Chapter 14
Bebe, Susan Andrews’ miniature poodle, danced around Libby’s feet, growling and snapping as Susan ushered Libby into her house.
“I thought last night’s dinner at Nigel’s house was brilliant,” Susan told her.
Libby smiled. Compliments were always nice even though she’d rather be hearing them at a different time. At three o’clock on Tuesday afternoon she should have been in the store making Indonesian cole slaw and talking to her suppliers.
“Come in, come in,” Susan said as she scooped the poodle up in her arms and planted a kiss on its muzzle. “She’s just a little nervous today, aren’t you, sweetums?”
Nervous wasn’t the word Libby would have used to describe Bebe as the little dog made a valiant effort to jump out of her mistress’s arms and go back to trying to bite Libby’s ankles.
Maybe it was the haircut that was making her grumpy, Libby reflected. Aside from a little ball of fur on its tail and a little pom-pom on its head, Bebe was practically naked. Not an attractive look on man or beast, Libby thought as she followed Susan into the kitchen.
“This is Bebe’s summer do,” Susan informed Libby as she entered the kitchen.
Bree Nottingham was already there, sipping white wine out of a glass as she leaned against the counter of Susan Andrews’ kitchen. Bree nodded hello to Libby and Libby nodded back.
“Such a sweetie,” Bree cooed at the dog who, Libby was glad to see, growled at her too.
“No. No.” Susan tapped Bebe on her nose. Bebe tried to bite her finger. “I’m going to put Bebe in her bed,” Susan informed them. “She needs a little time out.”
She needs a personality transplant, Libby thought as she wondered if Bernie had remembered to make the deposit at the bank.
“Wine?” Bree asked Libby.
“I’ve got to go back to work.”
“So have I.” And Bree poured her a glassful and handed it to her. “Last night was wonderful, although I did think the crab cakes were a bit heavy for a summer appetizer. Perhaps next time some hollowed-out perfectly fresh steamed new potatoes with a dab of sour cream and a little caviar on top.”
“Good suggestion,” Libby said, trying to smile. Of course Bree’s suggestions were always stellar, a fact that annoyed her no end.
“I’m so glad you could come.”
“So am I,” Libby lied.
Then she reminded herself that this was good for business, even if Bree had dragooned her into it. Her mother had liked to say: Never underestimate the schmooze factor in bringing in catering business.
And Libby had found this to be true. Bottom line: People liked having people working in their homes that they felt comfortable with and people felt comfortable with people they knew. It was as simple as that, Libby thought as Susan Andrews came back in the room.
“The others will be here shortly,” Susan told Libby.
Then she smiled brightly and reintroduced her to Julie Chang, their cooking teacher, who had just wandered in from the garden. Not that Libby was likely to forget her. After all, she’d been here in May.
Bernie would have approved of her, Libby thought as she studied Julie Chang’s clothes. Today she was dressed in white silk pants and top and three-inch sandals. Last time she’d been wearing black silk and pearls. Libby remembered wondering how she managed to stir-fry and not get splattered with cooking oil.
Libby herself couldn’t seem to fry an egg without getting grease all over her clothes. Maybe she’d use an apron this time, Libby thought as she studied the middle island. All the ingredients for the coming lesson were laid out in neat precision on the countertop.
There were deep green Chinese long beans, crisp bean sprouts, bright green bok choy, two heads of garlic, ginger root, already peeled shrimp, a whole sea bass, not to mention sugar, salt, black bean paste, soy sauce, Chinese cooking wine, and sesame oil with chili paste.
“Today I decided to do dishes with ingredients that one can purchase anywhere,” Julie Chang explained.
Which was a tad more practical than the stir-fried beef with fresh bamboo shoots, sea slug with cucumbers, and bird’s nest soup they’d cooked last time, in Libby’s opinion.
“Even though,” Julie Chang continued, “I think it is important to expand people’s horizons about what is and is not edible.”
As the cooking teacher glanced at the kitchen clock, Libby wished she had that kind of latitude in the store. People didn’t want the unfamiliar. Hell, they wouldn’t even buy a dish made with olives they couldn’t recognize.
“We will wait five more minutes,” Julie announced. “And then we start.”
Bree Nottingham took another sip of wine, broke off a cluster of grapes from the bunch in the bowl next to her, and ate one.
“So,” she said to Libby. “How’s Orion doing?”
Libby blinked. She’d been expecting people to ask her about Lionel’s death, but she hadn’t been expecting anyone to ask her about her ex-fiance, although, she reflected, she should have been since everyone had seen them talking at the reunion dinner.
“He’s doing fine.”
“Howard’s playing golf with him at the clubhouse this afternoon.”
Libby tried to think of something to say and could only come out with, “Well, it’s a nice day for a game.”
Bree smiled.
“Now that he’s back, Howard is thinking of asking him to come into the firm.”
“But he’s . . .”
Bree waved her hand.
“Doing jewelry. Yes, I know. He can do both.” Bree ate a grape. “You did know he was coming to the reunion, right?”
“He was on the guest list.”
“Still. It must have been a shock. This the first time you’ve seen him since . . .” Bree allowed her voice to trail off.
“Yes, it is.”
“That was so unfortunate.”
Libby wished she could think of something blindingly clever to say, but she was never as good as Bernie in a clutch so she just kept quiet.
“Howard tells me he’s getting a divorce,” Bree continued.
“That’s what I hear.”
“I’m surprised.” Bree adjusted her diamond tennis bracelet and ate another grape. “Sukie is such a lovely lady. I saw her in the city two months ago and she didn’t say anything. She still has that great body of hers and after two kids.”
Libby flushed. “It’s nice that she has time to spend in the gym.”
Bree took another sip of wine. “One makes time for what’s important to one.”
Libby was just about to tell her that that was a lot easier to do if you weren’t on your feet twelve hours a day when Susan grabbed her arm.
“Would you like to see what I’m working on now?” she asked Libby. “It’ll just take a minute.”
“I’d love to,” Libby said, allowing herself to be led away.
Susan patted her arm.
“Bree doesn’t mean anything. That’s just the way she is.”
“That’s because everyone has allowed her to say whatever she wants all her life,” Libby told Susan as they walked down the hall.
Susan frowned.
“You’re too sensitive, Libby. You take things too personally.”
“How else am I supposed to take them?” Libby demanded.
“With compassion and grace.”
Libby snorted. “I’m kinda an Old Testament person myself.”
“Meaning?”
“I believe in an eye for an eye.”
Susan reflected for a moment.
“I suppose there are situations in which that’s appropriate,” she conceded as she stopped in front of a door on the left. “Here we are.”
Libby followed her inside.
“This used to be Bud’s office,” Susan told Libby. “I moved my studio in here a month after he died. It makes me feel close to him working here. I know it’s a little crowded.”
“Cozy,” Libby said as she edged her way past Bud’s desk.
“I haven’t been able to get rid of it yet,” Susan explained.
“Maybe you shouldn’t.” Libby was still using her mother’s knives even though they weren’t very good anymore.
“I have to.” Susan spread her arms out. “There’s no room.”
“It is a little cramped in here,” Libby allowed as her eyes strayed to the copy of Damned to Death that was sitting on the desk. “I didn’t know Bud read Lionel’s books,” she commented.
“Oh, he read everything,” Susan said as Libby walked over to the picture of Laird Wrenn hanging on the wall. There were three black candles burning on the shelf below it.
“A memorial,” Susan explained. “I feel it’s important to pay one’s respects to the dead.”
Libby, who hadn’t been to the cemetery to visit her mother since she died because in her opinion dead was dead, walked over to the loom.
“It looks complicated.”
“It is.” Susan pointed to the small band of cloth on it. “This is what I wanted to show you.”
Libby leaned closer so she could see. It looked like a plain black piece of fiber.
“It’s very nice,” she told Susan.
“Thank you.” Susan bent over and traced the weave of the cloth with the tip of her finger. “It’s hard to see in this light, but I’m using five different shades of black to make this and then I’m going to hand paint streaks of red and dark blue on it when I’m done.
“This will take a while because the pattern is so complicated. It’s going to be eight by ten. Maybe bigger even. I’ll have to see. It’s a tribute to Bud. And then I’m going to do one for his brother Josh. I just have a feeling that then their souls can rest.”
Libby brushed her hair back off her face. “I remember when Josh shot himself. That was so awful.”
Susan shook her head. “I don’t think Bud ever got over his brother dying like that. So tragic.” She turned to Libby. “I know I must sound crazy to you . . .”
“No, you don’t . . .”
Susan Andrews laughed. “Yes, I do. But honestly, doing this”—she swept her hand around the room—“I feel good. I feel as if I finally have closure.”
Libby was just about to tell her that she was glad, when the doorbell rang.
“Time to get started,” Susan said, as she hurried towards the door.