dictator’s palace full of Chinese slaves. By the way, I’m changing the title to Amish Surprise! ”
“Is Dinna Amish?” Dorothy asked.
“No, but it’s all right. The word Amish is more eyecatching and individual than the word Pennsylvania. ” Mrs. Hoade drained the rest of her drink in a quick gulp. “We’ll let Doubleday decide that. I’m going to bed. It’s been a hard day and we have an enormous party tomorrow. Did you call the caterer again?”
“Yes,” said Dorothy, fishing around under the cookbook notes for the party notes. “I ordered twenty-four herring in dill sauce. Two dozen avocado cocktails. The melon-prosciutto hors d’oeuvres. Stroganoff for twenty-four. Salad for twenty-four. Pears in wine.” She stuck the pen back between her teeth and flipped over the page of the yellow legal pad. “Oh, and they don’t make baked Alaska. Only assorted French pastry. I got that. Okay?”
“Perfect,” said Mrs. Hoade. “Liquor?”
Dorothy turned to another page. “I have it somewhere. Yes. A case of Bell’s Scotch, not the cheap stuff. Twenty bottles of...I can’t pronounce it...
“Chateauneuf-du-Pape.”
“Sha-toe-nuf-doo-pap nineteen forty-nine.”
“Right,” said Mrs. Hoade.
“And all the rest. It’s all coming. Here’s your list,” said Dorothy. “Mrs. Hoade?”
“Yes?”
“Why would anyone put a pear in wine?”
“You’ll see tomorrow,” said Mrs. Hoade. “By the way, dear.”
“Yes?”
“The pen is leaking down your cheek.”
Dorothy wiped her mouth on a dish towel. She could hear Mrs. Hoade pour herself one more nightcap, discreetly, from the living-room liquor tray. Bell’s. The expensive stuff. Nowhere in this house had Dorothy ever seen a bottle of Four Roses or Seagram’s Seven, the two things her father drank. As she stood at the sink, looking out the kitchen window at the big copper beech tree in the middle of the lawn, its bottom branches illuminated slightly by the light from the fountains on either side, the fountains that went on automatically at sundown, she repeated the words, “We’ll let Doubleday decide.” We! Of course Mrs. Hoade was just using a figure of speech, but still... She was a generous woman. She was paying Dinna for the family recipes. I don’t want to be paid, Dorothy realized, but to see my name in print. Wow! She found herself grinning. A real book. Doubleday! She threw the inky dish towel into the laundry. If I wiped ink on one of Mom’s dish towels at home she’d have my head, Dorothy realized suddenly, and at the same moment she thought she understood something. How easy it is, just without thinking, to start acting as if I had all the money in the world. I wonder if Mrs. Hoade once came from a crummy little town like Newburgh. I wonder if she had to get over a million little habits of saving money but never really got over them without feeling a little guilty every time she gives a party or buys a dress. There was no denying that Mrs. Hoade had seemed a bit jumpy. Was that it? Or guilty, that evening after she’d come in from seeing the baby and before she’d sat down to go over the day’s notes with Dorothy. She’d handed Dorothy two hundred-dollar bills to pay the caterer tomorrow. Two hundred-dollar bills. Two weeks’ salary for her father. Three weeks’ salary for Arthur. Dorothy picked the dish towel back out of the laundry basket. She scrubbed at the ink as best she could and hung the towel up to dry.
The crickets chirped outside in the garden and a fresh east wind blew in the window of Dorothy’s bedroom. She settled herself on the big mahogany double bed and shoved three pillows under her back. Thirty pages of David Copperfield , she instructed herself, then I’ll let myself finish that Perry Mason. She reached over to the night table to wind Mrs. Hoade’s watch. The watch was not on the night table. It was not on the bureau. It was not on her wrist.
Dorothy squeezed her eyes shut in panic. She slammed
“Is Dinna Amish?” Dorothy asked.
“No, but it’s all right. The word Amish is more eyecatching and individual than the word Pennsylvania. ” Mrs. Hoade drained the rest of her drink in a quick gulp. “We’ll let Doubleday decide that. I’m going to bed. It’s been a hard day and we have an enormous party tomorrow. Did you call the caterer again?”
“Yes,” said Dorothy, fishing around under the cookbook notes for the party notes. “I ordered twenty-four herring in dill sauce. Two dozen avocado cocktails. The melon-prosciutto hors d’oeuvres. Stroganoff for twenty-four. Salad for twenty-four. Pears in wine.” She stuck the pen back between her teeth and flipped over the page of the yellow legal pad. “Oh, and they don’t make baked Alaska. Only assorted French pastry. I got that. Okay?”
“Perfect,” said Mrs. Hoade. “Liquor?”
Dorothy turned to another page. “I have it somewhere. Yes. A case of Bell’s Scotch, not the cheap stuff. Twenty bottles of...I can’t pronounce it...
“Chateauneuf-du-Pape.”
“Sha-toe-nuf-doo-pap nineteen forty-nine.”
“Right,” said Mrs. Hoade.
“And all the rest. It’s all coming. Here’s your list,” said Dorothy. “Mrs. Hoade?”
“Yes?”
“Why would anyone put a pear in wine?”
“You’ll see tomorrow,” said Mrs. Hoade. “By the way, dear.”
“Yes?”
“The pen is leaking down your cheek.”
Dorothy wiped her mouth on a dish towel. She could hear Mrs. Hoade pour herself one more nightcap, discreetly, from the living-room liquor tray. Bell’s. The expensive stuff. Nowhere in this house had Dorothy ever seen a bottle of Four Roses or Seagram’s Seven, the two things her father drank. As she stood at the sink, looking out the kitchen window at the big copper beech tree in the middle of the lawn, its bottom branches illuminated slightly by the light from the fountains on either side, the fountains that went on automatically at sundown, she repeated the words, “We’ll let Doubleday decide.” We! Of course Mrs. Hoade was just using a figure of speech, but still... She was a generous woman. She was paying Dinna for the family recipes. I don’t want to be paid, Dorothy realized, but to see my name in print. Wow! She found herself grinning. A real book. Doubleday! She threw the inky dish towel into the laundry. If I wiped ink on one of Mom’s dish towels at home she’d have my head, Dorothy realized suddenly, and at the same moment she thought she understood something. How easy it is, just without thinking, to start acting as if I had all the money in the world. I wonder if Mrs. Hoade once came from a crummy little town like Newburgh. I wonder if she had to get over a million little habits of saving money but never really got over them without feeling a little guilty every time she gives a party or buys a dress. There was no denying that Mrs. Hoade had seemed a bit jumpy. Was that it? Or guilty, that evening after she’d come in from seeing the baby and before she’d sat down to go over the day’s notes with Dorothy. She’d handed Dorothy two hundred-dollar bills to pay the caterer tomorrow. Two hundred-dollar bills. Two weeks’ salary for her father. Three weeks’ salary for Arthur. Dorothy picked the dish towel back out of the laundry basket. She scrubbed at the ink as best she could and hung the towel up to dry.
The crickets chirped outside in the garden and a fresh east wind blew in the window of Dorothy’s bedroom. She settled herself on the big mahogany double bed and shoved three pillows under her back. Thirty pages of David Copperfield , she instructed herself, then I’ll let myself finish that Perry Mason. She reached over to the night table to wind Mrs. Hoade’s watch. The watch was not on the night table. It was not on the bureau. It was not on her wrist.
Dorothy squeezed her eyes shut in panic. She slammed
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