Devil's Food (4 page)

Dana sighed. “What can I tell you? Murphy called at the last minute. It was a golden opportunity and I ran with it.”

Of course Dana was right. Major & Forbes had not become one of Boston’s preeminent architectural firms by blowing kisses at
golden opportunities as they floated by. The partners had been fast friends since their first Cub Scout overnight, when Dana
had awed his tentmates with a deck of pornographic playing cards. In forty years, the tenor of their friendship had not really
changed: Dana despised rules, Ross despised indiscipline, and they both lived to pour concrete. While Ross attended blue-hair
matinees at Symphony Hall with the Old Money, Dana engaged in heavy substance abuse with Harvard faculty and the nouveaux
riches. The result had been many six-martini lunches near many city halls.

For half an hour, Dana and Ross discussed business affairs. When Dagmar Pola’s name came up, Dana beamed. “Deep pockets. Joe’s
were, anyway. I built a little chapel for him a while ago.”

“What was the occasion?”

“I didn’t ask. He was probably working off a few cardinal sins. Charming man. What’s Dagmar like? Young? Luscious?”

“Old and sharp.” In fact, she reminded Ross of Dana’s wife, Ardith. Or Ardith after another twenty years of Dana and his mistresses.
Ross looked at his watch. “I’d better go. Umberto ’s meeting me at five.” That was the plasterer, specialty restorations.
“Will I see you tomorrow?”

“Don’t think so. I’m taking a long weekend sailing.” Dana kept a modest yacht in the harbor. Because his marriage was not
in tip-top condition, he spent as much time as possible on the water, claiming that a forty-foot boat was more therapeutic
than a marriage counselor. Besides, Dana knew that his wife would never ditch him until she found a richer man: no easy feat
in today’s economy.

“Long weekend, eh?” Ross resisted an urge to ask if Ardith would be aboard. “Remember I need you here on Monday.” He put his
drawing pencils neatly away.

“Going to New Hampshire?” Dana asked, swallowing a few more pills. “The weather’s supposed to be perfect. Warm days, cool
nights. Great for getting under the blankets with that sexy wife of yours.”

Ross looked oddly at him. Why had Dana said that? “Do you ever think about anything else?” he asked irritably. “Maybe you
should stop eating all those damn aphrodisiacs.”

“Are you kidding? Without these, I’m dead meat.”

“I’ll have to remember that.” Ross grabbed his umbrella. “See you Monday.”

He left for a nearby sushi bar to meet Umberto, who talked as if his mouth were full of warm, setting plaster. No matter:
Ross wasn’t listening anyway. He was imagining himself in a white, tiled room with Emily, shining a light in her face as he
asked where she had been that afternoon. The last thing he felt like doing was laughing it up at a musical with her tonight.
So he stewed and drank, occasionally mouthing a few sentences at Umberto. He arrived at the theater seconds before the curtain
rose. Instead of watching the chorines onstage, he kept staring at his wife as red, green, and blue lights splashed her face.
Finally the cacophony stopped and they were walking along the Common, back to Beacon Hill.

“Hard day?” Emily asked as they waited for a light to change.

“Somewhat.”

She paused; nothing shifted but the red light. “Tell me about it.”

Ross’s resistance suddenly snapped; he had never been able to deny his wife anything. “Dagmar Pola really wanted to eat at
Presto today. I tried to get a table and you weren’t even there.” Even as he spoke, Ross realized how tortured and juvenile
he sounded.

“I was at a job interview.”

He stopped in the middle of Beacon Street. “What for?”

“I’m bored. Need a change.” She tugged him away from oncoming traffic. “A place on Tremont Street needs a chef right away.
It’s called Diavolina.”

“Italian?”

“Not exactly.”

Ross walked uphill in silence a few minutes, absorbing the news. “What did Guy say?”

“I’m telling him tomorrow.”

Now that he knew his wife was leaving a latent rival, Ross felt a rush of sympathy for him. “Isn’t this a little sudden, honey?
I thought you liked Presto. Thought you liked Guy, too.”

“He’ll find someone else in two minutes flat.”

As they turned onto Joy Street, Ross held his wife’s arm, guiding her over the uneven cobblestones. Although he couldn’t quite
put his finger on it, he knew that Emily had just made a heavy decision in his favor. Thank God he had kept his mouth shut
and waited it out! Then an awful thought struck him as he unlocked his front door. “Who’s your new boss?”

“Someone named Ward. She walked into Presto this morning and offered me a job.”

Ross followed his wife inside. “Just like that? Isn’t that a little unusual?”

“Absurdly so, thank God.” Emily hung up her raincoat. “Her chef just quit. There seem to be a few maniacs loose in her kitchen.
I haven’t met them yet.”

“Maybe you should before you sign on.”

“How bad can they be?” How choosy could she be? Emily followed Ross to the den and watched as he poured two glasses of cognac.
His mood had completely lifted in the last five minutes and she could guess why. Ah, adultery! At best, momentary amnesia;
at worst, ruination; and in between, a thousand tiers of guilt. She never wanted to see her husband s face clouded like that
again. “How’s Marjorie these days?” she asked.

“Fine.” Ross handed Emily her drink and sat beside her on the black leather couch. “A hell of a lot better than Dana, actually.”

“What’s Dana’s problem?”

“He told me he was taking a long weekend sailing. Without Ardith, of course.” Ross noted his wife’s reaction: nothing. He
was relieved yet slightly disappointed, even slightly suspicious. Emily usually rushed to Dana’s defense in all matters. “He
disappears for half a day, then comes back to the office with these flimsy excuses about building permits. I’m beginning to
lose my patience with that.”

She finished her drink in one gulp. “Does it interfere with his work?”

“Not really.”

“Then leave him alone.” Her voice regained a little color. “How was Madame Pretzel?”

“We got the contract. But Dagmar’s one flinty old lady. I’d better be on my toes for that one.” He checked his watch: almost
news time.

Emily stood up to go to bed. Neither mentioned their heavy sex make-up session scheduled for that evening. After the news,
Ross remembered some important reading in the library; by midnight Emily was pretending to be asleep. He did not pretend to
wake her.

Early the next morning, Emily was back at Cafe Presto baking her valedictory batch of lemon danishes. At nine-thirty, as the
breakfast rush piddled to a slow drip-drip-drip of truly lazy office workers, a woman wearing sunglasses, an Hermès scarf,
and a fire-engine red raincoat walked in. Emily recognized Philippa at
once. The small fluff of hair that Emily could see beneath the scarf was no longer blond. It, and her sister’s eyebrows, were
again their natural brunette: They were identical twins again. As Philippa hesitated in the doorway, Emily went quickly to
greet her. “Hey, Phil! What a surprise!”

“Emmy,” Philippa replied with a noncontact kiss. “Have I come at a bad time?”

“Of course not.” Damn, Guy Witten would show up any moment! Emily’s stomach imploded for the fiftieth time that morning. She
led her sister to a corner table. “Well, well! What are you doing in Boston?”

“Interviews. And I did call yesterday morning. Ross answered so I hung up.” Sighing enigmatically, Philippa removed her sunglasses
and scarf. Her shoulder-length hair tumbled down. “Experimenting with your makeup?”

“I’m trying a new look for the fall.”

“They’re wearing golds and greens in Paris. Understated tones. I wouldn’t wear that ghastly blue until Halloween.” Philippa
looked toward the food counter. “Have you got any hot coffee here, Em? Maybe a croissant? I’m starved.”

“Sure.” When Emily returned to the table, her sister was refreshing her magenta lipstick. “Why’d you change your hair, Phil?
New role?”

“No, new man. This is a wig. I don’t want to be recognized with him.”

“Why not? Is he a priest or something?”

“He’s getting divorced. Now’s not the time for his wife to know he’s seeing me.” Philippa took a deep draught of coffee. “Ah,
that’s good. I’m mad about him. I’ve lied to everyone about where I am for the next couple of days.”

“He lives in Boston?”

“You know him,” Philippa said. “Dana Forbes.”

Ross’s partner? “Are you joking?”

“I met him at a party. He was doing some consulting for the Louvre, I think.”

Last month, Ross had suggested taking that job himself. He and Emily would have four days together in Paris. She had said
no; the French capital was a pestilential sty in August. “I guess you’re the reason he had to stay an extra week in France?
Supplemental consulting?”

“Of course! But listen, you really must not tell anyone about this. Including Ross. How is that lovely man, by the way?”

“Fine. Why can’t I tell him? He’s not going to call the
National Enquirer”

“Dana thinks it’s a little ... ah ... incestuous.” As Philippa waved her hand, an emerald and diamond ring glistened in the
morning light. It had been their mother’s; the twins took turns wearing it, switching every year on their birthday. “And Ross
is such a straight arrow. Dana’s sure he’d be annoyed.”

“He’s going to find out sooner or later. Dana is not the world’s most discreet fellow, if you haven’t noticed. You’re not
exactly invisible, either. Even with the wig.”

“What do you mean? I’m wearing sunglasses.”

“Philippa, they’re covered with rhinestones. Your scarf is purple. Your raincoat is bright red. No one dresses like that around
here. Take a look outside.”

A few moments’observation of sidewalk traffic led Philippa to agree that Quincy Market was no Champs Élysées. “What am I supposed
to do, vanish? I’m meeting Dana in ten minutes at the marina. We’re going sailing for the weekend.”

Emily guffawed, recalling Ross’s comments about his partner’s weekend at sea. “Ardith is no fool, you know. I’d be shocked
if she hasn’t hired a private detective by now.”

“Bitch! And what a stupid name. You can’t tell if she’s Jewish or Quaker. A private detective could be trouble.”

“No kidding. Cancel the trip.”

“Oh, lighten up! Haven’t you ever been swept off your feet? I’ve waited years for a man like this.”Philippa chomped her croissant.
“Help me out.”

Emily frowned. Not one day ago, she had foresworn adultery. Now she had to help her sister commit it. More important, her
soon-to-be ex-lover would be arriving at Cafe Presto any second now. She had to get rid of Philippa at once. “Call Dana,”
Emily said. “Tell him you’ll meet him in the middle of the harbor.”

“That’s wonderful. What am I going to do, swim out?”

“At the marina there’s a little sloop. An old drunk named Stanley lives on it. He’s usually on deck. Give him a hundred bucks
and say you’ve got to deliver an important letter. He’ll take you out.”

Philippa smiled: melodrama. “Can I borrow your clothes?”

“What for?”

“Well, your raincoat and umbrella, at least. So I look anonymous. Like Ingrid Bergman in
Casablanca
”

Emily noticed Guy walking toward Cafe Presto. She stood up. “Hurry.” Philippa followed her to the garderobe, where they exchanged
coats, scarves, and sunglasses. “Go out the back,” Emily instructed, pushing her sister through the kitchen. “Take the subway
to Mass General. The marina’s right there.” She kissed Philippa. “Make sure you get Dana back to the office in one piece on
Monday. Ross needs him.”

“Thanks, darling,” Philippa called, rushing out. “Keep the raincoat. It cost me six thousand francs.”

“Who was that?” scolded Bert when Emily returned to the kitchen. “We’re not supposed to bring people back here. It’s against
health regulations.”

“That was my sister. I believe she took a bath this morning.”

Coffee in hand, Guy strolled to Emily’s counter. She felt the familiar heat rise as he approached. Chemical reaction, genetic;
succumbing to it couldn’t be entirely her fault. “What? Not done with the chicken salad yet?” he asked, brushing her shoulder.
“Tsk-tsk.”

“May I speak with you a moment?” she said. “In your office?”

“She’s going to quit,” Bert called as they left the kitchen. “Betcha fifty bucks.”

“You’re hilarious, Bertie,” Guy responded, following Emily to his office. “One of these days, that twerp is going to find
himself out of a job.”

“Take it easy on him. At least he’s dependable.”

Guy closed the door. “What can I do for you, baby?”

Perhaps she should have sent a telegram; phoned. Feeling
herself wilt, Emily decided to amputate, “I’ve found another job.”

He stared, then laughed, maybe hiccuped. “You’re leaving?”

“Yes. Don’t try to talk me out of it.”

“Why? Money? I’ll double your salary.”

“Shut up! You know why.”

Guy smiled, genuinely amused. “Don’t tell me you’ve decided to become a faithful wife again.”

“I never considered myself an unfaithful wife.”

“No? You think sleeping with me is like watering the plants?” Guy stepped lightly over to her; she backed up until his desk
obstructed further retreat. As he put his hands on her waist, she closed her eyes, smelling his skin. Ah, delicious. Never
again?

“I’m not your wife,” she said feebly.

“You don’t want to be. I’ve asked you often enough.” He kissed her neck. “Why stop? We’re not hurting anyone.”

“Wrong.” She pushed him away.

“What, don’t like my hands? You liked them well enough yesterday.”

She slapped his face. Guy momentarily froze, murder in the eyes; then, after running his fingers slowly along the curves of
Emily’s body, he took a step backward. “You are making a big mistake.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Then you’re fired. Now. Good-bye.”

She walked out.

That morning, delighted to be alive, possessed of a lovely and loyal wife, Ross Major strolled through the warm drizzle to
work. He made several phone calls to clients, then told Marjorie he was going to run a few errands and would be back in an
hour. After buying a dozen pink roses, Ross walked briskly toward Cafe Presto. He intended to stop in for a cup of coffee,
say hello to Emily, give her a little moral support; after all, she would be terminating Guy Witten today. Ross wanted to
hold her hand, suggest they dine out that evening. Then they’d go to bed early, as they should have done last night.