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lettuce leaf from the floor. Hanna continued, "We must serve it."
     
     
Of course, I instantly recognized the clients' universal we, which means you, caterer. "It won't take ten minutes to set up on the deck." I turned and winked at her. "Andr‚ is incredibly versatile," I lied.
     
     
"That is certainly a good thing," Hanna muttered skeptically.
     
     
In the kitchen, Andr‚ had flicked on the oven light and was peering at his cake. "Lunch or no?" he demanded impatiently.
     
     
"Yes." I dumped the garbage and washed my hands. He grunted. "You should take the backup food, and leave." Right, I thought as I set a kettle of water on to boil for the chafing dish, and leave you with this mess. Within two minutes I had checked on the soup, loaded another tray with the backup platters of salad, vinaigrette, rolls, and butter, and was whisking it out to the picnic tables. I checked my watch: five past twelve. We weren't doing too badly, considering. I filled the chafer's bain-marie with the boiling water. Andre poured in the mushroom soup, then retrieved the burnt sugar cake. The smell was divine and I told him so. A rap at the kitchen door preceded Hanna's entry. Imperiously, she tapped at her watch.
     
     
"Right now," I promised as Andr‚ lofted the cake platter and I picked up the bowl of whipped cream.
     
     
I half expected the lunch to be rocky. The red-haired crew member with the thin beard introduced himself to me as Rufus Driggle, set-builder and still-life photographer. He told me to call him Rufus; he hated his last name. The work made him a hearty eater, Rufus went on to inform me, but he never gained any weight because he always had indigestion from dealing with Ian. He paused and stroked his beard. "I prefer working with the elk, actually." I nodded vaguely and replenished the buffet as the male models piled their plates high with cheesecake, salad, baguettes, and spring rolls.
     
     
The female models depressed me. Eschewing the cheesecake, breads, and salad dressing, they uniformly arranged a few greens on their plates next to one or two Asian spring rolls. Then, like bio-class dissectors, they pulled the rolls apart to extract the shrimp. I hoped Andr‚ wasn't watching, but of course he was. He hrumphed and concentrated on cutting the cake.
     
     
Hanna curtly announced that the cattle call for that day was over except for two more female models: Rustine and Yvonne. The agents of the remaining models I would be called later about a resumption of auditions. A groan went up from the group. Then all the women except for Rustine and the sharp-faced blonde, who I assumed must be Yvonne, made a beeline for Andr‚'s burnt sugar cake. They sliced themselves fat wedges, smothered them with whipped cream, then skulked to faraway chairs to eat in solitary silence. I started transporting dirty dishes back to the kitchen.
     
     
To my surprise, Andr‚ stood waiting at the front door. He held a basket bulging with a zipped bag of salad, a plastic-wrapped platter of spring rolls, and a steam-clouded jar of soup.
     
     
"Take this to your friend whose wife has pneumonia," he told me. "Your check is inside. I know what it is to have a sick wife, Goldy. Cater to your friend, and forget these other men upsetting you." He waved his free hand and enumerated them. "That idiot builder. That conniving caterer, Litchfield."
     
     
"You're the best," I replied, and meant it. I took the basket and thought of the pork butt I'd already roasted and wrapped. Cameron Burr would have food for three days. If only food could make his wife well again... Andr‚ murmured, "Where is the much-praised Julian Teller? Can't he help you beat this monster Litchfield?"
     
     
I shook my head. Two months ago, Julian had finished his freshman year at Cornell. He'd considered himself lucky to land a summer kitchen job at a swank upstate New York hotel. "Julian was supposed to come visit, but he never showed up. And his classes start next week."