Success can kill you.
So my best friend had been telling me, anyway. Too much
success is like arsenic in chocolate cake. Eat a slice a
day, Marla announced with a sweep of her plump, bejeweled
fingers, and you'll get cancer. Gobble the whole cake?
You'll keel over and die on the spot.
These observations, made over the course of a snowy March,
had not cheered me. Besides, I'd have thought that Marla,
with her inherited wealth and passion for shopping, would
applaud the upward leap of my catering business. But she
said she was worried about me.
Frankly, I was worried about me, too.
In mid-March I'd invited Marla over to taste cookies.
Despite a sudden but typical Colorado blizzard, she'd
roared over to our small house off Aspen Meadow's Main
Street in her shiny new BMW four-wheel drive. Sitting in
our commercial kitchen, she'd munched on ginger snaps and
spice cookies, and harped on the fact that the newly
frantic pace of my work had coincided with my fourteen-
year-old son Arch's increasingly rotten behavior. I knew
Marla doted on Arch.
But in this, too, she was right.
Arch's foray into athletics, begun that winter with
snowboarding and a stint on his school's fencing team, had
ended with a trophy, a sprained ankle, and an
unprecedented burst of physical self-confidence. He'd been
eager to plunge into spring sports. When he'd decided on
lacrosse, I'd been happy for him. That changed when I
attended the first game. Watching my son forcefully shove
an opponent aside and steal the ball, I'd felt queasy.
With Arch's father--a rich doctor who'd had many violent
episodes himself--now serving time for parole violation,
all thatslashing and hitting was more than I could take.
But even more worrisome than the sport itself, Marla and I
agreed, were Arch's new teammates: an unrepentant gang of
spoiled, acquisitive brats. Unfortunately, Arch thought
the lacrosse guys were beyond cool. He spent hours with
them, claiming that he "forgot" to tell us where he was
going after practice. We could have sent him an e-mail
telling him to call, Arch protested, if he only had what
all his pals had, to wit, Internet-access watches. Your
own watch could have told you what time it was, I'd told
him, when I picked him up from the country-club estate
where the senior who was supposed to drive him home had
left him off.
Arch ignored me. These new friends, he'd announced glumly,
also had Global Positioning System calculators, Model
Bezillion Palm pilots, and electric-acoustic guitars that
cost eight hundred dollars--and up. These litanies were
always accompanied with not-so-tactful reminders that his
fifteenth birthday was right around the corner. He wanted
everything on his list, he announced as he tucked a scroll
of paper into my purse. After all, with all the parties
I'd booked, I could finally afford to get him some really
good stuff.
And no telling what'll happen if I don't get what I want,
he'd added darkly. (Marla informed me that he'd already
given her a list.) I'd shrugged as Arch clopped into the
house ahead of me. I'd started stuffing sauteed chicken
breasts with wild rice and spinach. The next day, Tom had
picked up Arch at another friend's house. When my son
waltzed into the kitchen, I almost didn't recognize him.
His head was shaved.
"They Bic'd me," he declared, tossing a lime into the air
and catching it in the net of his lacrosse stick.
"They bicked you?" I exclaimed incredulously.
"Bic, Mom. Like the razor." He rubbed his bare scalp, then
flipped the lime again. "And I would have been home on
time, if you'd bought me the Palm, to remind me to tell
the guy shaving my head that I had to go."
I snagged the lime in midair. "Go start on your homework,
buster. You got a C on the last anatomy test. And from now
on, either Tom or I will pick you up right from practice."
On his way out of the kitchen, he whacked his lacrosse
stick on the floor. I called after him please not to do
that. I got no reply. The next day, much to Arch's sulking
chagrin, Tom had picked him up directly from practice. If
being athletic is what success at that school looks like,
Tom told me, then maybe Arch should take up painting. I
kept mum. The next day, I was ashamed to admit, I'd pulled
out Arch's birthday list and bought him the Palm pilot.
Call it working mom's guilt, I'd thought, as I stuffed
tiny cream puffs with shrimp salad. Still, I was not sorry
I was making more money than ever before. I did not regret
that Goldilocks' Catering, Where Everything Is Just Right!
had gone from booked to overbooked. Finally, I was giving
those caterers in Denver, forty miles to the east, a run
for their shrimp rolls. This was what I'd always wanted,
right?
Take my best upcoming week, I'd explained to Marla as she
moved on to test my cheesecake bars and raspberry
brownies. The second week of April, I would make close to
ten thousand dollars--a record. I'd booked an upscale
cocktail party at Westside Mall, a wedding reception, and
two big luncheons. Once I survived all that, Friday, April
the fifteenth, was Arch's birthday. By then, I'd finally
have the cash to buy him something, as Arch himself had
said, really good.
"Goldy, don't do all that," Marla warned as she downed one
of my new Spice-of-Life Cookies. The buttery cookies
featured large amounts of ginger, cinnamon, and freshly
grated nutmeg, and were as comforting as anything from
Grandma's kitchen. "You'll be too exhausted even to make a
birthday cake. Listen to me, now. You need to decrease
your bookings, hire some help, be stricter with Arch, and
take care of yourself for a change. If you don't, you're
going to die."
Marla was always one for the insightful observation.
I didn't listen. At least, not soon enough.
The time leading up to that lucrative week in April became
even busier and more frenetic. Arch occasionally slipped
away from practice before Tom, coming up from his
investigative work at the sheriff's department, could snag
him. I was unable to remember the last time I'd had a
decent night's sleep. So I suppose it was inevitable that,
at ten-twenty on the morning of April eleventh, I had
what's known in the shrink business as a crisis. At least,
that's what they'd called it years ago, during my pursuit
of a singularly unhelpful degree in psychology.
I was inside our walk-in refrigerator when I blacked out.
Just before hitting the walk-in's cold floor, I grabbed a
metal shelf. Plastic bags of tomatoes, scallions, celery,
shallots, and gingerroot spewed in every direction, and my
bottom thumped the floor. I thought, I don't have time for
this.
I struggled to get up, and belatedly realized this
meltdown wasn't that hard to figure out. I'd been up since
five a.m. With one of the luncheon preps done, I was
focusing on the mall cocktail party that evening. Or at
least I had been focusing on it, before my eyes, legs, and
back gave out.
I groaned and quickly gathered the plastic bags. My back
ached. My mind threw out the realization that I still did
not know where Arch had been for three hours the previous
afternoon, when lacrosse practice had been canceled.
Neither Tom nor I had been aware of the calendar change.
Tom had finally collected Arch from a seedy section of
Denver's Colfax Avenue. So what had this about-to-turn-
fifteen-year-old been up to this time? Arch had refused to
say.
"Just do the catering," I announced to the empty
refrigerator. I replaced the plastic bags and asked the
Almighty for perspective. Arch would get the third degree
when he came down for breakfast. Meanwhile, I had work to
do.
Before falling on my behind, I'd been working on a
concoction I'd dubbed Shoppers' Chocolate Truffles. These
rich goodies featured a dense, smooth chocolate interior
coated with more satiny chocolate. So what had I been
looking for in the refrigerator? I had no idea. I stomped
out and slammed the door.
I sagged against the counter and told myself the problem
was fatigue. Or maybe my age--thirty-four--was kicking in.
What would Marla say? She'd waggle a fork in my face and
preach about the wages of success.
I brushed myself off and quick-stepped to the sink. As
water gushed over my hands, I remembered I'd been
searching for the scoops of ganache, that sinfully rich
melange of melted bittersweet chocolate, heavy cream, and
liqueur that made up the heart of the truffles.
I dried my hands and resolved to concentrate on dark
chocolate, not the darker side of success. After all, I
had followed one of Marla's suggestions: I had hired help.
But I had not cut back on parties. I'd forgotten what
taking care of myself even felt like. And I seemed
incapable of being stricter with Arch.
I scanned the kitchen. The ganache balls, still wrapped,
sat pristinely on the marble counter. Next to it, my
double boiler steamed on the stovetop. OK, so I'd already
taken them out. I'd simply forgotten.
I hustled over to my new kitchen computer and booted it
up, intent on checking that evening's assignment. Soon my
new printer was spitting out lists of needed foodstuffs,
floor plans, and scheduled setup. I may have lost my mind,
but I'd picked it right up again.
"This is what happens when you give up caffeine!" I
snarled at the ganache balls. Oops--that was twice I'd
talked to myself in the last five minutes. Marla would not
approve.
I tugged the plastic wrap off the globes of ganache and
spooned up a sample to check the consistency. The smooth,
intense dark chocolate sent a zing of pleasure up my back.
I moved to the stovetop, stirred the luxurious pool of
melting chocolate, and took a whiff of the intoxicatingly
rich scent. I told myself--silently--that everything was
going to be all right. The party-goers were going to love
me.
The client for that night's cocktail party was Barry Dean,
an old friend who was now manager of Westside Mall, an
upscale shopping center abutting the foothills west of
Denver. I'd previously put on successful catered parties
at Westside. Each time, the store-owners had raved. But
Barry Dean, who'd only been managing the mall for six
months, had seemed worried about the party's dessert
offering. I'd promised him his high-end spenders, for whom
the party was geared, would flip over the truffles.
Maybe I'd even get a big tip, I thought as I scraped down
the sides of the double boiler. I could spend it on a new
mattress. On it, I might eventually get some sleep.
I stopped and took three deep breaths. My system craved
coffee. Of course, I hadn't given up espresso entirely. I
was just trying to cut back from nine shots a day to two.
Too much caffeine was causing my sleeplessness, Marla had
declared. Of course, since we'd both been married to the
same doctor--consecutively, not concurrently--she and I
were self-proclaimed experts on all physical ailments.
(Med Wives 101, we called it.) So I'd actually heeded her
advice. My plan had been to have one shot at eight in the
morning (a distant memory), another at four in the
afternoon (too far in the future). Now my resolve was
melting faster than the dark chocolate.
I fired up the espresso machine and wondered how I'd
gotten into such a mental and physical mess.
Innocently enough, my mind replied. Without warning, right
after Valentine's Day, my catering business had taken off.
An influx of ultrawealthy folks to Denver and the mountain
area west of the Mile High City had translated into
massive construction of trophy homes, purchases of
multiple upscale cars, and doubling of prices for just
about everything. Most important from my viewpoint, the
demand for big-ticket catered events had skyrocketed. From
mid-February to the beginning of April, a normally slow
season, my assignments had exploded. I'd thought I'd
entered a zone, as they say in Boulder, of bliss.
I pulled a double shot of espresso, then took a sip and
felt infinitely better.
I rolled the first silky scoop of ganache into a ball, and
set it aside. What had I been thinking about? Ah, yes.
Success.
I downed more coffee and set aside the porcelain bought-on-
clearance cup, a remnant of my financial dark days. Those
days had lasted a long time, a fact that Arch had seemed
to block out.
When I began divorce proceedings against the ultra-cute,
ultra-vicious Doctor John Richard Korman, I'd been so
determined that he would support our son well that I'd
become an Official Nosy Person. Files, tax returns, credit
card receipts, check stubs, bank deposits--I'd found and
studied them all. My zealous curiosity had metamorphosed
into a decent settlement. Wasn't it Benjamin Franklin
who'd said, God helps those who help themselves? Old Ben
had been right.
I bathed the first dark ganache globe in chocolate. OK,
I'd replaced marital bitterness with bittersweet chocolate
and bitter orange marmalade, right? And my life had turned
around. Two years ago, I'd married Tom Schulz. As unreal
as my newly-minted financial success might seem, I did not
doubt the miracle of my relationship with Tom, whose work
as a police investigator had actually brought us together
in the first place. Tom was bighearted and open-armed
toward both Arch and me. So far, Tom and I had passed the
tests that had been flung our way, and emerged still
together. In this day and age, I thought, such commitment
was commendable.
And yet, I reflected as I placed the sumptuous truffle on
a rack to dry, one of the reasons I'd been so happy about
my sudden financial success was that I'd vowed never to
depend on Tom's income. My earnings were now on a par with
Tom's. After the money battles with The Jerk, financial
independence was a phenomenon I'd sworn to attain and
keep. Unfortunately, before marrying Tom, my profits had
stayed in a zone between Can feed Arch and keep gas in van
to Going down fast; write for law school catalogs.
I rolled ganache balls, bathed them in chocolate, and set
them aside to dry. Scoop, bathe, set aside. Marla could
grouse all she wanted; I savored my new success. I was
even considering purchasing a new set of springform pans,
since I'd already bought a new computer, printer, and
copier, not to mention new tableware, flatware, and knives-
-a shining set of silver Henckels. I relished no longer
renting plates, silverware, and linens! I laughed aloud
when I finished the twentieth truffle, and made myself
another espresso. The dark drink tasted divine. No wonder
they called financial solvency liquidity.