10 After twenty minutes of mousse, crystal, and cake removal, I traipsed back toward the Farquhars. The last thing I needed was more cooking. I was so angry I was beside myself. I struggled to focus on Andre, my mentor in food matters. When I apprenticed with him at his restaurant in Denver, his shelves creaked under their loads of dense Callebaut chocolate and fragrant African vanilla beans. Each of his cooks received a five-pound block of butter at the beginning of the workday. All he would say was, "Use it up." Andre insisted on making Italian meringue for each batch of fudge. "Essential," he would shout over the roar of the mixer. On our lunch break he would expound. "Let the dieters be responsible for their own willpower. Their health is not your concern; your income is not theirs." He would demand, "Do you know the significance of the last course? It is what will linger in the memory and on the tongue." What does that best? Chocolate. In spite of my fury I smiled, remembering. Beneath my feet the ground was cold and spongy. Chilly fingers of grass swished against my heels. I came through the security gate and made a graceless leap onto the Farquhars' driveway, sidestepped rivulets of melting snow, and thought about the most important thing. Even before Weezie insisted on it, I knew serving clients chocolate nurtured them emotionally. I'd read an article that said people crave chocolate, gorge on it in fact, when they have been let go by a lover, boss, or spouse. Weezie had told me that ingesting the food of the gods, as the Aztecs named it, produces an enzyme that creates sensations similar to sexual pleasure. I couldn't believe that with Brian, something similar was all she got. I stomped back into the Farquhars' house feeling like one of those cartoon characters with steam issuing from his ears. I wet a clean hand towel and slumped into one of the oak kitchen chairs. Compromises, I told myself as I scrubbed the area on my neck that Brian Harrington had smooched. I threw the towel down, stood up, and tried to think sweet. Tentatively, I reached into the cabinet where the fudge Julian had offered earlier was stored. I didn't have two hours to make another whole mousse cake. Serving a dessert I had not made was a compromise, but it was one I couldn't help. At least I hadn't compromised myself. And I was thankful for Julian's expertise, if not his temperament. I sampled a piece. Rich semisweet chocolate oozed between sun-dried cherries. The balance between luscious, smooth chocolate and chewy cherries was from heaven. I knew I could make two more desserts simultaneously. The fudge would balance well with brownies, and I could put together something with chocolate chips at the same time. I banged and searched and groped in the Farquhars' cupboard for ingredients. I jumped sky-high when a cat wove between my legs. As if I didn't have enough problems, I thought uncharitably. A few weeks before I moved in, good-hearted Adele had heard this feline meowing outside the fence by the pool. She had adopted the scrawny thing, and the general had named him Scout, somewhat prematurely, I thought. Now Scout, whose white, dark-and-light-brown coat meant that his ancestors were from Siam and Burma, jumped up on the counter to see what was up. He was a friendly fellow who had gone unclaimed by ads in the paper and calls to the veterinarian and Mountain Animal Protective League. Still too spooked by the neighborhood dogs to go back outdoors, Scout inspired great sympathy. Now Scout was determined to figure out what I was doing, and as long as he didn't get any cat hairs in anything, I was willing to let him spectate. I made a crust for what would be a chocolate-chip bar and popped it in the oven. I let Scout be the inspiration for the brownies. I used chocolate in three forms, which was what you needed when times were tough. I wasn't in my proper home. Neither was the cat. I did not have my usual bevy of ingredients. He probably cherished the memory of an old couch pillow he'd never see again. Marching on in the face of adversity, both of us.