Free Cobalt by Nathan Aldyne Page A

of a waiter who was passing through the room, and pulled the cart up to the table. “Oder vielleicht,” she went on, “you would like de Heidi Sviss Miss Special?” She pointed to the centerpiece, a small Mont Blanc with the minuscule figure of a little girl—dressed exactly like the woman herself—skiing down the side of the confectionary mountain.
    The woman fluttered her eyes madly at Clarisse and shifted her weight from one foot to the other. The cart rolled just a little when she did. “Take de time, yah!”
    â€œI’m not certain that I’m ready for this,” said Clarisse softly, looking at Valentine and pressing his foot beneath the table.
    â€œVat?” cried the woman, “not even yust von?”
    Clarisse shook her head hesitantly. Valentine broke into laughter, stood and kissed the woman on her cheek. “Clarisse,” he said, “this is Angel Smith.”
    Angel Smith grabbed the hand that Clarisse was about to offer to her and shook it frantically. “Nice to meet you,” she said, without a trace of accent.
    She pushed the cart out of the way, pulled up a couple of chairs and seated herself at their table. “I’ll confess,” she said, glancing back at the dessert cart, “the pudding is from yesterday and it’s a little rubbery, but the strawberry tarts are great. I whip the cream myself.” She hoisted three of the large tarts onto the table, grabbed three forks and three spoons from a tray beneath, and while Clarisse and Valentine murmured their thanks she began taking birdlike dips of the whipped cream. “Heaven,” she breathed, “just heaven.”
    â€œHow have you been?” asked Valentine politely.
    Angel groaned between bites. “Business is great, but I’d like to bury Heidi.” She looked at Clarisse. “Do you know how humiliating it can be for a thirty-two-year-old woman to dress up like this every night just to flog desserts? With whipped cream like this people would buy them even if it was Nancy Reagan pushing the cart. Oh, well,” she conceded, “got to make a living.” She popped three strawberries into her mouth.
    â€œDo you work in Provincetown every summer?” Clarisse asked.
    â€œLike cuckoo-clockwork.”
    â€œPerhaps you could find a job in a restaurant where you didn’t have to dress in a ludicrous costume.”
    â€œAh—Clarisse…” Valentine cautioned.
    â€œI think of what my mother would say,” said Angel, putting down her fork. “But the fact is, I am the Swiss Miss. And when I’m in P’town, I’m the Swiss Miss in Exile.”
    Clarisse shook her head. “I don’t understand.”
    â€œAngel and Noah are partners,” said Valentine.
    â€œSee, the Swiss Miss in Exile is an offshoot of our first Swiss Miss, on Harvard Avenue in Brookline next to that all-night bagel palace.”
    â€œWhere is the White Prince?” asked Valentine. “I haven’t seen him framed in any doorways this evening.”
    â€œOne of our dishwashers ran off with a fabulously wealthy nature photographer he met in the dunes, so the Prince is downstairs in the kitchen screaming like Fay Wray.”
    â€œI was hoping to run into you at the party last night,” said Valentine.
    â€œOh, yes! How was the party? I was dying to go—” She shifted her eyes to Clarisse. “I was going as Pat Nixon. Catch the resemblance? I have this thing about First Ladies.” She went back to Valentine. “But I didn’t get into town until this morning, so I missed all the fun.” As she scraped the last of her tart free of the dish, she glanced speculatively back at the dessert cart. “I heard there was some trouble,” she said offhandedly. “Someone got killed?”
    â€œThat’s all you heard?” asked Clarisse. “I thought it was all anybody was talking