Sticks & Scones

by Diane Mott Davidson

  Julian took over the bar while I dashed back to our room, dragged a comb through my hair, dabbed on makeup and lipstick, and grabbed the only sweater I’d brought, the cardigan I’d worn to Eliot’s office. As an afterthought, I seized my cell phone from its charger and dropped it into one of the sweater pockets. Reception in the castle was iffy, but carrying a phone somehow made me feel more secure.

  In the kitchen, I tied on a clean apron, rechecked my list, made sure the roasts weren’t cooking too quickly, started reheating the rice, and slid the potato casseroles into the oven. In forty-five minutes, Julian and I would bring forth all the food. I launched myself back up to the Great Hall. I didn’t care if I looked like a plump little ex-wife who was also the caterer; I didn’t care how I would stack up to the tall, gorgeous nurse from the jungle. I was not going to miss Arch’s fifteen minutes of fencing fame.

  “The attack in foil is like a charge,” Michaela was saying to the assembled group of parents and students. Most were listening, but a few were milling about the shuttlecock court, where no one was playing, and the penny-prick game, where someone had already swiped the Susan B. Anthony dollar. Eliot, standing to one side of the group, looked depressed.

  Arch and Howie, in fencing uniforms and masks, stood on the mat. Arch had his back to me; Howie, who looked frighteningly anonymous in his mask, faced me.

  “We will have Arch,” Michaela gestured in my son’s direction, “and Howie,” she nodded to the taller boy, “demonstrate attack, parry, riposte. Then one of them will charge. En garde, boys.”

  Arch and Howie moved smartly back and forth, their foils clanging, their feet slapping the mat. Howie attacked. Arch swiftly parried and riposted. The spectators tightened into a semicircle in front of the mat. Watching Arch, my heart swelled with pride and I didn’t care if John Richard was only fifteen feet away. I wanted to holler, That’s my son!

  Without warning, Howie leaned forward, extended his sword, and ran toward Arch. I gasped so loudly half a dozen parents turned and glared. As Howie hurled himself toward Arch, my son froze, unsure what to do.

  “Stop!” I shrieked, then wished I hadn’t.

  Arch tumbled backward just as Howie’s sword whacked his chest, then his leg. Unable to keep his balance, Arch flailed off the mat. Howie, in full launch, could not stop. I watched helplessly as his right foot came down hard on Arch’s left ankle. Arch screamed. Howie fell on top of him.

  Michaela, John Richard, Julian, Buddy Lauderdale, and I all rushed forward. Howie seemed to be unable to extricate himself from the tangle of limbs. Buddy Lauderdale wrenched his son’s arm and demanded to know if he was hurt. Howie muttered something I couldn’t hear and clumsily righted himself. Leaning over Arch, Howie kept saying that he was sorry, very sorry, and why didn’t Arch parry? I was so intensely angry that I had to restrain myself from shaking Howie Lauderdale. How could a supposedly “good kid” have taken advantage of a younger boy like this?

  Tears slid out of Arch’s eyes as Michaela and I removed his mask. His cheeks had purpled, but he made no noise to indicate he was crying. Instead, he croaked, “I think my foot’s broken. Dad, is it broken? Dad?”

  John Richard shoved past Buddy and Howie Lauderdale. He removed Arch’s shoe, then probed with both hands along the foot and ankle. “Hard to tell.” He looked up, not at Arch, but at Viv, who had sidled up to the action. John Richard said, “It should be x-rayed.”

  Viv said, “Now?”

  “I’m taking him.” It was Julian’s voice. Our friend pushed forward to kneel beside Arch, who gave him an imploring look as tears continued to flow down his dark cheeks. “The father of my best friend at Elk Park is an orthopedist,” Julian explained matter-of-factly. “Dr. Ling. He lives by the lake, five minutes from his office, where he does X rays. He made me promise if I ever needed anything, I would give him a call.”

  “I know Ling,” John Richard said.

  You idiot Jerk, I raged internally, take your son to the orthopedic surgeon yourself. I turned my attention back to Arch.

  He was trying not to writhe in pain. Tears still streamed down his cheeks. I knelt beside him and asked what I could do. Miserably, he shook his head. Michaela appeared with a plastic bag filled with ice. She gently laid it on the rapidly swelling ankle. I wondered if she was thinking of the coup de Jarnac.

  I said, “Maybe he should go to the emergency room at Southwest—”

  “Let me go with Julian,” Arch said to me, his voice low. “Just let me, okay?”

  “Dr. Ling is closer and better than Southwest,” Julian insisted. “If the X rays show Arch needs to go to the hospital, I can take him. Arch, can you sit up, put your arm around my shoulders?” When Arch nodded mutely, Julian deftly hauled him to a standing position. My son’s left ankle dangled, and he winced.

  “I’m going with you—”

  “No way,” Julian told me firmly. “Stay and handle the banquet. Have a couple of parents help you out. I’ll call as soon as I know anything.”

  “Arch, honey, do you want me to come with you?” I asked.

  “I’m okay, Mom.”

  “I’m really, really sorry,” Howie Lauderdale gargled, increasingly distraught. “I was just trying to be aggressive, the way Dad—”

  “Howie!” Buddy snapped.

  To avoid strangling Howie, Buddy, or both of them, I accompanied Julian, who supported a hobbling Arch, to the hall’s east door.

  “Wait!” called Michaela in her commanding-coach voice. “We have something for Arch.” She snatched a trophy from her table and strode over to us. She announced loudly, “For Ninth-Grade Fencer of the Year.”

  Arch’s tear-streaked face instantly lit up. The parents and kids all clapped. I would have been elated, if I hadn’t felt so miserable.

  Easing Arch into the Rover proved difficult. Away from his peers, he squawked at every move that jiggled his injured foot. Around us, midwinter darkness pressed in. A high-pressure system must have moved across Colorado, though, because the air felt unusually warm—which probably meant it was forty degrees instead of five.

  “Friday the thirteenth,” commented Julian as he slid into the driver’s seat. “Go figure.”

  “You all right, hon?” I asked Arch for the hundredth time.

  “I’m fine, Mom. We’ll call you.”

  I cursed myself all the way back up to the Great Hall. Buddy Lauderdale must have told his son to press hard in the attack. I’d heard enough tales of fathers sharpening football spikes and bribing sons to crash into hockey and soccer goalies not to be certain of that. But I never would have thought Howie would play along. Of course, I’d seen Howie fence, and beneath that cherubic face was an ambitious athlete. Once he was in a competitive situation, he might be unable to stop himself. No doubt that was what Buddy Lauderdale had been counting on, when he’d called Michaela and said he wanted the two boys to fence tonight.

  Arch had frozen when Howie commenced his attack. Why? Because I’d gasped, and ruined his concentration?

  Was everything that went wrong with my child ultimately my fault? I didn’t want to contemplate that one.

  Lost in thought, I stared at one of the Wet Paint signs plastered in our bedroom hallway. Was it really my gasp that had distracted Arch? Or could it have been something else? Was it possible Arch had seen something under the minstrels’ gallery? He’d been standing in virtually the same place where I’d been the previous night, when the boy-duke apparition had materialized. But if he had seen the ghost, why hadn’t he mentioned it? Too afraid of looking like a wimp?

  In the castle kitchen, two team moms had somehow found Eliot’s key ring, unlocked the cupboards, and were poking around. Both expressed concern for Arch; I said he’d be fine. The women told me they were trying to help with the buffet. They’d lit the burners under the chafers and plugged in the hot platters. They’d had to be as quiet as possible, since Eliot was doing his castle-as-conference-center monologue. At least I wouldn’t have to hear that again.


  One of the moms said, “He was looking for clients. And tossing in a little history.”

  “Like croutons,” the other one added, giggling.

  I smiled, thanked them for helping, and checked my watch: quarter to seven. The women gushed over the scent of the roasted veal and the garlic-laden, cheesy potatoes. They were only too glad to carry trays with the molded salads upstairs. I gently stirred the pans of shrimp curry and rice. When my helpers returned, we turned the rest of the food into the serving dishes, then trooped back upstairs.

  “Ah, our feast!” Eliot cried when we made our entrance. He turned to his audience. “You are probably not aware that in Henry the Eighth’s time, one of the favorite meats was peacock, more for its glory than for its taste. So! In the kitchens of Hampton Court, a peacock would be skinned and roasted. The head, skin, and feathers would be set aside until the meat was cooked, and afterwards be replaced on the roast. The peacock’s beak would then be gilded, and the roast bird in all its feathered glory would be carried forth to the Great Hall!”

  Under the low sparkle of the chandeliers, it looked as if all the guests’ stomachs had knotted and their faces turned chartreuse. By the time Eliot finished the peacock story, the students were mock-gagging. That would teach Eliot to discuss uncooked bird head, skin, and feathers. The exception was the Lauderdales, who were deep in a whispered conference. Howie Lauderdale, his head hung with guilt, would not meet my gaze. And then there was John Richard, who had refused to leave with his son, because his girlfriend had demanded they stay and eat the Hyde-subsidized dinner for which they’d paid. Now the Jerk sported his own plucked-peacock look, an expression of embarrassed surprise I had come to associate with Viv massaging one of his nether parts. Sure enough, her hands had disappeared under the table.

  Eliot asked if there were any questions. The guests murmured. I didn’t quite have the food set up, so I was desperate for someone to ask something. Is it true chambermaids were sexpots? Anything. Does that woman with Dr. Korman count? On second thought, maybe we could skip the questions.

  A parent called out, “Was this castle ever under siege?”

  “Ah,” said Eliot, warming instantly to his topic. “Yes. But the siege ultimately failed. Now, when a siege succeeded, it was usually because there was a confederate within, or because the besieging army was able to bore underneath the castle foundations, or because the attackers had found another way to undermine the self-sufficiency of the castle, say, by poisoning their well.”

  “What about that high-priced letter from that king?” another parent called. “Found any more of those?”

  Eliot’s chuckle was indulgent. “Alas, no. The toilets, or garderobes, have all been thoroughly cleaned and restored, with no further finds. We got a royal flush the first time, what?”

  Only a few people laughed. I grabbed a silver spoon, tapped a crystal glass, and announced that dinner was served. I asked the guests first to thank Eliot for his enlightening presentation. The parents and students clapped with much relief, then made a beeline toward the buffet table. I had the two team moms go first, demonstrating the way lines should go down each side of the buffet. Once that was under way, I hustled back to the kitchen for the plum tarts-with-zirconia, two cartons of vanilla ice cream, and the first quart of lime sorbet. As I sped back up to the Great Hall with my rich cargo, I wondered if any of those self-sufficient castles had ever had to deal with melting ice cream.

  What? What did I just say to myself?

  I pushed into the Great Hall and was thinking so hard I almost upended the Jerk, plate and all. He cursed under his breath. I sincerely hoped he’d served himself lots of molded salad. He was allergic to strawberries.

  I sandwiched the ice cream cartons between the ice cubes in the cooler, then began to cut the plum tarts. The castles were self-sufficient. All of the needs of the courtiers and servants were met within the walls: food, water, entertainment, and, oh Lord, forgive me for not thinking of it before now: worship.

  Every castle had a chapel, of course it did. But where was the chapel in this castle? I’d been so focused on the Gothic structure down the road, Hyde Chapel, I’d forgotten to ask the question. Andy had written to Tom, The stamps are in the Hydes’ chapel. Could there be more than one? And which one had he been talking about?

  Folks were already clustered back at the buffet line for seconds. One of the team moms zipped to my side and gushed that she had to have my recipes for potato casserole and shrimp curry. I told her no problem. The buffet line did not need my attention. So, acting as if I had business there I strode over to the rack of pamphlets Eliot had set up by the east door.

  The only two pamphlets on display both looked newly printed: Hide Away at Hyde Castle! and A History of Hyde Castle. I glanced quickly through both of them. The second had a current floor plan, but no indication of how the spaces of the castle had been used in the Middle Ages, when the building had been constructed. The living room, for example, was designated by Eliot as “The Grand Parlor,” when Sukie herself had told me it once stabled the horses. The playroom I’d discovered was labeled “Moat Pump Room.” Why would Eliot, with all his concern for casting out historical tidbits, not tell how the spaces were originally used?

  And then I remembered the pamphlets in Eliot’s study. I’d grabbed one entitled Medieval Castles and Their Secrets, as well as Have Your Wedding at Hyde Chapel! But hadn’t I taken another old one, one on taking a tour of the historic castle? Where was that thing?

  Out of habit, I patted my pockets. Nothing in my apron. I prayed and felt inside my sweater pockets. Ah: paper. I pulled out all three pamphlets that I’d picked up in Eliot’s office. As the guests had no immediate food needs, I quickly opened A Tour of Hyde Castle and pored over it.

  It contained a historic floor plan.

  I ran my finger across the space allotted to the stables, the old kitchen next to the Great Hall—now the bedroom suite where Julian and Arch were quartered—the duke’s bedroom, now the new kitchen, and, in the area marked Moat Pump Room in the new floor plan, next to what was now Eliot’s study on the west range: Chapel. But I hadn’t seen a pump, broken or no. I’d seen games and toys and kiddie-style furniture. I’d also seen a new lock, a lot of spilled paint, and a Wet Paint sign.

  Plus, I’d asked both Michaela and Eliot about the current uses of that room. They’d both either lied or been evasive.

  So what did all this tell me? I wasn’t sure. And I didn’t have time to think about it, because at that moment the second mom who’d helped me came trundling up.

  “Goldy? What are you doing? Several of the guests have asked what you were reading so intently. Mr. Hyde said it was an old map of the castle.”

  “What’s the problem?”

  “Well, the Lauderdales want the nondairy dessert for Howie now. They said they asked you to buy lime sorbet.”

  I stuffed the pamphlet back into my pocket. “I haven’t started to serve dessert yet.” My voice was stiff with anger. After what the Lauderdales had put Arch through, they had some nerve demanding early dessert service.

  “I told Buddy that,” the mom explained, “but he said he wants to get Howie home, in case he was hurt in the collision. I’ll serve him his special dessert, if you want. Just tell me where it is. The Lauderdales are very anxious. Chardé says she wants to get her money’s worth from the banquet, and neither she nor Buddy are having any of the plum tart.”

  Oh, man, would these people never stop? “All right. Howie’s sorbet is resting on ice in the cooler. If they must have it now, you can serve it to them. Eliot wants to say a few words about the jewels in the plum tart, so I’m not going to start with the whole dessert service yet.”

  “Okay. Except here’s the thing. I thought the sorbet was in the cooler, too,” she explained. “At least, I thought I saw it there. But now it’s gone.”

  Clearly, this evening was not going to rank among my Top Ten Easily Catered Affairs. I stopped arguing with Team Mom Number Two and strode over
to the cooler.

  My heart sank.

  The sorbet was gone. No carton. No telltale drips. I counted the bowls. None missing. No missing spoons, either. So, someone had come along, swiped the sorbet, taken the box into a bathroom, then eaten the contents with their fingers?

  I sighed. I missed having Julian to help. Among other things, we managed to keep a close eye on the food, because people do steal at catered events, and not just because they want to take something home to Fido.

  Thank heaven I’d bought two containers of sorbet! I asked the team moms to signal Eliot to start his discourse on How English Nobility Loved Hidden Treasure in Dessert. The women enthusiastically agreed to serve up tart slices with scoops of vanilla ice cream. If anyone asked, I told them, I was going back for sorbet for a demanding guest, and would return soon. They smiled in sympathy.

  I sailed out of the Great Hall door, intent on my dessert-retrieval mission. But in the hallway between the Great Hall and Arch and Julian’s bedroom door, I came face-to-face with one of those ubiquitous Wet Paint signs. We’d been here four days. The mistress of the castle, Sukie Hyde, was the neatest neatnik I’d ever met. So how come these signs were still up?

  Was any real painting going on?

  If you were trying to conceal something with a Wet Paint sign, wouldn’t you put up lots of Wet Paint signs, to confuse the issue?

  My curiosity got the better of me. Eliot wouldn’t have left all the alarms on, would he? Especially since he had promised to take the guests on a tour later? I raced down the stairs to the ground floor and crossed the courtyard. The door to the hall leading to the “Moat Pump Room” opened easily. I wanted another look at the entry to that room, which had actually been filled with toys, and which had formerly served as the castle’s chapel.