along with the tartlets.
The voice of the radio presenter interrupts my zen.
“Cuisine innovator and owner of highly rated restaurants such as Four Chairs and East Fourth, James Keyes, is here today to share his recipe for Sweet Green Pea Guacamole. Welcome, James.”
“Thank you, Amy. Happy to be here.”
I dive to turn off the damned radio. And just as I was starting to feel calmer.
I’d managed not to hear his voice for nearly four years now, the last time being when he left that voicemail before I’d gotten my number changed. Now, the last thing on earth I needed today of all days was to be transported back to James-land. No thank you. Feel free to live your celebrity life, but do it far from me. Besides, putting peas in guacamole is just stupid. It’s just like James to do something over-the-top just to get attention. Sure, it’s nutritious, but they’re peas! In guacamole! It’s the most unholy union I can think aside from James and me. I wipe my hands, and set a timer. No time like the present to move on.
I check the clock again. Where was the Geek Squad, anyway? What did they launch? A skateboard?
I survey my mutinous computer and realize I never actually looked in on my blog. According to my schedule, I always post and reply to comments three times daily, and often once more before bed. Firing up the site, I can see that my negligence has caused a backlog. Charlotte’s Chefs are in a tizzy wondering where I’ve been. Martha26 writes, Dear Charlotte. I’m still waiting for your answer about substituting mint for rosemary in my Christmas Compote. It’s a bit worrying that you’ve disappeared. I hope you’re off on a grand adventure, or better yet, a romantic weekend ;)
There must be twenty or more inquiries about where I’ve been and whether I’m all right. I debate telling my online friends how horrible the situation is, but they all know Hudson. There will be an outpouring of concern and pity. While I ponder my next move, blog-wise, I check the mince pies to see if they’re done. As I open the oven door, I’m wrapped in a blanket of steaming, fragrant winter spices. The tops of the tartlets are a perfect golden brown, so I hustle to de-pan them to cooling racks.
No, I think, heading back to my desk. I’m going to keep the whole Hudson situation to myself for the time being. I can’t handle reassuring everyone when I’m on shaky ground myself. I’ll just act as though everything is hunky-dory. Where on earth was the Geek Squad?
Dear Martha,’ I answer. Either seasoning will do! Fruit loves herbs, and doesn’t differentiate. Keep on baking, and please post a photo when you’ve made the recipe. Cheers! Charlotte.
I’m just about to dig into GrillDadNJ’s question about marinades, when the buzzer goes. Oh, thank God! I run to press the button by the door. “Who is it?”
“It’s BrrRR-UUUUumph.” I hear nothing but the Doppler effect of a motorcycle speeding across what is supposed to be my quiet Upper West Side street. I push the button, and it emits the sizzling-sounding electric noise that opens the outer safety door down at the top of the stoop. I rush over to tidy up my desk in preparation. First, I want to get my printer rolling so I can make flyers. Then, I’ll ask them to help me hook up the scanner I bought last month, and promptly chucked back in the box. Sure, the Geek Squad guy might think I’m an idiot, but I deal with food, not electronics.
Ding-dong.
I race across the room, my chunky knitted socks skidding on the bare parts of the floor as I go, and fling open the door.
“Oh! It’s you.” Standing in front of me is not a uniformed Geek Squad representative, as I’d expected. It’s Henry Wentworth, all six-foot-three of him, dressed casually in jeans and a Sherpa-lined suede peacoat. His face is like thunder.
“You say that a lot. Now, please step aside so I can come in and help you find your dog.”
*****
I’ll be honest with you. I’m a peaceful person, but I can get ugly when I’m backed into a corner. Ask Penelope Granger. If Lulu Wong hadn’t stepped in when she did, not only would Penelope’s art final have been ripped to shreds, she’d have had a fat lip as well. I’ll bet it’s the last time she ever tried to extort money from an underclassman at boarding school.
It’s only by the grace of God, and Henry Wentworth’s lucky stars, that the sweet-faced, mild-mannered Geek Squad guy arrives at precisely that moment. He looks nervously from Henry to me. I bite my tongue. Unleashed, the string of expletives backed up behind my teeth would have made Amy Schumer blush. I can feel that Henry is as near to bursting with rage as I, but we both swallow it out of common courtesy to the socially awkward young man who is clearly just trying to do his job. Still, he’s like a little kid when mom and dad are arguing. He can sense the tension.
“Smells great in here,” the young guy tries, shuffling from one foot to another. “Like my Granny’s on Christmas.” I offer him a wan smile, and he smiles back and breathes out with huge relief. “Good! Great! Let’s fix that machine.”
Henry steps aside while I lead Blake! (As his nametag proclaims) to the computer, and explain my issues. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Henry surveying my abode. He peeks around the corner to the kitchen. I watch him eyeball the cooling tartlets with interest.
“Do not touch those!” I hiss quietly, irritated to have been interrupted during my computer consultation. Who does he think he is, pawing through my house?
Like the commander of a starship, Blake has lowered himself into my chair and has taken charge of his domain. He finally looks comfortable in his own skin as he flicks switches, and plugs machinery into sockets.
Henry ignores me, pushing aside one of the curtains and looking at the windowsill. He’s pretending to be all CSI about it, picking up a framed photo of Hudson and nodding his head, but I think he’s just nosey. “Psst! Why are you even here?” I whisper, trying not to distract Blake. The faster the Geek Squad expert gets my computer up and running, the better off I’ll be.
“Go!” I whisper-hiss, making huge motions with my arms indicating shoving Henry out the door. “Just go.”
He mouths “No!” then picks up notebook I left lying on the arm of the couch. It has thoughts on favorite recipes and lists of dishes that I want to cook next, along with perfect menus for different occasions. “Put that down,” I mouth, pointing to the couch. “Down!” I feel like I’m talking to Hudson.
“Lamb chops for Valentine’s Day,” he mumbles, tilting his head in consideration. “Maybe,” he says, bobbing his head up and down, reading the pages. I tear across the room, snatching my notebook from his hands. “Give me that!” He holds up his hands in surrender, and is off to the next corner, poking and prodding.
Comfortable in his wheelhouse, Blake continues typing in long strings of characters. From time to time, he roots in his messenger bag for items to plug into ports in my computer that I wasn’t aware existed. I leave him to it, and turn my attention to His Snobby Highness.
“Now, if you’d go and get yourself dressed, I can supervise your computer technician.” He makes a big show of averting his eyes from my worn tracksuit.
“I am dressed,” I huff. “I’m in my own home looking for my lost dog, not gearing up to walk the red carpet at the Oscars.”
He looks me up and down. “Very well.”
