Tough Cookie by Diane Mott Davidson

jumbo shrimp - his scrumptious version of scampi- 1 served over spinach fettucine. I took a good look at Julian. His handsome, haggard face, dark-circled eyes, and ear-length brown hair gave him the look of a typical sleep-deprived college student.
    He sensed my mood. "Don't you like the shrimp?" he asked earnestly.
    "It's out of this world," I replied, and meant it. But the events of the day had taken away my appetite. Arch and Tom, their mouths full, made mm-mm noises.
    Julian put down his fork. "Goldy, now that your van's totaled, I want you to take my Rover. If I stay in Boulder, I don't need it." Julian's deluxe white Range Rover had been a gift from former employers. Before I could protest, he persisted: "My apprenticeship pays enough for me to share an apartment with some friends I've made. And I will be able to get around, oh mother of all mother hens."
    "Julian," I murmured, "don't. Who are these friends, anyway?"
    He laughed while Tom looked doubtful. Arch, stricken, exclaimed, "So you're moving out? You're leaving us?"
    "Guys!" cried Julian. "If you're going to miss me so much, I'll come back every weekend!"
    We agreed that I would take the Rover, and I thanked him. Julian beamed. I didn't know how difficult it would be to drive that vehicle for a personal chef assignment, especially with a bandaged arm. But the Rover was luxurious. More importantly, it had four-wheel drive. Julian then further mollified us with helpings of his pears poached in red wine and cinnamon sticks, surrounded with golden pools of crème anglaise. The first mouthful of juicy, spiced pear accompanied by the silky custard sauce was almost enough to make me forget my troubles. Still, I found that I couldn't take more than three bites.
    When the dishes were cleared, I searched for and found a bottle of generic buffered aspirin. Tom announced that he was doing the dishes, no easy task, as our lack of kitchen drains still dictated use of the ground-floor tub. I was to relax, he insisted, and Arch and Julian should go do something fun.
    Julian opened his backpack and pulled out a foil-wrapped package of his trademark fudge dotted with sun-dried tart cherries. I declined any, but Tom took two pieces before clearing the plates. With a mischievous smile, Julian offered a chunk to Arch. "Hey, buddy, how about a second dessert? Better yet, how 'bout I fix a batch of this Christmas fudge for Lettie? I can put in crushed peppermint drops instead of cherries."
    Arch shot him a dark look. "No, thanks." Lettie was Arch's girlfriend, or at least he had been "going out with" this lovely, long-legged blond fourteen-year-old - the never actually went anywhere - at the end of summer. To me, of course, Arch provided no updates on the status of the relationship. My only indications that he had any social life at all at Elk Park Prep were the carefully folded notes I found in his pants pockets when I was emptying them in the laundry room. Fearful that these papers were homework assignments that he would later accuse me of tossing - this had happened - I always unfolded them enough to read the first line. If Arch's small, vertical handwriting began, This class sucks! then I knew to toss the paper. He was communicating with somebody, anyway. Still, if we needed to plan for an additional Christmas present-Arch was notoriously last-minute on these things - I needed to know.
    "So, is Lettie still in the picture?" I asked, noncommittally.
    "Don't worry about it, Mom." Arch's eyes gleamed behind his glasses as he informed Julian, who now seemed repentant that he'd brought Lettie into the conversation, that he had something to show him. The boys disappeared. I swallowed three aspirin and wondered if there was any chance they could be contemplating Arch's ninth-grade reading assignment in Elizabethan poetry, or the homemade quantum mechanics experiment he was supposed to devise for his physics class. Probably not.
    "Are you all right?" Tom said quietly, once he'd filled the