Cook over low heat until the edges be-gin to congeal. With a heatproof rubber spatula, gently push the edges of cooked egg into the center of the pan, using a minimum number of strokes. Tilt the pan so that the uncooked portion of egg flows out into the bottom of the pan, making an almost-even overall layer of egg.
Preheat the broiler. Mix the sour cream with the grated Cheddar and set aside. When the eggs are about halfway done (i.e., when they are about half liquid and half solid), spoon on the chili in 3 spokelike lines that bisect the eggs to make 6 equal sections. (The eggs will look like a pie.) Scatter the chopped tomato and scallions between the lines of chili. Carefully spoon the sour cream–cheese mixture on top of the chili spokes. Do not worry if some spreads off the chili. Place the pan 6 inches from the hot-broiler and broil, watching carefully, between 5 and 7 minutes, or until the eggs are done and the cheese has melted and puffed slightly. Serve immediately.
Makes 4 large servings
Boulder Chili:
1½ pounds lean ground beef
1 large onion, chopped
2 large or 3 small cloves garlic, pressed
5 tablespoons tomato paste
1 tablespoon prepared powdered chile mix (recommended brand: Fernandez)
1 tablespoon Dijon mustard
1½ teaspoons salt
1 cup plum tomatoes, chopped (about a 14 ½-ounce can)
1 tablespoon Italian herb seasoning
1 15-oz. can chili beans in chili gravy, undrained
2 to 4 tablespoons water
2 tablespoons red burgundy wine
Sauté the beef, onion, and garlic over medium heat until the beef is just browned and the onion and garlic are tender. Turn the heat down to low and add the tomato paste, chile mix, mustard, salt, tomatoes, herb seasoning, and beans. Pour 2 tablespoons water and the wine into the chili bean can and scrape down the sides, then pour into the beef mixture. If the mixture is too thick, add the extra water. Heat over medium-low heat, stirring occasionally, until bubbly.
Last, I put in a quick call to Party Rental to make sure the long-promised dining tables were indeed being delivered that morning. I was told they’d arrive no earlier than eight, no later than eight-fifteen. Sweetly, I asked: If the tables weren’t there by eight-thirty, would they give me a refund, so I could call another company? The guy hung up on me.
It was going to be one of those days.
CHAPTER 22
As Julian and I packed up our equipment, the president of Saint Luke’s Episcopal Church Women phoned. She said the church-owned plates, glasses, and silverware would be delivered to Hyde Chapel at nine-thirty, and would somebody besides the police be there to receive them? I assured her of our catering team’s presence.
I sighed. The tables, the dinnerware, our equipment, the set-up, the food, the cops. Maybe the first thing I should do at Hyde Chapel was pray. Dear God, my mind supplied, can You please get me through this lunch? Thanks.
Outside, the ground boasted five inches of new snow, which formed a thick, sugary crust on the rocks surrounding the moat. Chickadees fluttered up and down ladders of pine branches and spilled showers of flakes. Everything was silent; the glittering blanket of snow seemed to muffle all sound. Instead of enjoying the winter splendor, though, I worried what the new white stuff would do to our lunch attendance.
Eliot, now dressed in Gatsby-esque tweeds, vest, and white satin scarf, insisted on driving ahead of us in his Jaguar. When we arrived ten minutes later in Hyde Chapel’s parking lot, two sheriff’s department cars were sending plumes of exhaust into the icy air. One of the deputies talked to Eliot for a few minutes, after which Eliot, his countenance subdued, trudged over and said he’d open up the chapel.
I’d been in Hyde Chapel for christenings and weddings. But I had not seen it since the money from Henry VIII’s letter had allowed for a complete refurbishment. The stone walls had been cleaned to a sparkling silver. The multicolored slate floor tiles set off the flat marble stones of the labyrinth’s winding path, which gave the floor an eerie, pure-white patterned centerpiece. Most spectacular were the stained-glass windows. When the just-risen sun shone through them, the effect was like being inside a lighted jewelry box. The ambience was serene, until honking erupted from the parking lot.
“Hey, boss?” asked Julian as he stuck his head outside the carved wooden doors. “The tables are here!” he called. “Where do you want ’em?”
“I’ll show them, thanks.”
While Eliot and I directed Party Rental, Julian placed champagne bottles in tubs he filled with ice, then ferried in wrapped trays of hors d’oeuvres. Things were going well until he brought out the electrified hot platters: Their cords refused to stretch to the outlets in the stone wall. Looking on, Eliot had become agitated at the prospect of the table people scratching his precious slate floors. Promising to oversee the last table setup, he pointed toward the left side of the chapel and told me there were more extension cords in the storage area.
I skirted the labyrinth and hustled to an unmarked door, which opened into an enormous storeroom that smelled of Sukie’s favorite antiseptic cleaner. Flipping on the light revealed yet more evidence of la Suisse at work: Paint, glass cleaner, wood polish, tools, brushes, a ladder, and every other imaginable odd and end was laid out on shelves—alphabetically. The fancy folding wooden chairs Eliot had bought were stacked along one wall. I found Extension Cords after Chair Cushions and before Fans, then zipped back to the newly opened tables.
After seeing Party Rental off, Eliot had set up the space heaters and serving tables. Now he was busy with his slide machine and screen. He helped me unwind the cords to the outlets, at which point Julian and I plugged everything in. Mercifully, no fuses blew. We then taped down all the cords, a trick to keep even the most inebriated guest from tripping and doing a face-plant on the floor.
We were so busy we didn’t hear two women banging on the wooden doors to be let in. They were emissaries from the Episcopal Church Women, there to set the tables. When they finished and I let them out, I was the one who reclosed the door. I was sure of this, just as I was sure Eliot had told me we had the only key to the chapel, retrieved from the lockbox outside. So … when Buddy and Chardé Lauderdale slithered unannounced and unadmitted into the chapel at ten after nine, I was more than a bit surprised.
“What are you two doing here?” I demanded.
Startled, Chardé dropped her lemon-colored Chanel purse, which matched a lemon-colored wool pantsuit and lemon beret set at a jaunty slant on her dark hair. When life hands you a lemon … you get Chardé. Buddy, ever the casual type, had his hands thrust into wool khaki pants beneath a black turtleneck shirt, an outfit meant to make him look attractive and powerful, and which succeeded in neither. “How did you get in?” I snapped.
“Eliot?” Chardé called sweetly, ignoring me.
Buddy, meanwhile, glanced nervously around the chapel, obviously ill at ease. I knew he and Chardé had donated five thou to the labyrinth, but that he only came to church at Christmas. He was breathing deeply, and his face was pinched with the guilty expression of a holiday-only churchman. If he hyperventilated, I wondered, would I feel compelled to call 911?
“Chardé, darling!” crowed Eliot, striding forward. “Come to check that we’re using your beautiful cushions on our chairs? Of course we are!”
They smooched like old pals and began to murmur. With an air of concentration, Buddy made a shuffling circuit of the chapel. If I stay near the edge, I’m not really here. Meanwhile, I arranged the cups and helped Julian bring the first stack of wooden chairs out of the storage room. We were about to go back for more when the door to the chapel opened again. In walked John Richard Korman, with Viv Martini in tow.
What was this—Open House? I cursed myself for being so surprised by the Lauderdales that I’d neglected to check the chapel doors.
John Richard and Viv, dressed head to toe in black, looked like a couple of undertakers. Then again, maybe they were aiming for that
chic eighties rock-star look. Eliot, who was still engaged in intimate conversation with Chardé, glanced up abruptly. His face registered shock, then a deep blush. Now that’s a new look for the king, I mused, intrigued.
“Well, Eliot,” said Viv in a mock-accusing tone. “Imagine seeing you here. And with a cute decorator, no less.”
“It is, uh, my family’s chapel,” Eliot began, but Viv only tilted up her pointed little chin and blew him a kiss. His face went from a patchy scarlet to an even crimson. I actually felt sorry for him.
“And Buddy,” Viv went on, still the charmer.
“Hey, Viv,” Buddy replied, his voice low and sexy. Had Viv slept with every rich older guy in the county? Would John Richard mind being classified as a rich older guy? Ha.
Before I could ask my ex-husband if he remembered the restraining order, he strode across the space between us and wagged a finger in my face.
“I don’t want to hear any crap from you, understand? Arch said you were going to be against it, so I’m warning you now.” His blue eyes blazed in his handsome face. “Viv and I are coming to the fencing banquet. Whether you like it or not. Got it? So don’t give me any of this restraining-order crap. It’s for Arch, and you should recognize he wants me there.”
“Cocky when the cops aren’t around, eh?” I shot back. “Hey, Viv! You don’t know what you’re in for!”
Viv shook her pale hair, which stuck out at every possible angle. “I love what I’m in for!” she proclaimed, as she sashayed closer to the Jerk. Standing behind him, she opened her black leather jacket—Is she carrying, I wondered? How do you slide a gun into pants that tight? She cocked one elbow and used the other hand to pat John Richard’s behind. Her clear voice crooned, “We’re not going to cause any trouble, are we, honey? If my guy here gets out of line, I’ll use force.”
When John Richard blushed, I burst out laughing. “Promise?” I asked.
“Promise,” she replied in a deep, throaty voice that sent shivers down my spine. Well, she was John Richard’s choice. Or vice versa, if she was just using him as a rich-old-fart conquest. Wouldn’t I love to see that? Maybe not, if this blond bombshell ended up taking money designated for Arch. Viv snaked an arm around John Richard’s waist and tilted her head to murmur in his ear. Ever done it in a chapel? Or something like that, because John Richard let out a surprised grunt. I longed to ask my ex-husband if Viv was the type of gal recommended in your average male-menopause support group, but for once I kept mum. I had work to do.
“If there’s nothing further—” I began.
“So do we understand each other?” the Jerk said to me. I think he wanted to shake his finger in my face again, but Viv had him entwined. Instead, I walked quietly toward him and pointed a finger less than an inch from his aristocratic nose.
“Split. Now. You understand? I heard you. Remember General Farquhar, who could kill people without making any noise? I make a ton of noise. Now, buzz off before the nice neighbors have to hear it.”
“Now, now, Goldy,” Viv said, her voice conciliatory. “Let’s not make threats we can’t back up.” She gave me a knowing look. “I make a ton of noise, too, don’t I, baby? Let’s go.”
John Richard pressed his lips together and swallowed. Come to think of it, he did look kind of tired, especially in his noir outfit. Buddy and Eliot stood aghast: Were we actually hooked up with this woman? How’d we survive? Chardé seized the opportunity of this dramatic tableau to stride toward me: Lemon in Motion.
“We’re coming to the fencing banquet, too,” she declared, her pert nose in the air. I prayed that the yellow beret would plop to the floor, but it didn’t slip. “We eat no undercooked meat, no raw eggs, and no sugar in any form. And by the way, our son Howie is lactose-intolerant. You probably don’t remember any of this from when you catered for us. You were too busy being nosy, isn’t that right?”
“I—”
“Howie likes lime sorbet. No dairy. Got it?” Chardé said.
“Okay!” Julian bellowed, extending his arms. “That’s it! Everybody out! Out! You, you, you, and you!” he snarled, pointing to the Jerk, Viv, Buddy, and Chardé. “We cannot work for our clients with you here. Leave.”
“We are your clients,” chimed in Buddy Lauderdale, with that nasal arrogance I knew only too well.
“Then please come back at lunchtime.” Julian said firmly. No question, the kid had it all over yours truly in the assertiveness department.
Eliot made soft cooing noises that were meant to reassure his good chums, the Lauderdales. The Jerk and Viv banged out through the chapel door. When Eliot and the Lauderdales also departed, I slumped down in one of the wooden chairs. Julian made sure the doors were firmly shut and locked. He called to us that there was also an inside bolt, and he was throwing it until lunchtime.
“I’m not sure I can make it through this day,” I moaned when he returned.
“Sure you can. There’ll be new deep-pocket folks here who’ll love your food. They will line up to book you for their next catered event.”
He made me laugh. I was about to tell him how proud I was of him when thunderous pounding interrupted us yet again. This time, I unbolted the door and opened it myself. It was the baker’s assistant, come to set up the labyrinth cake. It looked scrumptious, a huge fudge-frosted round cake with white-iced loops reflecting the intricate pattern on the chapel floor.
“I brought you something,” Julian said, when I had firmly locked up behind the baker’s assistant. He was holding an upscale shopping bag. “Chocolate Emergency cookies, remember? I figure we’re in one now.” He drew out a wrapped packet and a small hot-drink container. “I even brought you an espresso.”
“You’re a lifesaver, Julian.” I bit into the cookie. Dark fudgy flavor exploded in my mouth and a burst of chocolate euphoria sparked up my spine. The cookies were chewy without being too sweet, with the smooth, buttery vanilla icing a perfect complement to the rich chocolate. A hearty swig of the espresso sent all worries about the Lauderdales, the Jerk, and Viv down Cottonwood Creek.
For the nonce, anyway.
Two hours later I was letting the mood fit the food by being upbeat while serving trays of mail-order English cheese puffs, onion toasts, and caviar with toast points. The big donors, a handful of vestry members, and a few Episcopal Church Women, along with our parish priest, were all chugging champagne while gushing that Eliot had been so generous to donate the chapel to Saint Luke’s. The Lauderdales had snubbed me, of course, and recommended that others do so as well, Marla reported. Meanwhile, Marla announced that she didn’t understand why she’d given so much money to the labyrinth, when walking it was going to be so confusing after all this champagne.
While Julian served the soup, I hustled up to the castle and put in the Shakespeare’s Steak Pies. The Lauderdales were bad-mouthing me? Those creeps! “Anger’s my meat,” I whispered, congratulating myself on remembering something from Coriolanus. What was the rest of it? Oh, yes. Anger’s my meat: I sup upon myself/And so shall starve with feeding. So there! One more word from the Lauderdales and they’d be supping on raw hamburger with manchet bread. New play from the Bard: MacDEATH.
After we set out the pies, salad, and bread, the guests happily moved through the buffet line. Julian bustled about, teased by his Aunt Marla and admired by the women. As far from the buffet tables as possible, the Lauderdales had seated themselves with Sukie, Eliot, and another couple from the church. Buddy and Chardé were working hard to appear deep in intellectual conversation. I, of course, was not fooled.
At length, Eliot dimmed the chandeliers and began his talk. He clicked on a slide of the Chartres labyrinth, and offered the same historical and architectural background I’d heard on the audiotape. While he was showing Before and After slides of the chapel restoration, Marla sneaked up to my side.
“No more on the Jerk’s real estate deal, sorry to report,” she whispered, with one eye on the cake table. “The lunch was scrumptious. The only historic food I
have is in my refrigerator!”
“Thanks. And thanks for checking on the town-house deal. I still think John Richard’s up to something.”
“He’s always up to something.” Then she hustled off toward the untouched cake that the guests were going to have after the slide show.
“Please, sir,” Marla whispered to Julian, “may I have some more? Or just a nibble, anyway?” Before I could protest, Julian had carved an enormous piece of cake, heaped it on a plate, and handed it to her.
“Call it reverse nepotism, Goldy,” she stage-whispered, fingering up a dollop of icing. Heads turned and I sighed.
Eliot had moved on to Before and After shots of the renovation of his castle. He ended with effusive thanks to the donors, and an invitation to have cake and to book their conferences into the castle next year. Then he invited them to quiet their souls and walk the labyrinth to arrive at their spiritual truth.
If the clapping from twenty-six people wasn’t thunderous, it was at least enthusiastic. Julian and I served cake and coffee, which I hoped would tame any aftereffects of champagne. When they finished their dessert, the guests began to process single-file through the labyrinth.
An eerie silence fell over the chapel as the silent parade went back and forth over the stones, all the way to the end. The few people who spoke as they were leaving did so in hushed tones. By two o’clock, the crowd had dispersed. Wow, I thought. Next time I felt uptight, I would give the labyrinth a try.
The churchwomen gathered up their plates, silver, and glasses, to trek them back to the Saint Luke’s kitchen for washing. Eliot and Julian broke down the Hydes’ serving tables and chairs, and hauled them back to the storage area. Then Julian and I folded up the rented dining tables and left them in the gravel parking lot under a tarpaulin. Party Rental would return before four to pick them up. Sukie and Eliot conveyed their video equipment back to the castle. I emphatically told Julian that he was going to take the rest of the afternoon off. He’d earned it, I insisted.
Sticks & Scones Page 24
