At the Reunion Buffet Read Free Page A

Grant. By this deliberate act, here in this garden, I forgive you.
She turned around and as she did so the thought came to her: Barbara Grant might not want forgiveness, may not think that it was required. And if some people did not want to be forgiven, should we forgive them none the less?

Chapter Three
    The organization of the reunion had been undertaken by a committee of two, a
cabal
, as they called themselves. “The word
committee
is far too grand for us,” said Eleanor Williams, whose idea the reunion had been. She spoke with a deliberate archness. “We’re a cabal—a junta, perhaps—acting in the interests of all, of course, but unelected—as all the best cabals are.”
    She met Isabel in La Barantine, a small French bakery and coffee shop in Bruntsfield, only ten minutes’ walk from Isabel’s house. Isabel remembered Eleanor as a quiet, studious girl, always praised by teachers, to the slight irritation of her classmates, for her neat and methodical work. Isabel thought that if anybody could arrange a well-planned reunion it would be Eleanor—and here she was, sitting opposite her at the table, three neatly labeled files laid out before her:
Catering, Social Activities, Financial.
Isabel repressed a smile, she recalled such files from school—Eleanor had one for each of her subjects and one labeled
Sundry
that she had never explained and that had been the subject of some discussion among the other members of the class.
Boys
, said one of the girls.
Eleanor files information on boys
. This had been greeted with mirth; Eleanor was never boy mad, unlike Claire Sutherland. But Isabel put that thought out of her mind; she would not condemn Claire Sutherland forever on the basis of an…an enthusiastic youth.
    Eleanor had wanted to discuss catering for the Friday evening party—the one that Isabel had agreed to host. “We don’t want you to be put out in the slightest,” she said. “I know you offered to do the food but…”
    “My husband is a very keen cook,” said Isabel. “It would be no trouble.”
    Eleanor looked at her with what seemed to be disbelief. “I’m sure he is.”
    “He really is,” said Isabel. “You’d be surprised.”
    “Oh, I know that some husbands can cook,” said Eleanor. “My own husband, alas, is of zero use in the kitchen. Zero.” Disbelief changed to wistful envy. “But the point is this: we really don’t want you to be put to any trouble. We want you to enjoy the occasion just as much as the rest of us. If you’re worrying about what’s going on in the kitchen, then you won’t be able to relax, will you?”
    She answered her own question. “You will not. So we’ve budgeted for caterers. There’s a young couple I know who have started up a catering business. They do weddings and parties and so on, and their charges are very reasonable. I’ve brought some suggested menus to show you. We need to choose. Then I’ll pay a deposit and they’ll come round and talk through the details with you. They’ll need to know what you have in the kitchen, and so on.”
    Isabel repeated her offer, but Eleanor’s mind, it seemed, was made up and the only outstanding question was that of the menu. She showed Isabel the caterers’ list of buffet dishes.
    “Any of these will do,” said Isabel. “Shrimp curry?”
    Eleanor shook her head. “Will stain,” she said. “If it’s a buffet people will be balancing plates on their knees and they’ll be bound to spill. I’ve ruined hundreds of dresses that way—hundreds!”
    Isabel raised an eyebrow. But then Eleanor repeated, “Hundreds—completely ruined. Bleach doesn’t work on turmeric, you know.” She looked at Isabel as if challenging her to refute this piece of wisdom, but Isabel did not. Instead, spotting another item on the list, she said, “Seafood quiche. Nobody can object to quiche.”
    Eleanor was not so sure. “Not everybody likes seafood. People may have had a bad experience with oysters or whatever and