"The Future We Wish We Had" - читать интересную книгу автора (Greenberg Martin H, Friesner Esther M., Hoyt Sarah A., Freer Dave, Cooper...)

A ROSÉ FOR EMILY by Esther M. Friesner

“ ‘Newfangled’?’ Marjorie Bedford echoed, as if repeating the outlandish word would somehow make it go away. She leaned her forearms on the massive mahogany desk that was hers by right of being Paradise Purchased Properties’ top saleswoman. Behind her, floor-to-ceiling windows framed a glittering panorama of New York City from a very expensive height. “Did I actually hear you call the Carème 6000 Mequizeen ‘newfangled’?”

“Would you like me to call it a ‘contraption’ while I’m at it?” Emily June Newcomb replied tartly. She tossed back her golden hair and added: “I’m willing to throw in a couple of complimentary ‘goldangs’ and maybe a ‘consarn it’ or two, if you insist, but ‘yeehaw’ costs extra.”

“I assure you, Ms. Newcomb, I didn’t mean to insult you,” Marjorie said hastily. “I was simply… charmed by your colorful choice of words.”

“Bullshit, ma’am,” Emily said without raising her voice. She didn’t have to: a woman with her celebrity-level good looks was always heard. “How’s that for colorful? I know what you really think of me and my family. I just wish that when you were showing us the house, I wasn’t the only one who noticed the way you kept giving Mama and Daddy those condescending little smirks every time they oohed and aahed over all the fancy tricks that deathtrap could do. It was like you were at the zoo, thinking ‘What clever little monkeys. Why, they’re almost human!’ Instead of the fruit basket and bottle of swill you gave us as a moving-in gift, why didn’t you just buy us a welcome mat that said Hicks With Money?”

Marjorie felt her cheeks heat with the intense blush of an amoral wife caught by hubby ’twixt the sheets with the pool boy. (Which indeed was how Marjorie’s last-marriage-but-one had ended.) Damn this girl, she thought. How dare she? How dare she be so bloody right, the sow?

“Ms. Newcomb, aren’t you being a trifle harsh?” Marjorie’s teeth gritted together only a little when she smiled. “ ‘Monkeys’? ‘Deathtrap’? And calling a bottle of Moët et Chandon ‘swill’? Tsk. I do apologize if you’ve misconstrued any of my words or actions. It was a privilege and a pleasure to deal with your parents.”

“I know,” Emily returned. “I saw the check Daddy handed over at the closing. We know a family or two back home who could live for a year on the commission you earned. And before your mind flashes into Beverly Hillbillies reruns, ‘back home’ for us was neither the backwoods nor the boondocks. Not all small Southern towns are drenched in hot-and-cold running possums.”

Marjorie’s fingers curled, her hands knotted. She wanted to squeeze Emily June’s slim, white neck like a toothpaste tube. “I thought you’d come to see me about the problems your family’s having with the Carème 6000, Ms. Newcomb,” she growled. “But if your sole purpose was to berate me for what you think is my attitude towards your family, congratulations on your fabulous ESP.”

Emily opened the Italian leather briefcase in her lap and yanked out a stack of papers. “You want me to cut to the chase? Here’s the scalpel.” She slapped the rustling pile onto Marjorie’s desk. “The house you sold to my parents is unsatisfactory and the Carème 6000 Mequizeen kitchen unit contained therein is a danger to life and limb. We want it removed and destroyed. We also want payment for acute psychological damage, loss of self-esteem, and being the victims of hate speech. The figure we want is here.” She pointed to a long line of numerals on the top page. “That’s if Paradise Purchased and the Mequizeen Company settle now. If this goes to court, I promise that figure will swell up like… like a tick on a hound dog.” She showed her teeth, then very deliberately added: “Hoo-ee.”

Emily June Newcomb was no lawyer, nor had she gone so far as to retain one. Yet. Still, the legalese in the papers she’d dropped in Marjorie’s lap was flawless. Two of the attorneys on payroll with Paradise Purchase Properties read it and wet themselves.

Stupid bitch should’ve gone to law school instead of to work for her daddy, Marjorie thought bitterly as she stood in the throng of reporters gathered on the Newcomb lawn. Then she’d be someone else’s headache.

It was a headache that centered on Marjorie’s wallet. She shuddered, recalling how very opposite-of-pleased her boss had been when she’d brought the Newcombs’ complaint into his office. At thirty-five, well-spoken and dead sexy, CEO Joss Parker was the sort of man the Trump wannabes of the world hated and envied with a white-hot passion. It wasn’t just that his career was an apparently effortless, Fred Astairelike dance across the walls and ceilings of life. What galled his rivals most was that he then sold the apartments containing said walls and ceilings for a pretty penny. (More accurately, for an unsightly seven-figure sum.)

What galled him was the thought of needlessly parting with money. His first reaction to the Newcomb threat was dismissive. “Let them sue. We’ve got better lawyers than any-What sort of business is Newcomb in, anyhow?” He flashed the boyish grin that had caused many a supermodel to drop her La Perla undies at his bidding. “Oil? Black gold? Texas tea?”

Marjorie pursed her lips. “Sir, trust me, you don’t want to mention anything even vaguely connected with that old TV show around the Newcombs, especially their daughter. Boone Newcomb’s money comes from insurance.”

“You mean the little skank is a second generation conman?” Joss turned stern. “If she wants to ride the fake personal injury pony, I’ve got private investigators who’ll yank her out of the saddle before she can even look at a neck brace.”

“Boone Newcomb owns an insurance company, a very profitable one. He specializes in insuring the incredibly wealthy. He and his daughter have contacts with-”

“-our target market.” Joss shaded his eyes wearily. “If we don’t give that bitch satisfaction, she won’t just take us to court, she’ll badmouth us to her daddy’s clients. I might as well cut her that check right now.” He gave Marjorie a hard look. “Your commission from the Newcomb sale won’t quite cover this, but it will be a start, and I’ll take the remainder out of your next sale.”

Marjorie’s jaw dropped. “My commission?” For the first time in her life, she understood Abraham’s feelings when he’d received the initial directive to sacrifice his son Isaac.

“You were the person who sold them the-” Joss’s manicured finger skimmed through the documents before him. “-hostile and unsafe domicile. It’s only fair that you make amends.” He was grinning again, but there was less Charming Little Man-Child behind those pearly whites and much more Big, Bad, Commission-Devouring Wolf.

Marjorie made a stab at fiscal self-preservation: “All right, Mr. Parker,” she said sweetly. “I’ll make the necessary arrangements with Accounting.” She turned to go, then paused and turned at the door. “Do you want me to alert Legal too?”

“Legal?” Joss echoed. “We’re settling this out of court.”

“Yes,” Marjorie purred. “We’re settling with the Newcombs out of court, but I don’t think that Mequizeen, Incorporated, will be willing to do the same when they sue us for defamation.”

“What?”

She framed imaginary headlines with her hands: “ ‘Real Estate Tycoon Affirms Mequizeen’s Carème 6000 Unsafe, Generously Offers Reparations to Victims of Robotic Death-Chef.’ Mequizeen will be so pleased.”

Joss Parker looked stricken. Marjorie had presented a plausible scenario, every syllable laden with grief. In his gilt-swaddled world, grief was for other people. “We’ll make the payment to the Newcombs through a third party,” he suggested, eager to make everything go his way again. “They won’t care, as long as they get their money.”

“You forget, they also want the Carème 6000 removed and destroyed. That is not a common piece of kitchen equipment, sir. Remember when Mequizeen first put it on the market? ‘The Kitchen of the Future Is Yours Today!’ Every Carème 6000 installation was a major publicity splash. Some sites still have their own corps of dedicated paparazzi, watching and waiting.”

“For what?” Joss asked. “Dinner?”

Marjorie laughed dutifully at her employer’s sally. “Waiting for something to go wrong. Horribly, dramatically, photogenically wrong. Sir, do you remember the old cartoons where the main character finds fully automated model house? At first it’s wonderful. Push the big red start button and the house does everything for you, especially the kitchen. Turn the dial, punch the keypad, throw the switch, and robotic mechanisms make you any dish you want, from pizza to pâté de foie gras. But then, this being a cartoon, hijinks ensue. Next thing you know, the main character’s being kneaded, floured, tossed, sprinkled with mozzarella, and shoved into the oven. And that, sir, is what the paparazzi are waiting for and hoping to capture happening in real life.”

Joss closed his brilliant blue eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. He looked pained. “So it will be virtually impossible to comply with the Newcombs’ demands without attracting unfavorable media attention to the Carème 6000?”

“Yes, sir.”

“But if we don’t comply, the Newcombs will sue us and most likely win?”

“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.”

“Marjorie, you’ll have to excuse me: this is my first encounter with a lose-lose situation and I can’t say I like it. As a matter of fact, as we speak, my brain is racing to find a way to distance myself from it as fast as possible. I think I’m gong to fire you, for starters.”

“Sir, I wouldn’t do that,” Marjorie said quickly. “It would leave me with no motivation to give you the solution you need.”

“Solution?” Joss perked up, eager and attentive.

“Yes, sir. As in lose-lose turning into win-win for us, whereas for the Newcombs…”

“Tell me more.”

Which is how Marjorie wound up on the Newcombs’ lawn, rubbing elbows with a mob of reporters, waiting for their hosts to appear. She’d presented her employer with a plan-a plan of simplicity, a plan of brilliance, a plan that would defang the Newcomb’s threatened lawsuit and save her commission. It was perfect.

Now, if it would only work.

While they waited, the press reviewed the briefing download Marjorie had sent to their PDAs, along with the notification of the event itself. None of them could figure out how hate speech could have anything to do with a fully automated kitchen either.

“It’s like saying your bathroom’s gender-biased!” an AP stringer declared.

“Mine was until we got one of those automated seat-lowering devices installed,” said a female colleague. “My husband is not trainable.” The other women in the crowd made sympathetic noises.

“Maybe the refrigerator made a nasty crack about the Polish sausage,” a would-be wit suggested. “Or the Italian bread, or the French dressing, or the-”

He could have gone on in the same vein at painful length, but luckily for his companions, at that moment the front door of the great mansion opened wide. Boone and Betsy Newcomb stepped out on the wide front porch, regarding the clamoring reporters like a pair of overweight asthmatic antelopes tapped to be keynote speakers at a leopard convention.

Boone Newcomb was a simple, sincere soul. He welcomed the media with the air of a man who has been dragged into a situation that scares the scrapple out of him. Nonetheless, he’d been raised with certain ideals, among which was the firm belief that John Wayne was right: a man is obliged to accomplish what a man is required to achieve. Or words to that effect.

He was still greeting the news corps when Marjorie broke a path to him through the mob. Boone smiled. “Why, Miz Marjorie, it’s good to see you again. I’m truly sorry that it’s taken something like this to bring you over for a visit. Betsy and me, we took a real shine to you, and that’s a fact. We meant it when we said you’d be welcome to come by here any time.”

Marjorie’s smile was a brittle grimace. The look of apology in Boone’s eyes was real. This whole ugly business hadn’t been his idea; she’d wager her next sales commission and her realtor’s license on it. “I’m sorry too, Mr. Newcomb,” she said. “I hope that I’ll be able to make up for it once we’ve settled this little… mix-up.”

“ ‘Mix-up’?” Emily June Newcomb stepped out onto the porch from her lurking post behind the great double-wide front doors. “I’d hardly call endangering and belittling our family a ‘mix-up.’ ”

Marjorie had to hand it to the younger woman: Emily knew how to make an entrance. Cameras clicked and whirred; reporters swarmed forward. The undercover crowd-control personnel that Marjorie had so wisely placed among the newshounds subtly stepped in to hold back the tide, but it wasn’t easy. Emily June Newcomb was eye candy of the first order, and she spoke with a ferocious intensity and passion that practically screamed sound bite! Marjorie could almost feel the sudden, almost erotic thrill that coursed through the media mob.

“Well, I suppose we’d best get started,” Boone said. He did not sound happy or eager. Marjorie couldn’t blame him. Chez Newcomb was pure Neo-Greek Revival, a displaced Southern plantation-style abode with a nice patch of pricey landscape surrounding it. Now, thanks to Emily, only a few select reporters were being allowed inside to witness the trial of the Carème 6000, leaving the rest of the pack to trample the costly vegetation outside.

(For the sufficiently well-heeled, ownership of a substantial patch of greenery in the heart of New York City was no longer a pipe dream. The Newcomb place was part of Eminent Domains, an upscale housing development that came into existence when an agenda-toting D.C. somebody did an end-run around the electorate and decreed that unless Central Park became privatized, the terrorists would already have won. It worked like a knee-jerk charm before you could say “bulldozer.”)

Boone conducted his unwished-for guests through the front doors and onward to the kitchen. Marjorie heard the collective gasp of awe from the reporters when they crossed the threshold. Though posh digs were same-old same-old to her, even she still felt a frisson of wonder whenever she encountered a Mequizeen-equipped home. The high-tech cookplace was a monument to sleek, understated opulence, cool practicality, and preprogrammed culinary expertise. The room itself glittered, but looked relatively bare, presenting an array of smooth, shining surfaces. Nonetheless, that smooth shininess reminded the human hindbrain of the surface of a tranquil prehistoric lake. You just knew something was lurking below the surface; something big, with teeth.

“Ready, Mr. Newcomb?” Marjorie asked, taking charge as she stepped up to the control panel. Set into the wall nearest the door, its thin chrome frame embraced a small, flat keypad and a blank display screen.

“Ready as I’ll ever be.”

“Wonderful,” she said, not really meaning it. Marjorie hated putting the Newcombs through this media circus, but what choice did she have? It was them or her commission, and besides, their miserable brat had started it! And why? she wondered, not for the first time. For the money? But her parents are rolling in it! What in the world does Emily June Newcomb hope to achieve by putting Mr. Parker’s company and Mequizeen through the negative PR wringer? She was damned if she could figure it out.

You know what? she told herself. The hell with figuring out Miss Emily’s motive. I’ll worry about that after I’ve rescued my livelihood and Joss Parker’s corporate bacon, not before, so let’s get cooking!

Marjorie girded her loins and grinned resolutely into the crosshairs of the cameras. “Hi, everyone!” she chirped. “We’re here today to help our good friends the Newcomb family learn what a wonderful convenience the Carème 6000 by Mequizeen can be once you fully understand it. Mr. Newcomb here is an intelligent man. He’s been alive long enough to know that new and exciting technology always requires a little getting used to, and there’s no shame in that. Isn’t that right, Mr. Newcomb?” Boone only nodded. Marjorie thought it was amazing how the man could stand perfectly still and yet give the impression of squirming like a hooked nightcrawler.

As much as she sympathized, Marjorie had no choice but to proceed. “When I got my first Mequizeen, I just about starved to death before I got up the nerve to touch it.” As if I could ever afford anything this expensive! she thought. “Sometimes new is just another word for scary,” she went on, showering charm alternately over Boone Newcomb and the reporters. “And sometimes you get so scared by something new, you convince yourself it must be dangerous, because if it wasn’t, you’d be kind of silly to be scared of it, right? Well, we at Paradise Purchased Properties care about our clients’ happiness, even long after the papers are signed, and how happy is a family that’s scared of its own kitchen?”

The reporters chuckled. Just like I wanted them to, Marjorie thought. I’m making the Newcombs seem like frightened children. Boone and Betsy both look like they wish they could crawl into the freezer and hide. She felt a momentary twinge of guilt, then she glanced at Emily and the twinge vaporized.

“People, please,” she gently chided the reporters. “How can you make fun of a man whose only desire is the safety of his family?” With impeccable timing and delivery, she distanced herself from the derision she had just incited. The reporters were abashed, Boone and Betsy gazed at her with pathetic gratitude, but Emily looked rightfully suspicious.

Marjorie turned to the business at hand. “So, let’s make our valued Paradise Purchased Properties friends happy by showing them-and you-that the Carème 6000 is nothing an intelligent, forward-thinking family can’t handle. I have personally worked out a demo that will prove it’s a modern marvel of efficiency, safety, and courtesy. Mr. Newcomb, if you would-?” She handed him a small, folded slip of paper.

Boone Newcomb’s apprehension grew perceptibly as he scanned the page. “ ’Scuse me, but what’s all this?”

“The menu,” Marjorie replied suavely. “The Carème 6000’s built-in voice recognition software doesn’t let anyone but its owners give it instructions-another fine safety feature from the folks at Mequizeen, and one which we at Paradise Purchased Properties really appreciate.” Her expression did nothing to hint at the masterful way she was turning a news story into a free commercial for both companies. Mr. Parker would be pleased. “Just go through that list and ask it to cook up every item while our friends from the media witness how well and how safely your food is prepared. We’ll start small-a simple amuse bouche of Irish salmon tuilles with accents of asiago cheese and white truffle oil-then work our way through a series of ceviche presentations, a trio of tapenades, some basic meeze, ortolans, potages à la saison, a crown roast of New Zealand lamb, a classic Peking duck, filet de boeuf á l’absinthe, venison on a bed of lilac blossoms, trout á la mode de Gertrude Stein, and finally a complete Kyoto-style kaiseki ryori experience. Then for dessert, we-”

“Oh, for God’s sake!” Emily June strode forward and slapped her hand down on the gleaming kitchen counter. “You could have this ladle-wielding death machine cook stuff like that from now until doomsday and it won’t demonstrate why it’s a menace to life, limb and-”

“Ms. Newcomb, did you know we’re broadcasting this live?” Marjorie said quietly. “Because I really don’t think that the good people at Mequizeen can let their fine product be slandered like this without taking legal action.” Joss gave her a discreet look of approval.

Emily’s cheeks blazed. “You can’t slander a machine.”

“But you can be slandered by one?” Marjorie lifted one eyebrow. “You did mention ‘hate speech’ among the other charges you’ve lodged against the Carème 6000. I’m sure it made perfect sense to you, but I’m afraid I don’t quite follow your line of-” She coughed for sarcastic effect. “-reasoning.”

Emily glowered at Marjorie, then shoved her unceremoniously away from the control panel. The enraged Newcomb heiress pushed her father nose-to-speaker with the machine, and commanded, “Tell it to make something you usually have for lunch, Daddy! Something you like. Show these people what we go through every time we want to get a simple bite to eat in this house!”

All eyes and all lenses were on Boone Newcomb. He sucked on his lower lip for a moment, then took a deep breath and addressed the Carème 6000 in a strong, clear voice: “Boone Newcomb here.”

At the sound of its master’s voice, the kitchen hummed to life. Reporters watched entranced as various wall panels slid back to reveal the contents of a well-stocked pantry, an array of gleaming copper-bottomed and stainless steel pans, a mad scientist’s trove of glittering utensils. Part of the floor raised open and a bistro-sized table blossomed into the light, accompanied by a single chair.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Newcomb, sir,” said a richly textured, affable voice from above. It boasted a slight French accent. “So pleased to serve you. Will you be lunching alone, or shall I provide for your guests?” Individual rays of golden light shot down from the ceiling to pinpoint every human being in the room. Some of the reporters became decidedly uneasy at being thus singled out by the Carème 6000’s sensors, but Marjorie stepped in quickly.

“And here you see one of the finest safety features of the Carème 6000. It is 100% aware of every living thing in this kitchen so that, when it begins to cook, it will take all necessary precautions to be sure you’re kept safe from any sharp or heavy culinary tools it might need to use.”

“Uh, you’ll just be cooking for me right now, if you don’t mind,” Boone said. “Lunch please. And what I’d like is, um, a sandwich.”

“Yes, sir,” the kitchen replied. “I can prepare a lovely sliced sirloin of prime Angus beef, served on a freshly baked twelve-grain roll, topped with Maui onions, homemade mustard sauce, and-”

“Potato chip,” said Boone Newcomb. He was perspiring slightly, but a determined look had come into his eyes.

“Certainly, sir, it would be no trouble at all to fry a batch of potato chips as an accompaniment. Thick or thin cut? Kosher salt, Mediterranean sea salt, Baltic sea salt, malt vinegar, garlic, shallots-? Ah, but perhaps you’d prefer to set those parameters after you select the variety of potato. I can offer you Yukon Gold, Idaho, russet, Peruvian Blue-”

“ Sandwich.” Boone Newcomb’s jaw was set so tightly that the word escaped as barely more than a hiss. “I want a potato chip sandwich.”

A great and awful stillness settled over the kitchen. Everyone present, with the exception of Mr. Newcomb’s immediate family, stared at the man as though he’d just requested a big bowl of cotton candy soup or perhaps a scoop of frog ice cream. Betsy Newcomb twisted her fingers, looking mortally embarrassed by her guests’ shocked response to her husband’s lunch order. Emily just grinned like a jackal.

“A… potato chip… sandwich?” One young reporter was the first to break the silence, to ask the question everyone else was perishing to pose. “Ex- excuse me, Mr. Newcomb, sir, but did you just ask for a potato chip sandwich?”

“So what if I did?” Boone Newcomb suddenly stood tall and defiant in the teeth of the media. “You ever had a potato chip sandwich, boy?” The reporter shook his head in the negative. “You ever know anyone had one?” Again the hesitant headshake. “Well, when I was a boy back home, my mama used to make us potato chip sandwiches for our lunch every now and again, and let me tell you what, they’re good eating!”

He returned his attention to the Carème 6000. “Well?” he demanded. “You heard me. I want a potato chip sandwich. Store-bought sour cream and onion flavor chips. A big old dollop of mayonnaise on both slices of the bread. White bread. Store-bought white bread. And I mean the grocery store, not some boutique, gourmet, artsy food shop. You got all that?”

The kitchen began to hum again. It was a low, deep hum that slowly turned into an even lower rumbling. It sounded very much like an earthquake in the making. Some of the reporters began to glance around, checking for the nearest exit.

Then the rumbling stopped. A dainty silver bell chimed once, melodiously, and a narrow panel in one of the kitchen’s walls slit itself open as a rosewood tray emerged. On the tray was a pale jonquil linen placemat, on the placemat, a vibrant celadon plate, and on the plate, a potato chip sandwich.

“Luncheon is served, sir,” said the Carème 6000 as a mechanical arm telescoped out of the wall panel and deftly set the tray down on the table. For a moment, Marjorie thought she detected a vague note of petulance in the kitchen’s synthesized voice.

Boone Newcomb picked up the sandwich, examined it closely, then took a bite. He chewed, swallowed, and a sunny smile slowly spread itself across his face. “Just like Mama used to make,” he announced. “Kitchen, you done good.” Several of the reporters applauded. One even cheered.

“There you have it,” Marjorie said, stepping back into the spotlight with the finesse of a born game show host. “In spite of the fact that Mr. Newcomb’s lunch order was culturally unique and not part of the Carème 6000’s preprogrammed library of cookbooks, this fantastic machine produced the requested item quickly, accurately and safely. Now perhaps there are some people-” She stared meaningly at Emily. “-who consider such momentary hesitation on the part of the Carème 6000 to be unacceptable, even if it was by no stretch of the imagination dangerous. No doubt we’d all be happier in a world where our every whim was fulfilled the very instant we articulated it. But I doubt any right-minded person would call the Carème 6000’s behavior in this instance insubordination, let alone hate-”

“May I offer you a beverage to accompany your lunch, sir?” The kitchen’s voice cut in over Marjorie’s.

“Well, thank you,” Boone replied affably. “I wouldn’t say no to a nice frosty glass of-”

“-wine? I would recommend an impudent little white, a sauvignon blanc from Chateau Kiwi. “The ’16s are eminently drinkable now.”

“Er, no. I can’t say as I really care for-”

“You’re sure, sir? The clean, fresh fruit notes will pair nicely with the sour cream and onion potato chips. Even the least sophisticated palate can appreciate it.”

“There it is!” Emily fairly crowd in triumph. “You heard it: this miserable machine just insulted my daddy!”

“Now, Emily June, I wouldn’t call that an insult.” Boone took another bite of his potato chip sandwich, a man at peace with the world.

“Mr. Newcomb?” Marjorie assumed a look of cautious optimism. “Was this what happened before? You asked for a… down-home dish and the Carème 6000 acted a little-?”

“Patronizing,” Emily broke in. “Condescending. Demeaning.”

Marjorie could take no more. “Oh, for pity’s sake, does your father look like a man who’s been mortally insulted?” She waved one hand at the happily munching Boone. “Even if the Carème 6000 did get a little snotty when he refused its wine selection, do you actually believe he’s stupid enough to be personally insulted by a freaking household appliance? Because if that’s your opinion of your own father’s intelligence, Ms. Newcomb, I think you’re the one who’s behaving in a demeaning manner!”

“How dare you?” Emily’s eyes were ablaze. “You think we don’t know what you’re up to here? When you contacted Daddy about doing this demo, you made it sound like it’d be nothing more than a fact-finding effort to be done privately and in good faith, not a media free-for-all! You and your employer, Mr. Joss Parker, are nothing more than a pack of PR hounds who’d roll over and play dead for extra airtime or another photo in the glossies!”

“Well, we’ve found our facts, haven’t we?” Marjorie gestured at Mr. Newcomb. “Your father got his potato chip sandwich at no risk to life or limb. Yes, the Carème 6000 does seem to be a bit of a wine snob, but if you think a mere touch of attitude is the same as hate speech, you’re not only trivializing a truly deadly social ill, you’ve also just committed it yourself, live and on the air!”

Emily gaped at the accusation. “You’re crazy!”

“And that makes your second offense,” Marjorie countered gleefully. “Casting aspersions on the state of my mental health and doing so using a term that demeans the mentally ill? For shame. Plus your previous statement, calling my respected employer and me PR hounds? Allegations of bestiality are simply not accept-”

“My apologies to the canine population,” Emily snarled. “One test demonstration of this death-tra-kitchen doesn’t settle anything.”

“Oh, I think it’s settled plenty.” Marjorie pressed the advantage, playing to the cameras. “It’s shown the world one litigious woman’s blatant attempt at extorting money from two respectable corporations on the flimsiest possible grounds. The Carème 6000 has just demonstrated that it works quickly, efficiently, and safely, that it is far from the big, bad, family-endangering oogie-boogie that you claim it is. Its grasp of so-called hate speech is about three notches below ‘I see London, I see France!” And if that makes you want to file suit against me for hate speech against your underpants, Ms. Newcomb, wait right here; I’ll alert the Supreme Court.”

Boone Newcomb finished his potato chip sandwich and tried to make peace. “Now, Miz Marjorie, you’ve gotta forgive our little girl. Maybe she did kinda overreact to the troubles we’ve been having with this newfangled kitchen, but she’s got her reasons. Something about the way the Carème gizmo talks about wine, it always set her off, carrying on about how it was an insult to the whole family, and how even though we weren’t all city-wise celebrities and such, that was no reason for us to take that kind of treatment lying down. Mama and me, we’d sooner have Merle Haggard than merlot, so we’d just laugh it off when that voice tried to get us to drink something besides an ice tea or maybe a beer. But poor Emily June took it all seriously, busting into tears at every dang meal until finally we told her to do what she wanted about it.” He looked sheepish. “So she did.”

“Daddy!” Emily’s face flooded with color. “Whose side are you on?”

“Yours, baby girl,” Boone said soothingly. “But let’s be honest: Mama and me never would’ve let you take things this far if not for all the heartbreak you were going through. We hoped it’d take your mind off the man who-”

“Man?” Marjorie stared at Emily. “There’s a man involved? You initiated this whole ugly mess-you endangered the reputations of two major corporations and my job security-not because of any real consumer safety issues, not out of simple, lawsuit-happy greed, but to take your mind off the fact that you got dumped by some man?”

And then, she did something that she knew she should not have done, under the circumstances: she looked Emily June straight in the eye with blatant, unambiguous, camera-readable pity. Not sorrow, not sympathy, not woman-to-woman understanding, but deliberate, lowdown, it-sucks-to-be-you pity.

Marjorie’s look hit Emily June like a slap across her beautiful face. Livid, she whirled back to the control panel. “Kitchen!” she yelled. “I’m hungry. Access freezer bin #4 and display the contents, now!”

What the-? Marjorie was taken aback by Emily’s bizarre reaction, but before she could say a word, a knee-high panel on the far wall moved aside and a silver platform slid up and out into the light. Upon it rested a row of furred, frozen bodies, each about the size of a small salami.

“Are those-?” A young reporter’s voice trembled. His microphone shook in his hand. “Are those really-?”

“Squirrels.” Marjorie had the guts to say what everyone else didn’t want to believe.

“His squirrels,” Emily June clarified. She crossed the room to gaze down at the row of tiny bodies. “He used to take me out to all the fancy New York restaurants. I’d tease him about how the food was good, but it wasn’t a patch on my favorite down-home meal. When he offered to get me the makings for a good old-fashioned squirrel stew, I thought he wanted to show that he cared about me.”

“Of course,” Marjorie muttered too softly for Emily to hear. “What girl wouldn’t be thrilled to have her boyfriend say it with squirrels?”

“He shot them himself one weekend when the two of us were staying at his place in the Berkshires.” Tears brimmed in Emily’s eyes. “And after he had them cleaned, quick-frozen, and packed for travel, he told me that it was all over between us, that I was squirrel, he was Sevruga; I was possum, he was pâté; I was slumgullion, but he was done slumming it with me.” She raised her chin sharply. “My looks were what hooked him, but they couldn’t hold him. You see, I wasn’t a celebrity. He said that any two-bit billionaire could date a beautiful woman, but the media only cared if you dated someone famous, and he only cared about making the media pay attention to him. Well, how famous am I now, Joss Parker?” she hollered at the cameras. “Because I’ll tell you what, it’s nowhere near as famous as I’m about to be!”

“Impossible!” Marjorie objected. “Mr. Parker must’ve heard your name a hundred times since you started this mess, but he never gave any sign that he recognized-”

“He doesn’t know,” Emily replied. “I was hosting one of Daddy’s clients at Le Cirque when we met en route to the rest rooms. He presumed I was a supermodel and I let him. I told him my professional name was-” She looked away briefly. “-Grenouille. Even when he found out I wasn’t famous, he never learned my real name.”

She jerked her head up, shame ceding to rage once more. “How dare you make me relive that humiliation!” Emily June slapped the panel above the tray of frozen squirrels. “Kitchen! I want a squirrel stew and I want it pronto!”

“Y-yes, mademoiselle.” The voice of the Carème 6000 sputtered only a trifle. “A squirrel stew… Er. Mademoiselle did you say ‘squirrel’? Not… squab? My audio sensors have been a trifle undertuned of late and I-”

“Squirrel.”

“Ve-ry good, mad-e-moi-selle.”

Marjorie felt a dreadful pang of apprehension. The kitchen’s voice sounded distinctly tense, tightly strung. She recalled something from the online tutorial briefing she’d taken prior to marketing her first Mequizeen-equipped home: early detection of most malfunctions is a snap, and easily diagnosed before serious consequences can arise. Our diagnostic software is programmed to reflect incipient breakdowns via the kitchen’s vox humana. In other words, imagine you’ve got a full-time, four-star, naturally temperamental French chef working for you. Pay attention to what he says and how he says it. Above all, never presume that a potentially bad situation will get better on its own. You wouldn’t ignore a real chef’s displeasure, would you? This impish rhetorical question was illustrated with a jolly animated cartoon of a chef, white toque erupting like a volcano, flinging bloody cleavers everywhere.

“Ms. Newcomb, wait!” Marjorie cried. “Perhaps we should postpone the rest of this demonstra-”

“Emily June, Miz Marjorie’s right,” Boone said. “We shouldn’t go on with this, not with you feeling so-”

“We will go on,” Emily gritted. “Kitchen! You’ve got your orders. Get going.”

“Yes, mademoiselle.” If possible, the kitchen sounded even grimmer and more indomitable than Emily. “One… squirrel stew, tout de suite.” The tray with the tiny corpses began to retract, but Emily shot out a staying hand before it could vanish from sight.

“Not so fast.” She bared her teeth. “Aren’t you going to ask me what I want to drink with that?”

Something in the kitchen began to make a thin, skin-tingling, crackling noise. It sounded like a cross between arcing electricity and human bones slowly being crushed to powder. “Ah,” the kitchen said. “An appropriate beverage to accompany ragout d’ecuerreil, yes. My… pleasure. No doubt one of your unique palate is aware that squirrel needs a big, bold red. Something from Domaine Colt, peut-être? A robust zinfandel which will pair the black fruit and pepper notes of the wine with the gamy taste of the meat. I will of course make sure that some of the wine is used in the preparation of the dish. It’s best if the squirrel comes from the same vineyard as the wine, but one cannot have everything one-”

“Milk,” Emily said doggedly. “Chocolate milk. Stirred, not sha-”

“I’ll give you chocolate milk and squirrel, you hopeless hick!” The Caréme 6000’s overwrought shriek shook the walls. Panels slammed back, revealing rack upon rack of ominously clattering cutlery. The dishwasher opened and vomited up a sudsy tsunami. The coffee maker carafe shattered as the machine itself sent a geyser of boiling cappucino spurting skyward.

Then the frozen squirrels flew.

To her dying day, Marjorie couldn’t say exactly how the Caréme 6000 managed to launch the rock-hard varmints like a flight of furry missiles. It was the most sophisticated piece of food-handling equipment on earth: it found a way. The kitchen echoed with the howls of wounded reporters, caught in the barrage. The room was crisscrossed with the same golden beams of light that Marjorie had praised earlier as a safety feature. Now they were transformed into targeting devices to make any sniper proud. No sooner did one icy squirrel hit its mark and bounce off than the kitchen floor beneath it opened. The body-cum-brickbat was swallowed up and relaunched at its next target in a glorious display of recycling gone horribly, horribly wrong.

Boone and Betsy Newcomb had good instincts: they hit the floor the instant the first frostbitten critter took wing. Marjorie didn’t wait for an invitation to join them. Top-notch New York City realtors were top-notch survivors too. The three of them cowered together while the kitchen rained rodents and the voice of the Caréme 6000 called its owners everything from tin-plated, mouth-breathing hayseeds to inbred trailer-park trash to an astonishing set of verbal variations in the key of redneck. And through it all, Emily June Newcomb stood howling with glee, her point proven, her vendetta against Joss Parker complete.

She never saw the squirrel that got her. No one ever does.

The Newcomb-Parker nuptials were the wedding of the season. Marjorie served as matron of honor, walking down the aisle with a wreath of oak leaves perched atop her head. They were silk, of course, and the acorns a marvel of the master goldsmiths employed by Cartier. As she stood with the other wedding guests to toast the happy couple she finally had sufficient leisure to observe how her boss was enjoying his own wedding.

Joss Parker did seem to be having a fine time. He raised his Baccarat crystal flute, apparently at peace with the fact that it was filled to the brim with frothy chocolate milk instead of fine champagne.

And why wouldn’t he be happy? Marjorie thought. He adores celebrity, and the man who marries Emily June Newcomb’s got media attention in his pocket from here to the heat-death of the universe.

“To my lovely bride,” Joss Parker declared, lavishing a paparazzi-pleasing smile on the woman at his side. “They say fairy tales don’t come true, but we know better. I was blind to the real meaning of love until I saw what this fantastic girl was willing to do to make me pay attention. I want to thank her for that from the bottom of my heart. As you all might have noticed, everything about this wedding is a tribute to what my darling did for me on that unforgettable day. I love you, baby.”

In her state-of-the-art wheelchair, Emily June Newcomb stopped petting the toy squirrel in her lap long enough to look up at her new husband. Her vague smile and empty eyes didn’t look entirely out-of-place on a bride, but most everyone present knew they were permanent fixtures. She said nothing; she hadn’t said a single word since she’d come out of her rodent-induced coma. Very few people can take a frozen two-pound specimen of Sciurus carolinensis upside the skull at thirty miles per hour without damage. She was lucky to be alive.

“I’d also like to thank our good corporate friends at Mequizeen for being so gosh-darned understanding about the really creative way my Emily used their fabuloso Carème 6000 to show her love.” Joss gave his glass an extra lift to his honored guests, the Mequizeen Board of Directors.

Marjorie smirked. You’d better smile, boys, she thought. Sure, Emily June’s super-publicized love-tantrum lost you billions in business and left you bankrupt, but what can you do about it? Press charges against her for driving your Carème 6000 into mechanical apoplexy and you’ll look like the world’s worst bullies, attacking a woman who gave all and nearly lost all for love. The twit.

The toasts ended; the wedding cake made its grand appearance. It glided into the center of the room on an automated trolley, to the awed exclamations of the guests. Even Joss looked surprised. “I didn’t arrange this,” he said.

“We did,” said the CEO of the now-defunct Mequizeen corporation. His smile was suddenly genuine. With an elegantly synchronized movement, the entire BoD reached under their seats and donned motorcycle helmets just as a familiar voice from the wedding cake trolley exclaimed:

“Is that chocolate milk I see? In champagne glasses? Again?!”

A frozen squirrel popped out of the center of the wedding cake’s top layer. A lone laser beam pin-pointed the center of Joss Parker’s forehead. Marjorie dove under the table.

Hijinks ensued.

Special thanks to Peter Liverakos for his invaluable help with winespeak. It’s not every man who knows which wines go best with potato chip sandwiches or squirrel, and can also phrase his knowledge so eloquently.