“Thank God, no. It’s for several of my husband’s clients, so he’s having it catered.”
“That’s the secret, isn’t it?” She gives me that fun, slightly conspiratorial look again. “I hope you found a company you like. We finally seem to have a few caterers in town who serve something other than baked ziti and glutinous chicken Marsala.”
“It’s a firm my husband uses a lot for work and he swears that they’re good.” At last I realize what’s been gnawing at me. “By the way, how did this person on the arts council even know I moved here?”
“Through the grapevine, I assume. She loves your books, especially the new one about choices. I’m sorry to say I haven’t read it yet, but I just ordered a copy online.”
“Please don’t feel any obligation.”
“Oh, I’m dying to. I’m shocked I wasn’t aware of it already, since it’s been such a huge success.”
“Actually, why don’t I grab a copy for you. You can try to cancel the one you ordered or give it to a friend.”
“You really wouldn’t mind?”
“It’s my pleasure. I have a box in one of the spare bedrooms.”
I do as promise, winded by the time I finally return from upstairs. I have to catch my breath as I sign the book for her.
A minute later, watching her hurry down the sidewalk, I decide that it may be nice to have her come by again or have lunch in town with her. Someone new, someone with an energy level that may be contagious.
The thought, however, is quickly trampled by another: Could Guy have given the arts council my info and suggested they try to recruit me as a volunteer? He’d have contacts with the organization, of course. Is this a secret tactic of his for propelling me off my butt? Maybe he meant well, but I don’t like it at all. I return to the screened porch feeling oddly wired now, unable to sleep.
At five o’clock two waiters arrive at the kitchen door, both dressed in black pants, white shirts, and skinny black ties. One is probably in his early thirties, dark-haired, with a mustache and close-cropped beard and a tattoo that darts like a lizard from inside his shirt collar whenever he moves. His name, he says, is Conrad. The other guy is blond and gangly and probably only in his early twenties. Hopefully he’s more experienced than he looks.
They make a couple of trips back and forth to a van, carrying aluminum roasting pans and also a cooler on wheels. Immediately they start peeling back the tops of the pans and unloading items into the fridge. I pick up the scent of almonds.
“I don’t even know what we’re having tonight,” I tell them. Guy’s running the show since it’s a work dinner.
“It’s probably best if we let Eve explain,” Conrad says.
“Eve?”
“Eve Blazer. She’s the owner and the chef. She’ll be here at six.”
When I reenter the kitchen an hour later, she’s there, swirling olive oil in a pan. She’s pretty and lusciously curvy, a woman who’s obviously unabashed about sampling—and relishing—the dishes she creates. Her hair, fittingly enough, is the color of fresh butter, and most of it is tucked beneath a small white chef’s cap.
To my surprise, she greets me coolly. Her eyes slide off mine as if I’ve introduced myself as the person who’ll be taking coats.
“Do you need me to show you where anything is?” I ask.
“I think we can manage,” she says. “Are you still planning on an eight o’clock sit-down?”
“Yes, that sounds right.” The guests, Guy’s informed me, are arriving at seven fifteen. “What are you serving tonight?”
“No one’s told you?” she says, as if I’m the nerdy girl who’s clueless about what all the popular kids are up to. I don’t understand why she’s taking this tone. Maybe she’s just truly surprised that I’ve been left in the dark, so I give her the benefit of the doubt.
“No, my husband’s secretary made the arrangements.”
“Chicken tagine. And a crème br?lée for dessert.”
“Sounds good. Why don’t I let you get to work?”
I head upstairs and dress for dinner—black leggings, heels, and a breezy white silk blouse. For a few minutes I sit on the edge of my bed, trying to siphon energy from some secret reserve in the universe, but to no avail. I lift my hand from my lap and touch the linen duvet cover. I’d love nothing more than to flop on the bed and let my eyes fall closed for the night.
Finally, pressured by the insistent clicking of the digital clock on the bedside table, I rise, descend to the ground floor, and do a last sweep through the house, making sure lights are on and the rooms are tidy. On the screened porch, I notice the pad on which I’ve scribbled down the dream. As I’m scooping it up, a shadow crosses the room and I turn. Guy is standing in the doorway.
“There you are,” he says. “Sorry to be running late. Is everything under control with the caterer?”
“Seems to be. I offered to show the chef where stuff was, but she didn’t want my help.”