drained my espresso cup and put it into the sink. Unfortunately, the first time I’d done a dry run of Nora’s, or rather, Charlie Baker’s Journey Cake recipe, it had flopped. It had fallen, sunk, collapsed. If you wanted a historic angle, you’d have to think of San Francisco after the 1906 earthquake.
Once again, I edged over to the espresso maker. Too much caffeine, you drink too much caffeine, I heard my doctor saying. Tough tacks, I’d replied. And anyway, the machine felt like my anchor. “Or warm teddy bear,” Tom had joked.
Well, I needed a hug from my teddy bear, not only because of worry over how Arch and Julian were dealing with Dusty’s death, but also because I had something infinitely more banal to ponder: the plumbers and their work, or lack thereof, at the Roundhouse. I remembered an old joke we used to tell back in New Jersey. I’d always thought it came from The Tonight Show, but I wasn’t sure:
A doctor calls a plumber in the middle of the night because his toilet is running and keeping him awake. The plumber drives out and fixes the problem in about fifteen minutes. A week later, the doctor receives a bill for four hundred dollars. Enraged, he calls the plumber to complain. “I’m a doctor and I don’t even charge sixteen hundred bucks an hour!” And the plumber calmly replies, “I didn’t either when I was a doctor.”
I fixed myself a one-shot espresso, drank it down, and put in a call to Front Range Plumbing. As usual, I got their machine. I told them who I was and reminded them this Monday evening, that is, in three days, I had an event to cater at the Roundhouse. I needed the plumbing fixed. Please, I added, before hanging up.
Well, I consoled myself as I again rinsed a cup, if the guys laying the pipe were not done, we would have to hold the post-ribbon-cutting event for the new Mountain Pastoral Center in a small room at the Aspen Meadow Country Club. Luckily, a very foresighted Marla had booked it “just in case.”
“Hello, Goldy, are you in there?” Marla’s voice seemed to be coming from far away. “I’m dropping my Mercedes off for some work in a few minutes, and a repairman is driving me out to Creekside Spa. I’m supposed to be at the spa in half an hour. Do you want me to stay with you for a while longer, or not?”
“Yes, please stay.”
“Let me make us all some more coffee.” Tom was suddenly at my side. “Sit down, Goldy.”
“I don’t want any more caffeine, thanks.”
Tom lowered his voice. “Are you all right?”
I shrugged and didn’t mention the Journey Cake, the food for the christening and the ribbon-cutting receptions, the plumbing problems, or Dusty. Instead, I sat down at our kitchen table next to Julian, who looked disconsolate. Was he remembering a time he’d been with Dusty, to the movies, for a hike? Was he recalling what it was like to kiss her? I didn’t want to think about it.
Tom, all assurance, placed a pair of cups under the nozzles and pressed buttons. Rich ropes of espresso hissed out. Marla placed plump, bejeweled hands on Julian’s and my arms.
“You two should take some time off,” she advised.
I snorted; Julian looked out the window. Tom placed the cups in front of Marla and Julian, then raised an eyebrow in my direction.
“Miss G., Julian, Marla’s right.” He unhooked his cell phone from his belt. “Let me call Victim Assistance.”
I squealed, “Forget it!” with such ferocity that Tom put down his phone and patted my shoulder.
“Okay, Miss G.,” he murmured. “Whatever you want.”
“Goldy. Julian.” Marla’s voice was full of alarm. “Don’t cook today, please. Don’t even stay at home. Come with me to the spa. We can leave now and I’ll call them on the cell, book the two of you with the same package I’m getting. They take guys, Julian, no worries. You could each get a ninety-minute massage, oil and water treatment, full-body wrap—”
I cleared my throat. Did neither Tom nor Marla
Once again, I edged over to the espresso maker. Too much caffeine, you drink too much caffeine, I heard my doctor saying. Tough tacks, I’d replied. And anyway, the machine felt like my anchor. “Or warm teddy bear,” Tom had joked.
Well, I needed a hug from my teddy bear, not only because of worry over how Arch and Julian were dealing with Dusty’s death, but also because I had something infinitely more banal to ponder: the plumbers and their work, or lack thereof, at the Roundhouse. I remembered an old joke we used to tell back in New Jersey. I’d always thought it came from The Tonight Show, but I wasn’t sure:
A doctor calls a plumber in the middle of the night because his toilet is running and keeping him awake. The plumber drives out and fixes the problem in about fifteen minutes. A week later, the doctor receives a bill for four hundred dollars. Enraged, he calls the plumber to complain. “I’m a doctor and I don’t even charge sixteen hundred bucks an hour!” And the plumber calmly replies, “I didn’t either when I was a doctor.”
I fixed myself a one-shot espresso, drank it down, and put in a call to Front Range Plumbing. As usual, I got their machine. I told them who I was and reminded them this Monday evening, that is, in three days, I had an event to cater at the Roundhouse. I needed the plumbing fixed. Please, I added, before hanging up.
Well, I consoled myself as I again rinsed a cup, if the guys laying the pipe were not done, we would have to hold the post-ribbon-cutting event for the new Mountain Pastoral Center in a small room at the Aspen Meadow Country Club. Luckily, a very foresighted Marla had booked it “just in case.”
“Hello, Goldy, are you in there?” Marla’s voice seemed to be coming from far away. “I’m dropping my Mercedes off for some work in a few minutes, and a repairman is driving me out to Creekside Spa. I’m supposed to be at the spa in half an hour. Do you want me to stay with you for a while longer, or not?”
“Yes, please stay.”
“Let me make us all some more coffee.” Tom was suddenly at my side. “Sit down, Goldy.”
“I don’t want any more caffeine, thanks.”
Tom lowered his voice. “Are you all right?”
I shrugged and didn’t mention the Journey Cake, the food for the christening and the ribbon-cutting receptions, the plumbing problems, or Dusty. Instead, I sat down at our kitchen table next to Julian, who looked disconsolate. Was he remembering a time he’d been with Dusty, to the movies, for a hike? Was he recalling what it was like to kiss her? I didn’t want to think about it.
Tom, all assurance, placed a pair of cups under the nozzles and pressed buttons. Rich ropes of espresso hissed out. Marla placed plump, bejeweled hands on Julian’s and my arms.
“You two should take some time off,” she advised.
I snorted; Julian looked out the window. Tom placed the cups in front of Marla and Julian, then raised an eyebrow in my direction.
“Miss G., Julian, Marla’s right.” He unhooked his cell phone from his belt. “Let me call Victim Assistance.”
I squealed, “Forget it!” with such ferocity that Tom put down his phone and patted my shoulder.
“Okay, Miss G.,” he murmured. “Whatever you want.”
“Goldy. Julian.” Marla’s voice was full of alarm. “Don’t cook today, please. Don’t even stay at home. Come with me to the spa. We can leave now and I’ll call them on the cell, book the two of you with the same package I’m getting. They take guys, Julian, no worries. You could each get a ninety-minute massage, oil and water treatment, full-body wrap—”
I cleared my throat. Did neither Tom nor Marla
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