Cocktail Hour (4 page)

“Done. The hell with them. Sooooo, I was wondering… any chance you’re in the mood to cook tonight? I was fantasizing about your coq au vin and I thought you might make my dreams come true and actually make it. Please? I’m willing to get down and crawl, seriously.”

Her soft smile turned into a wicked grin. “Really? Too bad, I’d like to see that. No, don’t you remember? I’m going out with Chelsea and some other girl she knows for drinks at that tapas place in Stamford. We’re probably going to get something to eat, too.”

"Damn! Forgot. I guess I'll have to suffer. But consider my desperate situation next time you decide to cook. I will grovel if necessary."

"All right. You're on! This weekend: grovel-fest. Bring it."

"In the inimitable words of Kendra Wilkinson, 'It's been broughten'."

"Can’t wait. Adieu ma chérie!"

"Stop that talk. You know it makes me crazy, you sexy French minx."

"Je tiens à vous rendre fou!"

"Agh! Stop!"

Lucie burst out laughing. Recovering after a minute, she said, "Okay, I'll stop. I better go; I don't want to be late."

"Okay. See you later. And don't let Chelsea keep you out too late."

"I won't. Love you!"

"Love you, too."

She hung up and put the phone back in her purse, suddenly seeing their apartment in her mind’s eye and wanting to be there, go there now and finally relax. The earthy elemental colors of their furnishings, the paintings on the walls that they’d found on their Saturday scavenging's at local flea markets and garage sales, the sweet scent of the lavender wreath that hung near the front door – they gave her comfort and a sighing peace. She loved their place, her and Ryan’s combined sensibilities. It was the opposite of the ornate showplace she’d grown up in, a home that fed her father's need to display how successful he was and ignored her mother’s simpler down-to-earth ways. At first, after her parents' divorce, Lucie decided she didn’t want to marry, afraid of having to sublimate herself to a man. That was what marriage was, right?

But then Flo came along, her father’s perfect counterpart, and showed her that a good marriage was possible with two birds of a feather. Her parents had simply been polar opposites. Like Lucie's father, Flo was an unstoppable powerhouse, a woman you couldn’t help but admire. Lucie’s mother was strong, but subtle, careful, quiet. Flo didn’t know what quiet was. She was a force to be reckoned with, someone that didn’t take no for an answer. Her real estate business was evidence of that, still kicking along and turning a profit while the recession pushed others into bankruptcy. And, in spite of Flo’s fraught relationship with her own daughter, she had been a great help to Lucie, always cheerleading and giving advice: advice Lucie knew she would have suffered without if it hadn’t been for her father remarrying.

In fact, it was Flo who had hopes for Lucie, not her father. Donald Spencer Scott had given up on his daughter years ago. When he'd asked about her career last night, it had been in the tired polite voice he spoke in whenever he asked about her life, only glancing at her briefly when he asked. He did his duty as a father: he provided. All you had to do to see his fatherly love was to look around at the grand Georgian Colonial house where they lived in New Canaan, see his name in gold on the door of his office: Scott Publications, look down at the expensive steak dinner they were sitting down to on a Wednesday night. Asking his daughter questions was extra credit work that he didn't need to earn.

Lucie had put her hands in her lap, glanced over at Ryan, who had nodded at her with encouragement, and forced out the words. "Well, I've got exciting news actually."

Her father continued cutting his steak, his eyes on his plate. "Really?" he said, his tone still bored.

“Oh? What!” Flo asked, leaning forward across her plate, her short pixyish red hair glinting gold in the candlelight.

“You know how I love to cook?”

Her father speared a piece of steak, held his fork poised with his wrist resting on the table, and finally looked at Lucie. “Yes, of course. That’s a great hobby. Very useful if you ever have important clients to dinner. Much more impressive than having caterers bring food in.” He nodded firmly and then tore the bite of steak off his fork with his teeth. His handsome strong-featured face - superman-like with a prominent square jaw and an aquiline nose - became vicious looking as he bit at the meat, his white teeth flashing.

“But that’s the thing. So many people have important clients or other people that they want to invite to dinner, but they
can’t
cook. I thought I could help them. It would be what you always call a ‘win-win’, Dad.”

Her father grimaced and shook his head before visibly swallowing. “What? Teach them? Oh, please. There’s no money in that.”

“No! I meant I’d be a caterer. I’d go to their houses and cook up fancy meals for their little parties and times when they need to impress someone. And I'd be low-key, so it would seem as if they made it. No van plastered with logos and 800 numbers, no huge staff. Just me.”

“Oh!” Flo trilled. “That’s fabulous! People do need that. No one cooks anymore. You know I don’t.”

Her father pointed at his plate with his fork. “What do you call this?”

Flo shook her head at him. “You know that you cooked the steaks on the grill. All I did was toss the salad and bake some potatoes in the oven. That’s not cooking.”

“What else do you need? Steak is the world’s most perfect food. Lucie’s mother never made it often enough. It was always fish or chicken or, worse,
eggs
for dinner.”

Lucie felt the sting again, and it felt just as fresh as the first time she'd heard him criticize her mother when she was five. “Anyway, that’s what I’m going to do. I thought you’d be happy. I finally figured out what I want to do and I can stop being an administrative assistant.”

Her father rolled his eyes and then put his hands up, palms out, and spoke to the high ceiling. “Praise the Lord for that,” he said and then looked at Lucie again. “I just wish it was something a little more challenging. A little more profitable. Ryan here isn’t going to be able to keep you in style, we all know that.”

Lucie clenched her teeth and forced herself to breathe through her nose. She stared at her plate and the bloody steak leaking into the baked potato topped with sour cream and dried chopped chives.

She knew she should stand up for Ryan. His career as a photographer hadn't taken off yet, but it would. He had an incredible eye, capturing things on film even she couldn't see when she stood beside him on their jaunts into the city or the countryside shooting photos to submit to stock photography sites. She knew that he'd make it eventually, hit the big time as a staff photographer for an important magazine, might even be the next Ansel Adams. For now, though, he was struggling along with occasional one-off work while bartending at a local restaurant a few nights a week to help make ends meet. And that was all her father could see: a thirty-two year old college dropout with unrealistic dreams who bartended to pay the bills. On the other hand, Ryan didn’t have to be so difficult, so confrontational with her father, either. Her father only wanted what was best for her.

On cue, Ryan said, “Really? Well, I guess she’ll just have to do without the style, then.”

Her father shook his head and looked at Ryan from under knitted eyebrows. "It's too bad you have that attitude. When I was your age-"

"I don't need the lecture, thanks. Besides, we were talking about your daughter and her new career. She was hoping for some support, maybe a little enthusiasm."

"I always support Lucie," her father said, raising his chin and looking over at her. "I do. I just think you could do more, and-"

Flo interrupted, "But honey, it is more! Think about it. Food is big now. Lots of caterers go on to be huge celebrities: there's the Barefoot Contessa, or wait, Martha Stewart! Lucie could end up with an empire.”

Her father’s eyebrows went up and he looked back at Lucie just as she started shaking her head.  He said, "Wow. I didn’t think-“

“No!” Lucie said, shaking her head harder. “I don’t want some big thing, I just-“

“Why not?” her father said, his face crumpling in frustration. “Lucie. The world is your oyster. But you have to take the pearl. It’s not going to jump into your hand.” He started nodding, while he continued. “Yes, this may be just the thing for you. School is out, we all know that. Your GPA-“

“Painkillers and agony make it hard to concentrate, Dad.”

He put up a hand. “You didn’t apply yourself. Don’t make excuses. I had pneumonia and then mono in college and I was on the Dean’s List anyway. I propped my eyes open with my fingers when I studied, practically crawled to classes.”

Lucie slumped. He was right. She should have fought harder, pushed herself.

Ryan spoke up. “Well, it’s nice to know that you possess superpowers, Mr. Scott. Not everyone has them. You’re a very lucky man.”

Her father glanced at him, but didn’t deign to reply. He refocused on Lucie. “The point is: you have a talent for cooking. Why not parlay it into something truly valuable to society in general? Not just a few clients here and there.” He looked off, his lips turning down in thought. “Hmm, books, maybe a television show?”

In that moment, Lucie could see it, her future in her father’s eyes. She had to admit it glittered. She nodded and shrugged. “Maybe.”

Flo said, “Of course you can! Start with the catering like you planned, and then take it from there. That’s how they all do it. And you couldn’t pick a better place to do it than right here in Fairfield County. Martha started in Westport. Ooo, I know you’ll do wonderfully!”

Now, sitting in her car, Lucie realized that it wasn’t a bad idea. Maybe she would become famous. She imagined glossy full-color cookbooks displaying her recipes, a French-themed cooking show, perhaps some kind of tribute to Mere’s career as a pastry chef. That idea, involving her mother somehow, appealed most of all. Lucie knew one thing: her father expected great things and she was tired of disappointing him. She remembered how wonderful it had felt in high school when he had put his arm around her and boasted openly about her to his friends whenever he and Mere had entertained, would never forget the look of pride in his eyes when he looked at her back then. And Flo, she was always supporting Lucie – it would be nice to please her. If only Flo would give even a drop of that support to her own daughter.

Lucie thought of Erin and felt the sinking sensation again. How would Erin possibly help her? She couldn’t cook to save her life: the microwave and the fast-food drive-thru were the only ways her stepsister got sustenance. She couldn’t help with bookkeeping: she was a mess with money, losing it and mixing up simple numbers and forgetting important things like bills. She was no good with customer service: either being too chummy and personal or, if in one of her bad moods, rude and dismissive.

Lucie sighed. There had to be something Erin could do, she just had to think. She turned around in her car seat and backed out of the parking space inch by inch, going so slowly that a woman sitting in her shiny new black Explorer and waiting for Lucie’s space honked at her.

“Okay, okay,” Lucie muttered. She pulled the rest of the way out as fast she could, feeling her heart jump, and watched the woman zoom into the space. “You’re welcome. Have a nice day,” she said wryly. Then she drove slowly out of the parking lot and into the stream of traffic on the Post Road, heading toward the bar at Ibiza in Stamford and hoping that, over a few drinks with Chelsea and the other girl, some solution for what to do about Erin would occur to her.

Strawberry Daiquiri

Chelsea sat in one of the chairs on the periphery of the darkened conference room with a notepad in her lap, pen in hand, and eyes trained dutifully on the PowerPoint presentation on the screen at the front of the room. Around her, the rest of the employees at the Stamford office of TMB either sat, stony-faced, as they took in the presentation, or shifted restlessly. Some were brazen enough to surreptitiously check and type in their BlackBerrys or iPhones. It was another meeting called by management with the intention to rally the troops and, yet again, it was failing miserably to achieve that goal.