is different. “
“My wife tries to make these,” Mike added, “but hers always fall apart.”
Across the table, Emma saw Cara shake her head. “These are amazing,” she said. “To Emma. What a cook!”
At that point, everyone raised a glass. Except for Emma. And Jack.
“C’mon Dad. Raise your glass,” Cara said.
He raised his eyebrows at Emma.
She heard the question even though he never said a word. You gonna tell them? Or should I?
Emma laughed nervously and raised her glass.
“Don’t raise your glass, Mom,” Julie said. “We’re toasting you.”
“No,” Emma answered. “We’re toasting…” She couldn’t say it. She started to choke. Finally, she took a sip of water and continued. “We’re toasting Andy. Andy Bodreau. He made the malfatti. He gets the toast. To Andy.”
“To Andy?” the others replied – except for Jack.
Julie frowned. “I don’t get it. Why on earth are we toasting him?”
“’Cause he made dinner,” Jack shrugged. He looked like he’d just swallowed a toad. “Your mother got too busy to cook tonight. So your dad bailed her out. Andy!” He called. “Come out here. Your malfatti are a hit. Take a bow.”
Andy poked his head out of the kitchen. Everyone, except Emma, gave him a cheer. The next thing she knew, he had joined them pulling up a chair next to hers. Across the table, Jack’s eyes shot daggers.
The rest of the food that evening was good. Nothing, however, compared with the malfatti. As for the company, Jack and Emma ignored each other. Julie and Cara did too. Mike and Piers discussed baseball. The Monroes spoke among themselves.
Then, something unexpected happened. Emma heard Mike mentioned “Red Sox”. Next thing she knew, he and Piers were engaged in what Emma recognized as a form of social shorthand. Like speed dating for East Coast preppies.
“Harvard?” Piers asked.
“Ninety-three.”
“House?”
“Lowell.”
“Prep?”
“Exeter.”
“Choate.”
“Coolidge?”
“Thad?”
That’s when Emma heard Mike scream. Like a thirteen year old at a Beiber concert.
“Dr. Cool? You know Dr. Cool?”
For all the shock value he might as well have said, “Dr. Livingston, I presume.”
“Of course I know Dr. Cool,” Pierce replied. “Who do you think gave him the name?”
Mike rose from his seat and reached across the table.
“Then you must be Larky.”
“And you must be
Buck.”
Mike, sit down!” Cara ordered.
Julie had also risen from the table. “I think I’m gonna be sick,” she said before rushing out of the room.
“I’ll go start dessert,” Emma announced also leaving the table.
Later, above the rhythmic whipping of egg yolks, sugar and Marsala wine, snatches of conversation drifted into the kitchen.
“Let’s send Cooley a selfie. ”
“Cara. Over here.”
“Julie? Where’s Julie?”
“Why weren’t you at the wedding?”
“Taking the bar.”
Emma filled champagne goblets with hot yellow froth and garnished it with raspberries. By the time she returned to the table, Larky and Buck had bonded like atoms.
“No Bavarian cream,” Jack noted sadly to himself when Emma set down his dish of zabaglione.
“No time,” Andy called across the table. “Still a workaholic, aren’t you, honey.”
That’s when even the Monroes got confused.
Jane gestured with her hand towards Andy. “Who is he?” she asked.
Everyone stared at their host
Jack raised his eyebrows and pointed to Emma.
“He’s my,” she hesitated.
Everyone waited.
“He’s my, my partner,” she finally said. “In my catering business.”
Julie had returned to the dining room. “Mom, please!” She slapped her napkin down on the table. “Don’t make this more embarrassing than it already is!”
For the first time in her life, she cast a sympathetic glance at Jack.
“Andy’s my dad,” Julie explained in answer to Jane Monroe’s question. “He and Mom have been divorced for over thirty years. In fact, they never should have gotten married in the first place. But, for some reason, when my mother gets in a jam, which she often does,” she glared at Emma, “he’s the one she calls.” She glanced around the table at Cara, at Piers, at Jack. “I’m sorry. This is so awkward.”
Jane Monroe reached across the table and patted Julie’s hand. “I understand,” she said. “It’s mortifying for children when their parents get divorced, but look at it this way. My parents got divorced. They hate each other so much they can’t be in the same room. Believe me, that’s way more awkward than this is. You’re lucky your parents are still there for you - and for each other. You just don’t know it.”
A profound stillness settled over the dining room. Finally, Bob Monroe, who still looked confused, asked another question.
“Emma,” he said. “What is it you’ve been working so hard on? You’re a food writer, aren’t you? Is it a new cookbook?”
Everyone at the table stared back at Emma.
“No, it’s not a cookbook,” she replied. “Cooking is sort of my hobby,” she hesitated. “Actually, I’m a retired paralegal. And now I volunteer a couple of days a week at the, you know, at that free legal clinic here in town. I do little things for them, filing, intake memos…”
That’s when Julie, the public relations guru, finally interrupted her.
“That’s not true,” she announced. “Mom never gives herself credit. Yes, she wrote a cookbook, Dining with the Stars. It’s been very successful. You can get it on Amazon and at Annemarie’s here in town. And she’s working on another cookbook, What a Pair!, for Buchanon Vineyards. In addition to all that, however, she also volunteers at the Blissburg Free Legal Services Clinic, the BFLSC. And she doesn’t just do filing. She’s Dr. Watson to their crack senior lawyer, Steve Zimmer. In fact, she’s the one who solved the famous, so-called, saucy murder last year.”
“Wow,” Jane replied. “I read about it in the San Francisco papers. The murder of that opera singer in one of the vineyards.”
“That’s my Mom,” Julie nodded, smiling proudly at Emma.
For a moment, Emma thought she was going to cry. She glanced at Jack. He was staring at Julie with undisguised awe.
“So what are you working on now?” Bob asked. “Another murder?”
Emma glanced quickly at Piers. “You know all this already, Piers. I’m not disclosing any secrets.” Then she briefly explained about the Gomez murder.
“But I still don’t think Curt did it,” Emma concluded with a shrug.
“Who do you think did?” Cara asked.
Emma shook her head. “I don’t know. That’s what I spent the last two days trying to find out down south in Coachella.” She shrugged apologetically. “That’s why I couldn’t get everything together for this dinner tonight. So my sous-chef,” she gestured towards Andy, “had to step in.”
“Getting back to the murder case,” Jane Monroe replied, “I know Curt. Bob and I tried to find a buyer for his ranch. We thought we had someone until HoCo scared them off with that inflated bid. If you ask me,” she added, “Curt Randall is a sad old man who never got over losing his son. But he’s not a killer.”
At the mention of losing a son, Emma glanced at Jack. Cara looked at him too.
He had reached in front of Jane and taken his daughter’s hand.
“We know all about that, don’t we Cara?” he said. Then, to Emma’s surprise, he looked around the table. “I lost my son many years ago. Of course you never get over it. But you can’t let it poison your life the way Curt did. It’s not fair. Not fair to them. To their memory.”
Everyone was silent for a few moments after Jack spoke. Piers finally resumed the conversation.
“So who was the buyer you had for Curt’s ranch?” he asked.
“A non profit. But they couldn’t match HoCo,” Bob explained.
Piers grimaced. “Now Curt’s ready to dump the place for a song.”
“’Cause of the lawsuit?” Jane asked.
Piers nodded, “The defense costs and the contamination report. The water tanks have high levels of arsenic. You know what that could mean. Government investigations, fines, cleanup costs.”
“What are you going to do?” Bob asked.
“HoCo’s pushing Curt to lower the price.” Piers shrugged. “Curt wants to do it. He’s up to his ears in legal fees already for the criminal investigation.”
Bob and his wife exchanged knowing glances.
“You thinking what I’m thinking?” Bob asked.
“The Buxton property in Sunnyvale, right? That buyer was Chinese, too,” Jane replied.
Bob turned to Piers. “We ran into a similar thing a couple of years ago up in the San Francisco office where we worked. Our realty company represented the seller of a property in Sunnyvale. A Chinese buyer made a huge offer. Scared everyone else away. Next thing you know, the water on the property is contaminated and the purchaser asks for a discount.”
“What happened?” Piers asked.
“I don’t know,” Bob said. “We left the office. Moved up here.”
“What was the name of the buyer?” Emma asked.
Bob shook his head again “I don’t think I ever knew. The broker handling the deal moved to Texas.”
“I can find out,” Jane offered. “It’s crazy who you can dig up on Facebook these days.”
That’s when Julie caught her mother’s eye, “Speaking of Facebook, Mom. What ever happened to that creep who wanted to friend you? What was his name? Dan? Dan Worthington? I hope you got rid of him.”
Before Emma could field the question, Andy cut in. “Dan Worthington! Since when is Dan Worthington creepy?” He raised an eyebrow at Emma and laughed. “As I recall, you had a massive crush on Dan in college. What’s happened? Have you two got a little somethin’ going on again?”
Emma glanced across the table to see if Jack was listening. From the look on his face, it was obvious he’d heard.
The conversation, however, was interrupted by a high-pitched beep. Like a fire alarm. At first, everyone looked at the ceiling. Then Andy shot up from his seat.
“Whoops, that’s me.” He turned to Emma. “Must be 10:00. Sorry to leave you with all the cleanup. I gotta run.”
A few minutes lat
er, the party broke up. Emma returned to the kitchen while Jack retrieved people’s coats and saw them to their cars. Thanks to Celina, the kitchen was already spotless.
When Emma tiptoed into the hall for her jacket, however, Jack was standing there.
“You OK to drive?” It was the first time he’d addressed her all night.
“Thanks. I’m exhausted. But I can make it home.”
“Driving tired is like driving drunk,” Jack cautioned. “I don’t want to be responsible.”
Emma shook her head. She was too ashamed and too tired to sort things out. “I’ll blast the oldies station to keep me awake.”
Jack did not say goodbye, Emma noted. Nor did he yell “Text when you get home,” as he always did when she drove away.
Chapter 22: Sunday Morning – Where in the World Is Maria Hidalgo?
The next morning, Emma was still too tired even to think of the Sunday Morning Stroll. Besides, Jack was a regular, and he was the last person she wanted to see.
Yes, she acknowledged, thanks to Andy, the dinner had been salvaged. Thanks to Julie, some of her reputation redeemed. But she knew that by turning to Andy she’d betrayed Jack.
And of course there was still the Dan problem. Julie and Jack now knew that she’d lied about their relationship. Emma still didn’t know what to do about that.
Why didn’t I come clean about Dan in the first place? she asked lying in her bed. By her age, everyone’s life was cluttered with wreckage. Shards of broken relationships too precious to discard. Too sharp not to handle with care.
That’s what I’m doing, she assured herself. Handling the wreckage of my relationship with Dan with care. But why? she wondered. It was over so long ago.
Emma still owed Dan an answer to his email. She dragged herself out of bed. Made a cup of coffee. Sat down at her computer and wrote to him:
Dear Dan,
I need more time. This is all very sudden. I’m a little confused.
Emma
She had just hit the send button, when her phone rang. It was Julie. As usual, Emma’s daughter got straight to the point.
