by Linda Lovely
Car doors slammed. Instead of walking toward Summer Place, Mom and Ursula did an about-face to greet the other arrivals. Ursula was clearly the star of the welcoming ritual. In a rush to shake hands with Ursula, a roly-poly woman, who emerged from the third car, practically bowled over the second car’s slender occupant.
Mollye muttered, “Hope you planned extra helpings. Looks like Harriett—she’s Miss Muumuu—elected not to wear anything that could restrict her intake.”
I glanced at my friend. “You’re going to be nice, right? I can remember when someone called you fat. As I recall, you didn’t like it. In fact you punched Jessie in the nose.”
“We were eight,” Mollye huffed. “And I’m convinced it did him a world of good. Besides, I’m much too classy to call Harriett Quinn a tub of lard to her face.”
I considered the quasi-antique chairs I’d put round the table and hoped they were sturdy. Had I left enough room for folks to get in and out without knocking knees?
Moldy Munster, quit worrying. Too late to make changes now.
“I didn’t realize Harriett was so heavy,” I whispered. “I’d only seen the headshot on her farm-to-table blog.”
Mollye chuckled. “Yeah, she shows ‘before’ photos of the food she eats, no ‘after’ shots of where the calories pitch camp.”
I gave my friend a look.
“Okay, I’ll put my snark on pause.”
I hadn’t met either of the two women now chatting with Mom and Ursula, but they provided quite the contrast. Harriett Quinn’s billowing flowered muumuu had more room inside than a pup tent. Two boy scouts and their dog could camp inside. In contrast, the perfectly coiffed slender woman she’d hip-checked in her rush to greet Ursula wore a fitted black pantsuit topped with a red silk scarf fluffed around her neck.
“Is the pantsuit lady Della or Professor Swihart?” I asked.
Mollye had met all the tasting guests.
“The black pantsuit lady is Della Doyle,” Mollye answered. “After her husband died a decade ago, she started selling high-end real estate. Then she realized she could make more money if she turned wealthy clients into long-term cash cows. Calls herself a concierge. Whatever. Della’s clients are part-time rich folks who need windows washed, bushes pruned, and parties catered, but don’t want the bother of dealing with hired help. Della solves their problems. Takes a cut from the worker bees and her clients.”
“Well, I hope I’m one of Della’s finds for catering those parties,” I said.
“Bert Rider, your restaurant critic, just arrived.” Mollye pointed at a car across the street with a paint job that advertised it belonged to the Greenville News.”
Bert hustled to catch up with the other guests. His shoulder-length frizzy blond hair was pulled into a short ponytail. Springy spirals escaped at both temples, making his head appear as round as a melon. He wore faded jeans and a rumpled safari jacket chockablock with pockets.
His attire made me guess he favored stubby pencils and tucked sharpened spares in each of his pockets. Bert joined the clutch of arrivals, making it a fivesome.
“Now the professor’s the only one who’s tardy,” Mollye said. “Why did you invite her anyway—doesn’t she study bugs or something?”
“Mom suggested I invite her,” I explained. “Dr. Swihart’s a vegan and she’s on a committee that plans events for faculty. The professor’s a toxicologist and teaches graduate courses for doctoral candidates.”
Mollye pointed at a Beemer backing into a space across the road. “Bet that’s the prof,” she said.
Mom insisted I’d met Professor Victoria Swihart. Could have fooled me. Dad occasionally cajoled me into attending faculty functions now and again. He never said so, but I think he hoped I’d hit it off with some bachelor prof.
Okay, I had met Dr. Swihart. The newcomer’s steel gray pageboy helmet jogged my memory.
By the time the guests reached the sunporch, they’d already completed round-robin howdys. All I needed to do was welcome them and formally introduce Mollye and myself.
After a round of handshaking, I invited the sextet on a quick tour of my spic-and-span kitchen. Polished again this morning. I also gave the guests a glimpse of the major renovations underway. An archway in the kitchen opened onto Summer Place’s massive dining hall. I didn’t let anyone step beyond that threshold. Couldn’t risk one of them falling in a hole, stepping on a nail, or being conked by a plaster stalactite dangling from the ceiling.
Once the group settled around the table, I passed out menus describing each of the six recipes they’d taste. I was so nervous I suddenly felt like I had to pee. Really?
“Uh, Mollye will take beverage orders. I’ll be back in a jiffy with appetizers—caramelized onion and asparagus cups and stuffed mushrooms.”
I hot-footed it to the kitchen and splashed cold water on my face. Thank heavens, I hadn’t worn makeup. Steaming vegetables have a way of turning mascara into drippy Lone Ranger masks. The urge to pee went away or I got too busy to notice it.
Mollye’s voice drifted into the kitchen as she chatted with the guests. She was on her best behavior, sweetly offering a choice of wine, beer, water, or sweet tea.
I picked up the tray of onion and asparagus cups and returned to the porch. “Here’s the first appetizer. Bon Appetit!” My voice had to be two octaves higher than usual.
Could I be any lamer?
Everyone had the good grace to ignore my squeaky-voiced idiocy. I hurried back to the kitchen to stir the Spanish garden paella. Once all the ingredients were mixed in, the rice had a tendency to stick. Fortunately my favorite cashew pot pie needed no fussing. It was staying warm in the oven.
After the guests began sampling the paella, I was less of a nervous imbecile. Semi-verbal compliments seemed to accompany every forkful.
“What’s in this?” Bert asked.
The question relaxed me. No need to consult a recipe card to answer. I could do this. An endless stream of compliments bolstered my confidence.
“Ummm. Delicious.”
“Interesting combination of flavors.”
“As pretty as it is tasty.”
“Could I have a little more?”
Harriett inquired about preparing the cashew cream that served as the pot pie’s gravy. I was even happier when Professor Swihart wanted to know if I could scale up my recipes for groups of fifty to sixty. I hoped the professor’s interest was actually tied to a faculty event and not simply curiosity. I figured as a scientist she was all-too-familiar with the potential problems associated with going from small batches to large-scale production.
Though we’d served generous portions of the entrées, the plates Mollye and I returned to the kitchen were totally bare. Another good sign.
“I think Harriett licked her plate when no one was looking,” Mollye whispered when we reached the kitchen. “Hard to believe a fork could scrape up every smidgeon of sauce.”
I didn’t bother to send a give-it-a-rest glare Moll’s way. She’d been an enormous help and on good behavior, acting like a server in a five-star restaurant. Ought to have her train my future staff.
For my dessert finale I’d paired a gorgeous nut-crusted fruit pie with a creamy chocolate mousse. Even Aunt Eva admitted the mousse was delicious although she always mumbled dairy would make it even better.
“What should we serve first?” I asked Mollye.
“You can’t top chocolate,” she answered. “Serve the fruity pie first, then the chocolate.”
Moll delivered slender wedges of pie first. Once a round of appreciative “umms” were heard in my now messy kitchen, I delivered the dishes of chocolate mousse.
I was feeling almost giddy. Not a glitch. I returned to the kitchen to retrieve a tray loaded with little gift bags for the guests.
Smiling, I stepped onto the sunporch just as Della jumped up.
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br /> “Why are you here?” Della yelled at Harriett as the chair toppled sideways and fell to the floor. “What a bloody hypocrite!”
“Chill, will ya?” Harriett replied. “I’d be happy to give you one of my AEP t-shirts, they spell out my philosophy: ‘Animals Eaten like Popcorn’.”
My stomach knotted. What was happening? Everyone was playing nice so long as they had food on their plates. How had AEP come up?
“I’m a proud member of Animals Entitled to Personhood.” Della’s voice quivered. She was beyond angry.
I screwed my eyes shut. I feared whatever started this argument could only escalate. I had to do something.
I had no idea Della belonged to AEP. The organization denounced dozens of professions as inhumane. It accused cancer researchers who dissected mice as soulless. Pest exterminators were labeled contract killers. Scorn was heaped on fisherman. Veterinarians who euthanized animals were castigated.
“Please, you are all my guests,” I interrupted. “Surely we can agree on one thing—plant-based recipes can be delicious—whether we choose to eat them every day or simply on occasion.”
Della nodded at me. “The food was fabulous. Thank you. But I need to leave before the company gives me indigestion.”
As she marched out, I looked around the table at the five remaining guests. Harriett’s pudgy arms crisscrossed her chest and a Cheshire smile of satisfaction rose above her double chins. Dr. Swihart seemed intent on refolding a napkin. Mom frowned. Ursula looked thoughtful.
Bert started laughing. “Guess I have my lead for tomorrow’s restaurant column.”
Holy Havarti, this kind of publicity would not help.
Judge Ursula pushed back her chair and stood. She raised her wine glass in preparation for a toast. She appeared as she did on TV—in control, sure of her verdict—all she lacked was her black robe.
“Bert, Harriett, Victoria,” she began, “remember why you were invited. How you describe today’s luncheon can have unintended consequences. Surely you can be generous enough to disassociate our talented young chef from a disagreement among her guests. Brie’s promising Summer Place B&B and restaurant doesn’t deserve to be caught up in an animal rights feud in which she plays no part.”
Bert quit laughing. Harriett squirmed in her seat. They looked sheepish—like so many chastised claimants in Judge Ursula’s TV court. Dr. Swihart looked up from her napkin and nodded her assent. Thank you, Ursula.
The judge smiled. “Now let’s drink to our talented chef. To Brie Hooker. You deserve much success.”
Following Ursula’s toast, the guests bid quiet farewells full of compliments. They seemed delighted by the gift goody-bags filled with vegan cookies, recipe cards for the dishes served, and of course, business cards with info on catering and dinner parties.
Mom and Ursula were the last to leave.
“So sorry about that row between Harriett and Della,” Mom said. “I could see it going downhill the moment Harriett began boasting that she’d scored five pounds of veal for her freezer. That’s when Della’s eyes narrowed to slits. I once heard Della go off on big chicken producers. Said they should be jailed like their hens and fed antibiotics and hormones until their breasts grew to the size of watermelons. I totally forgot her AEP fervor when I put her on the guest list.”
“It’s okay, Mom.” I sighed. “Seems like people who hold different opinions only yell at each other these days. Judge Ursula saved the day. With any luck, Harriett’s and Bert’s reviews of the food won’t appear as a footnote to an animal rights war.”
Ursula smiled. “I hope so. By the way, I plan to move into your little cottage later today. Didn’t get my bags packed in time to bring them with us.”
Mollye wagged a finger at me as if I’d been naughty. “You’re calling that shack a little cottage? There’s still time to escape.”
Ursula smiled. “The cottage is perfect. Private and off the beaten path. No one will come looking for me there.”
“That’s a safe bet.” Mollye snorted.
“Would you like help moving in?” I asked. “I’ll be here a couple of hours cleaning up.”
Ursula brushed aside my offer with an “I travel light” response.
Once Mom and Ursula left, Mollye and I headed into the kitchen to scavenge something to eat. While the desserts were totally gone, there were single servings left of each appetizer and entrée. Mollye put her dibs on the stuffed mushrooms and pot pie. The veggie cups and paella were fine with me. I’d have eaten almost anything. Well, baby carrots but no baby cows.
We chowed down standing at the kitchen counter.
“Thanks so much for helping out,” I said.
“Always interesting hanging with you, but the WWW match was an unexpected bonus,” Mollye replied. “Wonder if Harriett knew Della belonged to AEP when she started poking her?”
“It wouldn’t surprise me. I should have listened to the anonymous friend who warned about giving her a seat at the table.”
“Have you ever asked Eva how she feels about AEP?” Mollye asked. “Can’t think of anyone who treats her own animals more like family.”
“Eva thinks AEP folks go too far. Of course, my aunt also likes a rare ribeye now and again.”
Mollye laughed. “You know you owe me. Next time I sign up for a booth at an art fair I expect you to sell my pottery.”
“Deal,” I replied.
Mollye wandered over to the refrigerator. “Sure there’s no more chocolate mousse hiding in here?”
TWELVE
I declined Mollye’s offer to help with cleanup.
“Go on,” I said. “You have your own business to run and I’ve tied you up most of the day. Doing dishes will give me a chance to power down. My brain can use some mindless task time to sort out what happened.”
I spent almost two hours cleaning the kitchen and tidying up. I hand washed all of the crystal and fine china Mom had lent me. I even tackled tasks that didn’t need doing just to keep busy. I put shelf paper in an empty cupboard I wouldn’t need for a year. Not till I had money to buy the dishes that would go there.
Once I ran out of busywork chores, I set off for a final walk through of the cottage. I checked to make sure I hadn’t left any junk lying about for Ursula to trip over. I even scoured the bathroom sink a fourth time, hoping elbow grease might lighten the disgustingly dark stains. No luck.
As I trudged back to Summer Place, Dad’s ringtone sounded on my pocketed cell.
“Hi, Dad, did Mom tell you about the tasting? Everyone loved the food. Not—”
“Brie,” Dad cut in. “Are you ill? Do I need to come get you?”
Huh? “What are you talking about?”
“I thought you might be sick, too. Ursula and your mom are very ill. Abdominal pain, vomiting. When Ursula’s heart started racing, I drove both of them to the emergency room. The ER doctor diagnosed it as food poisoning, since they both presented symptoms shortly after they’d eaten together.”
I stumbled on the cobbled footpath. Mom, Ursula, sick? The hairs on the back of my neck rose and bile climbed my throat. “Oh, no. Will they be okay? What did the doctor say?”
“They’ll be fine,” Dad replied. “Your mother is on an IV to replace fluids, but the ER doctor said she should be able to come home soon. They want to keep Ursula overnight for observation. They took blood and urine samples. But until they determine if the illness is caused by a virus or bacteria, they’re not prescribing antibiotics. Just keeping your mom and Ursula hydrated and quiet.”
Once Dad’s calm voice reassured me Mom and Ursula would be fine, my mind fastened on the reason they were ill—food poisoning. My food. I was horrified. Was I to blame?
“They’re sure it’s food poisoning? You know how careful I am about washing vegetables, and I’m fanatic about hygiene. Could Mom and Ursula have eaten a snack before they
came to Summer Place? Please, no! It can’t be the food at my tasting.”
“Calm down, honey,” Dad said. “I know this is the last thing you want to do, but you need to contact your other luncheon guests. Make sure they’re not ill.”
Stinky Limburger. I groaned. “How can I call folks and ask if I made them puke? I’m not sick and I ate what they ate. Mollye did, too. She was fine when she left a little while ago.”
“Did you and Mollye eat everything your guests did?” Dad, the logical professor, probed.
“Yes. Everything. Except the desserts.” I frowned. “The fruit pie and chocolate mousse were all gone. Harriett Quinn and Bert Rider asked for extras. Polished off both dishes.”
I moaned. Please don’t let the two food critics fall ill. What a disaster.
“Start with those two,” Dad urged. “If they ate more of the suspect foods, you need to make certain they’re okay.”
My mind raced. Could I call them on some other pretext? A thank you? Maybe ask if they left behind a pair of sunglasses?
No, I had to warn them. Grow up. What if their symptoms simply took longer to appear? Did they live alone? Shoot, I was pretty sure all of the guests except Mom were single, though I had no idea if they had housemates who could help them if they took ill at home.
“I’ll contact Bert and Harriett, then I’ll try to catch up with Della,” I said. “Professor Swihart said she was meeting a doctoral student this afternoon to discuss his thesis. Can you drop by her office at the university?”
“I’ll walk over to her building now,” Dad replied. “Then I’ll head back to the hospital.”
“Call me as soon as you know more.” I closed my eyes. “Please tell Mom and Ursula how sorry I am.”
By the time the call ended, I’d reached the porch. I slumped in a chair and stared at my phone. I didn’t have cell numbers for Harriett or Bert. I’d contacted Bert through his email at the Greenville News, and I’d sent a personal message to Harriett via her business Facebook page.
