“Oh,” Foxy gushed, “I am so sorry for disturbing you. My hat blew off and traveled all the way up here to your umbrella.” She pointed to the hat squeezed between his chair leg and the inside of the wind shield.
“You know what Freud said?” the man asked with a dazzling smile.
“No, what?” Foxy was ready to ditch the hat, the walk, the beach, the antique show, and sit down right here for the next three days.
“There are no accidents.”
Chapter Thirty
“The secret to a really good mousse,” Knot held a metal double boiler in his right hand, ”is a technique called bain marie. I’m very big on technique,” he added. “That’s a French term – of course it’s a French term; all really good cooking is essentially French. Didn’t Julia Child teach us all that decades ago? I mean, come on. California cuisine? It’s just poor man’s French if you ask me, but who asks me? Anyway this technique is a water bath.” He filled the bottom of the double boiler with about two inches of water and placed the pan on a stove burner. “I’d like to be soaking in a warm-water bath right now. I’ll bet your mother’s having fun at the show opening tonight. Those antique dealers know how to set a good table.”
Amanda watched intently as Knot dropped blocks of bittersweet chocolate into the top of the double boiler over the water bath.
“Do you know how to crack and separate eggs? Can’t get any yolk in the white, now.”
Amanda picked up an egg and snapped it expertly against a large mixing bowl, let the white slide out, and dropped the yolk into a smaller bowl.
“Good girl. Pretty soon you could open a restaurant. Just like in the movie with Audrey Hepburn when she’s making a soufflé out of crackers and eggs for Bogey. Wearing those black leggings and little flats. Adorable. But of course you probably don’t know who Audrey Hepburn and Bogey are, do you?”
“Humphrey Bogart. He and Audrey were in Sabrina. It’s a classic. The remake was lame. But I like Greg Kinnear, and, to be honest, Bogey was not all that hot. Anyway my favorite Bogey movie is Casablanca. Trite but true.”
Knot stopped and raised his eyebrows so high they looked like they’d pop off the top of his head. “Not trite AT ALL. It’s my favorite, too.” He put a hand to his heart. “I would just love to find a man who would do for me what Rick does for Ilsa.” He shook his head in mock sadness, then perked up a bit. “And aren’t you the smart young thing, knowing your classic movies so well. You’re quite the mature one, you are.”
“Foxy loves the classics. We used to watch them all the time when I was younger.”
“So you two have a little something in common after all,” Knot said with a smile.
Laughing, Amanda agreed. “I guess so. At least we used to.”
But the two of them needed to concentrate on the task at hand. Knot became animated again, stirring and pointing. “Look. You see? The chocolate is melting evenly in the double boiler. You get a smooth melt this way. That’s one of the secrets of a really good mousse. The word mousse means foam in French. Are you studying a language?”
Amanda nodded. “Spanish.”
“Oh God, these days it’s almost like you have to learn Spanish if you want to talk to anyone. Really, soon we’re going to be like those Canadians with their two-language system. You should take French. Such elegance. In French, you can say ‘eat shit and die you little scum sucking pig,’ and it sounds like poetry. Simply elegant. Spanish is so simple. I suppose any of the romance languages are beautiful in a way, but French is really – well, all I can say is, no wonder it was the European court language for hundreds of years. Even in Russia, a peasant country if ever there was one. Great books, mind you. But the food? Borscht? Really? A bunch of beets is the national cuisine? Borscht and blinis and caviar.” He shivered.
They worked together side by side in silence. Knot beat the egg whites. “They should be beaten to form soft peaks. See?” He turned the beaters off, pulled them up and showed Amanda how the peaks fell over a little at the top. “Not stiff peaks. No, no, no. They’re far too hard for a mousse. SOFT peaks.” He nudged Amanda with his elbow and winked. “In all other circumstances, however, a stiff peak is preferred. But don’t tell your mother I told you that.”
Amanda giggled and stirred the chocolate and beaten egg yolks and they added the rest of the ingredients and then Knot combined the dark ingredients with the egg whites. “Don’t over mix. That’s another secret,” Knot told her. “Or you lose volume. I hate losing volume.”
He spooned the mixture into individual glass dishes and Amanda placed them in the refrigerator.
“How long before we can eat it?” she asked.
“Four long hours. Maybe only three if it chills fast. But we can start on the rest of the meal now.” He’d been out shopping and had assembled an array of bags and boxes, which he unpacked now and lined up on the counter. “I invited your neighbor down to join us.”
“Mr. Standlish?”
“Yes. Don’t be alarmed, but he’s gotten free rein from your mama to search the entire building for some sort of treasure. Although only God and the devil know what he’s looking for.”
Amanda unpacked a carton of eggs and transferred them to the plastic egg crate in the refrigerator. “I think he’s looking for something personal. My American history teacher says this house could have been part of the Underground Railroad.”
“All the way back to the Civil War?”
Amanda smiled to herself, remembering her conversation with Foxy. “I know. Crazy. What could a geezer from across the ocean be looking for in an old house in D.C. that was built in the eighteen hundreds.” She said it more as a musing than a question. “There’s something about him, though. Something I don’t get.” Amanda turned around to watch Knot chopping vegetables. “You know?”
“I tell you what let’s do. When he gets here for dinner, we can question him together. Maybe he’ll just tell us what he’s after. I mean, whatever he finds in this house belongs to your mother anyway. He can’t just make off with it in the dead of night.” Chop chop chop, he wielded a sharp knife expertly. And then his cell phone rang and he dropped the knife, wiped his hands on a dish towel, and picked the phone up with a slight pursing of lips in expectation.
“I can’t tonight,” he said into the phone. “Because I’m babysitting, you idiot.”
To give Knot some privacy, Amanda walked to the living room and looked out the window to the street below. It was getting dark earlier every day now. It had been cold this November. She wondered if that meant a cold winter. You never knew, in Washington, just what to expect. She could remember years when there was no snow at all. And one year when the city was crippled for almost a week from a storm that blew in from the southwest, burying the east coast all the way up past D.C. to Pennsylvania in over a foot of blizzard that seemed to last forever.
She watched the people scurrying home from work. Taxis honked. She could see the line of cars waiting for that stupid light at DuPont Circle, the one that only allowed about four cars at a time through when it finally turned green. She watched them inch forward, and she could still hear Knot on the phone.
“I promised her, that’s why,” he said. “Maybe you could come over late tonight or tomorrow. Are you that lonely for me, sweetie?” he laughed. “A late nighter could be fun, though,” he wheedled. “Just the two of us. I’ve been sworn off parties this weekend because of La Fox.” He listened. He waited. And then he said, “Well, wait a sec. I’ve had a stroke of brilliance. Why don’t you come over here for din din. We have plenty. And you can meet the lovely Amanda and that little man from upstairs I’ve told you about.” He listened again. “Of course I haven’t told her who you are, but she doesn’t care about politics. She’s fifteen for God’s sake. I mean really, we can’t put a shroud over you. Good grief, Leonard. Absolutely no entourage, though. I gave my word. No partays.” He listened again, raised his shoulders, and tilted his head to one side and said, “Of course the little man will never
know who you are either. He doesn’t know anyone at all. I mean we have to be careful, but only of certain types.” He clicked off, put down the phone, and calculated the amount of mousse for four.
Chapter Thirty-One
The antique show was much bigger than Foxy had imagined it would be. She consulted a printed plan just to find the dealers Knot wrote down for her. She got lost several times in the twisting and turning pathways between the show displays. Some of them were fairly simple but others were huge, with whole rooms arranged to showcase the pricier antiques. Her confusion wasn’t only geographic. She couldn’t stop thinking about the man from the beach. Well, the beach was only the beginning.
His name was Carter Edwards. She told him hers was Roxanne Anders. It took Foxy most of the evening to find out just the bare bones about him, because he was so interested in her. No one had gotten her to talk about herself so much in years. She was relieved she had brought some nice clothes to wear in the evening. He asked her to have drinks in the bar and then they sat outside the hotel restaurant overlooking the ocean. At night, the hotel turned on bright white spots that lit up the surf. It was like being in a night scene in From Here to Eternity. Foxy imagined herself as Deborah Kerr, down there at the edge of the surf.
By the second drink at the bar, he knew all about her failed marriage. She spilled about the move from McLean, the Bellagio fountain, the gambling debts. She told him about Amanda, although as she spewed her life out for him she knew it was not a smart strategy to entice a man by telling him about your teenage daughter. She even told him about Amanda’s switch to the Goth look, complete with piercings. He seemed interested and at times amused, consoling and at times bewildered, eager to hear more and always terrifically attentive. Foxy kept trying to stop this endless outpouring. She asked about him numerous times, but he always brought the conversation back to her.
And then there were the small hand pats. The arm around her waist when they moved from the bar to a small table. The hand on her knee at just the moment when she needed reassurance to go on with her self revelations. At one point she asked if he was a therapist of some sort. He laughed loudly and with great enjoyment, shook his head, and motioned to the waiter for another round of drinks. He had martinis. She ordered vodka and tonic with a lime twist. When they got up to leave, he signed his room number and she stumbled a bit. He reached for her and the back of his hand brushed against her breast. Was it by accident?
“I think I need some food,” she said, feeling elated and dizzy at the same time.
He ordered for them. The waiter was from Panama. Carter ordered in what sounded to Foxy like perfect Spanish. He ordered wine, and their bread arrived, immediately followed by appetizers. After Foxy got something in her stomach, her head cleared a bit. And then the wine arrived. He tasted and approved, and off they went drinking wine and eating and tasting each other’s food. Foxy giggled a lot. Carter flashed those even white teeth, smiling almost constantly. Foxy forgot about the store, the antiques show, Knot, Amanda, even her ex. It was glorious.
As she walked the antique show floor, she peered at all the displays and wondered why he hadn’t tried to seduce her. He did walk her back to her door. He did give her a sweet peck on the cheek while he held her hand. He did say it was the best evening he’d had in a long, long time. And when she opened her door, he almost bowed as he backed away. She stood there with the door half open, wondering if he would think twice and turn, but he didn’t. Only walked down the hall and disappeared around the corner.
So now Foxy felt a bit uneasy. She had to clear her head for the negotiations when she found the dealers she was looking for in this great, big, hall of mirrors. Every time she turned a corner she expected to find the right display, and every time she was wrong. She’d never seen so many Queen Anne sofas or Rococo chairs, not to mention plates, vases, desks, lamps, urns, rugs, four poster beds, and perfume bottles. She sighed and trudged on. She wished he’d left her a note. That they would be getting together again for dinner – or more. She pinched herself mentally and remembered what she’d told Knot about not getting involved for a year. Well, that was then. This was now. She had a strong urge to buy something and spotted an upscale vintage clothing display. As she headed for it, she saw, out of the corner of her eye, a sign that looked familiar. She referred to her list and, sure enough, it was one of the dealers she was supposed to see.
For the rest of the day Foxy bounced from dealer to dealer. She managed to corral four of the items on Knot’s list from different dealers. She signed contracts, handed over plastic, filled out delivery forms, and finally, exhausted and thirsty, headed up the escalator where there was a bar set up with hors d’oevres and little round tables with plastic chairs. She planned to take out her cell and call Knot to see if everything was okay at home and the store. Amanda should be at school. She’d been getting home very late these past few weeks. Foxy thought she should ask Amanda why, but she hadn’t gotten around to it yet.
At the bar she ordered club soda with a lemon twist and sat at one of the tables.
“Roxanne!” a deep, familiar voice called her name and it could only be one person, since no one on this earth ever called her Roxanne. She turned in the chair, her left foot half out of its shoe. Her feet were sore from standing all day, and the lime green pumps she bought to go with this skirt had proven less than friendly on a trade show floor. She smiled up at him and he extended a hand. She thought he was going to shake it, but instead he raised her hand to his lips and brushed it lightly, all the while watching her from under his brow. He pulled out a chair with the other hand and only then released her. “I was hoping to find you here. I called your room at the hotel, but they said you had left for the day after checking for messages at the desk. I was going to leave a note but I thought, well, I too like antiques. Why not visit this show? And here you are. What is that you’re drinking, cara mia?” he asked her.
“Oh, this is just club soda. I really had too much to drink last night. I was acting as if I was on vacation, when this is really a work trip.”
“Oh,” he looked let down suddenly. “Did you not have a good time?”
“I had a marvelous time,” she nodded her head and her soft, blond curls bounced a bit. “Wonderful in fact.” She smiled again. Should she say anything else? Should she let him talk? Foxy had always prided herself on knowing how to handle a man, but she was way out of practice and this was a new situation, so she asked, “Do you collect antiques?” And then she thought what a senseless thing to ask. Of all the things she wanted to know about him. Like was he married. She never even got to that last night. She could have kicked herself.
“My wife collected antiques. We had a house filled with them.”
This was unexpected, but he did use the past tense. What to say now?
“What happened?” Foxy blurted it out. Boy, she really was out of practice. She should have gone to remedial dating camp before this trip.
He sighed and, for the first time, he was not smiling. “She died two years ago. I’ve been floating ever since. I can’t seem to find a place I want to be. I go from Four Seasons here to Four Seasons there. One week in Mexico, one week in Bali, a month in Hawaii, two weeks in Provence, in Paris, in Sydney. Well, I really am a bore.”
Foxy was astounded. She couldn’t think what to say. Finally, after what seemed like a long silence, she laid her hand flat on his knee and said, “I know how it feels to lose someone. It feels as if your feet have nowhere to land. If I didn’t have my daughter to care for, I’m sure I would have collapsed.” Foxy, the model mother speaking truth. Amanda would paint a different portrait, had she been there. No matter. Truth was the tale of the teller.
“But if you have to wander,” she added, “wandering from Four Seasons to Four Seasons is a pretty good travel plan.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
It was an odd little group. Knot wearing a big white apron over his black wool slacks. Amanda, in black leggings, black long sleeved T, and a black
cardigan that came down to her knees, with sleeves so long they nearly covered her hands. Of course her silver earrings and necklace and the green hair falling over her eyes. Rumpled and looking weary, Myron showed up right on time as Amanda set the table. And Knot’s current amour, the congressman, in a business suit and tie, looked completely buttoned up, Republican in fact, which it turned out he was. He busied himself with some CDs he’d brought over. He’d designated himself DJ for the night.
Amanda squinted at the covers but couldn’t tell what he was about to inflict on them. She hoped it wasn’t Broadway show tunes, but from the looks of him, he’d probably brought Greatest Hits from Branson Missouri, Years One through Twenty inclusive. When she heard the unmistakable sound of Miles Davis, her shoulders relaxed a bit. It could have been a whole lot worse. Knot pranced up to the congressman, Leonard, and handed him a martini.
“Dry as the Gobi,” he announced with a big smile.
Amanda was afraid he was going to kiss Leonard, but he controlled himself and again her shoulders relaxed. She knew Foxy told him no men while she was gone. Knot seemed to think that meant no “other” men or extra men or whatever. He managed to skew reality to fit his needs at any given moment. Myron sat solemnly on the couch, his eyes fixed on a painting of flowers Foxy had hung over the faux fireplace. Amanda noted that his pants looked as if they’d never been ironed. Leonard polished off the first martini and Knot immediately replaced it with a second. After the fourth, Congressman whatever his name was that Amanda couldn’t remember, began to unwind from his buttoned up straitjacket and took off first his jacket and then his tie. On the fifth martini, he unbuttoned the top button of his shirt. When the CD switched to Brazilian sambas, he began to sway in the middle of the room as if he thought he was a palm tree.
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