Like a fudge souffle, life can collapse. You think you
have it all together—fine melted chocolate, clouds of egg
white, hints of sugar and vanilla—and then bam. There's a
reason things fall apart, my husband would say. But of
course Tom would say that. He's a cop.
On the home front, things were not good. My kitchen was
trashed, my catering business faced nasty competition, and
my fourteen-year-old son Arch desperately missed our
former boarder, twenty-year-old Julian Teller. For his
part, Tom was embroiled in a feud with a new assistant
district attorney who would plea-bargain Hermann G÷ring
down to disturbing the peace. These days, I felt
increasingly frantic—for work, for cooking space, for
perspective.
Given such a litany of problems, life had brightened
somewhat when my old cooking teacher, Chef Andre Hibbard,
had offered me a one-day gig helping to cater a fashion
shoot. My clients—the ones I still had—would have scoffed.
Catering to models? You must be desperate.
Maybe I was. Desperate, that is. And maybe my clients
would have been right to ridicule me, I reflected, as I
pulled my van into the dirt lot at the edge of Sandbottom
Creek. Across the water stood the Merciful Migrations
cabin, where the first week of the photo shoot would take
place. My clients would have cried: Where are you going to
hide your butter and cheese? I didn't know.
The cloudless, stone-washed-denim sky overhead and remote-
but-picturesque cabin seemed to echo: You're darn right,
you don't know. I ignored a shudder of self-doubt, jumped
out of my van, and breathed in air crisp with the high
country'smid-August hint of fall. It was only ten a.m.
Usually I didn't arrive two hours before a lunch,
especially when the food already had been prepared. But
show me a remote historic home and I'll show you a
dysfunctional cooking area. Plus, I was worried about my
old friend Andre. This was his first off-site catered meal
since he'd retired four years ago, and he was a basket
case.
I opened the van's side door and heaved up the box
containing the Savory Florentine Cheesecakes I'd made for
the buffet. I expertly slammed the door with my foot,
crossed the rushing water, and carefully climbed the stone
steps to the cabin. On the deck, I took another deep
breath, rebalanced my load, then pushed through the
massive wooden door.
Workers bustled about a brightly lit, log-lined, high-
beamed great room. I rested my box on a bench and stood
for a few minutes, ignored by the swirl of activity.
Frowning, I found it challenging to comprehend my
surroundings. Two workers called to each other about where
to move the scrim, which I finally deduced was a mounted
swath of fabric designed to diffuse the photographer's
light. The two men moved on to clamping movable eight-foot-
square wood screens—flats, I soon learned—into place. The
flats formed a three-sided frame for "the set." Meanwhile,
other folks rushed to and fro laden with hair dryers,
notebooks, makeup trays, tripods, and camera equipment.
Hoisting my box, I tried to figure out where Andre might
be.
As I moved along, the models were easy to spot. Muscular
young men and impossibly slender women, all with
arrestingly sculpted faces, leaned against the log walls
or slumped in the few stripped-bark bentwood chairs. The
models' expressions were frozen in first-day-of-school
apprehension. And no wonder: They were about to undergo
the cattle call for the famed Prince & Grogan Christmas
catalog. Prince & Grogan was an upscale Denver department
store. Auditioning to model Santa-print pajamas for their
ads had to be anxiety-creating.
I plowed a crooked path to what I hoped was the kitchen
entrance. As I feared, the dark, cramped cooking space
featured plywood glued along the one wall not covered by
cupboards. Above the plywood, a dusty lamp hung to
illuminate the battered sink. Next to the sink, buckled
linoleum counters abutted a gas oven that didn't look much
newer than a covered wagon's camp stove. In the center of
the uneven wood floor, short, paunchy, white-haired AndrÚ
Hibbard surveyed the room with open dissatisfaction. As
usual, my old friend and mentor, who had made a rare
compromise when he'd immigrated, anglicizing his name from
HÚbert to Hibbard, sported a pristine white chef's jacket
that hugged his potbelly. His black pants were knife-
creased; his black shoes were shiny and spotless. When he
saw me, his rosebud mouth puckered into a frown.
"Thank goodness." His plum-colored cheeks shook; the
silvery curls lining his neck trembled. "Are these people
pigs, that I have to work in this trough? I may need
money, but I have standards!"
I put down my box, gave him a quick hug, and sniffed a
trace of his spicy cologne. "Andre! You're never happy.
But I'm here, and I brought the nonmeat entrÚe you
requested. Main-dish cheesecakes made with GruyÞre and
spinach."
He tsked while I checked the ancient oven's illegible
thermostat. "The oven is hot. Whose recipe is it?"
"Julian Teller's. Now training to become a vegetarian
chef." I lifted the cakes from the box and slid them into
the oven to reheat. "Now, put me to work."
I helped Andre pour out the tangy sauces that would
accompany the delicate spring rolls he'd stuffed with fat
steamed shrimp, sprigs of cilantro, and lemongrass. Then
we stirred chopped pears into the red-wine vinaigrette,
counted cornbread biscuits, Parker House Rolls, and
sourdough baguettes, and discussed the layout of the
buffet. Prince & Grogan was the client of record. But the
fashion photography studio, Ian's Images, was running the
show.
"Ian Hood does fashion photography for money," Andre
announced as he checked his menu, "and nature photography
for fun. You know this?"
In AndrÚ's scratched, overloaded, red cooking equipment
box—one I knew well from our days at his restaurant—I
pushed aside his garlic press and salamander, and nabbed
the old-fashioned scoop he used to make butter balls. "I
know his pictures of elk. You can't live in Aspen Meadow
and miss them."
AndrÚ pursed his lips again and handed me the tub of
chilled butter. "The helpers are day-contractors working
for Prince & Grogan."
The word contractor, unfortunately, instantly brought my
trashed kitchen to mind. Forget it for now—you have work
to do. I scraped the butter into dense, creamy balls. I
wrapped the breads in foil while AndrÚ counted his
platters. Because the cabin kitchen was not a commercially-
approved space, he had done the bulk of the food
preparation at his condo. While he gave me the background
on the shoot, we used disposable thermometers to do the
obligatory off-site food-service tests for temperature.
Was the heated food hot enough? The chilled offerings cold
enough? Yes. Finally, we checked the colorful arrangements
of fruit and bowls of salad, and tucked the rolls into
napkin-lined baskets.
When the cheesecakes emerged, golden brown and puffed,
they filled the small kitchen with a heavenly aroma. AndrÚ
checked their temperature and asked me to take them out to
the buffet. I stocked the first tray, lifted it up to my
shoulder, and nudged through the kitchen door. When I
entered the great room, a loudly barked order made me jump.
"Take off your shirt!"
I banged the tray onto the ruby-veined marble shelf that a
note in AndrÚ's familiar sloping hand had labeled Buffet.
The shelf, cantilevered out of the massive log walls,
creaked ominously. The tray of cheesecakes slid sideways.
"Your shirt!"
I grabbed the first springform pan to keep it from
tipping. This was not what I was expecting. Because the
noise outside the kitchen had abated, I'd thought the room
was empty and that the models' auditions had been moved
elsewhere. I was obviously wrong. But my immediate worry
was the cheesecakes, now threatening to toboggan downward.
If they landed on the floor, I would be assigned to cook a
new main dish. This would not be fun.
With great care, I slid the steaming concoctions safely
onto the counter. Arguing voices erupted from the far
corner of the great room. I grabbed the leaning
breadbasket. The floor's oak planks reverberated as
someone stamped and hollered that the stylist was supposed
to bring out the gold chains right now! I swallowed and
stared at the disarray on the tray.
To make room on the counter, I skidded the cheesecakes
down the marble. The enticing scents of tangy melted
GruyÞre and Parmesan swirled with hot scallions and cream
cheese spiraled upward. The thick tortes' golden-brown
topping looked gorgeous, fit for the centerfold of Gourmet.
Best to avoid thoughts of gorgeous, I reminded myself as I
placed a crystal bowl of endive and radicchio on the
marble. Truth to tell, for this booking I'd been a bit
apprehensive in the appearance department. Foodie
magazines these days eagerly screamed a new trend: Today's
caterer should offer pretty servers in addition to
beautiful food! Submit head shots along with menus!
I pushed the butter balls onto the counter, keenly aware
of my unfashionably curly blond hair and plump thirty-
three-year-old body beneath a white shirt, loose black
skirt, and white apron. I hadn't submitted a photo.
Of course, neither had AndrÚ, who was now fuming at a
kitchen intruder. I sighed and moved the plate of juicy
honeydew melon and luscious fat raspberries onto the
counter. With one hand still gripping the tray, I inhaled
uncertainly, then parted the cloth folds of the
breadbasket. The tower of butter-flecked rolls, moist
cornbread biscuits, and sourdough-thyme baguettes had not
toppled, thank goodness. Self-doubt again reared its head.
Will the fashion folks eat this?
"And while you're at it, take off your pants!" the same
female voice barked.
"For sportswear?" a man squealed in dismay.
I turned and peered past the bentwood chairs and sleigh-
bed frames the workers had piled higgledy-piggledy in the
dusty, sun-steeped space. By the far bank of windows, a
solitary, beautiful young man stood in front of a trio of
judges. The judges—two women and a man, all of whom I knew—
perched on a slatted bench. None of them looked happy.
Nearest was Hanna Klapper—dark-haired, wide-faced,
fiftyish, recently and unhappily divorced. Hanna was
familiar to me from my stint as a volunteer at Aspen
Meadow's Homestead Museum. With her authoritarian voice
and exacting ways, Hanna had designed exhibits installed
by trembling docents, yours truly included. She had
demanded that we put on surgical gloves before moving
woven baskets or antique Indian pots even two inches. If
we forgot, or, God forbid, dropped an item, she'd kick us
out faster than you could say Buffalo Bill's bloodstained
holster. According to Andre, Hanna had been appointed as
the new artistic director at Prince & Grogan. I was amazed
to see that she had shed her gingham-smock-and-sensible-
shoes wardrobe for an elegant black silk shirt, tie, and
pants. Her mahogany-colored hair, formerly pulled into a
severe bun, was now shaped into a fashionably angled
pageboy. This wasn't just a new job. It was a
metamorphosis.
Hanna opened and closed her fists as she chided the male
model. The gorgeous fellow, whose hair might have been a
tad too black to be real, argued back. I wondered how
Hanna's exhibits on Cattle-Rustling Meets Cowboy Cooking
and Gunslingers: Their Gripes and Their Girls had prepared
her for ordering models to strip. In any event, I
certainly wouldn't want her judging my body.
The woman next to her on the bench was a bit younger. Leah
Smythe, small-boned and delicate-featured, wore her blond-
streaked black hair in a shaggy pixie cut. She had jumped
up and was now holding out her hands in a pleading gesture
to the model. AndrÚehad confided to me that Leah was the
big cheese here today, the woman with the power: the
casting director for Ian's Images. Leah also owned the
cabin. When Ian's Images was not engaged in a shoot, Leah
allowed Merciful Migrations to use the space for elk-
tracking, fund-raising, and salt-lick distribution.
The beautiful young man who wouldn't take off his shirt
looked as if he could use a lick of salt, especially on
the side of a glass of tequila. My heart went out to him.
The man seated next to Hanna and Leah, photographer Ian
Hood, had a handsome, fine-boned face, wavy salt-and-
pepper hair, and a trim beard. Ian's photos of trotting
elk, grazing elk, big-buck elk, and mom-and-baby elk
graced the libraries, grocery stores, post offices, banks,
and schools of Aspen Meadow and Blue Spruce. My best
friend, Marla Korman—the other ex-wife of my ex-husband—
had sent Ian a dozen elk burgers when he'd criticized her
fund-raising abilities. He hadn't spoken to her since.
"Do you want this job or not?" Hanna brusquely asked the
model. Seeming to take no notice, Ian squinted through the
lens of a camera.
No, as a matter of fact, my inner voice replied. I don't
want this job. No matter how much I tried to deny it, my
heart was as blue as the gas flame on Andre's old
restaurant stovetop. Quit fretting, I scolded myself as I
counted out glasses and lined them up.
I sneaked another peek at the male model still being
appraised by Ian, Hanna, and Leah. He was in his mid-
twenties, indisputably from the Greek-god category of
guys. His ultradark curly hair, olive complexion, and
perfectly shaped aquiline features complemented wide
shoulders above an expansive chest, only slightly paunchy
waist, and long legs. But his handsome face was pinched in
frustration. Worse, his tall, elegant body—clothed in
fashionably wrinkled beige clothing—didn't seem too steady
on its feet. Hands on hips, Hanna looked intensely
annoyed. Leah sadly shook her head. Ian gestured angrily
and squawked something along the lines of You have to be
able to compete. If you can't compete, get out of the
business.
"I hate competing," I muttered under my breath.
Apollo-in-khaki put his hands behind his head and scowled.
He snarled, "We're having a few problems. So what? I'm the
best guy for this job, and you know it."
I smiled in spite of myself. A few problems?
"Didn't your agent tell you about the cruise section?"
asked Leah Smythe, in a pleading tone. Ian Hood popped a
flash, then stared quizzically at the camera, a Polaroid.
When nothing happened, he lifted the apparatus and
thwacked it loudly against the bench. I gasped.
"Spit out the picture!" Ian yelled at the camera, then
lofted it back to his eye. Another flash sparked; no
photograph emerged.
From the cabin's far door, footsteps and the clank of
tools announced one of the workers who'd set up the scrim.
Tall and gangly, this fellow traipsed into the great room
hauling a load of bulging canvas bags. He writhed to get
loose of his load, then dropped the sacks and thoughtfully
rubbed a beard so uneven and scruffy it looked pasted on
his ultrapale skin. After a moment, he picked up a fr