An Expert On All Things Domestic ~ Section I

By Kate F

Beginning, Next Section

Prologue

Posted on Friday, 20 February 2004

Autumn, 1987

“You're back late,” said Anne Darcy, eyeing her husband critically. “A little extra time at the nineteenth hole?”

“Yes, indeed,” replied George Darcy. “And you may want a drink when I tell you the news. Catherine and Lewis are divorcing.”

“I don't believe it!”

“It's true, nevertheless,” replied George Darcy. “Lewis told me today as we left the last hole, and then we spent more time than usual at the bar in the clubhouse. He says he's simply at the end of his tether, and the only solution is to cut the tether.”

“But they seemed so happy!”

“Perhaps they seemed happy, Honey, but underneath, who knows what really goes on in someone's marriage?”

“Oh, but George, they're our closest neighbors and such good friends. I can't believe Catherine didn't say anything.”

“Are you kidding, Anne? Catherine admit to failure?”

“Hmm, well, there is something in that. And now that you mention it, she has been a little extra perky lately. Compensating, perhaps? But still … this will set the neighborhood grapevine buzzing.”

And it did. The divorce came as a shock to most of the Roseport neighborhood. Catherine deBourgh had been explaining her husband's recent absence as an extended business trip. This was a believable story, as he had traveled increasingly over the years. But in fact, he had been living in New York City on and off for about a year. His most recent return to Roseport was to serve Catherine with divorce papers.

Lewis deBourgh

Lewis's side of the divorce was that Catherine was a bossy know-it-all perfectionist. Lewis would be the first to admit that Catherine has been an asset on his way up the corporate ladder at a large engineering firm. She served sumptuous dinners to a succession of his bosses until he reached a height where the situation reversed and he found himself inviting subordinates to dinner. At Hunsford Engineering, an invitation to Rose House became a thing to be coveted. But as time went on, Catherine's desire to make everything just right became an inability to accept anything less than perfection.

Catherine complained that he didn't straighten the towels in the bathroom after he dried his hands, and she never gave him credit for not having left the toilet seat up a second time in fifteen years of marriage. She lectured if he took off his jacket and tie before dinner, and she refused to eat in the kitchen. They ate in the dining room, even at breakfast. She hired a series of cook/housekeeper/assistants to help cook and serve at the table, but none had lasted very long. That her endless critiquing wasn't worth any amount of money was the reason most gave for resigning. In desperation, Lewis decided that one of the assistants had potential, and he paid her extra—combat pay, he called it—to stay on so that he wouldn't have to listen to his wife's complaints about interviewing yet another round of domestics. The deal was predicated on the agreement that Catherine would never know about the extra money.

When Catherine started her business, things got worse. She was harried and overworked, but unable to delegate, even to Billie, her long-suffering assistant. Catherine snapped at Lewis over the smallest detail in private, but was sweet as honey in public. She became obsessed with the idea of setting an Example and being Perfect. She took to sewing closed the pockets on her daughter's school blazers so that the child wouldn't jam her hands into her pockets, a very unladylike thing to do. Lewis knew that any day now, she'd be screaming “No wire hangers!” and he had to get out before she used her glue gun to make sure his tie was straight.

Catherine deBourgh

Catherine's side of the divorce was that Lewis didn't appreciate her. She didn't come from Money, but she knew it when she saw it. Lewis deBourgh, with his Ivy League degree and expensive car and impeccable tailoring was unmistakably from Money. She charmed him with her witty remarks, impressed him with her gourmet cooking, knitted him a sweater for Christmas after they'd only been dating a month. In short, she showed him that she was perfect wife material. They married and moved to Roseport, Connecticut. She named their home Rose House. She decorated the house herself, and Lewis was ecstatic the day he arrived home from work to discover her renovating a small bedroom to be a nursery.

The pregnancy was difficult, and Catherine was given strict orders to take it easy. She had to cut back on complicated meals so as to stay off her feet. She filled her days by learning every craft conceivable. She learned to stencil, quilt, and make baskets. She mastered additional knitting and embroidery stitches. She sent Lewis out to buy her a glue gun and she crafted to her heart's content. By the time their daughter, Anne, was born, the shelves in the nursery closet were stocked with sweaters, booties, afghans, and quilts. A colorful mobile hung above the crib. The lamp on the dresser was hand painted and its shade cut and painted to match. Catherine had designed and cut stencils of nursery rhyme characters, and as soon as she recovered from the birth, she was on a ladder stenciling a border on the walls.

Catherine continued to give her famous dinner parties, and soon friends began to ask her advice and beg for recipes. Everyone suspected that she left things out when she gave away a recipe. It never came out as tasty as the original. Still, friends and acquaintances continued to seek her advice, and she became the local guru of entertaining. When Anne started school full time, and Catherine didn't have to spend as much time driving her daughter to play groups, preschool and such, there was extra time to fill. Catherine fired up the old glue gun and made grapevine wreaths and decorated picture frames and mirrors. She got a soldering iron and taught herself to make leaded glass ornaments for the windows. When her friends asked her where she got the kits for her crafts, she looked at them in astonishment. Kits? Certainly not! Everything was a Catherine original.

She considered going into business making craft kits, but dealing with all sorts of suppliers and marketing the kits sounded like a lot of trouble for a small reward. However, the idea of going into business was appealing. And when she decided that the local public elementary school was too insensitive to Anne's needs—imagine, making her delicate daughter take gym and play games with the boys!—she planned to pay the hefty tuition bill for the posh private girls' school herself, since Lewis hadn't seen anything wrong with the public school system. (His argument that the school system was one of the reasons they'd chosen to live in Roseport fell on deaf ears.)

But what business to attempt? She convinced the local newspaper to pay her a small fee to write a column on entertaining. She sent clipping after clipping to large newspapers, hoping they'd pick up the column, but had no luck. She canceled the subscription to the New York Times after they rejected her column, and decided to try another idea. She would become a party consultant. This kept her happy for about a year, but she found it difficult to work with so many caterers. None of them met her standards, even though the clients were always satisfied. No, thought Catherine, if you want it done right, do it yourself. And so she started a catering business. Thank goodness, she thought, she had finally found an acceptable assistant in Billie Collins. The girl was agreeable and willing to work hard, and with Billie's help, she would make a triumph of her catering company, Catering by Catherine.

Anne deBourgh

Anne was possibly the last person in Roseport to learn that her parents were divorcing. She was twelve, and had a vague idea that things weren't going well. But she assumed her mother would fix things. That was what her mother did. Make things Perfect.

Anne's view of her parents' marriage was somewhat confused. Even when she was small, she could see that her parents were very different. Her mother was demanding. “Anne, sit up straight; Anne, don't let your hair fall into your eyes like that; Anne, don't blow on your cocoa; Anne, don't chew your fingernails; Anne, you left your teddy bear on the floor this morning, you must take better care of your possessions.” On the other hand, her mother was always right there to come to her defense. The day after Anne and Emma Woodhouse had a fight over whose turn it was at hopscotch, Catherine marched into the school and demanded that they paint more hopscotch outlines on the playground. She even brought in a few designs so that the children would have more variety. The painting was done the next day, and Catherine was there to see that it was done right. (She brought the principal blueberry muffins as a thank-you gift. She merely told the painter that he had done a tolerable job.)

Anne knew that her mother was special in many ways. When it was Anne's turn to bring in cookies for a class party or a Girl Scout meeting, she always had the best cookies—never, ever store-bought cookies. Emma always brought Oreos. On the way home, Catherine would say, “Poor Emma. No mother, and such an absent-minded father. You know he picks up those things at the last minute on the way to the Scout meeting.” Anne loved Oreos, but would never dare tell her mother that. Mother was the best at everything and she wanted only the best for Anne.

In contrast, Anne's father was easygoing. After the hopcotch fight, Anne overheard him say, “Catherine, she has to learn to fight her own battles. Kids get over stuff like this quickly. She and Em will be friends again tomorrow.” Anne understood that it wasn't a matter of him not caring. She was sure that Daddy loved her. He taught her to ride her bicycle, washed her skinned knees the first time she fell, and talked Catherine out of taking the “dangerous” bicycle away from her. Both parents went to her piano recitals, but it was her father who sat by the piano and listened to her practice. It was her father who helped her learn the difficult bits. When Anne nearly threw up before her first recital, her mother was willing to let her go home. (“If her health had permitted her, she would have played beautifully.”) Her father gave her a pep talk and convinced her to go on. After that, her father would always go backstage at recitals and kiss her just before she had to face the terrifying audience. It was her father who consoled her if she missed a note.

Daddy didn't care if everything Anne did was Perfect. “Just do your best, Annie. I know that Em gets better marks in math, but you write the best stories. Nobody can be perfect at everything. Be the best Anne you can be, and that will be good enough for me.” This was what left Anne confused. Mother was perfect at everything. But Daddy said that nobody could be perfect at everything. Mother said that Anne had to be perfect. Daddy said that perfect would be nice, but he'd settle for her doing her best, even if it wasn't perfect. So which parent was right?

The Divorce

The divorce could have been messy. There was some serious money at stake, most of it Lewis's. Catherine consulted several lawyers. The prospect of screwing Lewis out of every penny possible was so tempting. But that would require going to court and testifying. The Roseport grapevine could say what it wanted and she would deny it. But once something was said in court it had the stamp of truth on it. Everyone would know that her marriage was a failure. Although she was certain that this failure was not her fault, there was always the chance that Lewis would make it sound like her fault. So she agreed to a private settlement.

Lewis didn't want a messy divorce, either. He didn't care about his own personal reputation; he had nothing to hide. He had always resisted those tempting cocktail waitresses during his boring business trips, and now he was glad that he had. And he didn't care about Catherine's reputation, either. So what if the world—meaning Roseport—found out that she was an obsessed harpy. She was clever, she was creative, but she wasn't nice. But he couldn't do that to Anne. Much as he worried about Anne staying under her mother's influence, it would be better for Anne to say in the home and school she knew. Better for Anne to have her friends around her.

Knowing that the father was less likely to get custody of a child than the mother, Lewis focused his bargaining on Anne. He would not sue for custody, but he wanted to see her as often as possible, have her with him on school vacations, and have a say in her schooling. As negotiations continued, Lewis felt he was buying his child. The money didn't matter; he had plenty. But he had only one child and he wanted to keep her from being overwhelmed by her mother. So Catherine got a pot of money and Lewis got access to his daughter, including arranging for Anne to have her own telephone line with NO extensions anywhere else in the house. The bill was to go directly to him. It wasn't much, but he gained a little privacy for his daughter.

Lewis quietly contacted Billie and explained that the extra pay would not continue. However, he offered a generous bonus if she survived the first post-divorce year with Catherine. Billie decided to stick it out with her employer. The money was good, even without the bonus. And she felt sorry for the kid.

Chapter 1

Spring, 1988

Anne sat on the swing under the rose trellis. She looked out across the lawn and gardens. There were roses everywhere. Pink roses, her mother's trademark. There were pink roses on her business cards, stationary, even the cocktail napkins she supplied for parties. When I grow up, Anne told herself, I'm gonna plant daisies and sunflowers and yellow tulips and … any other flower that isn't pink.

She read over the history lesson a second time. Did it matter who won the War of 1812 when the war of the deBourghs had just been fought? She pulled out a pen and started answering the review questions at the end of the lesson. Through the hedge, she could hear voices laughing. Why didn't he have homework? Anne frowned and concentrated on her homework. Just two more questions and she'd be free.

“Ready? Okay, here it comes. Catch!” William Darcy's voice carried through the hedge. “Good girl. Can you throw it to me?”

Anne looked up as a small ball popped over the hedge. She put her book down and walked toward the ball, but stopped when she heard a voice behind her.

“Hi, Anne, sorry about that. Georgie's a bit of a spaz on the throwing part.”

“Give her a break, Will, she's only five!”

Will picked up the ball and looked at Anne again. “You're still in your school clothes. Why don't you get changed and come on over?”

Anne shrugged, “Doing my homework. History. Just did the last question.”

“Then come over. Milk and cookies? Mom bought you-know-whats.”

“I shoulda never told you.”

“I won't tell on you. Friends don't snitch!”

William and Anne walked to the gate between their yards and held it open for Anne. She curtseyed and batted her eyelashes, murmuring, “Such a gentleman.” Smirking, Will let the gate go so that it almost hit her backside when it swung shut.

“Anne!” squealed Georgiana Darcy. “Wanna play ball?”

Anne sighed, “Not in my school clothes, Geege.”

“Okay, then come see our new bird feeder Daddy hung up last night.” Georgiana grabbed Anne's hand and pulled her across the lawn. Will smiled and strolled into the kitchen.

“Hey, Mom? Anne's here. Can we have some milk and no-nos?”

“May we have some milk and no-nos.”

“Okay, so may we?”

“Yes, of course. I'll take them out to the patio. Go brush off the table and chairs. Everything's covered with maple seeds this spring.”

When Anne Darcy carried the tray of milk and forbidden chocolate sandwich cookies outside, she saw Georgiana and Anne at the table. Anne had draped her blazer over the back of her chair and stuffed her clip-on tie into the breast pocket, the only pocket Catherine hadn't sewn shut. Will finished adding seed to the new bird feeder and joined them as his mother set down the tray. He flopped into a chair.

Anne Darcy sighed, “William Darcy, must you sit that way? Look at Anne's posture.”

“Sorry, Aunt Anne,” said the girl as she sat up even straighter. Although the two families were not related, the children had always addressed the adult neighbors with the courtesy titles of “aunt” and “uncle.”

“No, Sweetie, I wasn't criticizing you. You always have lovely posture. Sometimes Will sits like a sack of potatoes.”

In that tone of voice that only a fourteen-year-old can manage, Will drawled, “Yes, Mom,” and sat up straight.

Anne Darcy sat down with the children. She smiled at Anne, the only one of the three children who had thought to put her napkin in her lap. It had only been six months since the deBourghs had filed for divorce, and Anne knew that her namesake was unhappy.

“How are you doing, Anne? How's school?”

“Fine, Aunt Anne.”

“Will has a soccer game on Saturday. Would you like to go to the game with us?”

“Thanks, Aunt Anne, but I'm going to the city this weekend to see Daddy.”

“Well, say hello for us, then. Oh, I hear the phone. Excuse me. Georgie, come inside with me. You've had enough cookies for one afternoon.”

“What sort of stuff do you do in the city?” Will asked Anne after his mother had gone into the house.

“Well, this weekend Daddy is buying us bikes so we can ride in the park. We've had picnics in the park, and we've gone to museums. Did you know there's an Egyptian temple in the art museum? And we go out for Sunday brunch. Like that.”

“Is it weird?”

“Huh?”

“You know, with your parents in two different places like that?”

“Kinda. But Daddy let me pick out my bedroom furniture and now I've got some stuff of my own in the apartment, so it's a second home, not so strange, you know?”

Through the window, Will could see his mother talking on the telephone. He shook his head and said, “I can't imagine it. Not having both Mom and Dad here.”

“You're lucky.”

“I know.”

“You know what the worst part is?”

“No, what?”

“It's all the people who feel sorry for me.” She made her voice whiny and condescending, “Poor Anne, it must be so awful for you. You poor dear.”

Will grimaced.

“Yeah, it's awful. And even more awful to be reminded of it all the time. Grownups can be really dense sometimes. Except your parents. They're cool. Your mom is so good to me. I know she's concerned, but she doesn't hover over me like I'm an invalid or an idiot. You're lucky.”

“I know.”

Anne Darcy walked out of the house and said, “Anne, that was your mother. Time to go home.”

Anne stood up. Anne Darcy gave her son a Look. He scrambled to his feet and removed Anne's jacket from her chair. Holding it for her he said, “Here.”

“Thanks.” She shrugged into the jacket.

Anne Darcy walked the girl to the gate. When they reached the break in the hedge, she hugged the girl and said, “Don't forget to put your tie back on. And pick up your books on the way in.”

“Right, thanks. And thanks for the snack.”

“Any time, Sweetie. We're here if you need us.” Watching Anne deBourgh trudge back to her house, Anne Darcy said a silent prayer of thanks that her family was all together.

Chapter 2

Summer, 1988

Catherine deBourgh sat at her desk in the kitchen, reviewing menus. She sighed and shook her head.

“What is it, Mrs., uh, Catherine?” asked Billie.

The assistant was still having trouble calling her employer by her first name. It wasn't that the elder woman sought familiarity from her assistant. It was, rather, an attempt to minimize use of her husband's name. Catherine would not change her name back to her maiden name, as she thought it best that she and her daughter have the same last name, even if it was also the name of that Rotten Ingrate. So when people addressed the proprietress of Catering by Catherine as “Mrs. deBourgh” she would coo, “Please, call me Catherine.” When George Darcy related this story to his friend, Lewis replied by quoting Shakespeare in a commanding voice, “They call me Katherine that do speak of me.” *

Not receiving an answer, Billie tried again, “Is something wrong?”

“Hamburgers and hot dogs. How prosaic.”

“But it is for the Fourth of July. It's traditional.”

“Hmph! It merely shows lack of imagination. I try and try to suggest updated ideas, but people always seem to want the banal.”

“But your salads are very creative. The potato salad with mustard seed and—”

“Yes, yes, that's true.” Catherine looked up to see her daughter in the hallway. “Anne!”

“Yes, Mother?”

“Where are you going?”

“Swimming. Remember, you said I could go with the Darcys.”

Nodding, Catherine said, “Yes, so I did. Come here.” Catherine held out her hand and Anne gave her the tote bag she had been carrying.

“Sunscreen, hat, sunglasses. Where's your swimsuit?”

“Under my shorts and T-shirt.”

“And are you planning to go home wet?”

“No, Mother. I'll shower and change at the club.”

“What's this?”

“A book.”

“I know that, young lady! But where are the classics I bought for you?”

“But Mother, they're big and clunky and they'll get wet and then they'll be wrecked.”

“Don't say `wreck,' you make it sound like a car crash. Ruined is what you meant. And they won't be ruined if you take proper care of them. I won't have you seen in public with some trashy paperback.”

“It isn't trash, Mother. All the kids read the Goosebumps books!”

“Billie!” commanded Catherine, “Go to the library and retrieve, hmm, let's see, yes, Huckleberry Finn. That's a better choice. And get rid of that tacky paperback.”

Billie took the book from her employer's outstretched hand and left the room. Anne picked up her tote bag and walked to the back door to wait for the approved reading material.

“Here you go, Anne,” said Billie, dropping the book into the tote bag. She walked out the door, saying to Catherine, “I'll just dump this thing in the trash.”

Once out of sight of the kitchen windows, Billie opened and closed the trash can with a convincing bang. She handed the paperback to Anne, whispering, “Remember to leave this with the Darcys.” Poor kid, thought Billie as she watched the girl walk toward the gate in the hedge.

Back in the kitchen, Catherine had set out containers of strawberries and blueberries for Billie to clean and rinse. Billie set to work while Catherine prepared the batter for sponge cakes. While the cakes baked, Catherine reviewed her lists and supervised Billie toasting almonds and making vanilla custard.

When they had finished, four cakes sat on the kitchen counter. On top they were all the same—whipped cream covered with blueberries and strawberries to look like an American flag. Inside, the cakes were different, each with its own filling between the layers. The Knightly's cake had strawberries, the Smythe's cake had blueberries and strawberries, the Watson's cake had only whipped cream, and the Elton's cake had sherry-flavored custard and toasted almonds for filling. The sponge cake had also been sprinkled with sherry.

Catherine shook her head at the last cake. “Make it like trifle,” Augusta Elton had said. “Mr. E loves trifle.” Catherine had been about to point out that the flag cake was supposed to be a cake, not a trifle, but then she remembered a recipe for a trifle cake. Trifle cake sounded just perfect to Mrs. Elton, and Catherine was pleased with herself for not mentioning that one of the traditional names for this cake was “tipsy parson.” Given Mr. Elton's profession as a minister, it would not have been a wise thing to say.

*From “Taming of the Shrew”

Chapter 3

Spring, 1990

One of the things Catherine deBourgh had purchased with her divorce settlement was a top-of-the-line computer. She used every spare minute to enter recipes into a data base which was cross-referenced by course, ingredients, the name of the clients for whom it had been prepared, and the date when it had been mentioned, if she had described it in her column.

Every recipe was printed out after it had been entered, and it was Billie's job to proofread. One day, when Billie was filing the proofed and corrected recipes, she remarked, “You know, Catherine, You have so many recipes, there could be a cookbook in this.”

“Oh, no, I wouldn't give away all my recipes! Then anyone could have my food without hiring me to cater.'

“But think of all the people who do not have the advantage of living near Roseport. Think of the people in Chicago or California who'll never have the chance to taste your wonderful cooking.”

“Well, that is true. But I am concerned about the impact on my catering business.”

“Since you were so smart to cross-reference your files by client, pull up the recipes that almost everyone has already tasted. You could save your newest recipes and just put the ones everyone has had in the book.”

“I'll think about it,” Catherine replied in a voice that said the matter was closed. The idea of being a published author was certainly appealing, but Catherine remembered the many rejections she'd received when she had tried to expand the audience for her newspaper column. She didn't relish the thought of going through anything like that again. Anyway, the catering business was keeping her busy. And she had a new client!

George Darcy's law practice was extensive, but he still accepted new clients. His newest was Frank Wickham, who had recently moved to Roseport. The Wickhams wanted to have a housewarming party, and George had recommended Catering by Catherine.

Mimi Wickham wasn't interested in decorating or cooking if she had to do any of the work. Her husband had made a fortune brokering a successful inventor's stock IPO, and she was enjoying spending the money as fast as it came in. When Catherine arrived at the house to discuss the party, she was shocked at the amount of clutter all over the place. Mimi Wickham bought every “collectible” knickknack ever produced by the Franklin Mint and its competitors. Tchotchke heaven, Catherine told Billie later.

Mimi was eager to show off with gourmet food, so she accepted all of Catherine's suggestions. Most clients had some ideas of their own, but Mimi just said she wanted impressive food. Deviled quail's eggs would be “adorable,” caviar “yummy.”

In the midst of their discussion, the Wickham's son, Geoff, arrived home from school.

“How was school, darling?” asked Mimi.

“School sucks. I mean, who wants to read boring literature. Hawthorne sucks! Borrrrring!”

“Which book is it, Geoff?” asked his mother.

“Seven something, Seven Capers, I think.”

“Gables? The House of the Seven Gables?” asked Catherine. Geoff nodded. “Oh, that's a classic of American Literature. It's in most curricula. Every American student should read the great American authors. I assume you've already read Twain and—”

“Nah,” Geoff interrupted her. “I hate reading. Maybe there's a movie I can watch instead of reading the books. “Mom, go out tomorrow and find the movie and maybe a Cliffs Notes.”

“Of course, Geoff.”

Geoff pushed his hair out of his eyes and clomped out of the room. Hideous child! thought Catherine, but she merely smiled and returned to discussing the party.

Chapter 4

May, 1991

Will Darcy sat on the deck, trying to finish reading Lord Jim. He sighed as he estimated the number of pages left to read. Man, shoot me if I ever try to read Conrad again. The book was slow going, and making it worse was the sound of girlish laughter coming over the hedge. Will tried to see who Anne's guest was, but Catherine had let her hedges grow tall to spite the neighbor on the other side because he had tried to stop her kitchen expansion the year before. Catherine decided that she would pretend that Mr. Lambrianos didn't exist, and she was accomplishing this by growing her hedges higher.

Will continued to persevere, but he stopped when he heard a familiar name.

“Oh! I have to tell you what I heard from Jane Fairfax,” squealed Anne.

“Oh, her. I don't care for her. If pressed, I just say she dresses well.”

Aha, thought Will. It's Emma Woodhouse. Only Em would say something like that. Curious about Jane Fairfax, Will closed the book and headed toward the gate. He wanted to ask Jane to the Junior Prom, but wasn't sure if she had a date already. Maybe Anne or Em would know.

“So,” Anne continued, “Do you want to hear what Jane had to say or not?”

“Sure, tell me.”

“Well—”

“Hi!”

“Will! What are you doing?”

“I was trying to read, buy there are these silly girls laughing, and I can't concentrate.”

“We are not silly!” cried Emma.

“So, how do you know Jane Fairfax?” asked Will, trying to sound casual.

“She takes piano lessons from the same teacher I do,” said Anne. “She has the hour after me, and sometimes we talk while Mrs. Keyes takes a coffee break between lessons.”

“Oh.”

“You probably know about this Will, since it happened in your school. Jane told me because we know the Wickhams. Mr. Wickham is Mother's broker.”

“Yeah, and?”

“Jane says that Geoff was suspended from school for cornering a girl in a hallway and trying to kiss her.”

“Jane?” Will was horrified at the thought.

“No, although he had been pestering Jane, asking her out. But she says she has a boyfriend who's away at boarding school.”

“Who?”

“The boyfriend? I don't know.”

“Oh.” To hide his disappointment, Will steered the conversation in another direction, “Who was the girl? I heard that Geoff was in trouble about a girl, and I heard he tried to do more than just kiss her. But nobody knew who the girl is.”

“Marianne Dashwood, a freshman.”

“Poor kid,” said Will. “I think she has an older sister. There's an Elinor Dashwood in the senior class. She's very smart, in the running for valedictorian.”

Anne nodded, “Yeah, that's probably her sister. Jane said that Marianne's sister went to the principal with her.”

“Did Jane say how long Geoff would be suspended?”

“A week. He's supposed to stay at home and do his work there, but Mother says that the way Mrs. Wickham spoils Geoff, he'll probably get to go to the beach instead.”

“Did your mother really tell you that?” asked Emma.

“No. I heard her talking to Billie about it. Mother found out because she was delivering some food when the principal called Mrs. Wickham. Mother does a lot of cooking for the Wickhams. Billie says Mother is Mrs. Wickham's meals on wheels!”

Chapter 5

June, 1991

“Anne!” Will Darcy burst through the gate waving a small card. “I got it! Oh, hi, Aunt Catherine, where's Anne?”

“She is in the house practicing for her piano recital.”

“Is it okay if I go in? I'll just take a minute.”

“Very well, but remember that she needs to practice. I want her performance to be flawless.”

“Okay, just one minute.” Will ran into the house. “Anne! Guess what?”

The sound of Chopin stopped. “What?”

“Look!” He held out the card.

“Not the best picture I've ever seen of you.”

“Anne! But look what it is!”

“Omigod! It's a driver's license. You passed your test! Congrats, Will!”

“Thanks, Anne. Dad says he'll buy me a car, but nothing flashy or fast.”

“I heard Geoff Wickham got a 'Vette,” said Anne.

“Can you believe it? Suspended twice this year, and his parents buy him a 'Vette. And he doesn't even have to do anything to get it. I only get the car if I work for Dad this summer.”

“Doing what?”

“Making copies, running errands. Delivering papers to clients.”

“Did Clarence Darrow start out that way?”

“Funny, Anne. Wait until I'm a famous lawyer, and then we'll see who's laughing. I better go. Your mother said you have to practice.”

“Yeah, recital coming up.”

“Is your dad going to be there?”

“No. It's my first one without him. He has to be out of town and he couldn't reschedule it. Em has promised to hold my hand backstage.”

“That's nice of her. You'd better get back to your practicing.”

Will left Anne at her piano and went outside.

“Hey, Aunt Catherine! Look, I got my license.”

“Very good, William. Be sure to drive carefully. There are far too many irresponsible drivers out there. You have to be alert at all times.”

“Yes, Aunt Catherine. I'll be careful.”

“And mind the speed limits.”

“Yes, Aunt Catherine.”

“And have the car serviced properly. Don't go ignoring the oil and such.”

“I'll remember, Aunt Catherine.”

When Will returned home, he found his mother pulling out plates from the china cabinet in the dining room.

“Are we having company?”

“No. Catherine wants to borrow some plates to take pictures of food.”

“Doesn't she have lots of plates?”

“Lots yes, but all the same. She wants a variety of plates so that the presentations of the food differ. It's for pictures to go into a new brochure for her business.”

Chapter 6

Posted on Tuesday, 24 February 2004

December 1991

Anne Darcy jumped at the sound of a door slamming and something heaving hitting the floor in the foyer.

“Will? Is that you? What's wrong? And don't swear like that in front of your sister.”

“Stupid sonofa—arrrrgh!”

Anne set down her books gently and said, “Hi, Aunt Anne. Will's mad because somebody dinged his car in the student parking lot. He just saw it now when he opened the door for me.”

“Coward didn't even leave a note.” Will bit his tongue to stop himself from swearing in front of Georgiana. Instead he kicked at his heavy backpack on the floor.

“How bad is it?” asked his mother?

“Not so bad, really,” replied Anne. “Someone was probably in a hurry and swung the door wide.”

“But I just waxed it, and it looked so good.”

“Can I help you fix it?” asked Georgiana.

As usual, his sister's earnest sweetness broke Will's bad mood. “No, Georgie,” he sighed as he hugged her. “We can't fix it ourselves, and it's too small to be worth the cost of going to a body shop. I guess I'll have to live with it.”

Anne Darcy looked at her son critically. He was becoming a perfectionist. President of the Honor Society, Captain of the basketball team, “ruby” level on the debating team, straight-A student, every parent's dream. And quite probably about to become even better.

“Well,” she said, “I have something that will make a bad day either much better or much worse.” She held up the envelope that had arrived registered mail that afternoon.

Will looked at the return address and grabbed the envelope. Then he froze.

“Open it!” cried Anne. “You've been worrying about it all week. Every morning you say you hope it will arrive today. And now it has. Geege and I will catch you if you faint.”

Will took the letter into the living room and sat on the floor. He took a deep breath and slit open the envelope and removed the letter.

“Yesssssssss!” he cried, flopping onto his back and kicking his legs as he waved the paper in the air. “Yes, yes, yes, yes, yesssssss!”

“What does it say?” asked his mother.

“I don't know, but the first word is `Congratulations' so it has to be good news! C'm'ere, you,” said Will, grabbing his sister and pulling her down on his lap for a hug. “Remember when you licked the stamps for that big envelope? You brought me luck, Georgie, I got into Yale!”

“Oh, Will, that's so wonderful! I'm proud of you!”

“Thanks, Mom,” he said as he got up and hugged his mother, who took the letter and began to read it. Then he and Anne exchanged high-fives.

“Congrats, Will. Now you can slack off!”

“No he certainly cannot, Anne. The `fine print' reminds us that he has to maintain his academic standing or he could lose his place there.”

“I know, I was just kidding. Anyhow, Will slacking off is like my mother using paper plates!”

To celebrate his good news, Will was invited to go into New York with Anne for a weekend with Lewis deBourgh. Because everyone was feeling benevolent, Georgie was allowed to accompany them.

They found facing seats on the train and Will stowed the overnight bags in the overhead rack. Georgiana sat by the window and talked incessantly about the towns that sped by. She didn't care that Will and Anne weren't listening. She was on her way to a big-city adventure.

“I bet this is the first weekend you haven't planned on doing homework, isn't it?” asked Anne.

“You caught me, I'm slacking off!”

“No, I bet you did it all last night.”

“Yeah, most of it. The rest I'll do Monday morning during Honor Society meeting.”

“I hope Em and I get into the Honor Society so we can get a day off from gym whenever we want.”

“What is it about girls and gym? There's always one of them begging me to call a meeting on Monday morning so they don't have to take gym.”

“Uh-huh, `one of them' mostly being Jane Fairfax, who doesn't want to break a nail or hurt her piano-playing fingers. Plus, Monday is clean clothing day. If you forgot your clean gym shorts, you get demerits. And any day you don't have to run around and get all sweaty is a good day.”

“I guess. Anyhow, it's just luck that the only period when there's no senior honors or AP class is first period when all the seniors have gym.”

“Are we there yet?” asked Georgiana when the train stopped.

“No, Geege, this is just a stop to pick up more passengers,” said Anne.

“Oh.”

“Be patient, we'll be there soon enough,” laughed Will. “Hey, Anne, what was in your bag that made it so heavy? Not books, I hope. Not when I'm slacking off.”

“Not books. Jam. For Daddy.”

“Some of your mother's jam? She gave you jam to take to your father, the—uh…”

“The Ingrate? Yes, I know she says that. And no, she doesn't know about it. Billie helped me swipe a few jars. Mother is too busy this time of year to keep count, plus it's marmalade weekend, so the shelves will get rearranged a bit.”

The train moved into a tunnel and Anne nudged Georgiana, “Soon, Geege. We're almost there.”

Lewis deBourgh met them on the platform, hugged the girls, and shook hands with Will. They took their bags to the taxi rank, where his secretary, Mrs. Jenkins, was waiting for them. He introduced the Darcy children to her, handed her some money and left her with the luggage.

“Come on, kids, let's go window shopping. Mrs. Jenkins will take the bags to my apartment.” Turning back to his secretary he added, “And no going back to the office. You have the rest of the afternoon off!”

He led the group to Fifth Avenue and down a few blocks where they stood in line to see the windows at Lord and Taylor. The theme was scenes from Peter Pan. Georgiana was transfixed as she watched the figures move through the scenes. Anne hummed along with the songs from the show.

As they walked up Fifth Avenue, Lewis asked, “Did you like the windows, Georgie?”

“Yes! It was so cool, the way Peter flew and everything.”

“Did you know it's from a play?”

“Really?”

“Would you like to see it?”

“Can I?” she squeaked.

“How about tonight?”

Georgie jumped up and down delightedly and Anne hugged her father.

“Thanks, Daddy.”

Lewis smiled at Will over his daughter's head and said, “You'd probably prefer something more mature, but I had to consider Georgie's age level.”

“That's fine, Uncle Lewis, really. A weekend in the city is a great present, no matter what we do.”

By the time Lewis put them on the train on Sunday evening, Will and Anne were tired and Georgiana was exhausted. They had managed to squeeze in as many Christmas activities as they could—skating under the big tree at Rockafeller Center, exploring floors and floors of toys at FAO Schwartz, brunch at a restaurant with a view, and buying and decorating an apartment-sized tree for Lewis's apartment.

Georgie fell asleep the minute the train pulled out of Grand Central Station. She snuggled against Will and he put his arm around her protectively.

“Someone looks worn out,” said the conductor as she took their tickets.

Will nodded solemnly, “Hung over. And at her age!”

Anne giggled, “That wasn't nice! Poor thing really is pooped. I'm tired, too. I'll sleep like a log tonight.”

“Didn't you sleep okay last night?”

“Yeah, I slept fine. It's funny, but I don't always sleep well the night I get home. I know Rose House is home, but Dad's apartment is home, too. I guess you never completely get used to it.”

“I suppose. I can't imagine it.” Will looked down at Georgie, “Makes me realize what a good family I have.”

“I don't mean to complain. I've learned to look at it like the zoo.”

“The zoo?”

“Yeah. I think giraffes are really neat. And it would be fun to have one as a pet. But I know I never will. And I know my parents will never be together again. You learn to live with disappointment. Well, maybe you don't have to.”

“You make it sound like I have a charmed life.”

“Compared to a lot of others, you do. My parents split, Em's mother died when she was little.” Anne shrugged, “Like that.”

“Poor Anne?”

“No, you know I don't mean it that way! I'm used to things the way they are. I just wish Mom wouldn't nag me so much. And when I try to tell her that Dad doesn't get on my back like that all the time, she just says that he doesn't care. But I know he loves me, and I hate it when she says he doesn't.”

Will reached across and took Anne's hand, “Listen, Anne. Any time your mother makes you crazy, you can come over to our house. Tell her I'm helping you with your homework or something.”

“She'll think it's a date.”

“That's her problem. Just know that there's always a no-no cookie waiting for you.”

“You sound like a Motel 6 commercial,” Anne giggled and then drawled, “We'll leave an Oreo out for ya.”

Lewis finished tidying the apartment and thought how quiet it was after the three young people left. During the weekend, Lewis had observed Will and his daughter. Catherine kept telling him how inseparable they were, and what a lovely couple they made. But Lewis noticed that Anne teased Will about a girl called Jane and he made Anne blush by mentioning someone called Richard. Making a mental note to find out more about this Richard, Lewis decided that Anne and Will saw each other as buddies, almost siblings, which pleased him greatly. Always sorry that Anne was an only child, he was grateful that the family next door had made her an honorary sister.

Chapter 7

February 1992

“Hi, I'm home! It smells good in here!” Anne hung up her coat, put her books on the steps, and walked into the kitchen. “Mmm, chocolate!”

“Hello, Anne,” said her mother. “How was school?”

“It was okay, same-ol', same-ol'.”

“Honestly, Anne, you must be able to say something better than that! You know that I do not care for slang. Perhaps I should not have allowed you go to the public high school.”

Billie thought a diversion was in order. “Look what you got today,” she said, pointing a chocolate-covered finger toward a bouquet of red roses and white carnations.

“For me? Really? Valentine's Day isn't until tomorrow.” Anne raced over to the flowers and inhaled the scent. “They're so nice! I wonder who they're from?” She opened the card and read, “To my special valentine, love, Daddy.”

Catherine frowned as her daughter carried the bouquet up to her bedroom. “I had hoped they would be from William. Still, he may be waiting until tomorrow.”

Don't hold your breath, thought Billie as she rolled brandy-laced chocolate truffles in chopped pecans.

“Have you finished?” asked Catherine.

“Just about. I'm doing the brandy truffles now, the orange ones are in a container, and the coffee ones are on that plate over there. Shall I box them up today?”

“Yes. Use the small pink boxes and the red candy papers. Each box should hold six nicely.” Catherine scowled over the plate of coffee truffles coated in cocoa. “A few of these could use a bit more cocoa, Billie. It wouldn't do to have a sparse coating. Take care of that before you box the order for the Knightlys.”

“Yes, Catherine. Coffee truffles for the Knightlys, orange for the Kruckshanks, and brandy for the Eltons. I noticed that Reverend Elton ordered coq au vin for the main course. Does he know that the alcohol cooks off?”

Catherine sighed, “Now, Billie, you shouldn't gossip about our clients. I offered quiche, coq au vin, and lamb noisettes for main courses because they could be cooked easily. The whole point of the `Valentines Dinner for Two' plan was to allow couples to have a lovely dinner without servers in the way and without a great deal of fuss in the kitchen.”

“It was wonderfully clever, Catherine, especially the tie-in with hints on a no-hassle dinner in your column last week. So many customers have ordered these dinners!” Billie's praise was interrupted by the telephone.

“Catering by Catherine,” said the proprietress crisply. “How can I help you?”

“Mrs. deBourgh, it's Jason from Angel's Liquors. Just wanted to let you know that nine of your customers have ordered the wines you asked me to have on hold for you. I thought you said there were ten who would probably call.”

“Yes, I do have ten dinners planned. Do you have your list?”

“Yes, ma'am. Everyone has been in to see the recommendations except Mrs. Wickham.”

Catherine sighed. Mimi was the least organized person she had ever met. “I'm sure she'll be in tomorrow. I did tell everyone that you had been very kind to hold my suggested wines for them, and that you wanted to be able to release the hold today. I'm afraid Mrs. Wickham isn't very good with deadlines. Could you hold her bottles until tomorrow?”

“Sure, no problem, just checking in and making sure there aren't any changes. We really appreciate your patronage, ma'am.”

“And I appreciate your assistance in selecting wines. Good afternoon, Jason.”

“Bye, ma'am.”

Billie shook her head, “That woman is an airhead. It's no wonder her son runs wild the way he does.”

The next morning, Anne waited at the door, watching for Will's car. He pulled up in front of the house and beeped the horn gently.

“Mom! I'm going!” called Anne.

“Really, Anne, such shouting is not ladylike. And I'm disappointed in William, not coming to the door properly.”

“It's okay, Mom, it isn't a date, just a ride to school. See you later.”

Anne walked sedately to the car, just in case her mother was watching. She waved goodbye as she got into the car.

“Hi, Will, Happy Valentines Day.” She dug in her book bag. “I have some of Mom's truffles. Just orange and coffee. She wouldn't let me have any of the brandy ones. And if I find out you re-gifted these to Jane or some other girl, you'll never get another one in your life.”

“Would I do that? Here's a valentine from Georgie.”

Anne opened the card. “Aww, it's cute. I'll take her a few of my flowers this afternoon. Daddy sent me a nice bouquet yesterday. Mom hoped they were from you. She just doesn't get it.”

“So you aren't disappointed I didn't get you flowers and a mushy valentine?”

“Nope. If you want to get me something for Valentines Day, what I really, really, really want is a date with Richard. He's on the basketball team, and you're the captain. Please? He is so cute!”

Chapter 8

April 1992

William Darcy, golden boy, turned down for the prom! Life sucks! he thought as he walked down the hall to the office. A summons to the Assistant Principal frightened most students, but Will figured it was routine Honor Society business, since Mr. Shao was also the advisor to the Honor Society.

“Will!” A feminine voice interrupted his thoughts. “I forgot to ask you. Could we have a meeting tomorrow morning?”

Jane Fairfax, cool and confident smiled at Will. She had just turned down his invitation to the prom and NOW she was asking a favor? All those eyelash-batting requests to duck gym had been granted, and then she wouldn't go to the prom with him. Em was right, the nicest thing he could think of to say about Jane was that she dressed well.

“No. I'm on my way to Mr. Shao right now, and I'll bet he's going to ask why we've had so many meetings.”

“Oh, but Will, I'm sure you could—”

“Yeah, right. How about I tell him `You see, Jane Fairfax hates gym, so we have lots of meetings.' Maybe your boyfriend from Greenwich can write you a note to get out of gym.”

Will left Jane pouting and twirling a lock of blonde hair around her finger. He took a few deep breaths, and calmer, he entered the office.

Mr. Shao's secretary waved and said, “Hi, Will, go on in.”

“Good morning, Mr. Shao.”

“Good morning, Will. Have a seat. You're number one on the Honor Society list for history tutors, since you have the highest average in AP History. So I'm asking you to take on another student to tutor.”

“Oh, okay. Pete doesn't need much help now, so I should be able to find a time for someone else. I guess I can't say no.”

“Not really, since the tutoring program was your idea. And a good one, too. This is a student who has let his history grade slip, and so he's in danger of not passing. As you know, US History is a requirement for graduation.”

“Yes.”

“Here's his name and number. His mother requested a student tutor, so he'll be expecting you to call. Thanks, Will. And here's a pass to get back to second period.” Mr. Shao handed Will two slips of paper.

“Thanks, Mr. Shao. See you.” Will stuffed the papers into his pocket and returned to class. When he handed his French teacher the pass, he got a look at the name on the slip and groaned.

“Guillaume, et vous mal?' asked the teacher.

“Huh? Uh, non, je suis tres bien, merci.” Merde! thought Will, Turned down for the prom and now expected to tutor that slime Geoff Wickham. Life sucks!

As Will walked into the lunch room, he saw Geoff walking out.

“Geoff.”

“What?”

“We have to set up a time for me to tutor you.”

“Huh?”

“Honor Society tutoring? US History? You need a tutor?”

“Not you. Supposed to be blondie over there.” Geoff nodded over his shoulder.

“Jane?”

“Yeah, right, Jane.”

“No, Mr. Shao asked me to do it.”

“Oh, man!”

You can say that again, thought Will. “Yeah, well, I'm your tutor, unless you want to ask Mr. Shao to change things.”

Geoff snorted, “Oh, right, like I'm goin' to Shao and sayin' I don't want Mr. Valedictorian-knows-everything-about-history-Darcy to tutor me. Nothing good ever happens to me in that gas bag's office.”

“So, what time is good for you? I thought we could use the library after school.”

“The library? No way. I got stuff to do right after school. Um, 4:30 at my place.”

“Okay, Geoff, see you then. And remember your book.” Will turned away before Geoff could answer. Why didn't I tell Mr. Shao I was too busy? Why didn't I suggest Jane? She isn't nearly as good at history as I am, but it would serve her right to have to deal with Geoff. The well dressed Ice Queen and the Slob. What a combination.

Will arrived at the Wickham home promptly at 4:30. Mimi Wickham greeted him warmly and showed him to Geoff's room. Will thought that he didn't really need any help finding it. The pounding of heavy metal made it perfectly obvious which room was Geoff's.

As Will entered the room, Geoff slammed a drawer shut and pulled out a cigarette. “Smoke?” he asked, holding out the pack.

“No. I don't smoke. And could you not? It really bothers me.”

George swore and shook the match he'd been holding.

“And turn off the music.”

“Anything else, Grandma?” Geoff sneered as he picked up the remote for the stereo.

“No, that's all,” said Will. “Do you have recent tests we can go over? Sometimes that helps. Or we could go over your notes. Where's your notebook?”

“Okay, okay, you did the nice tutor thing. Now just give me the homework and let's get it over with.”

“What?”

“Come on, man. Just give me the freakin' homework. Schools' been out for an hour and a half. You must have done tonight's homework by now.”

“We don't have the same homework, Geoff. We're in different courses with different books. Where's your book?”

Geoff shrugged.

“Did Mr. Mantler give you homework for tonight?”

“Yeah.”

“What was it?”

“Who gives a **** anyhow? You're supposed to do it.”

“Geoff, I'm not here to do your homework for you.”

“Why not?”

“Because a tutor is not someone who does your homework for you. A tutor is someone who HELPS you study.”

“Oh, puhleeze. Get real.”

Will got up, “Fine with me, Geoff. Be a senior two consecutive years.”

On the way out, Will told Mrs. Wickham that Geoff would be better off with an adult tutor.

Three days later, Will entered the lunch room as Geoff was leaving.

“Darcy, hey thanks, man!” said Geoff loudly. “I think I aced the test. Couldn't do it without your help!” He elbowed Will in the ribs and walked away laughing.

Pete, a basketball player who had also been tutored by Will, walked by and said, “What did you do for him that you didn't do for me?”

“Gave up on him, that's what. I don't get this. I was planning to talk to Mr. Shao about it, but he wasn't available this morning. I told Mrs. Wickham that Geoff didn't want me to tutor him and it would be better to get an adult.”

“Wickham's a jerk. He probably just wanted to embarrass you after you told his doting mommy that you wouldn't tutor him.”

“I guess.”

Later that day, when Will was summoned to the office from English class, his departure was accompanied by frenzied whispering in the last row.

“Mr. Shao? You want to see me?”

“Yes, I do. Sit down, Will. I want to hear your version of what happened with Geoff Wickham.”

Will sighed and recounted the tale of his recalcitrant classmate, ending with an apology, “So you see, sir, I tried, but he just wanted someone to do his homework. I thought his mother was going to hire an adult, a teacher. Someone Geoff wouldn't try to manipulate.”

“And that's it?”

“Yes.”

“What about the test?”

“Test?”

“The unit test.”

“I'm sorry, Mr. Shao, but I don't know what you're talking about.”

“Several marginal students, Geoff Wickham among them, did exceptionally well on the test Mr. Mantler just gave. Geoff is bragging to his friends that he got you to steal it for him.”

“WHAT?”

“He denies it, of course, but I have to ask you, since the rumor is all over the school.”

“Well, it's not true!”

“Mr. Mantler did discover that he was short one copy not long after you were in his classroom yesterday afternoon. And a custodian found a copy on the floor in one of the lavatories. Your phone number was on the back of it.”

“I was in Mr. Mantler's room to talk about my term paper. There were folders on the desk, but I didn't look at what was in them. And I didn't take anything.”

Mr. Shao looked at Will appraisingly. He could hardly believe this honor student would do such a thing, but he had to consider all sides of the situation. Finally Will spoke.

“Does Mr. Mantler think I stole the test?”

“No. But he has no alternative explanation for its disappearance.”

“So what happens now? Am I suspended?”

“No.”

“But you think I did it. What happened to innocent until proven guilty?”

“I don't know who did what. Will, I have to be like a judge here, and keep an open mind until we sort out all the facts. I wanted to hear your side of this, not accuse you of anything.”

Will shrugged, “Yeah, sure.”

“Go back to class. I'll continue to look into this.”

Will looked at the clock. History. Great. “I can't go into History now. Not with everyone thinking what I know they're thinking. I'd rather be suspended.”

“You don't mean that. You don't want a suspension on your record. There's the bell. Go back to class.”

As Will walked down the hall, he felt as if every student were staring at him. He was seriously thinking about ditching the rest of the day, but he decided to hold his head up as if nothing had happened. Just outside his history classroom, Anne passed him a note and ran to make it to her English class before the bell. He sat down and opened the note. Anne had written, `Geoff's story is crap and all your friends know it. Hang in there!' She and Emma had both signed the note.

Just as the bell rang, Richard Fitzwilliam slid into his seat behind Will and whispered. “Wickham is garbage, nobody with a brain believes this.”

Chapter 9

May, 1992

Catherine deBourgh surveyed the dining room with satisfaction. She was pleased with the improvements she'd helped Mimi make in her home. The poor woman would never have much taste or sense, but at least she had the money to buy tasteful things. She just needed a little guidance. And Catherine was pleased to offer guidance and advice aplenty.

She had convinced Mimi to get rid of the overwhelmingly bright drapes in the dining room and replace them with very full white sheer curtains. Catherine had also convinced Mimi to invest in a top-quality damask tablecloth. Catherine often supplied linens for dinner parties, but Mimi's table was unusually wide, and the standard cloths Catherine had on hand didn't fit it properly. This was an important dinner for Frank Wickham's best clients. The market was a little sluggish. Frank hoped the dinner would help him hang onto his clients.

On top of that, Frank was hoping to do a little personal damage control. Geoff had been expelled for organizing the theft of a history test. Cassie Smith, high as a kite on the drugs she had bought with the money Geoff had paid her, told several people that she had stolen the history test. William Darcy had been cleared and Geoff was in deeper trouble than he'd ever been in before. Frank was concerned that a personal blight like that might make his customers wonder if he was as untrustworthy as his son.

Catherine lit the candles and listened to the hum of conversation in the living room. The house certainly was quiet now that Geoff had been packed off to a private boarding school to finish his senior year. The word around town was that Frank had made a sizeable “donation” to the school in return for a guarantee of graduation and every effort to find SOME college that would accept Geoff.

Catherine checked her watch. The first course was ready to be served. She looked toward the living room, waiting to catch Mimi's eye. Mimi was telling several women how excited they were that such a wonderful school finally had an opening, and wasn't Geoff lucky to have such an opportunity. When she paused for breath, Mimi saw Catherine in the dining room, pointing to her watch. Mimi nodded and began to shepherd her guests into the dining room.

Catherine disappeared into the kitchen and her hired servers began to serve the soup course, chilled blueberry soup. From the kitchen, she could hear oohs and ahs as people complimented Mimi on the soup.

One woman asked Mimi how long the blueberries had to be cooked. Mimi giggled and said, “I have no idea, I'm just hopeless in the kitchen. I have the most wonderful caterer. I'd be lost without her!”

“Well, I would love the recipe for this.”

“Oh, I don't think she gives out recipes, but maybe as a favor she might. I'll see what I can do.”

The servers cleared the soup and returned with the main course, rack of lamb.

“One of my favorites!” declared Gilbert Hurst, a heavy-set man with a booming voice. Hurst was making a name for himself in the publishing industry. “Gilbert Hurst,” he would say when he introduced himself, “H-u-r-s-t. No relation to those California Hearsts!”

Seeing Hurst attack his meal with gusto, Mimi excused herself and went into the kitchen. “Oh, Catherine, it's going so well! Do you have any extra lamb? I'm sure at least one of the guests would like more.”

“Yes, I do, I always over prepare. I would suggest splitting the servings for seconds.”

“Oh, good idea. Thank you.”

“Mimi, remember the bell. Ring for a server if you need anything.”

“Oh,” she giggled, “The bell. Right.” And she returned to the table. When Hurst finished his lamb, she offered seconds. Hurst took her up on the offer right away, as did the one non-client guest, the Reverend Mr. Elton.

Setting down his empty wine glass and awaiting a refill, he said, “Oh, Mimi, I would dearly love some more lamb. My Augusta doesn't make rack of lamb. Of course, she makes excellent leg of lamb.” He patted his wife's hand.

“I would never flatter myself,” said Augusta Elton smoothly. “But my friends do say I have a way with a leg of lamb.”

“Yes,” said Hurst, “Leg of lamb is nice, but rack of lamb is something special. And I like this wine sauce. Nice alternative to the mint jelly, don't you think?”

“Oh, I prefer the mint jelly,” said Mimi. “My caterer makes her own. She has mint in her herb garden.” She started to get up, then remembered the bell. As she reached for it, one of the servers approached her.

“Mrs. Wickham, do you need anything?”

“Yes, could you get the mint jelly jar from the kitchen?”

“The jar? But Catherine never—”

“I'm not going to serve from it. I want to show my guests Catherine's label.”

The server trotted off to the kitchen. Catherine was torn between being scandalized at a jar being placed on the dining room table and being pleased at getting the attention of wealthy guests. In the end, thoughts of expanding her business won out, and she gave the server one of her new brochures, as well.

The jar was inspected, and Hurst noticed that the label had the same rose on it as the place card in front of him.

“Yes, Catherine loves pink roses. The pink rose has become her signature.”

Hurst looked at the glossy brochure with its photos of elegantly plated meals.

“You know,” said his wife Louisa, “Those pictures are prettier than some of the ones I've seen in cookbooks.”

“Hmm,” said Mr. Hurst, pocketing the brochure.

When the jar was returned to the kitchen without the brochure, Catherine asked the server what happened to the brochure.

“The fat guy who had seconds took it.”

“Good. Make sure Mrs. Wickham knows that we have extra servings of dessert in case any guests want seconds.”

“Yes, Catherine.”

One server carried out the lemon meringue pie while another carried carafes of coffee. Once dessert was served, they returned to the kitchen. The servers finished off the leftover lamb and potatoes, and had just washed their hands when they heard the rustle of people getting up from the table.

From the kitchen, Catherine could hear Mimi say, “You just go on into the living room. I'll be right there.”

The servers got up to clear the table as Mimi entered the kitchen, cooing, “Oh, oh, it was splendid! Everyone was so impressed with it all.”

“Indeed I was!” said Mr. Hurst, who had followed Mimi to the kitchen. “I just had to meet the cook.”

Catherine stood up and smoothed her impossibly clean apron, “Hello, I'm Catherine deBourgh of Catering by Catherine.”

Mr. Hurst shook her hand and introduced himself, “Hurst. Gilbert Hurst. H-u-r-s-t, not those California Hearsts.”

“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Hurst. I'm delighted that you enjoyed dinner.”

“Very much. I just may be calling you!” And with a wink, he left the kitchen.

Two days after the dinner party, Mr. Hurst called Catherine. She was expecting a booking for a dinner party. She was astonished at what he really wanted.

“A cookbook?”

“Yes! My publishing company is expanding into the how-to line. We have some good authors lined up for home improvement stuff—building a new deck, putting in a brick patio, refurbishing a bathroom, and so on. But we don't have an author for the, ah, distaff side, if you get my meaning.”

“I'm flattered that you're interested in me.”

“Tell you what, you let me know what day you can whip up lunch for the two of us, and we can talk it over, discuss money and schedule and all that messy stuff.”

“Let me check my calendar.” Catherine consulted her schedule and chose a day. Mr. Hurst agreed and within two weeks, Catherine was taking a contract to George Darcy for review.

George pointed out that the contract stipulated promotional appearances, and that could mean a book tour that would take her away from Catering by Catherine. Catherine said that she understood, and was willing to work out her schedule somehow.

“Well then,” George said, “The money looks good. They're giving you a decent advance. And you do understand that you won't be paid any royalty until your accrued royalties pay back the publisher for your advance?”

“Yes, I understand.”

“Then good luck, Catherine. I'm sure you'll do very well with this.”

Chapter 10

Posted on Tuesday, 2 March 2004

June 1992

“Turn around,” said Catherine, eyeing her daughter critically. “I still think the pink satin dress I showed you would have been better. I should never have permitted your father to buy your dress. I knew he'd send you out with some secretary.”

“Mom! We've been through this before. He did not send his secretary with me. He went shopping with m himself. We—” Anne stopped before she could say `we had a really good time.' Instead, she said, “We spent several hours shopping. He was helpful choosing a color. Pale pink is too washed-out for my coloring.” And I hate pink! she added silently.

“Nonsense! It makes you look delicate and lady-like. Pastel dresses are better for young women.”

“These are the nineties, Mom! I'm sorry to tell you this, but the lady-like look is definitely out of style. You should have seen some of the dresses Daddy wouldn't even let me consider.” Anne smiled, remembering the dresses she had threatened to try on just to make her father nervous.

“And remember, let me answer the door. You must walk down the stairs slowly and make a good impression.”

“Mom, he has seen me before, you know.”

“Anne, this is a special occasion and it calls for special behavior. I certainly hope that you will remember your manners.”

Anne's phone rang, saving her from having to answer.

“Hello?”

“Oh, good, you're still there. I was afraid I might have missed you.”

“Hi, Daddy!”

“Are you all dressed? Does your mother still hate the dress?”

“Yes and yes.”

“Butterflies?”

“No, well, just a few. Excited butterflies, not scared.”

“That's my girl. You have a wonderful time.”

“I will, Daddy. Oops! The doorbell rang. He's here! Bye!”

In the house next door, Anne Darcy straightened her son's bow tie and sniffed, “Look at you! When did my baby grow up?”

“Mom! You've been here the whole time. Weren't you paying attention?”

His teasing got her off her sentimental track. “Don't get smart with me William Darcy. You may look like a movie star in your tux, but I'm still your mother.”

George Darcy appeared in the doorway. “Smile!” When Anne and Will turned to face him, he took a picture.

“Come on, Dad! Not too many pictures, please?”

“You'd better get going if you're going to pick up Paula and get her here before the party starts. I'm sure her parents will want pictures of the two of you.”

“I'm ready. See you in a bit.”

When Will gave up on the notion of getting Jane Fairfax to go to the prom with him, he decided to ask Paula Mason. His lab partner for three consecutive science courses, Paula was a girl who was more friend than “girlfriend.” Paula wanted to be a doctor, and had no intention of cultivating a serious relationship that might interfere with her studies. Whenever Will was between girlfriends, he dated Paula.

True to form, the Masons took pictures of the couple and complimented Will on how handsome he was and how nice Paula's flowers were. Then the couple excused themselves to get back to the Darcy home for the pre-prom party.

In the car, Paula sighed, “My mother cried.”

“Mine only sniffled. Why is sending your kid to the prom such a rite of passage for a parent? I suppose you got the speech about a lawyer and a doctor being a good combination?”

“No. You're confusing my mother with Anne's. My parents are delighted that I'm in no hurry to look for True Love.” Paula grinned as she patted her heart.

“That's what you say now. Just wait, Paula, you'll see some guy and fall head over heels, bam! Like that. Just remember to invite me to the wedding so I can say I told you so.”

“Not gonna happen, Will. When I was getting my hair done this afternoon—”

“It looks nice. Sorry, I should have said that sooner.”

“I wasn't fishing for compliments. Will. When I was there, some of the girls were almost hysterical with worry that everything had to go just right. This is nice, going with a friend. No stress, no expectations.”

“I know what you mean.”

“So you're okay that you're not going with Jane?”

“Oh, geeze, Paula!”

“Will, I know I'm not your first choice. You can't sit hunched over a force table in the physics lab with someone and not know their innermost secrets! Anyhow, the whole senior class knows the list of guys who've asked her out. I think she does it just to maintain a mystique.”

Will pulled into his driveway and another car pulled in behind him.

“Richard and Anne are here. Thanks for agreeing to double with them, Paula.”

“Glad to oblige. It kept you from having to ask Anne and get her mother all worked up. How'd you get Richard to ask her?”

“He has dated so many girls, he didn't know which of them to ask. Didn't want to single out any one of them, you know? So I suggested he ask someone out of the blue.”

“That someone being Anne.”

Will walked around the car and opened the door. He helped Paula out of the car and Anne and Richard caught up with them. The two girls giggled and complimented each other as they walked toward the house. Richard tugged at his collar.

“My father says his tux is comfortable. How come this feels like a noose?” Richard complained.

“It's all in the tailoring. My father says rentals are supposed to be uncomfortable to make you want to buy one of your own. You may as well get used to discomfort, Cadet Fitzwilliam. I'll bet the uniform is worse.”

“Mrs. deBourgh was disappointed that I'm not wearing my dress uniform. Poor Anne was embarrassed and tried to explain that I haven't started at the Point yet. Anne's mother is a trip.”

“Don't I know it. She has probably run across the yard, so she'll be in there, waiting for us.”

Both Catherine and George were waiting, cameras in hand. The couples posed for several pictures, and then Catherine asked for a picture of Anne with Will.

“Stand up straight, Anne, dear. William, stand a bit closer. That's good. Smile! Perhaps I should take one more just in case.”

“No, Mom, that's enough,” said Anne. “The other guests will be here any minute, and you promised.”

“Very well, I'll go check on Billie.”

After her mother had left for the kitchen, Anne sighed, “Sorry, guys. She promised she'd stay out of the way once the party started.”

“It's okay, Anne,” said Paula. “It was nice of your mother to offer to cater the party. And kind of you to host it, Mrs. Darcy.”

“My pleasure, Paula. I'm enjoying seeing all of you so dressed up. I'm used to seeing the boys dressed in faded jeans and slouching on the patio furniture.”

Paula laughed, “That sounds like how we see them a lot of the time.”

Anne Darcy managed to find a moment alone with her namesake. “You look lovely, Anne. I'll send copies of your pictures to your father. He gave you good advice on the dress.”

“I suppose Mom told you about the pink satin?”

“Yes she did. I'm glad you won this one. Come to think of it, you've become quite adept at getting your way without confronting your mother.”

“Moi?” asked Anne innocently.

“Oh, go flutter those eyelashes at your date!”

The pre-prom party was a success, combining Will's friends from the basketball team with his friends from the Honor Society and other activities. His debate partner, George Knightly had brought Emma Woodhouse, making Anne and Em the only two sophomores going to the Senior Prom. Toward the end of the party, limos started lining up outside, and couples found their cars and headed to the prom.

Will's table at the prom was made up of the five senior starters on the basketball team and their dates. Only one couple, Steve and Suzanne, had been together for any length of time. The rest were just friends, and by the time dinner was served, everyone at their table had danced with everyone else's date.

“What a great party,” said Emma. “Isn't this nice, George? Much better than that table over there. Some of those couples are hanging all over each other.”

“I thought you liked to see a good match, Em,” teased George.

“But it's like Noah's Ark over there. All two-by-two.”

“Speaking of two-by-two,” said Paula cattily, “We finally get a look at dear Jane Fairfax's beau.”

“Not bad,” said Em. “He's rather good-looking, I suppose. And she does dress well.”

Anne coughed.

“You all right?” asked Richard.

Anne nodded and sipped her water. “Sorry. Em! Don't make me laugh when I'm swallowing!” Seeing Richard's confusion, she added, “That's the only nice thing Em ever says about Jane.”

“Meow!” said Steve.

“Oh, come on,” said Paula. “Show of hands. How many of you guys have asked Jane out and got turned down?”

“Paula!” hissed Will.

“Okay, I take back the question. But I think one of you should ask her to dance and see what she says.”

Across the room, Jane Fairfax's date, Frank Churchill, had a comment on just about everyone. The pale blonde (Anne) was too skinny, the brunette (Paula) was too chubby, the chatterbox (Em) was too short for the boys she was dancing with. It was pretty sad that the members of basketball team at that table obviously didn't have steady girlfriends, so they had to dance with each other's dates as well as their own.

Anne sighed as she danced with Will. She smiled up and said, “Thanks, Will. I appreciate you setting me up with Richard.”

“Are you enjoying yourself?”

“Oh, yes! It's so nice, and so many of the seniors have been friendly, even though I don't know a lot of them very well. And Richard, well…” her voice trailed off in a sigh.

“Anne, don't get your hopes up. Remember, he's off to the Point in the fall. Plus, well,” Will paused to gather his thoughts and then continued, “I like Richard, he's almost like a brother, well, no, say a cousin. And I know that he's—”

“Love-em-and-leave-em Fitzwilliam? I know. I'm just enjoying the evening.”

Will smiled down at her, “You sure you're not a senior? You certainly are grown-up tonight!”

Richard, sitting out a dance for once, decided things were getting boring. He spotted Jane on her way back to her table from a trip to the ladies' room, so he walked across the dance floor and intercepted her.

“Hi, Jane, dance?” he said, as he took her in his arms.

“Richard!”

“You look lovely tonight,” he said smoothly, noticing the fumes rising from her date's ears. “You always dress so well. But Anne's a better dancer. Have a nice evening.”

Richard turned and left Jane on the dance floor. His slight was noticed by a few couples, but then everyone's attention shifted to a figure weaving in and out of the couples. He was wearing cut-off jeans and a Hawaiian-print shirt.

Will was still dancing with Anne when Geoff Wickham, prom-crasher, tapped on his shoulder.

“May I cut in?” he slurred.

“I don't think so, Geoff.” Will glanced around to see if the chaperones had caught sight of Geoff yet. Mr. Shao was scanning the couples, but didn't seem to know where Geoff was.

“Come on, let me dance with Catherine's little treasure. She finally got you to take out her little girl, huh?”

“No, Geoff, I'm Anne's date.” Richard materialized behind George. “Go sit down, Anne.”

Soon Geoff was surrounded by the basketball team. All dancing stopped. If the students had been hoping for a brawl, they were disappointed. The five basketball players slowly walked as a group toward the door, where Mr. Shao met them with a security guard.

“Bye, Geoff,” called Richard. “Lovely to dance with you.”

Chapter 11

September, 1992

Catherine and Billie spent hours at Catherine's computer pulling up recipes to suggest to the editor from Hurst-Hughes Publishing. For every three recipes Billie suggested, Catherine rejected two.

“No, that's a signature recipe. I couldn't possibly give that away.”

“I think you should have one of your signature recipes in the book. Then it could be your cover photo.”

“Hmm, I don't know.”

“Think of it. Catherine deBourgh's signature dessert, chocolate-raspberry cake with pink butter cream roses. It would be beautiful!”

“It might make the cookbook look like a dessert cookbook.”

“Oh, you're very smart, Catherine, to think of that. I suppose you'd want to put a dinner on the cover?”

“Yes, or a photograph of the dining room table all set for the guests to sit down. I suppose I should discuss that with the editor. She should be here any minute.”

Kate Ford pulled into the driveway. This must be the place, she thought, noting that there were pink roses everywhere. She had been surprised when Mr. Hurst told her to schedule the meeting at the author's home. Wondering if the lunch really would be worth it, Kate walked to the door and rang the bell.

The door was opened almost immediately by a young woman who did not fit Mr. Hurst's description of Catherine deBourgh.

“Hello. I'm Catherine's assistant, Billie Collins.”

Kate held out her hand, “Hi, Kate Ford. Pleased to meet you, Ms. Collins.”

“Billie. We use first names here. Come in. We have everything set up in the dining room. Catherine thought a large table might facilitate sorting recipes.”

“Great.” Kate looked around as Billie showed her to the dining room. “What a lovely home.”

“Catherine, this is Kate Ford.”

“Welcome, Ms. Ford. Thank you for being punctual. I've always thought that it's terribly inconsiderate to be late for meetings.”

“Please, call me Kate. I was just saying to Billie what a lovely home you have.”

“I'll give you a tour when we're ready for a break. Before we begin, may I offer you some tea and scones? It's just coming up on time for elevenses.”

“Elevenses! Not many people use that term. I have a friend who refuses to take a morning coffee break. Instead, she has elevenses.”

Impressed at Kate's knowledge, Catherine sent Billie to the kitchen to organize the tea tray and invited the editor to take a seat at the table. Catherine sat at the head of the table, Kate sat to her right.

“I have printed out a number of recipes to consider. Billie had I have agreed on some, disagreed on others. The first group in each stack is the group we both thought should be in. The second group is my choices. And if you need more choices, we can go on to Billie's stack.”

“Right, that's a good start. But before we begin to sift through recipes, we need to discuss the purpose of the cookbook.”

Catherine raised her eyebrows. “Purpose? Why, to cook beautiful food to make elegant meals, of course. Have you never edited a cookbook before?”

“Oh, I have. I'm new to Hurst because they've only just started this department, but in my previous job, I worked on several cooking and craft books. As project editor, I need to help you find the vision, the focus for your book. Since the springboard for the book is your experience in catering, perhaps we should look at it from that angle. Suppose I'm a new client, booking a dinner party. How do you start?”

“I ask some basics, such as number of people, sit-down or buffet, and if it's a for a specific occasion.”

“Right, then what?” asked Kate as Billie set down a tray laden with a silver tea service and delicate cups, saucers, and plates. “Stop!” she said as Billie began to unload the tray.

“Is something wrong?”

“No, Catherine, absolutely nothing is wrong. I've just never had a meeting catered so beautifully before. I want to savor the moment. Is the china antique?”

Impressed, Catherine nodded, “How did you know?”

“The shape of the cup, the intricacy of the design. I'm not an expert, but I helped a colleague with a book on china.”

Billie said, “Catherine knows a great deal about china and has collected some lovely pieces. Why, this set alone, cost over—”

“That will do, Billie. Please pour.”

Billie did as she was told and then set a plate bearing a gently warmed scone at each place.

“Oh. Ohhhh,” murmured Kate. “This scone is incredible! So soft and moist inside. Mine tend to come out a bit dry.”

“Many people have that problem.” Catherine nodded sagely, but did not offer any advice. “Would you care for another?”

“No, thank you. It's delicious, but I'd like to get back to work, and that scone is far too distracting. So, we were talking about how you start a booking. Once you determine the basic facts, do you go on to discuss the menu?”

“Yes. I ask if the hostess has any ideas. Some people know just what they want. Others leave it up to me.”

“I see. So you look at cooking as putting together a menu?”

“Yes, that is correct.”

“Okay, one of the ways we could organize the cookbook is by menu. You know, dinner for ten, barbecue for a crowd, intimate anniversary dinner, and so forth.”

“You mean instead of a section for appetizers, section for soups, and so on?” asked Billie.

“Right. We present the menu, discuss the meal and why certain things are served together, and then give the recipes.”

“Do you think that would be a good approach?” asked Catherine.

“I think it would fit well into our line of books. Like many of our new line, this book will be what we call a `how-to.' How to give a dinner party that's as good as something done by a pro. So why not organize it party by party? That's how you work.”

“Yes, it is.”

“This is your cookbook. We'd like it to reflect your approach to food.”

“Hmm, that would be a possibility. Billie, run and get my notebooks.”

“What are the notebooks for?” asked Kate.

“At first they were for samples, then they became records of parties I catered.”

Billie returned and deposited an armload of notebooks on the dining room table. Kate could see that the spine of each was labeled with a year.

“Chronological? Do you still keep them?”

“Not as comprehensively. Now that I'm more successful, I have less need to show sample menus or photos. Now I put only the nicest parties into my notebooks. The more mundane events are just in the computer.”

Kate took one of the notebooks and flipped through it. She stopped at a photograph of a grinning white-haired woman surrounded by children. “What's this?”

“That was an eightieth birthday party for Mrs. Adams. Her daughter, who lives in Roseport, gave the party and got the whole family together. She took the picture of her mother and all the grandchildren. It's sweet, isn't it? Mrs. Adams sent me a copy along with a lovely thank-you note.”

“How thoughtful.”

“Many of my customers send me pictures from their parties. I think they want to be included in my notebooks.”

“Yes, having Catherine agree to cater your party has become quite the thing,” said Billie. “People know that they have to book early if they want us to do something for a major holiday. In fact, last year—”

“Thank you, Billie,” said Catherine, waving her assistant into silence. “Kate, you can see that I'm quite busy. How much work is involved in writing a cookbook, and how long does the whole process take?”

“The first draft exists already, in bits and pieces in your files. We have to pull it together, choosing the menus and recipes to include. Then I'll go through and edit everything.”

“Edit? You'll change my recipes?”

Hearing the horror in Catherine's voice, Kate replied soothingly. “Oh no, certainly not. They are your recipes after all. But I have to go through them and standardize the way they're organized and presented. For example, steps have to be numbered. An experienced cook like yourself probably puts several directions into one step. For our readers, we need to break that sort of thing out into more than one step.”

“I see.” Catherine sounded doubtful.

“I understand your concerns,” said Kate. “Remember that you will have the chance to review the edited manuscript, see some sample designs—typefaces and so forth, see page proofs, review photographs. It's all in your contract. We want to work with you to produce a cookbook that you'll be proud of.”

Chapter 12

February 1993

“Now remember, girls, no chattering and giggling in the museums. And if you must have a soft drink during intermission, remember that you may not take it into the theater with you. Live theater is different from a movie theater.”

“Yes, Mrs. deBourgh,” said Emma as they threaded their way through the crowd at Grand Central Station, “We'll remember.”

“At least you are seeing a play based on literature. I do wish you had read the book first, however.”

“Mom, `Les Miz' is on the senior reading list. We'll have to read it this summer.”

“Anne, I do not care what they print in the advertisements for the play. The title is Les Miserables. Shortening the title of a great work is an insult to the author.”

Like Victor Hugo really cares at this point, thought Emma as she worked to keep a straight face.

Five minutes standing in the taxi rank felt like five hours with Catherine admonishing the girls to be ladies and look out for strangers and not to accept any invitations from young men.

Once in the taxi, the girls relaxed.

“Oh, Em, I'm really sorry. I didn't know Mom had an appointment in the city when we set up this visit.”

“It's okay. I'm used to your Mom. My father is just as bad in his own way. When he wasn't looking, I dug into my suitcase and took out the thermal underwear, the extra sets of woolly socks, and the cough medicine.”

“At least your father isn't obsessed with you snagging the boy next door.”

Amma laughed, “George Knightly? Are you kidding? He's like an older brother, and Dad knows that.”

“I don't know, Em, you made a good couple at last year's prom.”

“Anne! George took me to the prom because he's such a bookworm that he didn't know who to take. He probably wouldn't have gone at all, but the rest of the guys on the team talked him into it. I consider myself as an act of desperation on his part.”

“Yeah, well, I was an act of distraction on Richard's part. I think Will talked him into taking someone he hadn't dated before, and let's face it—there weren't many girls in Roseport who hadn't already been out with love-em-and-leave-em Fitzwilliam.”

“Enough about our pasts! I saw you checking out that new guy in English. I think you'd make a nice couple.”

“Em!”

As the girls were being driven to Lewis's apartment, Catherine was on her way to her publisher's offices. Since it was Catherine's first visit to the building, Kate took her on a tour, including a brief stop in Gilbert Hurst's office. Catherine handed him a white box with her signature pink rose on the cover.

“Oh, my!” he exclaimed, looking at the truffles inside. “These look wonderful!”

“I've been experimenting with some new flavors. Do let me know what you think of them. There are two of each flavor so you can share them with Mrs. Hurst.”

Kate stifled a laugh, knowing the box would never leave Hurst's office. “We won't take up any more of your time, Mr. Hurst. Catherine and I have work to do.”

“Good, good. Got to stick to the schedule. I hate it when printer dates slip.”

“We'll be on time, sir.” Kate shepherded her author down the corridor to her own more humble office, collected some files, and took Catherine to a conference room.

“Not as pretty as your dining room, I'm afraid,” said Kate.

Catherine scanned the shelves of books, “How can anyone find anything in this muddle?”

“It's the tragedy of the commons. We all keep personal copies of the books we've worked on in our offices. Extras and various reference books get stuck in here. Things that are everybody's become nobody's responsibility. But, oddly enough, we do manage to find what we need.”

“I find it shocking that people who create books don't take better care of them,” Catherine tsked. Kate wisely offered her a chair that faced away from the bookshelves and spread out several sample pages on the table.

“Here are the samples of the little `how-to' box that we discussed.”

“It has the wrong type in it.”

“That's just what we call dummy copy to take up space.”

“No, it doesn't match the rest of the page.”

“It isn't supposed to. The idea is to make this feature look different.”

“I like things to match. It's a sign of sloppiness when things don't match.”

“We want these to `pop' a bit. Catherine, there are lots and lots of cookbooks out there. Most of them simply contain recipes. We want to make this book stand out. One of the ways to do this is to grab people on the `flip test.' When people flip through the book in a bookstore, we want to have something that will make them stop and read. Appealing photographs do that, so do small items that people can read in a minute or less. Your recipes are mostly rather long.”

“People shouldn't be so impatient.”

“Perhaps not, Catherine. But the point is, a recipe takes a while to read. And not all people are foodies—”

“That is not a word. I do wish people wouldn't just make up words. It's as bad as using words for the wrong part of speech. A good book, no matter how good, is not a good read.”

Kate smiled, “Foodie may not be in the Oxford English Dictionary, but it's a word many people recognize. It means people who think food, who know instinctively what something will taste like, just from reading the recipe. Those people will read all the way through several recipes before deciding to buy a cookbook. But most people are looking for something to catch their fancy, particularly people who are buying a book as a gift. That's why the idea of catering as a theme makes this book special. The boxes tell people how to do some of your professional tricks. These boxes will help sell the book.”

“My recipes will sell the book.”

“Catherine, one of the most difficult things to accept when you get into publishing is that the content isn't always the driving force behind sales, especially for first-time authors. In a sea of cookbooks, you need to stand out. Once your name is well known, people will rush to get Catherine deBourgh's latest.”

“Oh, I see. They won't know who I am.”

“Not yet.” Kate smiled and added, “But they will! Our marketing folks are very good, so I'd like you to consider their advice on things like the little how-to boxes. These people know what sells. They've done loads of market research.”

“I see your point.”

“Good. So, let's look at some of these design samples, and then I need you to go through the list of recipes and decide which dishes you would like to have photographed for the book. Remember that you can't have them all. We do have a budget to think of.”

“I have a file of photos that were shot for the brochure. You do have a copy of my brochure?”

“Yes I do. For our next meeting, then, we should have someone from our studio look at your shots, and we'll also have a few stock shots for you to look at for style. Perhaps we could set up a meeting with our studio photographer.”

Chapter 13

March, 1993

Catherine surveyed the Brooklyn neighborhood with distaste. Surely Hurst-Hughes could afford a better location than this.

“Aren't these old brownstones fabulous?” asked Kate.

“They look rather dingy,” sniffed Catherine.

“Years and years of soot. A little bit of old New York!”

A tall man with red hair opened the door. “Katie, me darlin'! Sure and I've been thinkin' about ye all mornin'.”

“Cut it out, Sean! Catherine, this is Sean O'Connor, one of the best food photographers in the business. And he is not just off the boat. He always gets this way the week before St. Patrick's Day.”

Sean laughed, “Guilty as charged. Welcome, Ms. deBourgh. I've got my assistant in the kitchen preparing food and I want you to give it a final blessing before we start to shoot, okay?”

“Hello Sean, please call me Catherine,” said Catherine stiffly. Behind her back, Kate mouthed the words `behave yourself' and glared at Sean.

“Well then, Catherine, come see the kitchen.” Sean led the way to a large kitchen that looked every bit as much like a commercial kitchen as her own did. “And this is Martina, my food assistant, and Todd, my photographic assistant.”

“Hi,” said Todd as he adjusted a light.

“Hello,” smiled Martina. “I'm doing the beef tenderloin now. We thought we'd do a shot of it before it goes into the oven, and then a plated slice. Is this how you arrange the herbs?”

Catherine looked at the piece of beef with its sprigs of rosemary and thyme and shook her head, “That's more than I would normally use.”

Martina stepped back and said, “Would you care to re-arrange it, then? And can I get you an apron?”

“I have my own,” replied Catherine, as she opened her tote bag and took out one of her signature aprons with the pink rose embroidered on it.

Catherine removed the sprigs of herbs from the roast and repositioned them. Martina was hard pressed to see much difference between Catherine's arrangement and her own, but she wisely said nothing.

Catherine stepped back and said, “There now, isn't that lovely? Much nicer.” Marina nodded and Todd moved the roasting pan into position under the lights.

“You might want to back up, folks,” said Todd, “The strobes are bright.”

They did as they were told, Sean looked into the camera and POP! the flashes went off. Sean pulled a piece of Polaroid film from the camera and looked at his watch. He tore off the back and showed the photograph to Kate and Catherine.

“What do you think?”

“Looks good,” said Kate.

“You use instant photographs for illustrations?” asked Catherine.

“No, we usually shoot a quick Polaroid so that we can see how it all looks. It's a bit—uh, a waste if what we shoot isn't right. By the time the film is processed, the food is gone. This way, we know it's good.” Sean replaced the instant film camera back with a 35-millimeter film back and shot several pictures. In between exposures, he fiddled with dials, saying, “I always bracket, that is, shoot a little over-exposed and a little under. Todd, give it a spray, will you?”

Todd appeared with a water bottle and spritzed the food.

“What is that? I don't spray anything on the roast.”

“It's a glycerin solution, Catherine,” said Sean. “Every trade has its tricks. This is one of mine. The glycerin puts a bit of shine on food and makes it look fresher. It has to do with the way the camera `sees' the object.” Sean took several more photographs.

As he finished, Marina said, “You've got about 10 minutes until the finished shot.”

“Oh, no,” said Catherine, “The roast will take an hour.”

“Not this one,” said Sean. “She means the one in the oven. Marina started that one a while ago. In the meantime, why don't you and Marina look over the cookies and the two cakes over there?”

Catherine and the cook examined the food to be photographed later, and Kate talked to the photographer as he set up a shot in the adjoining room.

“What do you want for the table, Kate?”

“Better let her choose. And we should do more than one, since you've got a whole roast there.”

“Good idea. Let's do four plates and then we can have lunch.”

“Not if you're going to spray it with glycerin! Catherine would have a fit if you suggested we eat that.”

“Glycerin is harmless.”

“I know but it isn't in her recipe.”

Sean rolled his eyes.

“Trust me on this Sean me darlin', it's going to be a long shoot.”

Because Catherine and Sean couldn't agree on the table linens or the plates, they shot six variations of the finished meal. She rejected one plated meal because the potatoes were too browned. Then Todd was sent to the local grocers to find smaller asparagus spears because the ones Marina had prepared were too large and common-looking.

After they lunched on the unsprayed tenderloin and potatoes, it was time to take more pictures.

“What's next?” asked Kate.

“The napkins. The hand model should be here any minute.”

“A hand model?” asked Catherine.

“Yes,” replied Kate. “You will show her how to do the napkin folding and Sean will photograph her doing it.”

“It's my book, shouldn't you photograph me folding the napkins? It seems dishonest having a double.”

Sean laughed, “Right, you have a stunt double. When you see Janette's hands, you'll understand why we use models. No offense, Catherine, your hands are very nice. But hers are perfect. Plus, she understands camera angles and knows how to position everything for the best possible shot. Even with the time it takes for you to show her how to do it, we'll save time and get better photographs.”

The doorbell rang and Todd let Janette in. After she was introduced to everyone, Janette discussed the details of the shoot with Sean.

“I did bring a few rings, but I assumed you'd want just a wedding ring. Is the color all right?” she held out her nails for inspection.

“It's gorgeous,” said Kate. “Just what we need. See, Catherine? Her nail color is very subtle and she isn't wearing lots of jewelry. This way, the reader won't be distracted from the purpose of the photo, which is how to make the folds. So, let's get started. Todd, you have the napkins?”

Todd brought out large, heavily starched pink napkins. Catherine examined them closely, made a few folds and declared them acceptable. While Catherine taught Janette how to do the folding, Todd and Sean took some sample shots of the various shades of pink, using Kate as their hand model. They looked over the Polaroids, decided which shade they preferred and suggested it to Catherine.

“That shade is too deep. The pale pink is nice, just like the roses at my house.”

But look at it in the picture, Catherine,” said Sean. “It washes out a bit in the light. The deeper one gives us a nicer picture.”

Catherine agreed grudgingly, and the shoot proceeded. After two hours of folding and holding, Janette was finished and it was time for Catherine to go home. Kate called the car service to deliver Catherine to Grand Central and the rest of the team stayed to plan future sessions.

“God, she's picky!” groaned Marina. “We've been doing cookbook shoots for years and I've never had to replate a meal so many times. The meat is too close to the center of the plate, the asparagus aren't perfectly parallel, the potatoes look raw, the potatoes look overcooked, I never put paprika on scalloped potatoes, earthenware is too informal for this meal.”

“I think she was pissed off that she couldn't find fault with the napkins,” said Todd.

“Told you!” said Kate, “Pink and plenty of starch. She loves pink and she loves roses. When in doubt, think pink. For the next session, we'll need to do some of the how-to's, like cutting garnishes. Janette, can you take another session?”

“Sure, at least I'm learning something I might use. In fact, I think I'll fold the lily for my dinner tonight. Of course, Bounty paper napkins don't hold these fancy folds, but who knows? Someday I may invest in oversized real linen.”

“She looked through our selection of knives and gadgets,” said Marina, “And she's planning to bring some of her own things for the how-to shoot.”

“Fine with me,” laughed Todd, “It will save running out for a knife that's exactly six-point-two-oh inches long.”

“Catherine and I have to work out the final list of how-two pictures, and then I'll get you a list of materials. I have to run. You were great, guys, thanks!” Kate rose from the table and collected her purse and briefcase. “By the way, except for the `rather too common asparagus,' she didn't criticize the quality of the food, so consider yourself complimented.”

Chapter 14

Posted on Saturday, 13 March 2004

April, 1993

“Well, guys, here we are!” Kate pulled into Catherine's driveway.

“Wow, nice house.”

“Yes, it is. I hope you can get a good shot in the dining room. Catherine wants a fully set table for the cover.”

Billie was waiting for them at the door.

“Hi Kate, good to see you again. Hi Sean, Todd, how did the pictures turn out?”

“I think they're good,” replied Sean. “I hope she thinks so, too. I appreciate your help, Billie. When you come in for the shoots we get done a lot faster.”

“I'll handle the photo review while you set up for today,” said Kate. “Billie, may I set up the lightbox in Catherine's office?”

“Her desk is clear, set up there.”

“Great, thanks.”

Kate disappeared in the direction of Catherine's office. Billie showed Sean and Todd the dining room and then took them to the kitchen.

“Sean and Todd are here, Catherine.”

“Good morning, Catherine. Nice kitchen! If we have time, I'd like to get a few shots of you in here. But first, let me check out the dining room.”

Catherine showed Sean the dining room and explained that she had used her own china, rather than her catering china.

“Very nice, I see you like roses.” Sean looked around the room, taking in the rose-patterned china, the bowl of roses on the table, the rose-printed draperies.

“Yes, this house is called Rose House, remember. I thought the rose plates would set off the color of the soup well. Isn't that lovely?”

Todd nodded and handed Sean a camera. Sean took a few Polaroids. While they conferred, Kate and Catherine went to Catherine's office to look at some pictures.

Kate turned on the lightbox, and Catherine scanned the slides that rested on the glowing surface. Kate handed Catherine a viewer and said, “The top row are the soufflé, the middle row are the braised red cabbage, and the bottom row are the potato galette.”

“I can see that.”

“Decide which one you like best for each.”

“The soufflé could be browner. And in some of them it has collapsed.”

“If you look closely, you'll see that in the collapsed pictures, sauce has been spooned into the soufflé.

“No, get rid of those. I want it to look fresh out of the oven. Whose dish is this?”

“It's from the studio.”

“Oh. Who made the soufflé? Marina?”

“No, Billie made it. These are from Billie's trip into the city, remember?”

“Hmm. This one if I must use one of these soufflé pictures.”

Kate turned the slide over and saw the checkmark on the back. “That was my choice, too. Good, how about the red cabbage? They shot some in the frying pan to give some variety.”

“No, I want all finished product photographs. The only process pictures are the ones we need to show how to do something. Surely, my readers will know how to use a frying pan. And it isn't the kind of frying pan I use, so none of those would be acceptable.”

“Yes, Catherine,” replied Kate as she removed the offending slides. “How about one of these?”

And so they continued, with Catherine criticizing and then choosing. When they were finished, Kate had a headache, but she kept smiling.

“Good, that's a lot of pictures chosen, Catherine. When I get back to the office, I'll check the master list and see what we have left to shoot. Not much, I think. The designers will be happy about that. Production is getting antsy about getting into final pages. Now, let's see how they're doing in the dining room, shall we?”

Catherine gasped at the sight of lights rigged all around her dining room.

“Don't worry, Catherine,” said Sean, “We didn't knock anything over. We did take the crystal bowl off the sideboard because it will bounce light. Billie put it somewhere safe, never fear. And we pulled the shades to minimize reflection off the windows.”

“Where are my drapes?”

“We took them down,” said Todd. “Too busy in the background. The white sheers and the shades will be fine.”

“But then it won't look like my dining room!”

“Now, Catherine,” said Kate in her most placating voice, “It doesn't have to look the way your dining room usually looks. We need to have a plain background so that people will focus on the table, with your nice china and the pretty roses. And the valences are still there, so your rose-printed fabric will be in the picture.”

“Hmm,” while Catherine pondered the situation, she looked around the room critically. “Billie!”

“Yes, Catherine?”

“Are the soup bowls all even?”

“Yes, Catherine, I measured each portion. I know that it wouldn't do to have uneven portions for the photograph.” Billie turned to Sean and added, “Of course, we always measure portions. As Catherine always says—”

“Yes, yes, Billie. I suppose they look even.”

“They look perfect, Catherine,” said Todd. “She even did the little blobs of sour cream exactly the same."

“Dollops, Todd, not blobs. Blob is such an unattractive word.”

“Dollops, I'll remember that. And Kate, the borscht was a brilliant idea. It's cold, so the dollops of sour cream will hold nicely while we shoot. All right, everyone, clear out and we'll shoot some pictures!”

In the kitchen, Kate leaned against the counter and said, “Catherine, this must remind you of catering. Sean spends an hour on setup and then shoots the actual pictures in minutes. You do all that prep work and people eat it up in minutes. Doesn't that ever get to you?”

“Certainly not! The point is not how long it takes, but how good the food is. You must always do your best. Settle for nothing less. And remember, the time you spend cooking is a gift to your guests. You young people are always in such a hurry. There is more to food than McDonald's, Kate!”

Kate thought this over and wondered if the money you spent on catering could also be considered a gift to your guests.

“Okay, that's got it, I think,” said Sean. “I'd like to shoot a few close-ups of a bowl.”

“Before you do,” said Billie, “How about a break? We have fresh muffins.”

“I thought I smelled something good,” said Todd, reaching for the plate.

“Oh, no!” said Catherine. “We never eat in the kitchen. Come and sit in the living room. Billie will bring in the tray.”

In the living room, Sean looked at the photographs on the piano. “Is this your daughter?”

“Yes, that's Anne. The picture you're looking at is from the Senior Prom last year.”

“She's very pretty. That color is good on her. Too many blondes wear washed-out colors. Who's her date?”

“That's William Darcy. Actually, it was his senior prom. Anne was just a sophomore. They've been sweethearts for years.”

“Hey. Billie, I thought you said—”

“Oh, Sean, look at Anne's recital picture,” said Billie quickly. “That was from last fall.”

Sensing that he had been about to blunder, Sean just nodded. Later, after the shoot was done and all the equipment packed up, Billie walked the visitors out to Kate's car.

“What was all that in there about the prom?” asked Todd.

“It was about to get awkward. First of all, Anne's father bought that dress and Catherine hated it. She did want Anne to wear a pale color. Pink, of course. The only reason the picture is there is that Will is in it. He wasn't Anne's date. He and his date doubled with Anne and her date. Catherine is fixated on this Will-and-Anne thing. It creeps me out, this delusion of hers, so I try to stay away from the topic.”

“Billie, you are amazing!” said Kate. “Bless you for all your work. By the way, we only have to re-shoot one of the foods you set up for us, so we're making good progress. Well, we're off. I suppose you're going to have borscht for dinner?”

“Not me, I hate beets!”

Chapter 15

June 1993

“Hi, Mom, I'm home!” Anne walked into the kitchen. “Oh! I'm sorry, I forgot about your pictures.”

“Anne, greet our guests properly, please. Dear, this is Sean Hill, my photographer, Todd Meyers, his assistant, and Kate Ford, my editor.”

“Hello,” said Anne shyly.

“Hi, Anne,” said Todd and Sean.

“Anne!” said Kate, “It's good to meet you at last. I've heard so much about you!”

Anne smiled, “Mom probably exaggerates.”

“Anne!” said her mother, “You should learn to be proud of your accomplishments. While I do believe that bragging is unattractive, false modesty is unnecessary.”

“Yes, Mom. I'm going to sit out in the yard and study for tomorrow's final. I'll just dump my stuff upstairs.”

“Anne! You do not dump your stuff. You put away your things.”

Anne nodded and left the room. Kate had worked hard to avoid looking at Sean during this interchange and she decided she needed a break. She had spent what seemed like hours watching Catherine holding a roasting pan, Catherine holding a layer cake, Catherine posing in her trademark rose-embroidered chef jacket, Catherine posing in her apron.

Between poses, Kate said, “Catherine, your garden looks lovely. Would you mind if I went outside to look at your roses?”

“Go right ahead.”

“Oh, Kate, do go look at the roses, “ said Billie. “Catherine has 25 varieties, many of them the wonderfully fragrant older varieties. Some of them were quite difficult to find, and they cost—”

“Yes, yes, Billie. Have you finished the preparation of the vegetables for the Wickham's dinner?”

“Everything that can be done at this point, yes.”

Kate left Catherine giving instructions on chopping vegetables and stepped out into the sunshine. A formally arranged herb garden bordered the walk from the kitchen door to the yard. In the distance, Kate could see a fenced-in vegetable garden where tomato plants grew obediently up along tall wooden stakes and pea plants neatly climbed a wooden trellis.

The main part of the back yard was in full bloom, with beds of pink snapdragons, zinnias, and cosmos arranged around a bird bath in one area. The flowers were evenly spaced and all perfectly uniform in height. Not a faded bloom could be seen. In another area, a formal garden of roses featured a wrought iron table and chairs painted pink. At the edge of the yard, pink climbing roses covered a trellis over a gate.

Most of the roses were pink, although Kate could spot a few other colors. Overall, the yard made Kate think of pink cotton candy. She was wandering among the rose beds when Anne joined her.

“Hello, Anne. Your mother's flowers are impressive. Your mother has gone in for pink this year, I see.”

“Not just this year. They're always pink.”

“Oh.”

“I know, Ms. Ford, you're probably thinking obsession.”

“Call me Kate, please. And I don't know if I'd go quite that far. But it is a bit overwhelming.”

“Want to see a different garden? Come on.”

Anne led Kate to the gate under the trellis. “There, look. Isn't that pretty?”

“Daisies!” cried Kate. The yard beyond the trellis was not as tidy as Catherine's yard, but it had a lot of charm. “And garden critters. I love those things. A lot of people think they're tacky, put I just love them. Mind you, I draw the line at mushroom ladies.”

Anne laughed, “Me too. I helped Will choose these for his mother's birthday.”

“Ah, so this is the home of the famous Will?”

Anne groaned, “I wish she wouldn't talk about Will and me.”

“Sorry, I shouldn't tease you about it. Billie did explain the prom picture to us. So, Will wasn't your date?”

They walked over the to table and chairs and sat down. Anne shook her head, “No, Will wasn't my date. My date was this guy, Richard, who's so cute. He's not really my boyfriend, unfortunately. He went off to West Point last fall, and I've only seen him once since then, and that was at a Christmas party at Will's house. Will is like my brother, I can't imagine dating him.”

“Hey, Anne!”

Kate turned toward the voice. Seeing a tall young man crossing the lawn, she whispered, “The man himself?”

“Will!” called Anne. “Hi. Come meet Mom's editor. Kate, this is Will Darcy. Will, this is Kate Ford.”

“Hello, Ms. Ford. Am I interrupting anything?”

“Hi, nice to meet you. You aren't interrupting. We were just having a chat. I'm on a break from a photo session in the kitchen, but I should get back. I like your garden. I hope you don't mind, Anne and I peeked over the gate.”

Will shrugged, “Well, Mom's garden lacks a certain splendor, but she and my little sister have a good time working in it. Mom says it's relaxing.”

“Well, you know what they say about gardens,” said Kate.

“The kiss of the sun for pardon,
The song of the birds for mirth.
One is nearer to God in a garden
Than anywhere else on earth.”

“Oh, how nice!” cried Anne. “Where did you learn that?”

“I'm not sure. I've known it for ages. I should make up a story about it being on a sampler my grandmother stitched, but I probably saw it on a garden sign somewhere. I'd better go back. Nice to meet you, Will. See you around, Anne.”

As Kate crossed back to the house, Will said, “She's nice. How is the book coming?”

“I don't really know. Mom gets packages of pages to look at now and then, and this is the second time the photographers have been here. The book is supposed to be done by the fall. Guess what your Mom's getting for Christmas?”

“Hmm, can't imagine. Do you need a practice drive today, or do you have to study?”

“Oh, would you take me out? I'm so nervous about the test. And Mom just makes it worse. I can't drive while she lectures.”

“You'll be fine. I passed on the first go, you will, too. By the way, I heard from Richard.”

“Oh? Is he coming home soon?”

“No, he has something called `summer exercises.' I think it's a `war games' kind of thing. They probably practice attacking one another or something. He'll be home the end of July. Um, Anne, don't get your hopes up. He has a girlfriend.”

“He's always had a bunch of girlfriends.”

“No, this one has been kind of steady from what he tells me. Anyhow, you have Josh.”

“Josh isn't a boyfriend. He's just someone I go out with sometimes. Kind of like you and Paula.”

“Oh.”

“What about your girlfriend?”

“Maureen went home to Tennessee for the summer, so I guess I'm on my own.”

“Serious?”

Will shrugged. “I don't know. We've only been going out a little while. I met her on a double date. A friend of mine, Charles, was dating a friend of Maureen's. So we all went out together a couple of times. Then Charles and, uh, I forget her name broke up, but Maureen and I kept going out. You may get to meet Charles in August. He's going to stay with me the week before classes start again.”

“Oh? Is he as cute as Richard?”

“I don't know! Anne, guys hate questions like that. I guess you'd think he's cute, but nobody's as cute as Richard to you. Charles seems to do all right with girls. He'd probably like you; he's partial to blondes. But be warned, Anne. He falls in love and out again pretty easily.”

“That sounds sad.”

“No, not really. He has this incredibly upbeat personality. He gets over one girl the minute he sees her replacement. He's never broken-hearted for more than ten minutes. And the amazing thing is, when he's the one to break it off, the girl never hates him. Even when a girl has been the one to break up with me, she's usually hateful about it.”

“He sounds like he has a sort of charmed life.”

“Not entirely. I went to his house up in Maine for a long weekend. He has this sister.”

“Yes?”

“Words fail me.”

“That spectacular?”

“Not the word that I would have chosen. Overwhelming, maybe. She is, like so into fashion. I mean, who would ever wear last season's shoes? And she was like, omigod, maybe getting a pimple and was, like, totally not coming down to breakfast that morning.”

“Just your type, Will.”

“Not even close, thank you! Although she did take every opportunity to flirt with me. She even asked me if I'd escort her to the senior prom at her high school. Fortunately, it was Mom's birthday that weekend, so I didn't have to make up an excuse. Hard to believe she and Charles are siblings.”

Looking up, Anne saw her the back door opening, “Oh, they're coming out here now. Can we hide in your yard?”

“You bet. Hey, Billie is carrying one of those basket things Mom brought back as souvenirs from her trip to England a few years ago. Dad said she took them on the plane as her carry-on bag!”

Anne laughed, “I remember the story. It's called a trug, I think. Mom uses it a lot in the fall when she's going for the harvest look. Apples, gourds, different colored peppers. Any and all sorts of foods have been displayed in it.”

Kate saw the two young people heading toward the gate and asked Catherine a question about the herb garden. By the time Catherine turned back to the yard, nobody was there.

While Catherine showed the group around the garden, she used special flower scissors to cut blossoms for an arrangement. Each flower was lovingly placed into the trug that Billie held for her.

“That's an unusual basket,” said Sean.

“It isn't a basket. It's a Sussex trug. Making them is a traditional craft in the English county of Sussex. For the longest time, you could only get them in England, although now I have seen them in the better garden catalogs. I'm not sure if the ones imported for the catalogs are of the same quality as mine. I got this one several years ago, and I use it a great deal. It's a most convenient way to carry the vegetables you harvest from your garden. And when I use it in a centerpiece, I always receive compliments on the idea.”

Catherine finished placing the flowers into the trug and took it from Billie's hands. “There, now,” she said, “Isn't that lovely? What a shame we can't leave them like this. But we have to get them into water. Come along, and I'll show you all the potting shed. I have running water and containers in there.”

“Wait, Catherine,” said Sean. “Why don't you stand over by the hedge and hold the trug. I'll take a few shots right here.”

Catherine posed, Billie praised, and Kate stole a surreptitious look at her watch. When the photographs were done, she said, “Guys, I hate to break this up, but we need to get going if we're going to beat the traffic back to the city.”

Once they were on the highway, Kate said, “So, guys, did you have fun today? Sean, you suck-up, I don't believe you!”

“I know!” laughed Todd. “Oh, Catherine, why don't pose over there with your flowers? Doesn't that cake look delicious! How clever to have your jackets embroidered like that.”

“Oh, give it a rest!” the photographer groaned. “I hate doing author photos. You have to work so hard to keep them in a good mood. I don't know how portrait photographers do it. People never like their own photos, and some of them demand retakes. Remember Leona? A friend of mine used to shoot the stills for her print ads. She always posed behind a piano or in front of something dark so it wouldn't show when they retouched the photo to make her look slimmer!”

“Get out!” cried Kate. “I'd heard she was vain, but really! That is too much. You don't think Catherine is going to want her pictures retouched, do you?”

“No, they weren't full shots. In a full shot we've got to watch it. She's not skinny in the caboose, either.”

“Tsk!” said Todd in a perfect imitation of Catherine. “That is a vulgar euphemism. Say lardass and get it over with!”

Chapter 16

Posted on Saturday, 10 April 2004

August 1993

Nervously, Anne pulled into the driveway of the large Regency-style brick home. A tall young man sporting a very short haircut walked down the front steps and then froze in his tracks.

“Anne?”

“Hi, Richard.” She got out of the car and stood next to the open door.

“It's good to see you. I, ah, I'm on my way out. Will is picking me up any minute to go to the pool.”

“I'm going there, too, so I said I'd pick you up instead.” Anne looked down nervously and said, “I hope that's all right with you.”

“In that?” Richard pointed to her little yellow Miata.

“Well, yes, of course.”

Richard shook his head, “Nope, not unless you go topless.”

Anne's eyes widened and Richard laughed. He walked up to her and hugged her, “The car, idiot! Put the top down! It's a beautiful day, why keep the top up? As you can see, it won't mess my hair.”

“Mom said that I might get a chill, so I left it up.”

“Gimme a break! Pop the trunk and I'll throw my stuff in there, and then I'll help you with the top.”

As Anne backed out of the driveway, Richard noticed that she looked each way three times.

“Anne, hello? There's nobody on the street.”

“Sorry.”

“How long have you had your license?”

“A month.”

“And the car?”

“A little less.”

“Dad?”

“Yes, it was my combined birthday-get-my-license present.”

“Did the key thingies come with it?” asked Richard, pointing to the key ring and the objects that hung from it.

“No, they were other presents. Will gave me the little giraffe and Georgie gave me the little license plate that says `Anne.'”

“ Oh. Well, it's a nice car, but a bit cramped for me,” Richard pulled his knees up to his chin.”

“Put the seat back more.”

“It's okay, I'm just teasing. You need to lighten up, Anne. I've been serious for almost a year. I am off the military leash and I want to have some fun. Hey, you shift really well. A lot of girls will only drive automatics.”

“Oh, Richard, that isn't true. Anyhow, plenty of guys are spazzes with the clutch. It isn't just a girl thing.”

“I guess. But my girl—well, a girl I know says if she was meant to use a clutch God would have given her three legs.”

“Your girlfriend?” Anne asked.

“A girlfriend. Listen, Anne, I have to be serious enough about school and planning a career. I can't be serious about women. Not for a long time. You all make fun of me for being love-em-and-leave-em Fitzwilliam. But the truth is, Anne, I don't love 'em. I may go out with a lot of women, but I don't declare undying love and promise it's forever. I don't think that's fair to anyone.”

“I guess.”

“What about you and who's it? Josh? Are you going to love him forever?”

“Josh isn't really my boyfriend. He's a friend. You know, like Will and Paula were in high school.”

“Just a friend?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Like us?”

Anne hesitated as she pulled into the pool parking lot. Then she gave the only answer she had the nerve to give, “Yeah, like us.”

Meanwhile, in New York . . .
Kate Ford walked into her office, dropped into her chair, and sighed. She cursed the soul of whoever had invented the concept of progress meetings, or progress beatings as she had come to think of them. The phone rang.

“Kate Ford!” she barked into the receiver.

“Whoa, don't yell at me, I'm just the messenger,” said the department secretary.

“Sorry, sorry. Progress meeting this morning.”

“Oh, enough said. I hate to add to your stress, but her highness called three times about the page proofs. Something about a soufflé photo.”

Kate groaned, “Thanks, I'll take care of it.” She looked dolefully at her empty coffee mug and reached for the phone. She jumped when it rang just as she touched it.

“Kate Ford.”

“Kate, I looked again, and the file simply isn't here. You forgot to attach it.”

“I didn't send it in an email, Kira. I put it on your stupid server, just as you told me to. Here, this is what I did.” Kate droned on with a series of steps she had been given by the Production File Manager.

“That isn't the right folder.”

“Well, it's the one you told me to put it in. Don't you have some kind of search function? The filename is printed on the header of the hard copy. The file is on your server somewhere.”

“Oh, just resend it attached to an email.”

“Then there will be two copies floating around in the system.”

“Just send the file. I need it today and I don't have time to hunt around for it.”

“Fine.” Kate slammed down the phone, muttering, “Production screws up, Editorial fixes.”

She sent the file AGAIN and was about to call Catherine when the computer made that little noise that Kate had come to dread. “You've got mail!” popped up. Kate sighed and opened the new message.

“Jacket copy 2 ll long. Faxing proof. Pls cut.
Tx,
Karen

Kate liked Karen, one of the best Design & Production people she'd ever worked with. Karen was fast and straightforward. Cut two lines, no negotiating. Well, maybe a little negotiating. Kate clicked “reply.”

OK, will check fax. Can't we just resize Nick to fit?”
;-)
KF

Almost instantaneously, Kate got the reply.

LOL—Not! His ego is impervious to all attempts to reduce it. Need those cuts like yesterday, chick.
Tx,
me

Kate sighed. Even when the demands were friendly and playful, they were still demands on her time. But going to the fax to retrieve the page proof would be an excuse to visit the coffee pot as well, so she hauled herself out of her chair and went in search of the faxed page.

Back in her office, Kate re-read the book jacket bio of the author of Plan Your Dreamhouse. Nick was arrogant and overbearing, and he assumed he would get his way on everything simply because he was the man and she the woman. He called her “honey” when he was trying to get his way, and descended to “Listen, lady!” when he didn't. And when that didn't work, Nick went over her head to Mr. Hurst. Karen had been right. Downsizing Nick's photo would make him angry, not that removing an accomplishment or two from his bio would be a popular move.

Authors! Kate grumbled to herself. Then she looked at the framed photo of Ken, her favorite author, and her mood softened. Ken's organic gardening books were a reflection of his personality—warm, humorous, supportive. In comparison with Nick's architecture book, which was full of “You musts,” Ken's books were all about “You can do it. Let me help.” Kate smiled at the book jacket picture of Ken, standing in his garden in jeans and a plaid shirt. He was holding a basket of his organic produce. I wonder if he has a Sussex trug for his tomatoes?

Thinking of the trug reminded Kate that she still had to call Catherine. With a crash, her mood returned to its previous dark condition.

When Kate called, Catherine was on the other line and Billie answered, promising to tell Catherine that her editor was now available to hear her comments. A reprieve, thought Kate and then the computer made that nasty sound again. Bing!

Kate, still waiting for those dates. When are you going to turn over final files?
Patrick

Kate blew a raspberry at the screen. Bing! The computer responded by offering another new email.

Hey, Kate,
When will you have the correx for the revision of Organic Beginnings? I need to schedule a printer date.
Suze

Kate threw a paper clip across her office. Bing!

Kate, about those dates. Printer moved us up one week, so you'll have to condense—how soon can we start to turn over final files?
Patrick

The phone rang, and it was Catherine.

“Hello Catherine.”

“Kate, I must speak with you about this soufflé picture. It is too dark. It ruins the page.”

“It will print fine, Catherine. These are final pages, and we're only supposed to correct serious errors, like discovering we listed the wrong number of eggs in the recipe.”

“This IS a serious error! A soufflé should be light and appealing. This photograph does not give one the feeling of lightness!”

“The soufflé is nice and puffy, Catherine.”

“It looks large, but the photograph does not convey a sense of lightness and delicacy. Perhaps we would have Sean take a new picture.”

“No, Catherine, we can't do that. It's too late for a new shoot. I'll see if Production can adjust the brightness or contrast or something.”

“I suppose that will have to do.”

“I'm afraid so,” said Kate. And knowing she had to say it, even if she didn't want to, she added, “Anything else?”

Catherine did, indeed, have a list of additional comments, which Kate dutifully noted, as her computer continued to say “Bing!"

Kate,
My people won't have the silhouettes done on the veggies until next week at the earliest.
What about those dates?”
Patrick

Kate threw a paper clip across the room. Catherine continued to drone on.

Kate,
Marketing won't have those figures for a few days yet. Anyway you could do a draft budget before then? We can fix later if the numbers aren't what you expect.
Maggie

Kate threw a pen across the room. It hit a copy of the now-outdated production schedule for Catherine's book and knocked it off the bulletin board.

“What was that?”

“Sorry, Catherine, something fell off my desk.”

“A messy desk is a sign of a disorganized mind, Kate.”

“Yes, Catherine.”

“I believe that covers everything on my list. I do wish you could get these things right, Kate. I'm very busy and I don't have time to spend telling you how to do your job.”

Three pencils flew across the room.

“I know you're busy, Catherine. I'll take care of this. Bye, Now.”

Kate threw two more paper clips and a large binder clip across the room. She made a phone call and left a message. She sent replies to Maggie and Patrick telling them she couldn't answer their questions when they couldn't supply sufficient data. The phone rang again.

“Kate Ford.”

“Hey, you all right, Kate?”

“Dennis! I'm having the day from hell and if I don't get out of here and have an enormous liquid lunch I'm going to get sacked for telling someone to eff off. Can you meet me for lunch?”

“I think so. They just finished arresting me, so I think I'm done for the day. Your message said `family emergency' so they let me use the phone in the trailer to call you right back. Johnny's in a half hour?”

“Bless you! See you there.” Kate turned off her monitor, grabbed her purse and one piece of paper and left her office. She popped the paper into the fax machine for Karen.

“If anyone asks I'm taking a summer Friday!” she told the secretary.

“Anything you need me to do?”

“If Patrick comes by looking for a schedule tell him to stick it.”

“No way, Kate. I don't want to see you get the ax over a schedule! Feel better.”

Kate stepped into the elevator and waved goodbye as the door closed.

Up in Roseport . . .
Anne was having a much better day. Stretched out on a towel on the grass, she felt privileged to be a high-school girl hanging out with a bunch of college students. From her position, she could see Richard and Will swimming laps. Emma was keeping count for them while she leaned against the lifeguard tower occupied by George Knightly. Charles Bingley, Will's college friend, flopped down beside Anne and she turned to look at him.

“Sorry! Did I get you wet?”

“It's okay. How's the contest going?”

“I almost made it to a mile. Richard is definitely ahead, but you know how stubborn Will can be.”

Anne watched as Richard cut cleanly through the water and nodded, “Yeah, stubborn.”

Charles followed her gaze and smiled. “Will talks about you like you're his sister. Are you harboring secret hopes?”

“No.”

“So I guess it's Richard, then?”

Anne's blush was answer enough.

“Ah, so I see I have no chance with you, then.” Charles laughed and Anne gave his shoulder a little shove.

“Charles!” she giggled.

Will had stopped swimming. When Richard reached him and started his flip turn, Will slapped the water. Richard surfaced and looked at him.

“What?”

“You win, I'm too tired to swim another stroke.”

Richard pulled himself out of the water and sat on the edge of the pool. On the grassy slope, he could see Anne laughing with Charles. He frowned.

“Hey, be happy, Richard, you won. Em! How many laps?”

“Fifteen for Charles, twenty-five for you, and thirty-one for Richard.”

George Knightly climbed down from his lifeguard stand and said, “Good job, Richard, that's nearly two miles.”

“Huh?” Richard shook himself to redirect his atttention. “One round-trip short of two miles. I think I'll finish the second mile.” He slipped into the water and was on his way.

“Look at how smooth his stroke is,” said George. “That's efficiency. That's how he can swim so far, Will.”

Will nodded, “Yeah. That and a ton of physical training.”

“You're right. Not my idea of a good time.”

“So, George,” said Emma archly, “Can you swim as well as Richard can?”

“Probably not. But I can swim and tow someone at the same time. Does that count for anything?”

“Ooh, can you rescue me, Mr. Lifeguard?” Emma giggled and jumped into the pool. She splashed around and looked up at George.

“Don't kid around like that, Emma. I know you can swim.”

“You can't know that for sure.”

“Yes I do. You had lessons one summer the same time as swim team practice.”

Richard surfaced and grabbed Emma around the neck in a lifeguard hold. “Do you need rescuing, Miss?”

“Cut it out, Richard, I'm fine.”

“Ha!” snorted George. “Told you so!”

While in New York . . .
Kate sat on a barstool and ordered a Harp. She took a long swallow and sighed, “That's better.”

A middle-aged man a few stools away looked at her. “Are you all right?” he asked.

She glanced at him in the mirror behind the bar and then turned to face him. “Bad day,” she said ruefully.

“Ah. May I join you for a minute?”

Kate shrugged and the man moved to a stool next to her.

“I'm not trying to pick you up. Hell, you're closer to my daughter's age than mine. Pardon me for being old-fashioned, but I hate to see a young woman drinking alone like that.”

“I see. It's okay to get bombed, as long as I have company?”

He laughed, “All right, you've got me there. I'm divorced and I miss my daughter and sometimes I get these fatherly impulses. I'm Lewis, by the way.”

“Kate.” She held out her hand and he shook it. She smiled and said, “So what has you drinking alone at mid-day, Lewis?”

“I'm meeting some people for lunch and either I'm early or they're late.”

Well, well, well. Maybe you didn't need me after all!” said a voice behind Kate.

“Dennis! Hi!”

“Hey, you. And I most certainly do need you! Dennis, this is Lewis. Lewis, Dennis.”

“Aha, the boyfriend, I presume. Not to worry, young man. My colleagues will be here any minute and you'll have the lovely Kate all to yourself.”

“Not the boyfriend, just a pal,” said Dennis. “Ouch, my wrists hurt. They put the cuffs on too tight.”

“Oh, poor baby,” cooed Kate. “And did they beat you up, too?” They both noticed Lewis's strange expression and began to laugh.

“Dennis is an actor,” she explained. “He just got arrested on L&O this morning. Ooh, do you go to trial, too?”

“We shoot that tomorrow.”

“When will your episode be on TV?” asked Lewis.

“Not sure. This fall some time.”

“Well, I'll look for you. I see that my colleagues have arrived. Nice meeting you both.”

Kate finished her beer and Dennis said, “Can I get you something for your present relief? A glass of beer, perhaps?”

“Wait—Pride and Prejudice! You were in that in summer stock somewhere. But I don't think that was one of your lines, Mr. Bennet.”

“Picky, picky. Everyone's a critic!”

Kate ordered another Harp, Dennis ordered a Guinness, and they took menus out to the patio.

“So, I'm two minutes late and you pick up someone.”

“Like you care, Dennis. We both know your heart belongs to Carl.”

“True, true. So tell me about your bad day. Lord knows I've cried on your shoulder about plenty of horrible auditions.”

“I just got overwhelmed. Everyone wants something and nobody will help me. The Production guy wants to know when I'll have the book ready for the printer, but he can't tell me when the last of the photos I need will be done. I'm supposed to put together a budget for another book without any marketing figures. My job is becoming impossible! And since we're on an Austen thread here, I've always seen myself as an Elizabeth Bennet kind of girl.”

“You're shorter than the girl who played Elizabeth when—”

“Let me finish! Lately, I've been feeling more like Anne Elliot.”

“Who?”

“Different Austen book. She's the girl whose family dumps all the difficult tasks on her and never says thank you.”

“So, how are you going to change your fortunes, Miss Elliot? Is there a Frederick out there waiting to come back to you?”

“High marks for literacy, Dennis! But no, I'm not waiting to be rescued. I'm too modern to expect some man to take care of me. I'm just tired of being at the bottom of the heap. So I took off the afternoon before I got to a Peter Finch moment.”

Laughing, they held up their glasses, clinked and recited, “I'm mad as hell and I'm not going to take it any more!” *

Later, they walked two blocks to Gramercy Park. Kate help up her key and said, “Come on, let's sit in the sun and sober up. God bless Aunt Mary's rent-controlled apartment!”

“I hate you for having an apartment on the park.”

“I think I'm gonna hate you for ordering that last round.”

“So what are you going to do about work, Kate?”

“Keep on keepin' on. I'll go in tomorrow when nobody is there, get caught up, and maybe next week won't be so overwhelming. It will help a lot once Catherine's book is out to the printer. Once she can't make changes, she'll be off my plate for a while.”

“Cute, off my plate, cookbook author.”

“Oh, yeah, how about that? Anyhow, she has first-time author jitters. She's finding it hard to let go of the pages. Once they're out of her hands, she has no control. And believe me, control is a big deal with her.”

And up in Roseport . . .
When Richard rejoined the group on the lawn, he noticed that Charles was applying suntan lotion to Anne's back.

“So, did you finally win?” asked Charles.

“Yup, two whole miles.”

“Wow,” said Anne. “I can barely make it across and back.”

“You should get Richard to give you lessons,” said Will as he rubbed his wet hair with a towel.

“Or maybe George,” said Emma, pouting. “He knows everything.”

Charles and Anne chatted for a while. He asked her about her courses for the coming year, and she asked him about his business courses. After a while, Charles decided to take a dip to cool off. Anne declined. She looked at Richard who appeared to be asleep. Concerned that he might be burning, she poked his back and watched the white spot slowly get its color back.

“Hey!”

“Sorry. I think you're burning. And you should have a hat on. You don't have enough hair to keep your scalp from burning.”

Richard sat up, looked around for his baseball cap and jammed it on his head.

“You're quiet today,” said Anne.

Richard shrugged, “Just strange being back home.

“Is it that intense at the Point?”

“Yeah. It will be better next year, but the first year is rules, rules, rules.”

“But surely you knew that before you went.”

“There's knowing and there's experiencing. But it has to be like that. Remember how good the basketball team was?”

“Your senior year was the best record in ages.”

“Well, it didn't happen by accident. We practiced and we knew the plays. Winning depended on each of us doing everything as planned. The military is a team, too. Just more players. But discipline and adherence to the plan count there, too.”

Anne shook her head slowly.

“What? Sorry, I shouldn't lecture you like that.”

“No. It's just you seem so much older.”

“Two years isn't so much, Anne. But since I'm so old and mature, will you trust me to drive your car home?”

“I don't know if he insurance will let me.”

“Oh, come on,” he nudged her. “I'll be your very best friend!”

Oh, thought Anne, If only you would!

* From the movie, Network

Chapter 17

Posted on Saturday, 24 April 2004

October 1993

“Thank you,” said Billie as she signed for the packages. “If you'd bring the boxes in, I'll run and find you a few cookies. Hot out of the oven this morning!”

“It's a deal,” said the driver, and when Billie returned with some warm cookies wrapped in a napkin, he smiled. “They smell great!”

“One of our favorite recipes. It's in the book,” said Billie, pointing to the boxes.

“Which book?”

“Catherine's new book, Cater for Yourself. These are her advance copies. I'm not sure why she requested so many. I guess she's going to give copies to friends.”

“Thanks for the cookies. Gotta go. Have a nice day.”

Catherine appeared in the foyer as the driver walked toward his big brown truck. “Billie! Were you standing in the doorway talking with a delivery man? Really, Billie! Such common behavior!”

“He carried the boxes inside for me.” Billie knelt by a carton and tugged at one of the flaps. “This glue is tough.”

“Use the proper tool for the job, Billie. Get a utility knife from my craft room.”

Billie returned with the knife, opened the box, and pulled out a book. “Wow! It's really here! The cover looks great. They made the dining room look so huge!”

Catherine took the book from Billie, pulled a pen from her apron pocket and wrote in the book, `To Billie, With thanks for all your help, Catherine.' Handing it to Billie she said, “Now you have your very own copy. I'm going to take a copy into my office and look through it. Package the cookies in sixes and figure out what size box we need to hold a book and a half-dozen cookies.”

When Billie had finished her tasks, she found Catherine still in her office. Catherine's copy of the book bristled with sticky notes, and Catherine had a manila file folder in her hands.

“One of the standard `small box' shipping boxes will work well, I think,” said Billie. “But we'll have to use a lot of tissue to keep it from squashing the cookies.”

“Good. Make up twenty boxes, but don't seal them. I'll take care of the notes.” Catherine handed a sheet of paper to Billie. “I want to give copies to my best clients. Look this over and see if there is anyone I've forgotten.”

Billie looked at the list. “Can't think of anyone I'd add. Are you sure you want to waste a book on Mrs. Wickham? She'll never use it.”

“Probably not. But I want my best clients to know how important they are to me. And if they read the book, they'll see how much effort I put into their events.”

Later that afternoon, George Darcy dropped his briefcase on the floor, hung up his coat, and braced himself for the flying hug that had become his daughter's favorite way to greet him.

“Dad! Guess what?”

“You got all A's on your report card?”

“Not report card time.”

“You got picked for the lead in the class play?”

“Not time for the play yet.”

“Uhhhhh, I give up.”

“Aunt Catherine gave us her book! And I got my very own copy. See?” Georgie held out a book in which Catherine had written, `To Georgiana, For your very first dinner party. Love, Aunt Catherine.'

“Very nice. Are you cooking dinner tonight?”

Georgie giggled, “No! Unless you want popcorn and chocolate chip cookies?”

“Thanks for the offer, but I think we'll let Mom do the cooking for a while yet.”

Two days later, the editor-in-chief of <>magazine opened a package. It contained the book, six cookies, and a handwritten note that read, `Dear Ms. Simmons, I hope you enjoy the lemon-currant cookies. The recipe is on page 252. I hope your reviewer enjoys the book! Sincerely, Catherine deBourgh.'

The same day, the manager of Home Features, Inc., a syndicator of home-related columnists received a similar package. His note said, `Dear Mr. Tourna, I hope you enjoy the lemon-current cookies (recipe on page 252) and the book that could have provided columns for your company for several years. Sincerely, Catherine deBourgh.' Stapled to the note was a photocopy of his letter rejecting her as a potential columnist.

One week later, Kate received a copy of the book with little sticky notes all over the pages. The notes had comments and suggestions for improvements for the next printing. Kate tossed it onto a shelf in her office. If the first printing sells out, then I'll deal with reprint corrections!

Chapter 18

November 1993

“Good morning, USA!” crowed Steve Pratt, co-anchor of the country's favorite morning news/talk show. “Lots of reasons to stick around today. Martin will have reviews of the latest crop of summer movies, I'll be interviewing the author of a tell-all book about why the Bush campaign failed last year, and Carol will chat with the author of a new cookbook that will tell you how to throw elegant dinner parties. And later in the show, the award-winning Dumpsters will be here to sing their new hit. First, a round-up of the news…”

As Mr. Pratt introduced the news team, Catherine sat in the Green room watching the monitor. She harrumphed her disapproval at Pratt's use of the verb throw.

“Morning,” said a gray-haired man who had just arrived. “I'm the tell-all. You would be the cookbook?”

“I am the author of Cater for Yourself. And one does not `throw' a dinner party. One `gives' a party.”

“And do you give a lot of them?”

“My clients do,” replied Catherine, handing over a business card. “In addition to writing cookbooks, I run a very successful catering firm in Roseport, Connecticut.”

“Sounds nice. I'd like to chat, but I'm on after the weather and the commercial break. Have a good one!”

Catherine turned to Bille and said, “Amazing. He just got here a minute ago. That is cutting it too close. I think it's impolite to make the producer worry that you might miss your appointment.”

“I agree, Catherine. It's nice to work for someone who is so considerate. Manners are very—”

“Yes, yes, they are.” Catherine turned to look at the staffer who had entered the green room.

“Mrs. deBourgh?”

“Yes.”

“You're on in a half hour. I see you've already been to Makeup. You can still have a donut and coffee. Better grab something before the band gets here. They always pig out. Don't worry about your lipstick. Makeup will check you over before you go on.”

The staffer breezed out and Catherine shook her head, “Honestly! As if I'd touch one of those mass-produced donuts! And I can only imagine what that coffee is like.”

“Oh, Catherine, you couldn't expect them to serve food that's up to your standards. After all—” she was interrupted by the return of the politician.

“Hi, ladies, how was I?” Without waiting for an answer, he crossed to the food table, took a large chocolate-covered donut and holding it up, said, “Breakfast of champions. There's still one of these babies left. Better snag it before the makeup girl does. Bye!”

“Breakfast? Appalling! No wonder they lost the election, with such bad eating habits.”

Kate ran in, breathless, “Oh, Catherine, sorry I'm late. Stuck in the subway for 20 minutes! I'm glad I made it before you go on. How are you? Nervous?”

“No, of course not.”

“Good,” replied Kate. “Just remember to think of Carol as a client, and you're giving her some pointers for her party. Your makeup looks good.”

“They put on too much.”

“No, you need it for the lights. When you see Carol, you'll see that she has it slathered on with a trowel.”

The staffer arrived and took Catherine off to the stage. Kate walked to the food table and poured a cup of coffee.

“You aren't going to drink that, surely? Catherine says it's probably horrible.”

“You bet I'm going to drink this. It's 7:30 AM and this is caffeine. Standing on the subway, I'd have killed for a coffee. ” Wrapping her hands around the mug, Kate giggled and said, “Did you ever see Dracula where Renfield runs around eating bugs and saying `Blood is the life'? Well, that's how I feel about coffee in the morning. This is way too early. I don't usually have to be in the office until nine.”

“Do you always come to your author's appearances?”

“It isn't officially part of my job, but I like to be at the first one. Congrats if they're good, damage control if they aren't.” Kate pointed to the monitor, “She's on.”

Carol Colson smiled at the camera, “Our next guest is a fabulous caterer who has just written a book to let us in on some of her trade secrets. The book is Cater for Yourself, and here is the author, Catherine deBourgh. Good morning, Ms. deBourgh!”

“Good morning, Carol, please call me Catherine. Everyone does.”

“Well, then, Catherine, it's good to have you here. Tell me, what got you into the catering business?”

As Catherine explained a bit of her history, Kate finished her donut. Turning to Billie, she said, “If you tell her I ate this, I'm going to have to kill you.”

Billie laughed and got a donut for herself. “Now we have equally bad evidence on each other! I'm glad she's doing well. She honestly was not nervous, but I am. She can come across a bit, er… ”

“Strong?” asked Kate sweetly. Billie nodded, and Kate continued, “How long have you worked for her?”

“Just over seven years. She is demanding, but she's right, you know. It is important to do your best. Why go to a lot of work to organize a mediocre dinner when, with just a bit more effort, you can give your guests something memorable?”

“Mmm, I guess so.” Kate frowned at the monitor, “Nooo, she's doing the most difficult of the napkin folds. And Carol is having trouble with it. Catherine makes things sound so difficult. I don't know how that's going to play.”

”And just tuck the end under like so, and there it is! A peacock. And isn't that lovely?”

“Yes, isn't it?” giggled Carol through clenched teeth. “Thank you, Catherine, for showing us all how to make that lovely napkin fold. Back to you, Steve.”

“Thanks, ladies. Just lovely, Catherine. Uh, Carol, yours looks more like a pigeon. After this break…”

At a production meeting that afternoon, Carol Colson fumed at the production assistants, “All right! I want to know! Who prepped that de-whatsits woman? My notes said we were going to do a simple napkin thing. I'm expecting napkins-101 and she starts in on advanced origami!”

“It was fine, Carol,” said the producer. “You did okay.”

“She made me look like a complete klutz!”

“No she didn't, Carol,” said Steve Pratt. only a partial klutz he added to himself. “And you looked like you were having fun, which always gets the audience on your side.”

“Well, the audience loved the whole segment,” said the producer, waving a handfull of peach-colored slips of paper. “Look at all the calls we got. Most of them are asking for the instructions. Some even asked us to replay the tape so that they could record it.”

“Are you kidding?” said Martin. “The only time we get viewer calls asking us to re-run a segment is when we interview some movie heart-throb and someone's VCR didn't work.”

“I have a call in to her publisher. It was a one-time only contract. Maybe we can get permission to re-run the segment—”

“Over my dead body!” said Carol. “Get permission to send out the instructions, but I do not want that segment re-run!”

“Or,” said the producer placatingly, “Send out the instructions. And I'd like to have her on again to demonstrate cooking something.”

“Fine, let Steve do it.”

“Sure, Carol, no problem,” said Steve. “Just ask for something sweet. I hate eating dinner at eight in the morning. We had that guy on last week, the one who cooked chili. I had indigestion all day.”

In a conference room at Hurst-Hughes Publishing, a similar meeting was in progress.

Kate clicked `stop' and the monitor went dark. She turned to her boss and said, “Honestly, Mr. Hurst. I told her to stick to a simple demonstration. Anyone can do the lily. Hell, even I can do the lily. But no! She had to go right into the peacock. I can finesse things with the photographers and the designers and the copy editors. But once she's on camera, I can't go behind her and pull the strings.”

The meeting was interrupted by Mr. Hursts's secretary. He excused himself and Kate turned to the marketing people and said, “You try it. You deal with the diva next time. She knows everything and she loves showing off. Why, oh, why, did he have to saddle us with Catherine deBourgh? Knopf gets Child, Dutton gets Beard, and we get the cookbook author from hell. I can't wait to hear what the people from `Good Morning USA!' say.”

A minute later, they found out. Hurst was ecstatic. “They loved her! Got lots of calls. They want to send out the directions for the—what bird was that? Anyhow they want the instructions. Kate, is it in the book? I need copies. Fred, call Legal and find out how we compensate her if we put out an excerpt. And make sure we control excerpts.”

“They liked her?” said Kate. “I thought Carol was going to kill her. She couldn't fold that thing for beans. And then she did that forced giggle, which is what she does whenever she screws up. I'd have thought she'd be mad as anything.”

“Producer doesn't care. The audience liked Catherine.”

“Why? She made the morning sweetheart look bad.”

“Are you kidding?” said Fred from Marketing. “That's half the attraction. And that impossible bird fold is the other half.”

“But it's so hard to do.”

“Exactly, Kate. And that is going to be Catherine deBourgh's ticket to fame. One-upmanship. She will teach you how to do something that the other women you know can't do. And then you can smile and say—what was it she said? Isn't that lovely? Was that it?”

“Yes, I think so.”

“Bingo! We even have a catch phrase.” Fred grinned. “Get used to her Kate, Catherine is going to be big. We better make sure we have her under contract for more books.”

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