The Winter Lodge (39 page)

“No, doll. She never stole from Palmquist’s.” A pause. “The diamonds—they were the price she demanded to keep you a secret.”

Food for Thought

by Jenny Majesky

Why Bowl?

This is a spicy cookie with almonds, and is traditionally molded into giant 12-inch shapes using carved antique molds of the saints. At home, a flat pan will do. This is a richer variation, filled with almond paste.

My grandmother never worried about dieting. People of her generation tended not to, while nowadays we’re fanatics about our intake of carbs, calories, transfats…Maybe we should reconsider our grandmothers’ philosophies. Gram simply never overate. She believed that if something was good enough, then you didn’t need to eat a lot of it in order to feel satisfied.

However, the fact is, her baked goods tend to be loaded with refined carbohydrates, which are directly converted into fat. To burn off the calories requires 30-47 minutes of running, 40-60 minutes of cycling, 85-120 minutes of walking or 90-135 minutes of bowling.

SPICE OF LIFE

1-1/2 cups flour

1-1/2 teaspoons baking powder

2/3 cup butter or margarine

3/4 cup plus 2 tablespoons sugar

1 tablespoon ground cinnamon

1/2 teaspoon ground cloves

1/2 teaspoon freshly grated nutmeg

a pinch of cayenne pepper

1 tablespoon milk

1 teaspoon lemon zest

1 (7-ounce) package almond paste

1 egg, beaten

4 tablespoons sliced almonds and a sprinkle of coarse sugar Preheat oven to 350°F. Combine flour and baking powder. Cut butter into flour mixture. Add sugar, spices, milk and lemon zest. Roll out dough on floured surface into a rectangle 1/4-inch thick. Cut in half. Place half on heavy sheet of aluminum foil, folding the edges of foil up around dough to make a shallow, fitted pan. Brush the top of this layer with beaten egg.

Roll out almond paste to fit on top of dough and lay it on top of this. Cover with remaining half of dough, pressing down lightly. Brush top with beaten egg. Scatter almond slices over the top, pressing them lightly into dough. Bake for 40 minutes, or until done. Let cool, then cut into bars.

Twenty-Nine

1983

“W
e have an agreement,” Mariska said to Laura. “That’s all you need to know.”

Laura stood in astonishment, gaping at her friend. They were in the cavelike vault of the bakery freezer. Laura had shown up at three forty-five in the morning as usual to open. She normally had an hour before anyone else arrived, but this morning Mariska had startled her by showing up. Instead of getting to work, however, she had brought Laura to the walk-in freezer.

There, Mariska had shown her a small box lined with black velvet. Peering at the contents, Laura was pretty sure she was hallucinating. Mariska assured her that these were one-carat round diamonds, investment grade, which meant they were colorless and internally flawless. They had been given to her, she explained, by Mr. and Mrs. Lightsey, of Lightsey Gold & Gem in New York City. They had an “agreement.”

“I don’t understand,” Laura said. “Who are they? And why did they give you the diamonds?”

“I told you…” Mariska closed the box and pressed it to her chest.

“Right, the agreement,” Laura said. “What I meant was, why? Who are these people?”

Mariska slipped the box into a zippered belt around her waist. “I need to move these. I thought keeping them in here would be safe, but after yesterday’s power outage, I was getting nervous.”

“Nervous about what?”

“I kept feeling like someone was watching me.”

“Who?”

“Just…someone. I thought of a better hiding place. I need to tell someone, though, in case, well, you know.”

“In case what?”

“Something happens to me. It won’t, I swear. It’s just a precaution. Anyway, you’re the only one I can trust.”

Laura was unnerved by the ominous tone. “If you trust me, then you’ll tell me the whole story.”

They went into the bakery, where everything was gleaming, waiting to start another day.

Laura eyed her friend. Mariska was more beautiful than ever, her constant travels having imbued her with a special sense of style, as if she had stepped from the pages of a Paris fashion spread.

She wore a silk scarf and carried a soft leather bag with casual ease, and even at this hour, she seemed possessed of a peculiar restless energy. She adored traveling the world, and found life in sleepy Avalon, New York, almost unbearable. Although she adored her daughter—everybody adored Jenny—she couldn’t seem to settle down. And now this, thought Laura. Just when she thought Mariska couldn’t have any more secrets, there was this.

As Laura busied herself with a honey-wheat mixture, Mariska finally began to talk. “Mr.

and Mrs. Lightsey are the parents of Pamela Lightsey, the girl Philip Bellamy married,” she said.

Now Laura remembered. The Lightseys were summer people, friends of the Bellamys.

“They were desperate for Philip to marry Pamela, and they knew he wouldn’t do it so long as I was around,” Mariska continued. “I knew the moment I told Philip I was pregnant, it would be over for him and Pamela. The thing is, the Lightseys knew that, too. They said if I’d break up with Philip—and make him believe it—they’d make it worth my while. They’re in the diamond trade, so…” She patted the belt containing the diamonds.

That night, at Mariska’s insistence, Laura and Mariska went out, stopping at Scooter’s, a popular hang-out on the river road. The two women sat at a bar-height table sipping drinks and catching the eye of several guys. Well, Mariska did, anyway. Next to her, Laura felt as plain as white bread.

Some local guys parked themselves at the next table—Terry Davis, who worked up at Camp Kioga year round, Jimmy Romano, a teacher at the high school, and Matthew Alger, who worked for the city. When it came to flirting, Mariska was an expert, but Laura was content to simply sit back and watch. It was an art, the process of lighting up when a guy looked at you, holding his attention with your eyes and your body language. Although it required intense concentration, it had to appear completely natural and spontaneous.

Before long, Mariska was whispering and giggling with Matthew, who looked as though he was about to eat her up. Laura excused herself and went to the ladies’ room. Within a few minutes, Mariska joined her. “What’s the matter with you?” she asked.

Laura could see that she was drunk. “I keep thinking about the things you told me today…what you did…”

“It had to be done, okay? The bakery wasn’t doing so hot that summer, in case you forgot.”

“I remember.”

“It was a way to save it.”

“Philip would have helped you,” Laura said. “If you’d told him about the baby and married him, the Bellamys would have stepped in.”

Mariska stared at her. “And how would that make me look? Like an idiot who got pregnant and married a guy in order to use his money. You know me, Laura. I would never do that.”

Ah, yes, her pride. “So it’s better to be a single mother and take a bribe than to marry the man you love?”

“I was eighteen years old. I had no idea about love and marriage. Sometimes I think I still don’t. But I’ve always understood the value of money.”

A flushing sound came from one of the stalls. Laura’s blood chilled. Good Lord, someone had heard their conversation. A dark-haired woman came out and washed her hands at a sink.

One of the Romanos, Laura observed. Angela, maybe, she couldn’t keep them all straight.

When she left, Laura looked wildly at Mariska. “Do you think she knows what we were talking about?”

“It doesn’t matter. I took care of everything today. The only one who saw was Jenny, and she’s too little to know what’s going on.”

“Isn’t what you did illegal?”

“Look, I had something the Lightseys wanted,” she said in exasperation. “And you didn’t see me buying new cars and clothes, stuff like that. I didn’t want to arouse anybody’s suspicion.”

When she needed money, she explained, she would take one or two stones at a time to a diamond exchange on Forty-seventh Street in New York, or sometimes to the one in Toronto or even in Europe somewhere.

“So why are you telling me this today? Why now?” Laura asked. She had always been somewhat in awe of Mariska—of her looks, her nerve, her self-confidence. Now she felt something else besides awe—shock and disapproval.

“I might need to go away for a while,” Mariska said. “Longer than usual.”

Food for Thought

by Jenny Majesky

A Colorful Cordial

My grandparents had very few treasures because they brought so little with them when they emigrated from Poland. The treasures they had were precious, and one that stands out in my memory is a set of crystal cordial glasses. My grandfather went to Brooklyn one year and bought a set imported from Poland. They had the color and cut of jewels—ruby, sapphire, emerald, amethyst—and they were only used on special occasions. A birth, a death, a holiday. Krupnik is a hot honey-and-spice cordial that brings warmth to any occasion.

KRUPNIK

1 cup honey

1/2 cup water

1 crumbled bay leaf

1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract

1 teaspoon grated lemon peel

a pinch of nutmeg

10 whole cloves

2 pinches of cinnamon

3 cups 100-proof vodka

In a pot, combine everything except vodka. Bring to boil, reduce heat and simmer, covered, for about 10 minutes. Strain, discarding spices. Add vodka and heat gently but do not boil. Serve immediately, preferably in crystal cordial glasses.

Thirty

G
iving people bad news came with the job, Rourke reminded himself as he trudged through hip-deep snow to the lodge at Camp Kioga. It had always been that way. In training, he had studied the optimum methods of delivering the news and providing support. On the job, he had been called on to arrive on strangers’ doorsteps, to tell unsuspecting people that the unthinkable had happened—an accident, a death, an arrest or some other incident that would forever change the lives involved. Those moments haunted him for years afterward.

Due to the snowfall, the road to the camp wasn’t even accessible with a snowplow. He’d used a snowmobile with deep-snow tracks, and had then been forced to hike the final leg by snowshoe. One of his deputies had pointed out that he could contact Jenny by phone, but there was no way Rourke would do that. He needed to tell her this in person.

It was dusk by the time he reached the lodge, and the snow was coming down harder than ever. He focused on the golden glimmers of light in the windows, the friendly puff of smoke coming from the chimney. He pictured Jenny inside, maybe sitting at her computer or fixing something to eat, listening to music, thinking or dreaming. And with that image came a piercing surge of tenderness, and the knowledge that had been with him for at least half his life. One summer long ago, he’d fallen in love with Jenny. He’d spent years trying to fall out of love with her. Now he was forced to acknowledge that he’d never succeeded. The notion brought him no joy. Somewhere in the world, there were people who were good at love, who found it bright and easy, something to give meaning to their lives. Rourke was not one of them.

He stopped in front of the lodge and took off the snowshoes. The front stairs were layered with snow and a fringe of icicles hung from the eaves. As he passed beneath them, a big section fell, stabbing silently into the snow. He called Jenny’s name and then knocked at the door. Rufus sounded the alarm, baying and hurling himself at the door.

Good dog, thought Rourke. He liked the mutt’s protective instincts.

The door opened and Rufus lunged, then instantly dissolved into a puddle of affection when he recognized Rourke. Jenny stood back, wearing an expression Rourke found hard to read. She was anything but happy to see him, and she looked…was that guilt on her face? What did she have to feel guilty about? She was wearing jeans and a sweater, and her hair was in a ponytail. She stood with her arms folded protectively in front of her.

“Rourke,” she said. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

Clearly. “I need to talk to you. I, uh, wanted to say this in person.”

She frowned and her gaze shifted, much like…He couldn’t shake the notion that she was acting like someone brought to the booking desk at the station.

He stepped inside and shut the door. With Rufus prancing around him in welcome, he took off his boots and parka. It felt good to peel off a few layers. Snowshoeing was hot work.

“Can we have a seat?” he asked her.

“Um, sure.” She gestured at the sofa.

Rourke decided to be quick about it. She seemed distracted and mystified, and holding out was just cruel. “A body was found in the ice caves above the falls,” he said without preamble.

She looked utterly confused. “A body.”

“Yes.”

“A human body.”

He nodded. Though he wanted to touch her, he kept his fists clenched. “Sonnet, Zach and Daisy were up there snowshoeing. There’s been no positive ID of…” He started to say “the remains” but let his voice trail off. “A recovery team will go up as soon as the weather clears. I think you need to know, to be prepared for the news.” All right, he thought. Get it over with.

“The deceased is almost certainly your mother.”

He watched the words sink in like a slow burn, the initial confusion deepening to comprehension and then pain. She didn’t say anything, didn’t move except to press her hands flat on her knees and study them intently.

“I compared the, um, clothing to the description in the original missing persons report,” he explained. He had reread the archived report, though that hadn’t been necessary. He’d gone over it so many times over the years that he’d memorized it, and the moment he’d seen Daisy’s photos, he had known. “It’s pretty conclusive.” He paused, hating the fact that he was hurting her. “I’m sorry.”

She sat very still for a few minutes, seeming to go away somewhere. She swallowed, tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear. Then she took a deep, unsteady breath. “I used to keep a journal, when I was young,” she said in a faint voice. “I started every entry ‘Dear Mom.’