by A. J. Carton
“Thank you,” she nodded. Then she paused.
“But…” he smiled.
“But my life has changed in twenty years,” she replied slowly.
Dan threw up his hands. “Oh my gosh! Of course. I was so wrapped up in telling you about myself, I forgot to ask. The murder. You solved that big murder with the Chinese developers. It was all over Facebook. It was even on the news. Emma, that’s terrific.” He looked at her sheepishly. “I guess you’re kind of a celebrity now.”
She shook her head. “It’s not that. Dan, it’s been twenty years. I have changed.”
“You mean…there’s someone else?” He raised his shoulders in an irritated shrug. “Why didn’t you just say so? Why did I even bother coming?”
“In fact,” Emma tried to explain, “there isn’t anyone else, exactly,” she added. “I mean no one in particular, yet. This is about me. I didn’t know that till I saw you again. The truth is, you haven’t changed. But I have. And I can’t just go back to the way things were. To old times, as you put it.” She stared at him perplexed. “I’m not sure I even understand it, Dan. I know it sounds sappy, but when I came here, I told myself to be quiet so I could listen to my heart. Well, I did that. And my heart just isn’t in this. Not now. Maybe not ever. I’m sorry. I’m sorry, too, that you came all this way. For nothing.”
Now it was Dan’s turn to look perplexed. In fact, from the look he gave her, Emma thought she might as well have been an alien from outer space. “Well,” he snorted. “Can’t say I saw that coming. I guess I just sort of took it for granted that you and I were meant to be. That we would always be there – for each other.”
“Not exactly,” Emma corrected him. “I think you always just sort of took it for granted that I would always be there for you. I wish it were that simple. But it’s not. I’d have loved to visit the museum with you – and by the way, I hear the Goya show’s terrific – but under the circumstances, I think I should go now. For what it’s worth,” she added, “it took a long time for me to get over you, Dan. Now that I have, I guess there’s no turning back.”
Emma stood up. Grabbed her purse and coat off the hook on the wall, and made for the exit. But before she pulled back the green velvet curtain, she thought of something.
She turned and winced apologetically at her surprised companion. “You don’t mind paying for this, do you Dan? Like old times? I gotta run.”
Then she swept the green velvet curtain aside, ducked out of the room, and let the curtain drop.
Chapter 30: Saturday – Itchy Feet
Lying in bed Saturday morning, Emma watched the sun flood her small cozy bedroom. Its rays finding their way through the sturdy branches of the magnolia tree now exploding in pink spring blooms. Reaching, it seemed to her, into the farthest corners of her bedroom, or was it her heart?
She searched there for the too familiar signs of regret. The second thoughts that, in the past had haunted her life. Did I do the right thing? How had Dan felt on the flight back to Denver? Was he hurt? Was she to blame?
She had always weighed each decision she made from everyone else’s perspective. Until finally her own feelings, apart from theirs, ceased to exist.
How can I be happy when I’ve caused someone else pain?
That morning, however, after leisurely stretching she sat up in bed and wondered if, perhaps, there was such a thing as too much empathy. After twenty years Dan Worthington’s happiness is not my responsibility, she assured herself. Dan’s feelings are different. Different from mine. Who knows what he felt on the plane ride home?
And the truth was, that morning she didn’t care. More importantly, she had a dinner to cook for people she loved – or at least, she corrected herself, people she liked a lot.
Downstairs in her cozy fleece muumuu she treated herself to a latte and biscotti in her backyard: a third of an acre of deck, fruit trees, a play area for Harry, and a small vegetable garden. All of it backing onto a wildlife preserve. Surprisingly it was everything she’d ever wanted in a home. Quite an admission from a city girl!
After that, she dressed for the day in blue jeans, a French striped T-shirt and espadrilles bought on her cookbook research trip to Italy before she published Dining with the Stars. The trip already seemed like a lifetime ago. So long, in fact, that she swore her feet started to itch as she slipped on her shoes.
Which reminded her, once again, of Mary. Her best friend. The woman who accompanied her on that trip and encouraged her from the moment Emma first mentioned her idea for the cookbook, right up until Mary’s death almost two years before. Who knows how long before I find such a good travel companion? she asked herself. Till Harry’s a teenager? She hoped she didn’t have to wait that long.
By then it was well past 9:00 a.m. Time for the Farmers’ Market held every Saturday morning in Blissburg from May through November. But I have to get there early before the best produce is gone, Emma scolded herself.
The market was less than a ten-minute walk from Emma’s front door. It filled half of the civic parking lot across the street from The Trough. And don’t bother going, she reminded herself, unless you’re ready to meet just about everyone you know in Blissburg.
She glanced critically at herself in her bedroom mirror, applied a little lipstick, and put on her pearl stud earrings. Then she went downstairs, grabbed her lightweight purple parka off the hook by the front door along with an African shopping basket, and dashed off.
Two blocks up Blissburg Avenue, Jeb from the insurance agency poked his head out the door.
“Great going, Emma, the way you and your son-in-law cracked that murder case! You’re two for two. Shouldn’t Chief Tompkins be thinking of putting you on the payroll?”
Emma swatted the compliment away with her hand. “I’m just glad the Chief was there to handle the arrest,” she replied.
A block later, she bumped into Annemarie from the bookstore. “You did it again, Emma!” she exclaimed. “You must have a nose for murderers as well as a nose for food. Before too long, someone’s going to write a book about you.”
Emma blushed. “A streak of good luck, that’s all,” she said.
By that time she was at the market. She looked at her watch. She didn’t have time for long chats. She still had to stop at Little Pete’s Gourmet Grocery for the rest of the dinner. But kudos kept coming. In fact, every few steps brought another well-wisher, another neighbor hoping for the inside scoop on the murder.
By the time Emma got to the Lois’s Berry Farm stand, most of the ripe early raspberries were gone.
“Any sweet ones?” she asked.
What little was left of Lois’s inventory had green caps and looked sickly and pale. “I’m serving them tonight with Bavarian cream,” she added, glad that she’d found the energy to make the cream the night before. When she’d checked the refrigerator that morning, it had set, thick and luscious in its mold.
“For the detective?” Lois winked, “I always save a few pints in my truck. For special customers,” she added pointing her index finger at Emma. Minutes later, she handed over six baskets of plump, deep red berries bursting with juice.
A few stands away, Allison from Clark’s Creamery pulled a runny ripe disc of aged goat cheese out of a cooler stashed under her display case. It was dusted with tree ash and wrapped in leaves.
“You want to serve this one tonight,” she whispered, surreptitiously transferring it into Emma’s basket like a stash of illegal drugs. “I set a few aside for my best customers.”
“Your Petite Douce?” Emma exclaimed. “It won the gold at the State Fair.”
“But of course,” Allison replied. “I was almost sold out, but I saved one for you. As a kind of ‘thank you’ for solving that murder.”
Emma added a soft cow’s milk blend and some butter to her purchase. Much to her surprise, Allison wouldn’t let her pay.
When she picked up the warm sour dough baguettes at Claud’s booth, the beans and lettuce from Tasso, and the Cremin
is from The Mushroom Man it was the same.
Finally, she stopped for flowers. She’d decided on sunflowers. Dozens of them. The first yellow blooms of the season that had just begun to appear. She grabbed six bunches to fill Jack’s barely lived in rooms.
After that it was Little Pete’s to pick up the veal, Marcona almonds, sweet San Daniele prosciutto, and a Mexican cantaloupe – the first of the season. Then back home to pack. The fresh pasta dough she’d made the night before was resting. All she needed was her trusty pasta machine and the food. Jack had everything else.
A couple of hours later, when she got to his house, Jack was on his way out the door.
“Off to the club,” he waved. “By the way, I tried to reach you yesterday – to see if there was anything I could do to help. Then I ran into Julie who told me you’d rushed down to the City for the day. Everything OK?”
Traitor! Emma grimaced. “Everything’s great. Just a few loose ends.” She glanced at the duffle bag Jack held in his hand.
“Tennis date,” he said following her eyes. “Don’t worry. I’ll be back in time to serve everyone drinks. Whaddaya say we go with Margarita’s tonight? I figure with a couple of them under my belt, I’ll be ready for anything you throw at me!”
With that vote confidence Emma entered the kitchen clutching Tupperware containers in her hands. Let Celina be here to help me, she prayed. And Celina was. A few minutes later they had everything put away. Jack’s precious Bavarian cream stored safely in the oversized Sub Zero. The raspberries next to it ready to wash just before she served dessert.
Emma was patting the veal roast dry before browning it in a pan. Celina arranged the sunflowers in the colorful faience pitchers Emma had brought for the centerpieces. Suddenly, she stopped, gathered up two of the pitchers and motioned Emma to follow her to the dining room.
There to her relief, Emma discovered the large glass table was already set. With Provencal placemats in pinks and gold along with freshly ironed napkins. Jack’s stark white china set off the sunburst of flowers perfectly. The table looked spectacular.
An hour later, the house was filled with the mouth-watering aroma of milk fed veal roasting slowly in garlic, rosemary and dry white wine. The aromatic theme song of her childhood, Emma recalled. The smell that signaled loved ones were near and the world - at least her world – was happy and safe.
Emma poured herself a glass of the Sauvignon Blanc she’d used to cook the veal, pulled up a stool and assembled her trusty pasta machine clamping it to a large wooden cutting board set on the marble counter.
Then she unfolded the French linen dishtowel she’d used to transport the pasta dough she’d made the night before. The texture of the eight inch pale yellow ball was almost shiny with extra egg yolks and tireless kneading. She cut a wedge and kneaded it again, slowly narrowing the space between the pasta machine’s two steel rollers so the sheets grew longer and thinner at each turn. Till they felt like lengths of fine yellow silk.
Finally her favorite part. She attached the cutter. As she turned the long handle, sheet after sheet was transformed into narrow, flat, rich yellow noodles that she lightly dusted with flour and spread on the cutting board, ready to cook.
Emma reached, again, for the bottle of Sauvignon Blanc. Then she stopped herself when she looked at the clock. Dinner was only an hour away. The roast veal barely simmered in its roasting pan on top of the stove – its juices thickening with flavor. Emma scraped every speck of Trapanese sauce out of its container into a saucepan ready to heat.
By the time Celina had helped Emma slice the deep orange cantaloupe into bite sized wedges, drape them with the prosciutto and arrange them on a platter, there was no time left to go home to change. The guests would arrive in half an hour.
Emma had just lined up thin slices of baguette around the ripe runny cheeses when Jack returned relaxed and happy. Emma guessed he’d stopped at the Chatham Club bar for a drink before coming home.
“Did you win?” she asked as he ducked off to the shower.
“I always win,” he smirked.
The doorbell rang promptly at 6:00. The Monroes were first to arrive. Emma heard Jack greet them while she checked the roast. Then she began, slowly, to reheat the sauce. It wasn’t a dinner for chatting with guests. Just as well, Emma thought to herself.
The next voice she heard was Cara in the hall. No doorbell, Emma mused. She’d let herself and her husband in with her key. Then another chime and Piers’ loud voice hailed Mike.
Everyone’s here.
But it wasn’t until the roast was resting, the pasta was cooked – three minutes, not a second more - and steaming plates of Trapanese served at each guest’s place, that Emma dared make her appearance in the living room.
“Time to eat,” she announced motioning everyone to the dining room table.
Emma only got up once from her seat before dessert. To make sure the veal was thin-sliced and the beans quick cooked. Celina took care of everything else. And well it was that Emma stayed seated. Aside from much oohing and aahing over the table and a few stray comments about the “unusual” almond pesto, all anyone at the table wanted to hear was how Emma caught the crook.
“You mean, you were in the middle of all that last Saturday night? The same night you were cooking dinner?” Jane Monroe gasped. “How did you do it?”
“I didn’t, if you recall,” Emma answered, glancing at Jack. “I had help.”
“Your assistant, right,” Bob added. “Wait,” he did a double take to Julie. “That was also your father, right? I never did figure out what was going on. But the food was spectacular. How’d we get so lucky to be invited again?” He glanced at Emma and blushed. “Not that I’m complaining, mind you.”
“Actually,” Emma noted. “This is kind of a ‘thank you’. You and Jane were invaluable helping us nab the killer.”
“How so?” Bob asked. “You mean that stuff about the Sunnyvale deal?”
Piers nodded. “Totally tipped us off. Once we suspected that HoCo had sabotaged the plum ranch deal to lower the price, the other pieces fell into place. Emma knew that someone was getting paid off. The question was by whom. And why. You helped us answer that.”
Piers cast an amused glance at his mother-in-law. “Then after we’d followed the money, Emma followed the heart. She uncovered the ghosts of Cory and Maria Hidalgo that have haunted Curt Randall ever since his son died.”
Emma nodded, “In the end the poison wasn’t the arsenic HoCo slipped into Curt’s water tank. The real poison was in Curt’s heart: hate and bigotry. They’d been poisoning everything around him for years.”
“It wasn’t until Curt saw his son’s cutting knife on Maria Hidalgo’s desk that he finally realized who stole the murder weapon,” Piers explained. “But we couldn’t have figured it all out without Emma.”
“You mean HoCo stole the knife?” Jane Monroe asked.
Piers shrugged. “Cheng Bo. He’d admired it the day he delivered the due diligence report. The one that allegedly uncovered pollution in Curt Randall’s water supply. Curt finally remembered that was the last time he saw his knife.”
“The rest was easy,” Emma concluded.
“So who was Maria Hidalgo?” Cara asked.
Celina had cleared away the pasta plates and begun serving the veal.
Piers and Emma exchanged knowing looks.
“It’s your story,” Piers nodded at Emma.
She glanced at Jack. Then she began the age-old story of forbidden love and the deadly fruit it bore.
When Emma finished, everyone at the table sat quietly for a few minutes. Finally Jane Monroe spoke up.
“Wait a minute,” she said. “When did you find all this out?”
“I first heard the story of Cory and Maria last Friday. When I was in Coachella with my boss, trying to figure out who murdered Santiago Gomez. But I hadn’t located Maria yet. That took a little time…”
“Friday! You were in Coachella! How did you prepare that fabulous
meal?” Bob exclaimed.
“I told you. With help,” Emma cut in.
“Help, shmelp!” Jane answered. “You caught the murderer Tuesday. How did you do it all?”
Emma glanced sheepishly at Jack. “I didn’t, exactly. The truth is, I let a lot of people down. That dinner was a disaster if you recall.”
“The dinner was delicious, not disastrous. Frankly, I’m impressed.” Cara spoke like someone who was rarely impressed. “You’re a super cook, Emma, and a super sleuth. You deserve a toast.” She and everyone at the table raised a glass.
“What she deserves is a vacation,” Julie added. “You must be exhausted, Mom. I don’t know how you pulled this off tonight.”
“I wanted to,” Emma replied, glancing again at Jack.
“Speaking of vacations…” It was Jack’s son-in-law, Mike, who finally changed the subject. “What did you decide Jack? About that month-long Stanford Sicily tour this fall? Sure wish we could go, don’t you Cara? Sounds like a once in lifetime trip.”
Cara looked at her husband and scoffed. “A month? In October? Are you kidding? Who besides retired millionaires – and Dad – have that much time off?”
“I’ve been dying to go to Sicily,” Piers cut in. “What’s the deal?”
Cara snorted. “Hardly a deal. It’s typical Stanford. Way over the top. A faculty led tour limited to, what, twelve or fifteen people and six renowned professors sailing on a luxury yacht visiting Greek, Arab and Norman Sicily. From Syracusa to Palermo. All this with evening cooking classes from famous regional chefs flown in from all over Italy. Sounds great, but who has time? Except for my Dad.”
She shook her finger at her father. “Didn’t you have to reserve by last Tuesday?”
Jack clearly didn’t want to reply. Emma watched his face assume that trapped look. Not the caged tiger. More like the cornered hound who’d just chewed up the leather chair. But everyone was staring him. Gasping, “Wow, what a trip!!!”
Jack kept silent for almost a minute. Then, just when Emma thought he wasn’t going to reply, he answered softly, “Yeah. I’m all signed up.”