A Pinch of Ooh La La (20 page)

Joan picked up her speed, forcing me to keep up. We skated past Bendrix and Anthony. Bendrix was trying to make his way back to the railing and safety, but they hadn't moved very far.

I let out a yelp and raised a fist into the air as Joan and I skated around the rink faster and faster. Joan's face remained serious, but at one point, she turned backward and forward in a split second, while pulling wisps of hair from her face. She smiled a little—her own way, I was sure, of letting out a yelp. Around and around we went. I called out to Bendrix, who was already sitting in the viewing area: “Hey, Dr. Henderson, how's your ass?”

Joan and I continued to skate. I had to admit that I didn't miss having Samuel with us. I didn't want to hear him complain or watch him occupy himself on his phone. The thought saddened me, though. It seemed plain old sad that I wouldn't want my husband around when I was having so much fun.

Noticing that my pace had slowed, Joan skated alongside me. She took my hand and we slowed to half our speed. A sixties girl group sang. You never knew what they were going to play at the rink, which was part of the fun. “Never talk yourself out of what
you're feeling, Abbey,” Joan said after we'd circled together. “We have our feelings for a reason and mustn't be afraid of them.”

I wasn't sure what she was getting at.

“That's something Katherine taught me. And your father. We feel things for a reason and there's no need to fear what we feel. Just some unasked-for advice.”

I nodded. “Thanks, Joan. I'm fine.” To prove it, I moved in front of her and gave her a wink before speeding off.

•   •   •

I
joined Bendrix and Anthony in the sitting area at the side of the rink after a few more rounds. When I heard “Hey Jude” start to play, I went to the railing and sought out Joan. She loved the Beatles. “Come here. You guys have to see this.”

I looked through the crowd until I found her. Joan, eyes closed, raised her leg behind her while lifting her arms up and down along with the music. Her arabesque was low to the ground and slightly bent, but she was all grace and elegance. People began to make way as the music swelled and her movements became larger. Some of her movements were stiff, but it didn't matter. She was in her own world.

“She's amazing,” I heard Anthony say.

“Yep.”

“Are they allowed to play the Beatles?” Bendrix asked. “Isn't that some kind of copyright infringement?”

“Bendrix,” Anthony said shortly. “Who cares? Are you watching this?”

Joan quickened her pace as the music began to crescendo. Faster and faster. As the song went into its popular chorus, several skaters sang along—
“Na-na-na, Na-na-na-na! Na-na-na-na! Hey Jude!”
Joan turned to the side and began to skate sideways, preparing for a jump. She kicked up her leg and leaped, and the momentum of her landing sent her into a tighter spin. A guy began to
skate alongside her, but he had to make room when she went up again, flying through the air. They were the jumps and twirls of a sixty-year-old woman, awkward and imperfect, yet pure gold.

•   •   •

I
t turned out that my in-laws weren't just paying a visit that evening; Phyllis had decided to make dinner. I came home from ice-skating happy and excited, only to find her in the kitchen wearing one of
my
aprons and standing at the stove stirring a large pot.

“We discussed going out to eat when you got here,” Phyllis explained, “but Samuel mentioned you two have been eating out a lot.” She lowered her voice. “I think it was his way of saying he wanted a home-cooked meal.”

“But you didn't have to do it. I could've put something together.”

“I wanted to. I like to make myself feel useful.”

She began dancing about the kitchen singing a cheerful song about the joys of cooking and cleaning. Her faithful birdie friends landed on each shoulder and joined her in the chorus.
The best place for a woman is the kitchen, tra-la-la!

Not that there was anything wrong with cooking for your husband. God no. It irked me that Phyllis bought into the belief that
every
woman should love to cook and clean as much as she did, especially if that woman was her daughter-in-law.

Samuel walked in and poured himself a glass of water. “It's our lucky night, babe. Mom's making her special chili.” He kissed me, then his mom. “Father wants to know how long before we eat.”

Phyllis popped open the stove and told him the bread would be ready in a minute or two.

When he was gone, Phyllis gave her chili a taste, then reached for the salt. “Just a pinch more. We have to watch Joseph's high blood pressure. It's down to a good number.”

“I'll set the table.” I started taking down plates and silverware.

“You know, Abbey, you should think about passing on responsibility at the bakery.”

I kept my back turned so I could properly roll my eyes.

“You show your man you love him by cooking a good meal for him. That old adage about the way to a man's heart is through his stomach is very true.”

“The way to a woman's heart is through her stomach, too,” I quipped. “We love food just as much as men do.” She turned, looking both surprised and piqued by my remark. Remembering to smile, she said, “Samuel grew up in a home where he knew he was looked after. He didn't expect to have to fend for himself once he was married.” She glanced inside the stove. “Hurry and set the table if you're going to do it. I'll bring out the chili.”

Phyllis was already out the door with glasses in hand, while I was still trying to think of what to say. I hated that I was so slow to speak when caught off guard. Why couldn't I be like Bailey when it came to the art of rapid-fire comebacks?

•   •   •

I
sat eating chili in silence. At least I was finally used to the fifteen minutes of no-talk eating. Another positive was that Esther and Ruth weren't there.

As usual, Mr. Howard broke the silence by complimenting Phyllis's cooking. (After Samuel and I were married, Mr. Howard had told me I could call him Joseph, but in my mind he was and would always be Mr. Howard.) He then continued the dinner ritual by holding court on some subject. That night he told us in detail about a news program he'd seen on PBS dealing with genetically modified foods. Samuel apparently knew enough about the subject to keep up with his father, or at least try to.

I took a nap with my eyes open.

The topic of GMOs exhausted, Samuel asked me how Joan was doing. Before I had a chance to respond, Phyllis said, “Now, which one is Joan? There are so many of them, I get them mixed up.”

I didn't bother trying to hide my impatience. “Joan is from England. As a matter of fact, we went ice-skating together.”

“Today?”

I gave a nod.

“Well, I'll say!” Phyllis said, gazing around the table. “Must be nice to go off and ice-skate while your husband is working hard at his job.”

Mr. Howard wiped his mouth with his napkin. “What Abbey does with her time isn't our concern, Phyllis. Would someone pass the garlic bread?” Samuel gave him the bread, then jumped in with news about his job and how well he was doing.

“Glad to hear it, son,” Mr. Howard said. “Now, if we could just get some grandbabies around here, you'll really make your mother and me happy.”

Samuel and I exchanged looks.

“We're doing our best, Father. Might have to try IVF. Whatever it takes. Right, Abbey?”

I smiled while widening my eyes at him:
Do we really have to discuss this over dinner—in front of your parents?

He ignored me and dug into his chili. “I'd like to give it a few more months, and then we'll move to the next step.”

“I'd like to adopt,” I said. I touched my glass with the tips of my fingers.

“Abbey,” Samuel started. He placed his hand on mine. “We're not giving up. Adoption isn't even on the table right now.”

Mr. Howard said, “You don't know what you get when you adopt. Those kids come with all kinds of problems.”

I could feel anger rising in me. Joan had told me not to be afraid of what I was feeling. Well, I was feeling pissed. I hated this family. And I hated the way Samuel was looking at me like I was a little pet to be quieted.

I looked at Mr. Howard. “Whether we adopt or not, you better not lay a hand on my kids.”

If Mr. Howard was surprised by my comment, he didn't show it. He didn't falter for a second. He picked up his glass. “Samuel, I suspect you need to control your wife.”

“You see . . . Abbey's been . . . ,” Samuel started to explain, to at least try to stand up to his father, but he couldn't do it and he turned to me. “Abbey, you need to apologize.”

“That's not gonna happen.”

Phyllis's eyes darted about the table. “I think we all need to calm down.”

“Have you seen the mark you left on his back?”

“Abbey!” Phyllis yelled. “Samuel?”

“Abbey.” Samuel tossed down his napkin and shot up from the table. He held me by the arm. “Come on, you're upset.”

“Of course I'm upset!”

Samuel started to drag me from the table. He leaned in. “Abbey, please?” I could see the alarm and hurt in his eyes.

I stared down at my arm and he let go. I went to the bedroom and shut the door.

•   •   •

I
lay flat on my back and closed my eyes. I caught snippets of the conversation. Samuel, mostly, explaining that I was upset that we weren't pregnant.

After growing tired of eavesdropping, I turned on my side and closed my eyes. I'm not sure how long I stayed there, except I heard water running and then the house finally grew quiet.

I kept my eyes closed when I felt Samuel crawling into bed. I waited for the lecture about how I'd embarrassed him and how his parents deserved respect and blah-blah. But he surprised me by putting his arms around me and not saying a word.

He inhaled with his nose pressing into the back of my neck. “You don't have to worry, okay? They know that you're upset about not being pregnant. Father even wanted to tell you that
he's sorry. He didn't mean to push your buttons.” Samuel gave me a shake. “Abbey, are you listening? They mean well. They do.” He waited, then said, “Babe, you have to stop taking everything so personally. It's just upsetting you.”

He gave me another shake.

I rolled over just to get him to shut up. I stared into the ceiling, thinking about the sensation of rushing past the other skaters earlier with Joan. I thought about how elegant she'd looked twirling to music by the Beatles. In the meantime, my husband went on and on and on. I listened. Sort of. I didn't want to talk. I was sick of talking. We were so stuck. I didn't know why he didn't see it, but we were. I listened to him breathing next to me. I thought about the advice Joan had given me earlier, about allowing myself to feel what I felt. I knew I was angry, but as I lay there following the in and out of my breath, the rise and fall of Samuel's head on my stomach, my eyes started to glisten.
Lonely,
I thought.
I
feel really lonely.

But Not for Me

A
lmost two weeks later, I met with Gina Kendrick, a prospective bride who worked for a dot-com in the city that had recently been bought out by another dot-com behemoth and was now worth triple its original price. She'd seen the article in
Brides
and liked that I could work with ideas inspired by fine art. After an initial meeting, she'd e-mailed links to several works by Matisse and asked that I come up with a few ideas based on the paintings. She'd also sent a list of the cakes she wanted to try at the tasting. She was never bridezilla demanding and always polite, but she was an executive at a multimillion-dollar company and a woman who knew precisely what she wanted. Women like Gina were actually as exciting to work with as women who wanted more of my input: I enjoyed proving myself and giving them more than they expected.

She was talking rapidly as I approached the table. A man who I assumed was her fiancé sat next to her. It wasn't until I was sitting in front of them that I realized Gina had a phone
clipped to her ear and was talking to someone on the other end. A gifted multitasker, she began typing into her tablet while managing a silent hello and shake of my hand. Her fiancé smiled politely and tossed his head toward Gina in a way that said,
She'll just be a second.
He bobbed his head to the music on the stereo, Art Tatum playing “Give Him the Ooh-La-La.”

After another minute or so, Gina told whoever was on the line that she needed to call them back. I guessed her age to be thirty-two or thirty-three. She had a liveliness about her that made me think she was a former cheerleader, or leader of her high school's debating team, or probably both. She was gymnast petite and solid, with a whistle of a nose and huge white teeth that made up for their largeness whenever she smiled. Because when she did, you went,
Whoa, wow
,
what a smile
.

She placed her phone down. “I am so sorry about that. Abbey, this is my fiancé, Jason. Jason, Abbey.”

Jason reached across the table and we shook hands. Where Gina had the plucky spirit of a morning talk-show host, he gave off the impression that he wasn't one for agendas and as of now was happy to enjoy the music and the company of his future bride.

We went through the drawings I'd come up with. On one cake, I'd copied Matisse's
The Dance
all around the side of the cake; on another, I suggested using his
Landscape at Collioure
. After a few exchanges of ideas, we finalized the details and moved on to the tasting. Jason, who'd been mostly silent until then, widened his eyes and rubbed his hands together. “Now we're talkin',” he exclaimed.

I pointed out the five cakes Gina had requested, adding that I'd played around with her instructions a tad on the first three. If she didn't like them, we could always go back to her specific requests.

They tasted the caramel cake first—Jason's bite four times the size of Gina's. Gina nodded and raised her brows in pleasure. Jason barely swallowed before he took another mouthful. “Holy Mother of God.
That
is f'ing amazing.” He threw his hands in the air as if someone had scored a goal.

Gina looked at me. “He's from Canada,” she said, as if this explained everything.

“That I am,” Jason said, rubbing his hands together. “And what's that one right there?” he said, pointing to a cake. “It's speaking to me.”

“That's a very light orange blossom with crème filling.”

He looked at Gina. “Shall we try the orange blossom with the light crème filling?”

I was never one hundred percent sure how often my assumptions about couples matched reality, but it was clear from the way Gina's eyes lit up when she looked at Jason that she was crazy about him. My guess was that he brought out the playful yin to her workaholic yang. And Jason, who was bored with all the young women he had dated, who were gorgeous but lacked drive and chutzpah, wanted a woman like Gina, a powerhouse who inspired him. He was twice Gina's height, his brown-blond hair was thick and wavy, and he had large green eyes and a nose that looked like it had been broken and never reset properly. But he was good-looking, a perfect match for Gina's more delicate features. They were going to have some seriously beautiful kids.

He picked up his fork and bumped her shoulder. “Ready, chief? And none of that girly stuff. Take a nice big bite with me. Okay?”

She smiled and her huge white teeth shone.

“Okay. Here we go. One. Two. Three.”

They both took extra-large bites of the blossom cake. Gina laughed and covered her mouth in fear of crumbs falling out.
They chewed, their cheeks as big as squirrels'. Jason, seeing a bit of cream in the corner of her mouth, found his napkin and dabbed at her lip, then kissed her as though he couldn't help but kiss the adorable woman sitting next to him. They both nodded like kids.

“So good!” he said.

“Right?” she said. They finished chewing while I smiled. I loved my job. I really did.

Jason began bobbing his head to the music; Cannonball Adderley was fading out. “What else do you have for us, Abbey? So far we are on a roll.”

Gina saw she had a message and apologized before starting a text.

Jason pointed toward the ceiling. Chet Baker could now be heard piping through the sound system. “I think I must be in heaven: all the cake I could want plus Art Tatum, Cannonball Adderley, and now Chet Baker. Very nice. You guys always play music like this here?”

“Ninety-nine percent of the time.”

“You ever hear Chet play ‘Chabootie'?”

“Oh yeah.”

“It's nuts, isn't it?” He paused and looked at me. “You listen to jazz?”

I smiled to myself. “A little.” I had a strong feeling Jason had “big ears.” He not only listened to jazz; he got it and loved it.

Gina apologized again and set down her phone. “These are all delicious, Abbey. Let's try that one.” She pointed to the chocolate mocha and they continued their trip around the table.

Once all the cakes were tasted, Gina gave her stomach a pat. “We'll probably go with a four-tier. Don't you think, honey?”

“No, five-tier. With that last cake over there”—he pointed to the second chocolate cake—“as a little side dish for the groom. I want it all to myself.”

Gina shook her head at me:
See what I have to put up with?
“Honey.”

“Seriously. I want them all. For this wedding, the groom wants the cakes he wants. The bride gets everything else.”

She shrugged and looked at me. “Fine with me. Maybe we can come up with an idea to help the fifth
appetizer
cake fit in. What I don't want is so many cakes on top of each other they're as tall as I am. That's tacky.”

“That should be easy enough,” I said. “There's nothing like a man who likes his sweets. What about two cakes on the side, three-tier in the middle?”

“That should work just fine. Honey?”

Jason bit into the chocolate and nodded his head a few times. “Sounds good. You've got talent, Abbey. You should go into baking.”

Gina and I looked at each other. “Thanks,” I said.

He pointed with his fork. “And she listens to jazz, babe. Proof that there's one more person under fifty who likes the stuff.”

Gina rolled her eyes and picked up her phone. “I'm so sorry,” she said, typing furiously. “Bad times on the job. Everything—I mean, everything—hit the fan this morning, but I wasn't going to cancel this. There was just no way. Hold on, please.”

While she sent her text, I asked Jason what he did for work. Gina, thumbs still whirling across her phone, responded for him: “He started his own Web site. He covers what's hip and writes reviews of different gadgets or interesting companies. There.” Text sent, she set the phone down. “His site also has personal essays. It's a style and culture magazine geared toward men, but women love it, too. It's very fun and smart—
and
it's a total hit in Canada.”

Jason kept his eyes on me while pointing to Gina. “What she said. This one here is my number one fan.” He leaned over and gave her a kiss.

“I am,” she said. “I can't help it.”

“What's it called?” I asked.

“Cooper. My full name is Jason Ethan Cooper. Highly original title—I know.”

“But you should see the font,” Gina said.
“Perfection.”

“She's not proud of me at all.”

“I can tell.” I grinned.

Jason kept his head down in embarrassment as she told me more. Every month there was a centerfold, but the centerfold was a brilliant woman, or man, posing—
clothed
—on her or his desk; or the centerfold was the latest gadget Jason thought his readers would like.

“Okay, sweetie,” he said, resting his arm on the back of the booth. “Abbey can look it up if she wants.”

“I can't help it, baby. It's a great site.” Gina looked at me and lowered her voice. “Advertisements are pouring in. He's just being humble.”

“I'm Canadian,” he said, employing the same matter-of-fact tone Gina had used earlier. “We prefer prideful humility or to be humbly prideful, either one.”

“He's going to do a feature on Oakland in an upcoming issue. He's never been here.”

“No?” I asked.

“Just moved here. I've been getting to know San Francisco, and from the little I've seen, I like it. I plan to hang out while Gina goes back to work.”

“Good. It's a great city. It has its problems, but I love it here.”

Gina's phone buzzed. “Christ!”

Jason leaned in and began running his hand up and down her arm. “We probably shouldn't have come today, babe.”

“No, don't say that. I needed this.” She kissed him on the forehead and made a pouty face, then picked up the phone and
began directing the person on the other end about the file that was giving everyone trouble.

Jason lifted a finger in the air and closed his eyes. “Damn, I
love
this version. He gets it just right.” He moved his fingers on the table as if playing the piano.

It was Dad on the stereo now, playing “Our Love Is Here to Stay.” Some mornings I added so many albums and songs to the playlist, I didn't know who would come up during any given hour. I normally didn't add Dad to the mix. I usually saved listening to his music for when I was in a particular mood—whether happy or sad or just needing to hear him—but I guess I'd plugged him in. I didn't say anything to Jason, though. A part of me wanted to tease him, or skip telling him at all. I wasn't sure.

I hummed along. “Lincoln T. Ross. Stockholm, 'eighty-six.”

He went for the remains of the orange blossom cake. “You're close. 'Eighty-eight.”

He was wrong, but I smiled anyway.

“If you listen—
here
, he goes out just far enough with the melody—ah!” He bowed his head and clutched at his heart. “Then he comes back to the standard—right . . .
here
—so that you get back into the regular rhythm of the tune and you hear it in an entirely new way, thanks to how far he goes in the previous measure. It's just so f'ing perfect.”

Jason definitely had big ears.

Gina was off the phone by now and stared apologetically. “Sorry. He gets like this. We all have our thing.”

Jason said, “This is Lincoln T. Ross. The guy I was telling you about.”

She shook her head indifferently, then looked my way. “Jazz: kind of all sounds the same to me.”

Jason looked at me now. “I still love her.”

“Abbey's last name is Ross,” Gina said absently. She reached
for her phone. “Coincidence,” she muttered. “Honey, Abbey: I'm sorry, but I have to step outside. It appears everyone at the office needs their fucking hands held today.”

Jason stood so she could move out of the booth. She barely reached his chest, even in her high heels. She started giving orders into her phone as she marched away from the table.

I asked how they'd met and he explained that Gina's best friend from college had moved to Ontario a few years before. Gina was visiting and they'd connected at a mutual friend's birthday party. “And there you have it. Now I'm here in the mighty U.S. of A. about to be married. We were long-distance for two years, but it was time to make that little powerhouse all mine.” He looked out at the street with a grin. I turned and saw Gina pacing back and forth while speaking intently into the sky. I loved couples like Gina and Jason; they reminded me that marriage and love were possible and cynics be damned.

Jason was staring at me when I turned back around. He motioned toward the ceiling—at my dad's playing—then to me. A glimmer appeared in his eye.

“You're not related to Lincoln T. Ross, are you?”

“I'm his daughter.”

“No!”

“Yes.”

“No!”

“Yes!”

“Get. Outta here. You're kidding me, right?”

I shook my head. “No, I'm not. And it was Stockholm, 'eighty-six, just so you know.”

He ran his hands through his thick hair, his face covered in shock. “I'm so . . . I can't believe it . . . I'm sorry!”

I laughed. “Why are you apologizing?”

“Because I'm an idiot; that's why. I was going on about
music—your
dad's
music—and here you are his daughter, the daughter of Lincoln T. Ross.” He looked around the restaurant like he might make an announcement; then he bowed slightly. “You're like royalty, girl.”

“Hardly.”

“I can't believe this.” He turned in his seat like Dad might pop out at any moment. “No wonder you're playing such good music. So. So what is he like? I'm sorry. Do you mind me asking that?”

“Not at all. He's kind of like you'd expect.”

“Cool?”
he said, after a thoughtful pause.