A Deadly Éclair

by Daryl Wood Gerber

  Heather gathered a stack of linens and started folding crane-shaped napkins. I admired her skill. I could fold pastry dough with flair, but napkins truly stymied me. I couldn’t do origami, either. I flapped open a tablecloth. After it billowed and came to rest on a table, I smoothed out the wrinkles.

  “Is Mr. Baker attending the wedding?” Heather asked.

  “He wouldn’t miss it.”

  “He’s handsome, for an old guy.”

  I laughed. Bryan wasn’t old-old—he was in his sixties—but he reminded me of a craggy Paul Newman with brilliant blue eyes, a noble chin, and a devil-may-care smile. We met weekly for coffee at Chocolate, an adorable café a half mile down the road.

  “How’s your mom?” Heather often made huge jumps in conversation and rarely stayed on topic, unless she was discussing aliens.

  “She’s good.” My father died a few years back from a heart attack. How I missed him and his wit. My mother missed him, too, but she pushed through, one day at a time, and never let me see her cry. She was sturdy that way.

  “Has she met Mr. Baker?”

  “Whoa, Heather! You’re giving me whiplash with the U-turns in conversation. Why do you ask?” My mother owned the Nouvelle Vie Winery, a small concern, not open to the public, which produced a lovely Chardonnay. Her father had brought vines from the old country and established the vineyard on top of its own aquifer. To this day, I could remember my grandmother making bread that was light, fluffy, and rich with yeast. She would serve it whenever a new year’s wine was launched. Eaten plain, it was delicious. Slathered with butter, even better. Grandmère said the quality of the water mattered, and the water in Nouvelle Vie—which meant new life—was the best in the valley. “Mom doesn’t date anymore, if that’s what you’re hinting at.”

  “Date? Your mom and Mr. Baker? Heavens no. I was just curious about him. He seems so . . . mysterious.”

  “There’s nothing mysterious about him. Bryan is an entrepreneur. He doesn’t bite, and he’s not an alien.”

  “He’s not an—”

  “Gotcha!” I laughed heartily.

  Heather snorted. “Oh, you.” She flapped open a fresh napkin.

  The snap caught me off guard, and a shiver coiled up my neck. What did I know about Bryan, really? He had never married, or so I’d heard. He didn’t have children, I assumed; he never talked about any. He traveled extensively. I had often seen him in the company of beautiful, mature women. And he was worth a billion dollars—that might be a slight exaggeration—all of which he made by the time he turned forty because he started a tech company in Silicon Valley long before Google was born, after which he invested well. But what else did I know about him? I hadn’t pressed him for information because, well, he was my mentor; I was the student. He often bestowed what I like to call Bryanisms—his world view, captured in sayings I could repeat—so I felt like I knew him.

  My lack of curiosity given my history with my secretive husband appalled me. He was the reason the words what if could send me into a tailspin. See, at the ripe age of twenty-five, I met the man of my dreams: Derrick Burnham, an adventurer who wrote about his escapades in many magazines. We ran into each other—literally bam!—at a volunteer feed-the-poor event in Golden Gate Park. Trays toppled and food flew, followed by apologies and laughter and chemistry. That night we bonded over gourmet pizza. We married a year later. Sadly, eight years after that, the love of my life died in a tragic accident in Nepal. His body broke in multiple places. He died on impact. Quickly on the heels of his funeral, creditors came knocking, and I learned that Derrick had kept a huge secret from me—he was in debt up to his eyeballs. He bought all his pitons, ice axes, and backpacks on credit, to the tune of one hundred thousand dollars. There went my seed money, my dreams, and my sweet memories. I sold everything we owned to pay off the debt, and then, unable to enjoy, let alone cope with, the buzz and struggle of city life any longer, I quit my job and moved home.

  Was it fate? What if—

  I abandoned the task of dressing tables and, obeying Heather’s command to breathe, headed to the garden.

  Morning was my favorite time of day. I could hear the birds’ songs; I could smell the vines. The temperature was mild today even though the sun was shining. A few flecks of clouds dotted the sky.

  Drawing in deep, restorative breaths, I entered the garden. Raymond Cruz, our gifted Hispanic gardener and a former classmate of mine from high school, was steady at work.

  “Morning, Raymond!”

  “Hiya, boss!” With his shaggy brown hair and easygoing smile, he reminded me of a Newfoundland puppy. Raymond wasn’t just any gardener; he was a master gardener who gave back to the community by speaking at public events, writing articles for publications, and volunteering on Earth Day. “It’s beautiful today, don’t you think?” he said, his coffee-colored eyes crinkling with impish fun. “Don’t you love the weather?”

  “I do.”

  “Is Angelica on her way?”

  “Soon. Are you looking forward to meeting her?”

  “It would be nice.”

  Yesterday I learned that he was a huge fan of Angelica’s. He hadn’t reached out or anything, no fan mail. He simply admired her sense of humor and the way she joked around with the guests on her show.

  “I put together a bouquet for the foyer.” Raymond signaled with his shears. “Wait ’til you see.”

  “I bet it’s beautiful.” The miraculous displays he could achieve with begonias and azaleas when in bloom astonished me. The brilliant red and silvery-white tea roses he had planted along the walkway leading to the inn’s entrance were remarkable. “I need to fetch some rosemary and flowers. Do you have a spare set of clippers?”

  “Yep.” Raymond pulled a pair from the tool belt looped around his hips and offered them to me. “You can use one of those baskets for your haul.” He hitched a thumb over his shoulder at an array of wicker baskets and set back to work.

  As I bent to retrieve one, a woman screamed, “Mimi!”

  My pulse skyrocketed. I spun around.

  My best friend, Jo, the woman who had bravely tasted all my childhood cooking fiascoes, the woman who had introduced me to Bryan and who had given up her high-paying CPA job to manage Maison Rousseau, ran at me full tilt, arms waving. “Help! It’s horrible!”

  Chapter 2

  My insides somersaulted. Unlike me, Jo never lost her cool. She had an MBA from Berkley. She was dollars-and-cents rational at all times. Except now. Her short-cropped ebony hair was going in every direction. Her blue-toned floral jacket was buttoned the wrong way. Even her pencil skirt seemed in a twist.

  “What’s the matter?” I shouted.

  “She—” Jo gasped for breath.

  “She who? She what?”

  “Angelica.”

  “Is she all right?”

  “She’s here.”

  “That’s it?” I gaped at her. “That’s the panic?”

  “Everyone came with her. Her fiancé, his father, the wedding guests.” Jo tapped a fingertip to punctuate each syllable.

  “Breathe!” I said, channeling Heather.

  “I’m trying.” Jo inhaled and let it out. Color returned to her cheeks. Her bright-blue eyes appeared less glassy.

  I laughed.

  “What’s so funny?” she groused.

  “You never panic. Ever.”

  “As if,” she sputtered. As if was one of her favorite replies.

  “As if, indeed.” I was the complete opposite of my pal. I didn’t overreact, necessarily, but I didn’t face a crisis coolly. I was a bold chef and more of a seat-of-my-pants girl, attacking life with a dash of this and a sprinkle of that and a small amount of chaos. “Tell me everything.”

  “Okay, here goes.” In her three-inch heels, Jo towered over me. At one time she had considered becoming a model, but that desire evaporated when she realized she couldn’t eat, eat, eat like she wanted. She wasn’t heavy. In fact, she was what men called va-va-voom, but she would never
be considered a string bean. “Angelica’s private plane arrived way ahead of time. She took off in a limo to go to the jazz festival and then to see her father for a brief hello, but the rest of the guests came here, and each one expects a room ASAP.”

  “Not all,” I countered. “Some are staying at an estate.” One of the wedding guests was a renowned actress. Her second home, north of St. Helena, was more than ten thousand square feet.

  “Whatever. That leaves eight—no, nine—rooms to prepare.” Jo tapped her watch. “It’s not even eleven AM. You know the drill around these parts. Nobody checks out until at least noon. And the luggage? Did I mention how many suitcases they have?”

  “Store them in my cottage if you have to.”

  The minute the renovation of Maison Rousseau had concluded, I had moved out of my family home and into what used to be the grounds keeper’s house behind the inn. It was a one-bedroom charmer that I had decorated in stylish taupe with burgundy and moss-green accents—very in keeping with the wine country motif. It had a small kitchen, an eating nook, a fireplace, and a lovely view from the rear patio of a fruit tree orchard as well as a vineyard. Neither the orchard nor the vineyard was my property, but I could dream. Practically every morning, I sat in the bentwood hickory rocker on the porch and sipped a rich cup of black coffee as I got my bearings. The sound of birds flitting from tree to vine and back again was heavenly. Sometimes a mouser cat that we called Scoundrel—gray and white and sneaky as all get-out—visited me, though Heather was the one who fed him outside the kitchen door.

  I tucked the shears Raymond gave me into my pocket and touched my friend on the shoulder. “Jo, what’s really going on?”

  “What do you mean?” When we were younger, Jo could cram the night before a test and ace it, run a 10K race without breaking a sweat, and handle crowds of people with aplomb. I couldn’t remember the last time I had seen her this thrown. It was so . . . cool.

  “If you’re worried about feeding them, don’t be,” I assured her. “I’ll handle it.”

  “You aren’t prepared for that, and heaven forbid we surprise Chef C. Plus the kitchen staff here”—Jo gestured toward the front of my charming French country–style inn—“have a full house of brunchers.” She recited the menu: French toast with homemade blackberry jam, Belgian waffles, California omelets, biscuits, muffins, and cheese plates. People from all over the valley regularly came to the inn for brunch. “There’s not a chance the staff can whip up something for an additional ten or twenty.”

  “Well, I can. I’ve got plenty of items in the larder: sliced cheese, sliced meats, a bowl of fresh fruit, freshly made bread using my grandmother’s recipe. Toss in a few bottles of wine, and I’ll bet Angelica and her guests will be happier than punch.” I twirled a hand. “Set up a picnic in the Renoir Retreat. Cover the tables with those pretty Ramatuelle Rouge tablecloths. The red will be so pretty with the bougainvillea.” In June, all of the gardens teemed with flowers. “And set out simple white plates, gold napkins, and everyday silverware. I’ll have Heather put together a wine selection.”

  Heather had as educated a palate as I did. Like me, she had been allowed to taste wine at an early age. It didn’t hurt that we had a very knowledgeable and handsome wine rep, Nash Hawke, who visited every few days to introduce us to the newest treasure. I always enjoyed spending time tasting and savoring wines with him.

  “I promise, when our guests enter their rooms, they will be so relaxed, they’ll pass out until dinner.”

  Each room was designed to give the discerning traveler a country-comfort experience. The Provençal decor was inviting, the beds were plush, and the six-jet Jacuzzi and rain showers were decadently delicious. Bryan had suggested springing for those.

  “Okay then.” Jo shook out her shoulders and turned to go.

  I yelled, “Wait!” and motioned to her improperly buttoned jacket.

  She blanched. “Why didn’t you—” She shook a warning finger. “Ooh. You were enjoying seeing me rattled, weren’t you? Harrumph!”

  I giggled with glee.

  “FYI,” she said haughtily over her shoulder as she headed off, “don’t blame me if things go haywire.”

  Her words doused my moment of fun.

  *

  That evening, around half past seven and smack-dab in the middle of the appetizer course, Bryan Baker cornered me by the bar of the bistro. He looked ruggedly handsome yet casual in a dark-blue blazer, blue shirt, and tan slacks. No tie. I couldn’t remember ever seeing him wear a tie.

  “Mimi, Angelica is over the moon,” he said.

  “Even though it’s a new moon and can’t be seen?”

  “Ha-ha.” He chucked me on the shoulder. “The evening is going great!”

  “We’ve been at it for just over an hour. Give me time to mess up,” I quipped.

  “Stop it. Don’t second-guess yourself.”

  How many times had he given me a pep talk over the past year? His favorite motto was Life is too short to wait for anything. I must have heard him utter it a dozen times.

  “What could go wrong?” Bryan asked.

  He was right. The spontaneous afternoon picnic had turned out to be a huge success, and as far as I’d heard from Jo, each of the guests had loved the rooms at the inn.

  “The breeze through the opened windows is fabulous,” Bryan said. “Who needs air conditioning when we have perfect weather in Napa?”

  I agreed.

  “The flaky cheese things were fabulous,” he added.

  “Gougères,” I said.

  He repeated the word. “Yeah, those puffy things. I can’t wait for the onion soup and your specialty chicken. What’s for dessert? Tell me it’s not cake.”

  “Cake is tomorrow. Tonight, it’s éclairs.”

  “Éclairs.” He frowned. “Hmm. I might have to pull the plug on you after all.”

  A moment of panic shot through me. “Don’t you like éclairs?” I hadn’t passed the menu by him. I hadn’t thought that was necessary.

  Stefan, dressed in a white chef’s jacket, his toque straight up, strolled by carrying a tray. He was on his way to help the waitstaff collect appetizer plates. He mouthed, Everything okay?

  I waved him on and studied Bryan’s face. His mouth was twitching at the corners like he was trying to suppress a smile. I said, “You’re teasing me.”

  “Yep. I love éclairs.” He elbowed me in fun.

  The evening’s photographer, who had taken photos of each person entering the party and had been moving around the room stealthily ever since, sidled up to us and said, “Twosome?”

  “Not right now,” Bryan replied and refocused on me. “The éclair thing, Mimi? I’m simply goading you to keep you in the game, and mind you, it’s all a game. Every aspect of life. Don’t ever take anything or anyone too seriously.”

  “My mother would disagree with you. She thinks everything should be taken seriously. Grapes, love, and cards.”

  “Cards, really? What’s her game of choice?”

  “Poker.”

  Bryan winked. “A serious game if ever there was one.”

  Clink clink clink. Angelica Barrington stood at the head table and tapped the rim of her wine goblet with a spoon. She looked radiantly happy, her exquisite face framed by long dark hair and highlighted by candlelight, her blue eyes sparkling—when did she ever not look radiant? Her designer sheath clung to her toned body. The aquamarine earrings she was wearing matched the color of the dress perfectly. “Hello, everyone!” She surveyed the guests.

  We had set four tables: one eightsome and three foursomes. Angelica and her fiancé and his sister, father, and business partner were seated at the head table. So was Angelica’s best friend and Bryan. Angelica’s father was to be seated next to her, but he was running late. Really late. He had called. Twice. Apologizing.

  Any time, I thought.

  “Angie, baby, looking gorgeous!” a scruffy-bearded man sitting at the table of four closest to the head table yelled. The other
s at the table echoed him.

  In truth, all of the guests at that particular table had me gawking. Each was a superfamous celebrity. The bearded guy was a director who specialized in violent movies. Next to him was a renowned actress—the one who owned the estate—who had possibly the best short haircut I had ever seen. The other two included an NFL quarterback who was overtly religious—although he’d been outed recently for using steroids—and a highly recognizable politician who had been divorced five times and was anything but religious. Angelica had interviewed each of them over the years.

  Angelica laughed. “Okay, that’s enough, you hooligans. It’s my night. No interruptions.” She tapped her glass again. “I’d like to say a word. Mimi, can you turn down the music?”

  “Wouldn’t you like your father to arrive before we begin?” I asked judiciously.

  “He won’t mind. Promise. Dad’s, well, Dad. Mom always said . . .” Angelica hesitated. Her mother had died when Angelica was twenty-one. She licked her lips and repeated, “The music, Mimi.” She twirled a finger.

  I signaled to Heather to handle the music. One of Georges Bizet’s best works was playing, “The Pearl Fishers’ Duet,” a beautiful yet haunting tune featuring a flute.

  As the music quieted, so did the guests. They turned their attention to the bride-to-be.

  “Lyle, sweetheart, stand up,” Angelica ordered. Gossip magazines claimed she could be headstrong. I couldn’t fault her; women had to be tough to climb the ladder of success.

  Lyle Ives, her fiancé, who managed Ives Jewelers in Los Angeles, leaped to his feet. Hollywood hunks had nothing on him in the looks department. He was, in a word, stunning: fair hair, fabulous bone structure, and a winning smile. He and Angelica made a striking couple.

  “Please raise a toast to the chef.” Angelica turned to me. “Mimi Rousseau, you have outdone yourself! The decor, superbe,” she said with a French accent and kissed her fingertips. “The menu, magnifique. If the appetizers are any indication, we will be dining like royalty tonight.”