“Shhhh,” Lucy hissed. “They’re finally coming back on!”
“Earlier today on CBS’s Good Morning Virginia show there was a face-off between area nutritionist Ruth Wilkins and celebrity chef Madame Paulette Martine, also known as the Diva of Dough.” The anchorwoman began her story by facing the camera with a stoic expression. “The focus of this morning’s show was on opposing positions regarding Americans’ tendency to overindulge on rich foods between Thanksgiving and New Year’s.
“Ms. Wilkins began the Good Morning segment by providing pointers on how to avoid the curse of holiday weight gain. Then Madame Martine allowed several members of our studio audience to sample her famous cakes. Here’s a taste of what those lucky few experienced.”
The screen switched to a setting familiar to all of the supper club members. The segment had been filmed at Milla’s culinary school. Paulette, wearing an apron covered with forest green fleurs-de-lis, stood proudly behind three gorgeous cakes resting upon glass pedestals. She swept her hand over Milla’s butcher block as though trace particles of sugar or flour lingered on the polished surface.
“These cakes are the perfect accompaniments for the season,” Paulette began, her voice clear and authoritative, yet strangely soft and melodic as well. “The first is a praline pecan bundt cake. This is an easy cake to create, and it’s a wonderful gift to take to a neighbor who’s feeling unwell, to a holiday potluck party, or even to the school bake sale. The cake’s buttery center is delectably moist and the praline icing simply cascades over the hills and ridges created by the mold. Lastly, the rim is covered by toasted and candied pecans. The result is that this dessert is just as easy on the eye as it is to eat!”
The host, a tall woman wearing a red suit, took a small bite of the praline pecan cake. “Delicious!” she exclaimed, and then she asked Ruth, “In your opinion, how many calories are in a single slice?”
“About one thousand,” Ruth answered calmly.
“One thousand? That’s nothing!” Paulette flicked a dishtowel in dismissal. “A slice of this cake is worth every calorie! Remember, my fellow food lovers, real food tastes like real food. It might contain fat and calories and butter and cream, but you shouldn’t put anything less onto your tongue!” Paulette theatrically threw her arms out wide. “This is a season of celebration! We should be enjoying this special time with our loved ones, and part of that tradition is sharing homemade foods. I ask you!” She pointed a spatula at the men and women seated on the other side of the counter. “Would you rather eat this lemon meringue layer cake with a filling of cream and strawberries or a rubber chicken from Lean Cuisine? Would you rather count calories or gather around the table, slice this cake, pour some coffee, and make some Christmas memories?”
Someone in the audience shouted, “I’d like some of that there cake right this minute!” and more requests followed.
Paulette issued a tinkling laugh that sounded extremely false to James’s ear and pointed at the lemon meringue cake. “People often reserve meringue cakes for the warmer months, but I love this cake in the winter because the stiff peaks of meringue remind me of miniature mountains covered with a layer of fresh snow.” She pivoted the cake so that the camera could focus on the slice she was cutting. “Look at the interior of this gorgeous confection. The lemon cake is so moist that it will feel like a cloud inside of your mouth. Next, the tart sweetness of the strawberries will make you close your eyes and moan. This cake is like mistletoe. The object of your desire cannot resist you if you offer them a slice of this heaven.” She handed the cake wedge to the show’s host. “You find me a person who would rather eat a bran muffin, and I’ll show you someone who is, quite simply, afraid of experiencing pleasure.”
Ruth shook her head in vigorous disagreement. “That’s an unfair—”
“And if you’d rather your sweet packed a little punch, then might I suggest my Eggnog Cake with Butter Rum Frosting?” Paulette completely ignored the nutritionist’s protest and, unfortunately, so did the show’s host. “And I don’t use rum extract. I use the rum that comes from a large bottle with a handle! Yes, mes chéries, dark rum and plenty of it, so if you’re on the wagon, stay away from this cake!”
The audience tittered appreciatively. Paulette began to cut slices of the eggnog cake while emphasizing that it could be made at any time of the year, as the batter didn’t actually contain an ounce of eggnog.
“Though eggnog happens to be my secret vice,” Paulette whispered into the microphone attached to her apron. “I can drink gallons of the stuff. Especially when I’m whipping up one of my triple-tiered chocolate mousse cakes. If I’m drinking eggnog, then I can’t drink the cake batter!” The audience laughed harder and issued a hearty round of applause.
“She really knows how to work a crowd.” James couldn’t help but be impressed.
Lucy nodded. “That’s why I was excited to meet her. She’s totally charismatic on her television show, and just look at those cakes! I’d love to get my hands on all three of them.”
James eyed his pudding cup. “I know this is a healthy dessert, but I’d much rather have a slice of that ten-layer chocolate fudge cake Paulette made for us a few nights ago. She’s a nasty piece of work, but she’s almost tolerable when she’s baking.”
Paulette described the smooth, buttery frosting while deftly stepping directly in front of Ruth’s more diminutive figure. As she watched the camera zoom in toward the nutmeg-flecked icing, Gillian asked, “How does one create ten layers? They must be thin as a fingernail; delicate as a butterfly wing.”
“It’s pretty incredible, actually,” James said. “I saw her remove three cake pans from the oven. After they had cooled, she overturned the cakes from the pans and stacked all three layers on top of one another other. She then started measuring from the bottom to the top with a ruler. She’d stick a toothpick into the cooked cake every half inch or so and then swivel it around and repeat the process.” He gestured at the screen. “The cake was about the same height as that eggnog cake on TV, but it looked like a porcupine with all the toothpicks sticking out of it.”
“Let me guess,” Lindy said. “The Diva then cut the cake layers using a serrated knife, right?”
James shook his head. “Incorrect. She used dental floss. It slid right through the cake and each layer looked absolutely even.”
“Mighty clever.” Bennett cast an admiring glance at the television.
As the five friends watched, the camera focused on Paulette’s head and shoulders as she took a bite of her cake and smiled in satisfaction. “Scrumptious! Now, why would you want to live a life that doesn’t include cakes such as these? Forget spending your money on diet food or weight loss centers. They’re just going to suffocate you with rules and restrictions. Enjoy life. Instead, run out to the bookstore, buy my latest release, Holidays with the Diva of Dough, and forget about the gym and the nutritionist. Do you want to be skinny and miserable or do you want to be happy and eat cake?”
The audience burst into spontaneous applause and the camera returned to the studio anchor desk. “Following the conclusion of the Good Morning segment,” the anchorwoman stated mechanically, “Madame Martine signed copies of her new cookbook and then left the studio. In the parking lot adjacent to the Fix ’n Freeze location where the show had taken place, Ms. Martine was cornered and, according to witnesses, harassed by Ruth Wilkins’s three sons.”
The camera switched to a street scene and James recognized the lavender front door belonging to Milla’s cooking school. A woman clutching two of Paulette’s books against her ample chest stood on the threshold, doing her best to look appropriately shocked and outraged.
“They blocked her path!” The woman declared as though a grievous crime had been committed. “Those three boys! And they were yellin’ all sorts of off-color stuff at Madame Martine. I’m a God-fearin’ woman, so I won’t repeat any of the ugly words they said, but one of them told the Diva she should get out of town. They were definitely threate
nin’ her!”
“She ain’t lyin’ either,” a man standing nearby raised his voice in agreement. “The biggest one, the Wilkins boy who plays nose tackle for the Hokies, he told Miss Paulette that she was gonna pay for messin’ with his mama’s business. Said it’d be her fault if they couldn’t finish up at school ’cause no one was gonna wanna make appointments after the word got ’round that it’s okay to eat cake.” The man shrugged. “Shoot, that Paulette woman just said what we all wanna hear anyhow.”
“Poor Dr. Ruth,” James murmured as photographs of her three sons wearing football pads, numbered jerseys, and fierce scowls were displayed for the viewing audience.
“Those pictures made them look like thugs!” Lindy exclaimed. “This is silly. Boys always try to look all sorts of tough for their sports photos. The media is trying to influence public opinion against the Wilkins family!”
“Welcome to the twenty-first century,” Bennett muttered darkly.
The final video clip showed two of the Wilkins brothers pounding on the passenger window of Paulette’s rental car. The third had his arm around his mother as she shouted at her other sons to stop, Ruth’s normally radiant face eclipsed with anxiety.
The members of the supper club watched with growing dismay as the largest brother abruptly shoved his handsome face, twisted by anger and humiliation, against the glass separating him from Paulette. As the footage had been captured from behind the car, it was impossible to see what the Diva of Dough’s reaction was to the young man’s wrath, but when he dragged his index finger slowly against the exposed skin of his throat, all of the supper club members gasped aloud.
“Oh my,” Gillian breathed. “That young man needs to learn how to control his baser emotions.”
“Too late for that.” Bennett reached for a second helping of pudding. “Those boys are already in a whole heap of trouble.”
“I have a surprise for you,” Milla told Paulette over breakfast. “Well, two surprises, actually. The first is this.” She handed her sister a tumbler of eggnog. “I made it myself. I know it’s your favorite durin’ the holidays.”
James poured himself some coffee and watched Paulette as she raised the glass up to her face and sniffed. “You remembered the nutmeg.”
“’Course I did.” Milla handed James the creamer. “I figured since you had a bit of a shock yesterday you could use a treat.”
“Nonsense. I couldn’t have paid for better publicity.” Paulette took a delicate sip of eggnog and then took another, rather unladylike slurp, and replaced the tumbler on the table with a thud. “That story will be picked up on the national level by tonight. I’m quite pleased.” She looked at James appraisingly. “You’re out and about rather early for a weekend. Don’t librarians lounge around reading or organizing their spice cabinets during their free time?”
Milla answered before James had the chance. “Our spices are already in alphabetical order, and James is gonna see a house that’s just come on the market. His Realtor lady called last night all excited.”
“Foaming at the mouth, most likely,” James mumbled.
“We are headin’ over to the Holiday Inn to visit with some special guests. And then we’re all goin’ out to lunch.”
Paulette’s eyes narrowed. “I’ve barely recovered from our mid-week foray to that disgusting goat farm. Who would these special people be?”
“Oh, just your children,” Milla replied casually.
“Truly? Chase is here?”
“And Chloe.” Milla chided with a smile. “I thought it would be nice if we could all spend some time together before the weddin’.” Folding her napkin into a neat square, she hastily added, “Wheezie’s here too.”
Her face instantly darkening, Paulette scraped back her chair and placed her hands on her hips. “You invited Louise! How could you do that to me?” She pulled her cell phone from her purse. “You should have known better. I’m calling Willow and telling her to book us on the next flight home. I did not agree to be a participant in one of your Hallmark moments.”
Milla reached over and gently clasped her sister’s hand. “In case you didn’t notice—we’re getting old, my dear. Do you want to go to the end of your days without seeing your own sister again? She’s your flesh and blood, Patty. She looked out for you when we were little—keeping the Howell boys from picking on you, baking you special treats, sewing your dresses after you tore them climbing trees …”
“And what?” Paulette was angry. “I ruined her life in return? Is that what you’re going to say next? That I rewarded all those kindnesses by destroying her dreams?”
Grabbing Paulette’s other hand, Milla pushed the cell phone aside and stared fixedly into her eyes. “It is time for guilt and pride and blame to be set aside. What happened was a long time ago. If Wheezie was willing to come, to make peace with you, than you should be willing to hold your arms out to your eldest sister and embrace her.” James had never seen such a fierce determination animate Milla’s features. “You owe her that much, Patty.”
Paulette pulled away and fell silent. James hurriedly finished his breakfast of low-sugar oatmeal and loaded his bowl, spoon, and coffee cup into the dishwasher. He could feel both women watching him as he wrapped a scarf around his neck and zipped up his parka.
“You’ve always been such a sentimental fool,” Paulette finally said, her voice tinged with annoyance. “So after this charming family reunion, I suppose I’ll be allowed some time alone in order to bake your wedding cake samples.”
“Certainly.” Milla cleared the breakfast dishes. “And James will be ready and willing to taste them all this evening. Right, my dear?”
James paused. “Just a bite of each.” He then opened his pocket journal and recorded the calories he had just consumed.
Cinnamon & Spice Oatmeal 120 calories
Banana 110 calories
Coffee w/cream 40 calories
Not bad, James thought to himself. Though usually reluctant to leave the warm and cozy kitchen, he was more than happy to step out into the morning’s sharp cold in order to escape Paulette’s discontented stares.
Joan had offered to pick him up at her office so that they could drive to the house in one vehicle, but he had politely declined. James knew that she would use that opportunity to influence his opinion on the property by touting its fine qualities while de-emphasizing its flaws. She had already mentioned the fact that the owner was being relocated and was therefore very motivated to sell.
“It was a promotion, you see,” Joan’s voice was airy as she relayed this bit of gossip to James over the phone the night before. “So he doesn’t need to focus too much on profit. Apparently, his new house in Nashville is on a two-acre lot and has twice the square footage of the one they’re selling. It’s a good thing too because his wife is expecting twins, and though this house might be perfect for you, a bachelor, or for a couple with only one child, it’s rather tight for a family of four. Do you need directions?”
James had already driven by the house twice, so he knew exactly where it was. He desperately hoped the interior was in good repair, because he had liked the house occupying 27 Hickory Hill Lane upon first glance. A two-story cottage with a front porch and a fenced-in yard, the little yellow house seemed tidy and welcoming.
Even in winter, when the trees and shrubs in the yard were bare and the lawn was brown-tinged in its dormancy, the white icicle lights dripping from the porch eaves illuminated the entire façade of the home. The buttery paint color, the curls of white smoke emanating from the chimney, and the well-groomed appearance of the yard were very attractive to James, and he was anxious over the thought that someone else would snap up this gem before he had the chance to get inside.
“I hope you haven’t been waiting long!” Joan chirped loudly as she rattled a fistful of keys. She hesitated at the end of the front path, clasping her hands together theatrically. “Isn’t this a charmer?”
“I like it,” James admitted cautiously.
> “Wait until you see how darling it is inside!” Joan unlocked the front door and asked James to wait on the threshold, and she breezed around turning on lights, her spiked boot heels clicking across the hardwood floors.
He then followed her mutely through a spacious living room, a brightly lit kitchen, and three small but comfortable bedrooms.
“The baths have both been redone and the appliances in the kitchen are new as of this year,” Joan trilled. “You’ll have to buy your own washer and dryer, but aside from that, you could practically move right in.” She frowned as they stood in the center of the third bedroom, which obviously belonged to a young boy. “I guess you’d have to remove all those glow-in-the-dark stickers on the ceiling and repaint that. Hopefully it won’t require sanding. I really wish people wouldn’t use those things! Too, too tacky!” She looked at James. “Do you want me to ask the seller to deal with that repair? It could be one of the terms of your offer.”
James was surprised. Had his immediate affinity regarding the house been that transparent? “That’s okay.” They returned to the kitchen and gazed out over the deck. “I’d like to walk around the backyard really quickly,” James said.
“Of course. I’ll stay right here and give you a moment to think.” The real estate agent pointed at a copse of trees lining the right-hand corner of the property. “And don’t worry about that swing set or the tree house back there. You could always get rid of those by putting an ad in the Star. People love getting something for free, whether it’s a swing set or lumber.”
“I’m sure you’re right,” James agreed just to get Joan to stop talking.
Exiting through the one-car garage, he was again impressed by the tidiness of the house. There wasn’t so much as an oil spot in the garage, and the flower beds in the backyard had been cleared of leaves and the spent stalks of perennials, and they were redolent with the fragrance of fresh mulch. James read the carefully written signs identifying which blooms he could expect to appear in the spring and early summer. He was also delighted to see a raised square of earth surrounded by wire mesh fence at the rear of the property.
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