Sticks & Scones (27 page)

“We’re expecting thirty-five. Fourteen kids, twenty-one adults, give or take. If she sets us up for forty, that should work.” I thought of the veal roasts. “And sure, steak knives would be great. Plus a dozen serving spoons, and a couple of carving sets.”

“All right,” he said, scribbling on an index card he’d found in the pocket of his plus-fours. “Before Michaela gives out the awards, I’m going to pitch the castle again. I’m going back now to set up my pamphlets and information. Do you think the literature should go on the serving tables?”

“Better to have it at the door,” I advised. “It’ll be the first thing people see.”

He nodded, a golfer attending his caddy. “Good thought. I’m going to set up the games, too, while Sukie’s working. Oh—and the Lauderdales are sending flower arrangements with small swords in them. They really
are
good people, Goldy.”

“Uh-huh.”
I don’t think so.

He disappeared. I sautéed rice kernels in butter until they sizzled and gave off a nutty scent, then mixed in
broth and raisins. While the rice simmered, I pulverized the roasted garlic. Finally, I mashed batch after batch of potatoes with butter, the roasted garlic mush, cream, cheeses, and spices, and managed to have only eight spoonfuls—using eight different spoons, of course—to make sure the seasoning was exactly right. I kept telling myself that I hadn’t really had any lunch.

At three o’clock, Tom walked through the kitchen door. He’d retrieved some clothing from the suitcase he’d taken to New Jersey, and now looked businesslike and dashing in a black wool shirt and khaki pants, with a black down jacket over his good shoulder. I realized with a jolt that I’d been so busy cooking, I’d forgotten to take
him
lunch.

“I’m on my way to Idaho Springs, then the airport,” he announced. “And I’m going to stay at the gate until Sara Beth’s flight gets off. So I might not be back until after the banquet, especially if the flight’s delayed.” I said nothing. “Please understand,” he said, then gave me a one-armed hug and headed off.

What kind of farewell
, I thought forlornly,
was that?

Don’t dwell on it.

So I didn’t. Cooking consumed the next hour. At half-past four, I scuttled to the gatehouse to let in the floral delivery man. He opened his van to reveal four miniature sword-bedecked, English-style arrangements of roses, lilies, daffodils, freesia, and ivy. I breathed in the perfumed scent of flowers, picked up two of the overflowing baskets, and led the florist up to the Great Hall, where Eliot and Sukie exclaimed over the generosity of the Lauderdales.
That’s the problem with rich folks
, I concluded silently, as I placed the baskets on Sukie’s flawlessly set, lace-and-silver-covered tables.
They think they can make up for large-scale bad deeds with a couple of superficially good ones.
In the catering biz, I’d seen the adulterer who builds
a new Sunday School, the thieving bank president who sponsors a dozen soccer teams. Now we had a child-abuser sending flowers.

Ah well, who made me World Moral Cop? I trotted back to the kitchen, where I was greeted by a blast of cold air. Once again, the errant window was open. Michaela, Julian, and Arch were all out; Sukie and Eliot were up in the Great Hall. I marched over to the window, pushed it all the way open—the metal sash shrieked in protest—and looked down. There was no walkway, there were no metal rungs. The moat glimmered far below. Its surface riffled with a slight breeze, but no one was swimming across it. At the edge, the castle Dumpster shimmered in the sun. There was no sign of life anywhere. So how was the window being opened?

I examined the latch. It was not broken. I slammed the window shut again, then searched through the highly organized kitchen drawers until I found some mailing tape. Cursing under my breath, I assiduously pressed a double layer of sticky strips all the way around the window sash. I stepped away from my work and admired it.

“Take that,” I muttered to the window.

Repair job complete, I hustled back to the Great Hall with bowls of mixed nuts. Eliot had once again laid out the penny-prick game. This time the boys would toss their plastic knives at a Susan B. Anthony coin set on the lip of a wine bottle. I didn’t particularly like the antifeminist symbolism inherent in
that
, but I kept my mouth shut. Sensing my lack of enthusiasm, Eliot insisted the kids wouldn’t play for less than a dollar prize.

I zipped back to the kitchen and was greeted by Arch, Julian, Michaela, a cold extra-cheese pizza, and a still-closed window. I wolfed down the pizza without reheating it. Hunger, as my fourth-grade teacher always said, makes the best sauce.

“I’m changing the schedule a little, Arch,” Michaela was saying. “I’m going to have you and Howie Lauder-dale demonstrate foil first. The Lauderdales called and specifically requested it.”

My heart plummeted. “Forget it,” I retorted. “They’re up to something. The Lauderdales, I mean. Use the kids you already have scheduled. Howie’s too old to be paired with Arch. Arch might get hurt.”

Arch’s lips thinned in disgust. His cheeks reddened with anger. “Howie will
not
hurt me.”

“I said no!”

“Mom! Howie’s the best fencer on the team!”

“I don’t care!”

Michaela made her voice reassuring. “Goldy, I promise, I know Howie. He’s a good kid. Arch is definitely up to fencing him.”

Julian murmured, “C’mon, Goldy. Let him do it. The kids wear masks. Everyone will be there. It’s an honor for Arch to go first, to fence with Howie.”

“
Yeah
, Mom,” Arch cried. “Stop making me out to be a
wimp.
”

I gestured helplessly. With the three of them staring at me, I said, “Okay, I give up. Fence away. But it wouldn’t surprise me if Buddy was paying his son to hurt you.”

Arch snorted. Michaela silently shook her head. After a few moments of uncomfortable silence, she said she’d bring the ice and drink coolers up to the Great Hall. Arch offered to help, and they both left.

Julian and I now set to our work in earnest, putting in the veal for a slow roasting, timing the reheating of the curry, rice, and potatoes, and deciding on the flow of the buffet. Julian got the chafers going and set up the electrified serving platters. This was the third time this week we’d transported keep-stuff-hot equipment hither and yon. No wonder the medieval folks built their kitchen close to the Great Hall.

As my last culinary act before the guests arrived, I prepared the curry condiments. Americans rarely take more than a spoonful of chutney, raisins, or peanuts from that classic dozen side dishes known as a twelve-boy But they feel gypped if they cannot at least
survey
lots of extra bowls containing chopped bacon, chopped hard-cooked egg yolks, chopped hard-cooked egg whites, shredded coconut, crushed pineapple, chopped green onion, sweet pickle relish, orange marmalade, and yogurt.

Just before six, Eliot and Sukie breezed into the kitchen. Eliot had changed from the golf outfit into another dapper double-breasted suit—this one charcoal gray—and a snowy white shirt. Sukie’s blond hair was swept up in an elegant French twist, and she glowed in a long, bright-red wool dress. She retrieved a silver tray, glasses, and napkins, while Eliot clanked bottles around in the dining room and proudly emerged with two bottles of vintage dry sherry. They announced that they were on their way to the gatehouse to greet guests in the grand fashion. Murmuring that the kids needed to be welcomed in style, too, Julian snagged two twelve-packs of soft drinks and hustled after the Hydes.

I dashed up to the Great Hall with the covered curry side dishes and quickly checked the buffet, the tables, the makeshift bars, the ice, and the bottles of water and wine. Eliot had straightened the fencing mats and marked out the shuttlecock court with masking tape. Michaela had set up a small table for the trophies. Overhead, the chandeliers flickered. The gold trophies, silver plates, and crystal glasses reflected the glimmering light. Everything looked perfect.

Always a bad sign.

T
om was still gone on his airport errand when John Richard and Viv Martini sashayed in, the first to arrive. Standing alone behind the makeshift bar, I was unnerved by their appearance. They glanced in my direction, then sniffed and looked away. John Richard looked handsome in an open-necked blue shirt, charcoal vest, and black pants. His twenty-nine-year-old girlfriend, slinking along in a clingy silver dress with matching spike heels, made my stomach turn over. Her dress was slit so far up the side,
she
should have been doing jumping jacks.

I, on the other hand, feared the worst, appearance-wise. Not only did I pale in comparison to Viv, I couldn’t bear the thought of how Tom would assess my appearance vis-à-vis that of Sara Beth, with her aristocrat-in-the-Peace-Corps beauty and moral high ground. I glanced at myself in the reflection of a silver tray. Working in the hot castle kitchen had made my hair
very
curly. My makeup was long gone; my face shone with exertion. The cavernous
Great Hall was cold, and I needed a sweater over my thin caterers’ top, not to mention a new apron, as the one I had on was liberally dappled with curry sauce.

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.