Free Dark Tort by Diane Mott Davidson Page B

accident.” He moved toward the phone. “Anyway, I’m calling Marla. Asking her to come over, too.”
    “You’ll wake her up,” I warned him.
    “She’ll live.”
    Julian slowly moved his cutting board piled with perfect slices of Brie to the far end of the marble counter. “You’re calling Marla?” he said, his voice quavering. “Could you ask her to bring a dozen more eggs?” Julian looked at me as if he was going to say something, then shook his head. I fixed us both second cups of espresso while Tom dialed Marla.
    “Is Arch going to attend the baptism?” Julian asked as he spooned sugar into his cup. He glanced warily at Tom, who had reached Marla and appeared to be arguing with her. In a very low voice, Julian said, “I thought you told me Arch had stopped going to church.”
    “He insists he’s going.” I slugged my coffee decisively, again rinsed the cup, and made my own foray into the walk-in. Staring at the shelves, I couldn’t remember why I’d come into the cooled space, or what I was seeking. Without thinking, I pulled a large bag of Granny Smith apples off the shelf. Apple Betty, I thought. Apple Betty with ice cream was the ultimate comfort food and it was easy to prepare. I slammed the door too hard behind me, and it shuddered. “Arch wants to support Gus. He wants to be a part of the significant events in his half brother’s life. Can you blame him? Arch figures if he lies low, no one will mention the fact that he’s taken a sabbatical from the ecclesiastical experience.”
    For the first time since he’d arrived, Julian smiled. “Is Meg Blatchford going to be there?” he asked.
    “You bet.” At seventy-nine, Meg Blatchford was the oldest Episcopalian in Aspen Meadow. After a person was baptized at St. Luke’s, Meg was the one who took the baby or stood beside the child or adult and said, “You may welcome the newly baptized.” Liturgically speaking, it wasn’t strictly kosher for Meg to ask this question, as the celebrant was supposed to do it. Still, it had been such a long-standing tradition in our parish that no one objected. It added a nice touch, the oldest Christian in the place welcoming the newest.
    Julian shrugged. “I hope I can be as strong as she is when I’m in my seventies. I’ve been taking her pastries every week for over a year.
    Last time I was there, she was pitching a softball so hard into that little basket she uses for practice, you know what I’m talking about? Anyway, I thought she was going to break the basket.”
    I nodded. “She’s pretty amazing.”
    Julian slurped down the last of his coffee. After clattering our cups into our big commercial dishwasher, he methodically began to rinse a bunch of scallions.
    “You got some blue cheese? I’ve changed my mind on what I’m going to make. I’m going to wrap up this Brie and use it for something else, and instead, I want to make that pie you and Dusty . . . Oh, Christ.” At the mention of Dusty’s name, tears unexpectedly spilled out of Julian’s eyes. He walked quickly into the ground-floor bathroom, where he started running the faucet. A wave of sadness engulfed me. I turned on my computer, told myself to buck up, and printed out the Blue Cheesecake recipe.
    When Julian returned to the kitchen, he didn’t mention the incident. Instead, he said, “Um, I need some tomatoes to make a salad. I didn’t see any in the walk-in.”
    “I’ll go downstairs to look for some.”
    “Downstairs?”
    “Just trust me, okay?” I said as I traipsed down the steps to the basement. Our brief mountain growing season had not deterred Tom from planting a dozen cherry-tomato plants in June. When a September frost had threatened to ruin his crop—then only masses of chartreuse nuggets—he’d grumbled and pulled the plants up by the roots. After stringing a dozen meat hooks across our laundry-room ceiling, he’d hung entire plants—including roots with dirt still clinging to them—upside down, and