Beginning, Section II
Jump to new as of April 14, 2004
Jump to new as of April 26, 2004
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.”
“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.”
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.”
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!”
“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
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
“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.”
“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.”
“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.”
November 1993Carol 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!”
”And just tuck the end under like so, and there it is! A peacock. And isn’t that lovely?”
© 2004 Copyright held by the author.