The Groaning Board

raincoat and
hung it from a bentwood wall rack. “Make yourself comfortable while I see what
I can put together. Red, I hope.” She held up a bottle of cabernet sauvignon.
    “Red.”
    While Wetzon sat on one of the
barstools, Micklynn uncorked the wine bottle, then shook niçoise olives from a
plastic container into a small plate. Slivers of garlic and lemon rind speckled
the deep purple of the olives. Next came little balls of goat cheese, steeped
in olive oil and herbs, a waste plate and napkins, and two fat wineglasses.
    “Finger food,” Micklynn said.
    Wetzon eyed the wine bottle. Come on
and breathe, baby, she thought. She was suddenly ravenous. She took an olive,
let it splay on her tongue. Heaven. She removed the pit and reached for the
goat cheese.
    “Allergic to anything?” Micklynn’s
voice came from inside her fridge—Sub-Zero, of course.
    “Only men.” Wetzon’s shoes fell to
the floor with a thud. She flexed her toes and wrapped her legs around the
stool.
    Micklynn turned and gave her a slow
smile. “Pour the wine,” she said. She began unloading small plastic-wrapped
bundles and containers from the fridge and tossing things into a colander. One
hand held the colander under the cold water, the other took one of the
wineglasses. “No men on the menu tonight.” She raised her glass to Wetzon, who
responded in kind. “Funny how prevalent that allergy is. It gets Worse if you
marry them. Are you—?”
    “No.” The wine was a deep, rich ruby.
Woodsy fruit.
    Sipping the wine, Micklynn set the
colander in the sink, and turned off the water. “Smart girl. I married three of
them. One died and two I divorced. And then there are those loose ends, the
ones you dally with but wouldn’t marry.” She tossed mushrooms into a colander,
passed over them with a little brush, and moved on to dicing the zucchini.
Everything went into a sauté pan that was already sizzling with mashed garlic
in hot butter.
    The aroma from the stove swept over
Wetzon like an herbal bath. It was sensual. She tasted the wine and sensed
herself begin to unwind. “God, it’s been... weeks, no, months...”
    Micklynn’s only comment was
“Vegetarian?”
    “Hell, no.”
    “Good. Dieting?”
    “Never.”
    “Double good.” Like a conjurer,
Micklynn presided over her pots, snipping herbs with her scissors, tossing the
contents of the sauté pan, pouring boiling chicken stock into a pot of arborio
rice.
    “Shall I set the table?” Wetzon
asked. The wine had gone to her head, faster than usual. She needed to move
around.
    “Place mats and china in the armoire.
Silver, same place. You’ll see.”
    Wetzon got off the stool. She was a
little unsteady. The armoire, an old French country piece and easily over eight
feet tall, stood between two windows. It had been stripped and waxed, which may
have reduced its value as an antique, but probably enhanced its value as a
decorative piece.
    The inside had been redone, fitted
with shelves stacked high with plates, platters, and serving pieces, as well as
linens. A flat silver chest rested on the bottom shelf.
    She took what she could reach,
setting the stripped and waxed table with woven natural linen place mats. She
selected plates of heavy pottery in beautiful designs and muted colors.
    “Ah, you’ve chosen well,” Micklynn
said. She was uncorking a second bottle of wine. “Do you know the potter?“
    “No. Should I?” Wetzon refilled her
wineglass, more goat cheese, more olives. Divine.
    “His name is Lanzrein. He’s a former
dancer—like you—-but ballet. He sits upstate in High Falls and creates these
wonderful pieces and sells them to Tiffany and to people who make the trek up
to his studio.”
    “It’s this psychic streak I have.” Wetzon
grinned. “I am drawn to the gypsies in this world. Salad bowls?”
    “Of course.”
    Wetzon went back to the armoire for
the bowls. After she set them on the table, she finished her wine.
    Her face moist and flushed from the
heat of the stove, Micklynn said, “Fill the glasses, Leslie.”
    “Yes, ma’am.” Wetzon refilled both
glasses. The room was warm. She took off her jacket and loosened the neck of
her shirt. “Okay to open a window?”
    “Sure.” Micklynn poured the last of
the broth into the pot of risotto and stirred.
    The sills of both windows were lined
with plants and herbs, as was the floor beneath them. Some of the plants were
flowering, pink and white, giving off a spicy fragrance. Careful not to