“I’m not so sure - “
“You’ll have to trust my judgment. Of course, you haven’t been doing too well in the trust department lately.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, and meant it. Still, my brain buzzed with unanswered questions. The minutes ticked by. I had lied to Tom by not immediately ‘fessing up to my e-mail snooping; he had lied to me by covering up the whole resurrection-of-Sara-Beth problem. We sat in silence, not sure how to react to one another. The room shadows lengthened. Finally Tom said he was going to rest a while, and would meet us in the Great Hall at seven.
I preheated the oven and washed the tea dishes. Then I rubbed the thawed lamb roast with garlic, put it into the oven, and started the potatoes boiling. When I was washing the green beans, Boyd called.
“There was no sign of Troy McIntire when we got to his house,” he began matter-of-factly. “Neighbors say, about half an hour after you left? Old Troy came out of his house lugging several big suitcases. We’re hoping for a search warrant, but I’m sure that even if we get one, we wouldn’t find anything incriminating. As for your ex-husband, he’s not at home. I should know more about your computers tonight.”
“Thanks for trying,” I told him, then returned to my culinary duties. After the exchange with Tom, my mood had dropped. With no good news from Boyd, it plunged to a new low. To distract myself from the worries that seemed to beset us on every side, I decided to make the plum tarts for Friday’s banquet dessert.
The thought of laboriously wrapping the zirconia stones in foil with no accompaniment besides my own thoughts - the Hydes either didn’t have a stereo or I just couldn’t find it - was abhorrent. In one of our hastily packed boxes, I remembered seeing Arch’s Walkman, so I poked around until I found it.
I inserted the labyrinth-background tape from Eliot’s desk, washed my hands, and assembled the ingredients for the tart crusts. Eliot had wanted me to bone up on labyrinths so that I could field questions during the next day’s lunch. What he didn’t realize was that except for the dieters, no one ever asks the caterer much. The dieters have two questions: “What’s in this?” and “Is it low-fat?” They can be tiresome clients.
The labyrinth was a very ancient form, the tape began. It differed from a maze, a laid-out puzzle where you had choices as to which way to go. A labyrinth led only one way, but unless you paid attention to every twist and turn, you wouldn’t make it to the center. The oldest surviving labyrinth formed a stepping-stone path laid into the floor of the nave of Chartres Cathedral. The distance to its center from the front door was used as a mystical measurement, and mirrored the distance from the door to the center of the rose window. At the center you will find God, the tape informed me. Pilgrims now walked the labyrinth only once a year, but in medieval times it might have been walked often. These days, chairs covered the Chartres labyrinth.
As I sliced the dark plums into juicy slices, the taped voice launched into a discussion of labyrinth symbolism, which, in fact, was similar to that of the maze. Theseus had wound into the maze of the Minotaur, slain him in its center, then found his way back out to safety with the help of thread, thoughtfully provided by Ariadne. Christians walking to the center of the labyrinth could only get lost if they weren’t paying attention. By treading the path of the labyrinth, Christians took a spiritual journey to the death of Christ, and his temporary descent to hell. By symbolically descending and then ascending again, a pilgrim retraced the messianic journey, found God, and, hopefully, figured out all his or her life problems along the way. The idea of a walking meditation was appealing, but I wondered what happened if you got stuck in the
Damson-in-Distress Plum Tart
14 tablespoons (1 3/4 sticks) unsalted butter 2 1/4 cups all-purpose flour, plus an additional 3 tablespoons for the filling 3 1/2 tablespoons sour cream, plus an additional cup for the filling ž teaspoon salt 9 Damson or other plums (If using small Italian plums, you may need as many as 24 2 eggs 1 1/2 cups sugar
Preheat the oven to 325°F. Butter the bottom and sides of a 9 x 13-inch glass pan. For the crust, first fit a food processor with the steel blade. Cut the butter into chunks, Place it into the bowl of the food processor along with the 2 1/4 cups flour, 3 1/2 tablespoons sour cream, and salt. Process until the dough pulls into a ball. Gently pat the dough into an even, layer on the bottom of the prepared pan. For the filling, pit and slice the plums into quarters. Cover the prepared crust with rows of sliced plums to completely cover the crust. Beat the eggs with the sugar, 3 tablespoons flour, and 1/2 cup sour cream until well blended. Pour this beaten mixture carefully over the rows of plums. Bake the tart for 45 to 60 minutes, or until the top is golden brown and the custard is set in the middle. (I use a spoon to check the middle of the tart. The custard should be congealed, not soupy.) Allow the tart to cool completely on a rack. Cut into rectangles and serve with best-quality vanilla ice cream. Refrigerate any unserved portion.
Makes 16 servings
“It’s good to have you back,” I said, and hugged him. Fourteen-year-old boys do not like motherly embraces. But if you don’t mind putting your arms around a kid-dying-to-get-away-from-you, you can let him know you care.
“I’m starving,” he announced, peeking into the oven. “And I’ve got a ton of astronomy homework. How long to dinner?”
I told him it would be a few hours and he should wash up for a snack. While he soaped his hands, I fixed him scones, cheddar slices, and a soft drink. When he finished, I told him, he could help Julian set up in the Great Hall, then ask for homework help.
“Michaela’s idea is so cool,” Arch enthused, his mouth crammed with scone. “We’re going to show everybody how to fence, then we’re going to reconstruct a duel where some guy insulted another guy. The insulting guy got stabbed and bled to death.”
I shuddered, remembering the Lauderdales and their threats. “I think anyone who resorts to weapons to resolve conflicts has already lost.”
“Yeah, well, I think that’s why we always yelled that saying on the playground. Y’know, ‘Sticks and stones may break my bones, but names can never hurt me.’ Michaela says that when duels started, they used swords. Then they switched to pistols. You got in a duel with both guys’ packing guns, somebody was going to get whacked.” He sounded ecstatic. I remembered Buddy Lauderdale’s face as he was led away in handcuffs on New Year’s Eve. By the time I commented, “Now theres a happy thought,” Arch had already whisked away.
-20-
At quarter past six, Arch returned to the kitchen to pick up the hot-water baths for the chafers. He reported that he’d done all of his schoolwork, except for astronomy. For that, he had to wait until the stars rose. Might be up late, he added with mock ruefulness, but I let it go.
Julian, meanwhile, fretted that the night’s menu had no gourmet vegetarian dishes. So he scurried about to prepare two of his bistro specialties: a colorful lentil-tomato-scallion salad, and a bowl of baby spinach leaves tossed with a balsamic vinaigrette and topped with slices of goat cheese and tiny dollops of a red onion marmalade he grabbed from the dining-room jam cabinet.
“I might want to get this recipe from Eliot,” I commented, when I tasted the spicy relish. Julian nodded.
Arch, careful to protect his white fencing outfit, put together a heaping basket of warm rolls and butter. As we were loading the lamb roast and fixings onto trays, Eliot appeared.
He was wearing a double-breasted black suit that gave him a vaguely military air - probably a captain-of-the-castle look he was going after. With great ceremony, he announced that the seminar had been a success. While we picked up the gravy boat, extra candles, and matches, Eliot shuffled and banged in the dining room. Eventually he emerged with an elaborate corkscrew and two bottles of red wine. The only thing he and Sukie had disagreed on, he went on, was the number of people the castle could feed on a daily basis.
“This castle held a hundred people in the Middle Ages,” he told us, as he eyed his marmalade on top of Julian’s salad, “with
complete self-sufficiency. And besides, we’ve done fine with you four,” he added over his shoulder. He sashayed ahead of us through the heavy wooden hallway doors that led to the stairs.
“And we’re thankful,” I gushed. I didn’t point out that Eliot had done no cooking, cleaning, or conference-running, not to mention battle-preparation, during our stay. Not only that, but medieval kitchen staffs usually numbered over fifty. I didn’t point this out, either. If a caterer wants to keep her job, she does not correct the client.
I had never been in the Great Hall at night. Chandeliers and candles illuminated the cavernous space. The walls, paneled with dark, elaborately carved wooden squares, were hung with rich tapestries depicting battle scenes. Rows of arched leaded-glass windows bisected the walls. On the second story at the far end of the hall, a large balcony I had not noticed before projected out over the room. That area, Eliot said as I directed the food into the chafers, had been the minstrels’ gallery. Below the gallery, the wood-paneled wall also jutted into the hall - another medieval toilet, Sukie told me, pragmatic as ever. The corner also held an arched doorway that led to the postern gate. Eliot went on to inform us that in the Middle Ages, only the courtiers dined in this hall. The servants had been relegated to their own dining hall on the castle’s south range.
Eliot, his chin held high, led us to the far end of the hall, where he’d set up a badminton net and marked out a court with tape. The penny-prick game looked straight-forward enough: players stood behind a boundary and threw knives at an empty bottle, trying to knock a penny off the bottle’s lip, without overturning the bottle itself. Although the game historically was played with real knives, Eliot, ever wary of folks hurting themselves at the castle and the story getting into the paper, had bought a dozen of the rubber variety.
Tom appeared as I finished organizing the buffet. He walked over slowly and gave me a one-armed hug. Tears stung my eyes. I squeezed him back and prayed for all of Sara Beth O’Malley’s teeth to fall out of her mouth before Friday.
Sukie, Eliot, Michaela, Tom, Arch, and I dug into the tender lamb roast, the garlicky potatoes, the crunchy beans, the rich, hot gravy, and the cool mint jelly. Julian fixed himself a heaping plate of vegetables and salads, while Eliot waxed eloquent on the fact that the ceremonial procession of the courses from the kitchen to the Great Hall - which we’d unconsciously imitated when we’d lugged the food up the stairs - had been extraordinarily important in medieval and Renaissance times. The lord of the castle wanted to put on a big show, to prove to everybody how rich he was.
Julian surreptitiously rolled his eyes, then offered to clear the table and return with dessert and coffee. I nodded and thanked him. Eliot tapped Michaela to play the first game of shuttlecock as teammate to Arch, with Eliot and Sukie for opponents. Tom kept score, and I straightened up the table while cheering for both teams.
When the score was nine to nine, a cold sweat rolled over me. Had I really detected movement in the shadows of the postern-gate corner? Without warning, a shift in the flickering light revealed-what was it? A miniature knight, dressed in plate armor? Watching the game?
“Agh!” I yelled, pointing at the corner. “What the hell is that?”
The badminton game ceased. Eliot, Sukie, Michaela, and Arch gaped at me. I looked at them, then squinted at the corner, now suddenly empty. I sprinted over to where the two walls met, only to find no statue, no movement, no miniature knight. I tore open the door that led to the postern gate. The tower was icy cold and deserted. Disappointed, I slammed back inside.
“Miss G.?” Tom’s voice was full of concern.
“Sorry, everybody. I thought I saw something … .” I felt acutely embarrassed. I really did seem to be losing my mind. Except Tom had had a similar vision/hallucination/whatever. What was going on?
Sukie shot Eliot a stern look and murmured that sometimes it was better not to share the legends of the castle with guests. Eliot tossed his hair off his forehead and replied that he hadn’t told me any ghost stories. But I noticed that his eyes had become anxious. Tom tilted his head at me: Did my Tale of Law Enforcement scare you? I shook my head, as in, Its okay.
“Let’s do the fencing demonstration,” Michaela interjected, and I was thankful for the change in subject. The last thing a caterer wants to make is a gaffe, especially when the guests then proceed to discuss it for the rest of the evening.
Michaela and Arch took swords and masks from a bag stored under the buffet table. While Arch rolled out a mat, I kept an eye on the dark corner. So, I noticed, did Sukie. Tom, meanwhile, engaged Eliot in a spirited discussion of the escalating prices of antique furniture. But I couldn’t help noticing that Eliot’s gaze also kept straying to the shadows through which I’d seen the armored figure glide.
“This is an épée,” Michaela announced in her gravelly voice, commanding our immediate attention. “With the foil, which Arch and I usually use in practice, one may score a point by a touch on the upper torso. With the épée, touches anywhere on the body count. Arch, come here, please.” My son dutifully hopped up from the mat and strode over.
“The first thing we teach,” Michaela said, pointing to Arch’s feet, “is how to advance and retreat. Okay, Arch.” My son obliged by stepping deftly forward and back. Michaela continued: “The front arm and hand holding the weapon are parallel to the ground.”
At this she handed Arch an épée, which he brandished: in showmanlike fashion, Tom grinned.
“The back arm,” Michaela went on, “is crooked up at the elbow, hand facing the sky, for balance, until someone attacks, and lunges. Go ahead.”
Arch lunged. As he straightened his back leg and arm, he thrust the sword forward, It gleamed dangerously in the light from the chandelier. My son, the swashbuckler.
Michaela picked up a weapon. “The final skill we teach newcomers is parry, riposte. Your opponent attacks. You slap his sword aside, then counterattack.” She lowered the mask over her face. “En garde, Arch.”
Michaela and Arch touched their swords to their masks in formal greeting. And then they went at it, back and forth across the mat, moving with remarkable swiftness and an impressive snapping of swords. Clink, clink, swoosh, clink. I found myself growing more nervous with every flourish. I didn’t know if Michaela was letting Arch win, or making a good show. Arch scored a hit. Both took off their masks, bowed deeply to each other, then to us.
We all clapped enthusiastically. All of us, that is, except Eliot, who appeared increasingly anxious. As if on cue, Julian entered with a tray. He had shortbread cookies, ice cream, and frosting-slathered Chocolate Emergency Cookies, plus an insulated coffeepot and cream and sugar containers.
“And now,” Michaela said, “we will - “
Somewhat rudely, I thought, Eliot interrupted her with, “Great! Come on everybody, time for our sweets!” Tom and Sukie attempted halfhearted applause for the fencers.
Downcast, clutching his weapon, Arch raised his eyes to me for a cue. I gave a tiny shrug. Michaela murmured to him that the demo was over, and would he please roll up the mat.
With exclamations of pleasure, Eliot and Sukie received demitasse cups of coffee and crystal bowls of ice cream, with cookies perched on the scoops. Ignoring Michaela and Arch, Eliot resumed his somewhat shrill monologue on the exorbitant prices of antiques. Julian, his intuition alerting him that something had run amuck, appeared at my side.
“What’s going on?” he murmured.
“I thought I saw a ghost, and now Eliot’s acting a little uptight,” I said under my breath.
“Oh, is that all?”
“Julian, I saw something. So did Tom, when he woke up today. So either there is a ghost here, my husband and I are both having hallucinations, or a kid or midget or something is romping through the castle, wearing knight’s armor.”
“If it’s a girl in her late teens, tell her I’m available.”
“Julian!”
“Early twenties would be okay.” He scanned the Great Hall. El
iot and Sukie called their thanks to us and waved good night. Standing not far from us, Arch looked crestfallen.
“Jeez, Goldy, Arch looks like a friend just died,” Julian commented, concerned.
“He was enjoying being the center of attention for once - “
“Mom!” Arch appeared by my elbow and I yelped. It was his silent disappearing-reappearing act, learned in his eleventh and twelfth years, otherwise known as his magic-trick phase. I didn’t like it any more now than I had then.
“Michaela wants you and Tom and me to come over and see the fencing loft,” my son said eagerly. “And Julian, too, if he’d like to. We can finish our demonstration over there, if everybody still wants …”
“Oh, no, thanks,” Tom said. His face was haggard, and I knew the evening had worn him out more than he was willing to admit. “I’m going to turn in, if that’s all right.”
“Mom?” asked Arch, his face pleading.
“I have to do the dishes,” I said, with a pang. “Sorry.”
“Forget the dishes,” Julian told me firmly. “Go watch the demonstration. And, hey! I’m getting good at cleaning up. Makes me feel helpful.”
Arch’s expectant look, Julian’s offer, Michaela’s generosity, and, of course, my admonition to Arch not to go anywhere in the castle alone, made me say yes, I’d love to watch the demonstration. But not for long, I told Arch hastily: I still had prep to do on the labyrinth lunch, and he had astronomy homework. Not to mention, I added silently, if there was going to be a ghost-knight flitting around the castle, I wanted to be at my son’s side when the specter made his next appearance.
Toting armloads of fencing equipment, we wended our way through the cold, dimly lit postern gate tower, then down a drab hall to a set of steps leading to the first floor.
“How come part of the inhabited section of the castle is downstairs,” I asked Michaela, “and part is up?”
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