smiled.
This was Miss Rita? I’d imagined someone bigger, more Italian, wearing white and smelling of oregano. It took me a second to adjust to the reality. “Penny,” I said at last.
“I know.”
“Oh. Well, I thought everything was fabulous. Especially the soup. And the dessert—I should have saved room.”
She smiled broadly, the lines at her temples crinkling into crescents. “I am glad it was all right. You know, I can hardly get anything fresh, really fresh, out here this time of year. All I can do is improvise.”
“But it was wonderful, really.”
“I am glad. So, what are you reading?”
“Pure pulp,” I said, feeling a little embarrassed about my choice of literature. “How about you?”
“A cookbook.” She held up Cuisine Under the Stars. “It is how I sustain myself in the dreary winter. I decide what I would make if I could get the ingredients. Then I am not so sad about waiting. Let me tell you what would have been on tonight’s menu, no?”
I nodded.
“Since I did much of my training in Brussels,” she started, “I would prepare a Belgian supper, goose a l’instar de Vise. It is only worth bothering with if you can find a fresh young bird, in springtime.” Rita described how she’d quarter the goose and simmer it in a garlic and white wine broth brimming with celery, carrots, onions and spices fresh from the garden. Next, she’d fry the bird golden crisp in a batter of eggs and crumbled homemade bread. Then she’d dribble a sauce of mashed garlic, broth, egg yolks, heavy cream and butter over it. “Flemish asparagus, just picked, and boiled potatoes on the side and voilà.”
I think I actually whimpered, but at least I didn’t drool.
“And for dessert,” she went on, “gaufres Bruxelloises. Waffles cooked in a pint of beer for crispness, sprinkled with brown sugar and topped with butter.”
“Sounds amazing,” I said.
“And you?”
“I’m sorry?”
“What would you make for supper?” She tried to hand me her cookbook.
“No, no. The only poultry I handle has been precooked by Frank Perdue.”
“But you can imagine.”
So I did. Leafing through her cookbook, I used the photos to create a four-course meal of scallop and mussel bisque, mesclun and persimmon salad, grilled tenderloin with papaya chutney, and something called chocolate melting cake. Not that I’d ever eaten these dishes before, but the words tasted delicious as I spoke them.
“Bien!” Rita clapped her hands when I finished presenting my menu. “Good!”
After that, she asked what my all-time most memorable meal was. “Tonight’s supper, definitely,” I said. “And you, what was your favorite?”
She sat back and rested her head against the armchair, gazing at one of the table lamps. She looked far away, as if she were reliving a memory instead of just trying to put her finger on one. Finally she said, “It was a tuna and potato chip casserole. Tuna, from a can. And the potato chips were stale.” She laughed to herself, still staring at the memory hovering above the lamp.
“That must’ve been some recipe,” I said.
“No, the recipe was silly. But the cook, he was extraordinary.”
“He?”
“Now tell me. Tell me who you would invite to a dinner party. If it could be anyone, anyone at all.”
Okay, so she didn’t want to spill about the guy. All right, fine, for now. “Anyone?” I asked. “Even people from the past?”
“Certainly.”
For some reason, the first person I thought of was George Henion. What was I thinking? Why would I want to break bread with a guy who either didn’t know how to talk or who didn’t want to talk to me specifically? “I guess I’d want to have some of my favorite novelists,” I said, “like Dean Koontz and Patricia Cornwell and Kurt Vonnegut. And, well, I wouldn’t mind hanging out with Johnny Depp or Channing Tatum. Oh, and the Dalai Lama—he’s got a great smile. I’d put him at the head of the table. Then I’d sit between Johnny and Channing, and the writers, they could all sit across the table from me…is that ridiculous?”
Rita shook her head. “Not compared to my wish list.”
“Why? Who’s on it?”
She looked at me blankly for a moment. “Not too many people. Just my father when he was a boy. My mother as a young woman. My sister as she was the last time I saw her. Myself when I am very old. And you too, I think. Yes, when you are my age now. We would have a lovely time, all of us.”
“What about the man who made you the tuna and chips casserole?”
“Ah, you are a clever one. Another time I will tell you about him, maybe. But now I must get some sleep if I am going to make real food tomorrow.” She uncurled her legs and stood up. “Good night, dear. My room is right next door, if you need anything.”
“Night, Rita. Thanks for dinner. And the talk.”
After she left, I stayed on in the study to read, happy to have made a friend here at Chez Strange. I’d never had a friend who came from another generation or another country. Come to think of it, I’m not sure I ever really had a genuine friend before, someone to share food fantasies and guest lists with, someone to just laze an evening away with. So this was exciting—pitiful, but exciting.
By the time I got through the first few chapters of Six Parts Joy, One Part Murder, it was almost one o’clock. I still wasn’t tired, but I decided to go to my room anyway—might as well enjoy the canopy bed and fancy pillows while I had the chance. I left the study and went down the hall, across the parlor, up the curved staircase and past the garden watercolors. It seemed like a long walk. By the time I reached my door, I felt like maybe I’d be able to sleep soon.
Well, you made it through your first day, I told myself as I headed to the bathroom to perform my bedtime purification rite. One down, thirteen to go. Actually, if the rest of my stay could be half as pleasant as the evening I’d just spent with Rita, I’d be all over this gig. But that was never going to happen—my luck doesn’t roll like that. I sighed and pulled on my pajamas and fuzzy socks.
We have a dollhouse-size bathroom mirror at home, so I wasn’t used to seeing such a complete, brightly lit view of myself. I wasn’t sure I liked the full-size image. Honestly, I’d happily suffer the eyebrow plucking and the occasional zits, if only they’d come along with a decent chest. But here I was, with a body that hadn’t kept pace with my social aspirations, fumbling for my tweezers and Clearasil, wishing for fuller lips and more mysterious eyes. Oh well, who was I going to try to impress around this godforsaken place, anyway?
When I climbed into the canopy bed a few minutes later, the sheets, though luxurious, felt cold and a little rigid—or was that just me? It was probably just me. I forced myself to lie still, and sleep eventually overtook me.
