Recipe for Disaster (14 page)

I
totally forgot you didn’t have a TV,” Marie says, as I point to my laptop as our possible movie viewer.

“The one at the apartment was Grant’s. I don’t watch that much, and I can do pretty much everything on my computer or iPad. Can’t run any of the media cabling yet, not till all the new walls go in.”

“The place doesn’t really look any different to me, what on earth are you and that boy doing here all day, hmmm?” Hedy met Jag day before yesterday when she was in the neighborhood for a client meeting and stopped by to bring me coffee. I was at Home Depot, so thankfully I missed the drop-in, but she gave my coffee to Jag and did a little bonding in my absence. She thinks he is very cute.

“Infrastructure. We’re gutting the basement. And stop twinkling at me like that, I’m not in the market.”

“Well, back on the horse might not be the worst thing.” Marie smiles at us.

“Leave the poor girl alone, and give her some more bubbles.” Caroline gestures at my empty juice glass. “And remind me to bring flutes next time.”

“Sorry, Martha, I haven’t been doing much entertaining.” This comes out snippier than I mean it.

She looks sheepish. “Sorry. Carl has ruined me. I’m all team ‘right glass for the right wine’ these days.”

“Well, we’re all team ‘any vessel that gets it to my face’ ourselves,” Hedy ribs her.

“Anyway, maybe we should skip the movie,” Marie says.

“Yeah, much as I’m in the mood for a flick where the guys mostly end up shot and blown up, without a couch or chairs . . .” I wave around my empty space.

“Or a proper television,” Caroline says, starting to clear the table. She brought over insanely spectacular lasagna, a zillion layers of paper-thin homemade pasta with a thick meaty ragù, creamy ricotta, and traditional béchamel. It must have weighed ten pounds, and even after the four of us attacked it like sharks hitting chum, there is still most of it left. I watch Caroline deftly portion it into large servings in the disposable containers she naturally brought with her, and put one in my fridge and the rest in my freezer.

Hedy drops the empty salad bowl in the sink while Marie stacks the dishes and snags the last piece of garlic-herb focaccia off the plate.

“Thanks, you guys, this was awesome,” I say, loading the Miele dishwasher with the detritus, always weirdly delighted at the magic silverware rack on top, each piece of flatware nestled in its own little slot. I’m determined to be outwardly grateful; I know in my heart that they mean well and they love me, and it isn’t their fault that their efforts are more annoying than comforting. I’m realizing these days how much my work and having Grant insulated me from too much together time with other people. Marie is right about one thing: I’m not a social animal. We all spoke on the phone maybe once a week, and got together for a girls’ night maybe once a month. Occasionally Grant and I would do a double date with one of them, or go to a party. But now that I’m all “Poor Anneke,” at least one of them calls me practically every day, and they never call to just chat; it always includes some offer to get together—to be precise, to “take you out.” For brunch or breakfast or lunch or coffee or dinner or a movie. And they are all really emphasizing the “take you out” part, reinforcing that they know I am broke and can’t afford to do much of anything, and making sure I know when they offer to get together that they are also offering to pay, which just pisses me off more. It’s like I’m not even their equal anymore, just some charity case. I miss when things were easy and we talked about television and our men and houses and jobs. When Hedy’s latest conquest or Caroline’s latest philanthropic effort was forefront of the more serious conversations we had.

“Well, it’s not over yet,” says Caroline, reaching into one of her bags and pulling out a square cake box.

“CHOCOLATE,” Marie says with the reverence of a true acolyte. Marie is the biggest chocoholic any of us has ever met. She has chocolate stashed everywhere. When you go to her house, it doesn’t matter if you are looking for a pen or a spatula or your keys or a tampon, you’re likely to run into a candy bar first.

“Well, what else would it be?” Hedy reaches for the box and opens it, carefully lifting out a nearly black single-layer cake, dusted prettily with confectioners’ sugar. She turns to Caroline. “Did you put a freaking doily on this before you did the sugar?” She says the word
doily
like it tastes bad.

Caroline blushes prettily to the roots of her perfect ash-blond bob. “Yes. I did.”

“Wow. You have doilies. My grandmother loved those things,” Marie says wistfully. “She had a whole drawer of them, every size, shape, white ones and some silver ones too.”

“Grand-mère loved them. When she had her turn to host her bridge games, she would put everything on them, little tea sandwiches, cookies and pastries, plates of candies.”

“See, Hedy, you heathen, doilies are perfectly acceptable.”

“Um, did you notice we both mentioned our GRANDMOTHERS?” I poke her in the ribs with as much jollity as I can muster. Fake it till you make it.

“Yeah, Caro, just because you’re SO MUCH older than us, doesn’t mean you have to act OLD,” Marie says, putting the last plate in the dishwasher.

“HA!” says Hedy, pulling out clean plates and forks.

Caroline calmly reaches into the freezer for the tub of pistachio gelato she also brought with her. “You can tease me all you like, look at the cake.”

Three heads turn to look at her masterpiece. And it becomes immediately apparent that the lacy pattern of snowy sugar on the dark moist cake is actually just the thing. It looks beautiful. And celebratory. And perfect.

“Point taken,” I say.

“Can we please eat it?” says Marie.

“Yeah, Nipple Girl hasn’t had chocolate since the ride over,” Hedy scoffs.

“One little square!” Marie says. “I barely had time for lunch today.”

Caroline shakes her head and begins to cut large wedges of the cake, while Hedy scoops generous spoonfuls of gelato next to them. We retreat back to the table, where we sit in stupefied silence for the five minutes it takes to wolf down the dessert. The cake is moist and deeply chocolaty, and grown-up, not too sweet, with chunks of chocolate dotted throughout. The gelato is soft and creamy and studded with crunchy slivers of pistachio.

“Holy crap, Caroline, that is amazing,” Hedy says, using one manicured finger to pick up the last couple of crumbs.

“So, so good.” Marie sighs contentedly.

“Really yummy, the whole meal, thank you so much,” I say.

“My pleasure. So how are you doing, really?” she asks, reveling in her maternal role.

Here it comes. “Really? I’m gonna need more cake for that.”

“Way ahead of you.” Hedy is already halfway to the kitchen, bringing the whole platter back with her and cutting the rest of the cake into four equal pieces, and passing them around.

“Thank god,” Marie says, as if she had been worried she wouldn’t get seconds.

I take a bite, and my heart smiles. It actually makes me calm, and I figure I’d better give them what they want and need or these bitches will never leave. “I’m okay. It’s still kind of surreal. But what can I do? I’m just plugging along, focused on the house, getting through the days.” I feel like one of those athlete interviews after they’ve lost the game. “
They were tough competitors. We have to try harder. We did a lot of good things, but it just wasn’t enough this time, we’ll do better next t
ime
.”

“That seems good,” Caroline says.

“Especially if this Jag is as yummy as Hedy tells us,” Marie adds.

“He is an employee, nothing more.”

“Well, it could be more,” Hedy pokes. “After all, you’re here alone all day, getting sweaty. And you said yourself that you really like him. He’s smart, cultured, educated, sophisticated, and he’s got that total Mr. Darcy accent on him. Plus the whole swarthy handsome thing. Seriously, Anneke, even if it is just a transitional fling, I say go for it.”

“Look, I don’t disagree that Jag has his charms. If I met him at a party, I’d probably go for it. But he works for me.”

“If you met him at a party? Since when do you go to parties?” Marie asks. “You’re the most antisocial person we know.”

“Very funny. I’m just saying that there is no way I’m even entertaining the idea. NOT that he has shown the least bit of interest in me romantically.”

“Maybe he’s gay,” Hedy says, absentmindedly, the toss-away phrase we’ve all always used when some attractive man didn’t demonstrate lust.

“HEDY,” Marie says in a hiss.

Hedy realizes what she’s said and blushes deeply. “Aw, shit, Annie, I’m sorry, I didn’t . . .”

I’m stunned, but then I laugh. What else can I do?

“What about Jag, aside from his adorableness, professionally he’s good? Useful?” Marie asks, coming in for the rescue yet again, having demolished her second piece of cake in record time.

This actually makes me smile for real. “Professionally? He’s terrific, actually, supersmart, really good at the stuff we are doing now, and I think he’ll learn the rest fairly handily. He’s meticulous, which you know I love. And he fixed the front porch light and the doorbell, which the other electrician couldn’t figure out to save his life. I just hope that he sticks with me for the duration, because to be honest, I don’t know how I can do it without him.”

“And there’s the aforementioned adorableness,” says Hedy, eating the last of the gelato out of the tub and licking the spoon lasciviously. “He’s tall and wiry, with caramel skin and a dark shiny beard with perfect white teeth, and amazing hazel eyes. I want him to tie me up in his turban.”

“Okay, that is a little disrespectful,” Marie says.

“Hedy, you can feel free to date him if you like, but I’m not going there.” Hedy never lacks for male companionship, but she isn’t much for anything long term. Caroline wants nothing more than to find her the guy that will make her settle down.

She sighs. “Fine. What about going somewhere else, then?”

“Dating? Are you serious?” The last thing on my mind.

“People do, you know,” Marie says. “John has a new guy at the shop who is very nice.”

“One of the guys in Carl’s wine group just got divorced,” Caroline pipes in.

“STOP. Ladies, you know I adore you, and I appreciate your concern, but I’m doing okay. I seem to be shifting back and forth between anger and acceptance on the Grant front. Most days I want to kill him, and some days I want to call him and see how he is holding up.”

“That bastard, you cannot be concerned about how HE is doing, he lied to you, he cheated on you, with a BOY no less; he upended your whole LIFE.” Hedy is very black-and-white. If someone is good to you, she is his biggest fan. If he hurts you, she wants him drawn and quartered. Like a good girlfriend should.

“Look, I don’t forgive him for what he did, but as pissed off as I am, I still care about him. I still love him, if I’m going to be honest. I hate what he did to me, to us, but I also don’t want him to be in horrible pain, and I know that he must be.”

“As well he should,” Marie says. “The more pain the better.”

“He sent me that today.” I gesture to the counter.

“It’s beautiful. That was nice of him,” Caroline says.

“It’s manipulative and shitty,” Hedy says. “A reminder that he blew up their happy home and now she is alone in this dilapidated hovel on Valentine’s Day.”

“Where she is eating delicious food and drinking great champagne and having a good time with her best girls,” I remind them, and myself. Even if I’m in a bad place and their efforts to support me are irritating, they are my girls, and I’m lucky to have them. I just hope that we can get back to normal soon.

“Point taken.” Marie raises her glass.

“Did you call Emily yet?” Hedy asks after draining her glass and reaching for the bottle.

“Not yet.”

“Are you going to?” Marie asks, gesturing for Hedy to top her off as well.

“Not sure.” And I’m not. I have just enough Grand-mère training in my bones to know that simple courtesy says I need to at least call her and acknowledge that I know she came by, but the idea of getting together with her just gives me a stabbing pain between my eyes.

“Do you think you know why you might not want to? I mean besides the surface stuff?” Caroline asks.

I take a deep breath. “Nothing earth-shattering. I don’t know what her agenda is, and maybe she doesn’t really have one, but I also don’t know that I have the bandwidth to even find out.”

I see the three of them make eye contact, and I can almost hear the conversation they had when planning this little shindig.
It’s Valentine’s, don’t push her too hard, don’t get too serious, bring things up gently but back off if she gets prickly.
I just know that it happened, and it pokes at the deepest, ugliest part of me. I hate knowing they talk about me, plot about my life, judge how I’m dealing with things. I swallow my desire to tell them all to just back the fuck off.

“Besides,” I say through slightly clenched teeth, “I’d hate to have to break up our little coven. We’re perfect just the four of us, and we don’t need a fifth wheel, especially one half our age with boobs that defy gravity.” They all nod and make another round of eye contact, clearly silently agreeing to let it go for now, and I feel my shoulders relax the tiniest bit.

“Truer words,” Hedy says.

“I like being the baby of the family,” says Marie, six months younger than me.

“Here’s to us.” Caroline clinks.

“Here’s to what’s next.” Hedy reaches her glass over to me.

“I’ll drink to that.” I clink around the circle, and drain my glass, wishing like mad that I knew what I was actually drinking to.

F
rom Gemma’s Journal:

Sometimes things are very unexpected. Last spring when Mr. Rabin’s elder brother arrived unannounced from New York, we thought he was just coming for a short visit. And then, the bigger shock. It seems that he and Martha the housekeeper have taken quite a fancy to each other, and he has proposed. I thought for certain they both would be thrown from the house in disgrace, but today there is joy. The Missus came downstairs to tell me that there would be a wedding celebration to plan. There will be a ceremony in the judge’s chambers for the families, and then a reception here at the house for family and friends. The Missus made me promise to do the party as a buffet, which I can set up beforehand, and has asked me to inquire with a local agency for servers so that all of the staff can attend the celebration, which is the deepest kindness of her heart to include us all.

I love reading Gemma’s journal. It’s the little gift I give to myself at the end of a long day, just allowing myself a page or two a night, doling it out to myself like an expensive box of chocolates you want to make last a long time. It always seems to have a message of hope, or an answer for a question, or a bit of a pep talk. I’ve even begun to use it as something of an oracle. Asking it a question and then letting the book fall open where it may, dropping my finger on the page and reading my answer. And it works. Like, every single time.

Yesterday I asked it what to do about my bed. I’m on my third air mattress; they keep deflating in the night from some mysterious leaks that develop and I can’t find. And even though they’re cheap, they’re not disposable; I can’t continue to go through them every couple of weeks. So I turned to Gemma and asked her what’s to be done about my bed, and flopped the journal open and let my finger fall.

There is no point in wasting money on the poorest quality of things, you will outspend yourself in the future replacing them, and suffer from their shoddiness in the meantime.

I shit you not.

Of course, she was giving a lesson to her new scullery maid about why it’s important to invest in very good pots and pans and knives, and to keep them impeccably maintained, but the sentiment is no less true. For what I have spent so far on my deflating inflatables, I could have already gotten a cheapish mattress and box spring set. So I bit the bullet and bought a real bed, since I do have to finally admit to myself that I’m not just camping out here temporarily, not here in my house, not here in my life. I’m on my own and wherever I am, I’m going to need a bed. Caroline told me about an online company that has all the top name brands for about 70 percent off, so I ordered a midlevel Serta for what it would have cost me to buy a cheapo no-name in a local store, and it’s being delivered tomorrow. Maybe in a real bed I’ll get restful sleep. I’m a little worried about falling out of it, though.

I’d gotten so used to Grant on my right, and I’m something of a sleep migrator, so as I would wiggle over in my slumber, his warm presence would be my sleep speed bump. He called it encroachment. I told him I just loved him so much I wanted to be close to him. Which was true, but also probably more because I tend to run slightly cold and Grant ran slightly hot, so I was seeking his warmth to borrow. But without him there, I seem to just keep going, and I often wake up in the middle of the night, teetering precariously, one millimeter from dumping myself off the right side. I may need to install a safety rail, or push the bed right up against the wall.

For now, I just have to get through one more night with what is essentially a half-blown-up pool float.

Today Jag and I are having a tutorial on bathrooms, starting with the first-floor bathroom and powder room. It will be a welcome change from being stuck in the freezing basement. We’ve finished the gutting, opened the place up to the stone foundation and the dirt. The stone and masonry work down there is truly beautiful. English and Irish stonemasons hand chiseled the stones to fit flush together with only the barest minimum of mortar. The brickwork, classic Chicago Common Brick with beautiful decorative work at the corners, is in impeccable shape. Jag assessed the space and asked if I might consider leaving it exposed.

“Your space here seems to be dry, you have only the minimum of spall and efflorescence. This stone is a good three feet thick and the brick is four courses; you won’t need insulation for warmth. And the work is so very lovely. We can clean it, remove any loose mortar by hand and tuck-point, wash it with a lime solution, and then do a linseed oil seal on it to keep the dust down and bring out the color in the stone and bricks.” Then he got sheepish; it was the most he had ever said all at once since we began working together. And obviously he was having a vision.

“I like that, go on. What else would you do down here?”

His whole face lit up. “Well, I think this basement could be a space to really honor the more industrial end of the age. I know you are keeping so many of the original details upstairs, so why not strip away the coverings and let the building artistry shine here? Those steel beams are works of art, with those wonderful big square beveled baseplates and huge rivets. You could leave the beams and walls exposed, really give it a cool industrial vibe, but not contemporary industrial, not like a loft with all that horrible painted metal ductwork, but more early nineteen hundreds industrial?” Then he smiles a wicked smile. “You know, like the robber baron who built this mansion didn’t care enough about the help to give them real walls or floors.”

This makes me laugh. “I LOVE it. Jag, you are a genius. It’s practically Steampunk.” I could already see it, and the space began to come to life a little bit in my mind. “We could put the bathroom over here, get a big soaker tub for this nook.” I walked over and pointed out a six-foot-by-four-foot niche, stone foundation to four feet high and brick above, suddenly screaming out for a large deep bathtub with a slate surround, like a grotto pool.

“Exactly! And then the open shower right over here . . .” And we were off. We spent the better part of two hours designing a gorgeous basement bathroom, with a large guest bedroom suite, making the basement a luxurious spa-like getaway as opposed to making your company feel like they are garrisoned. Once we have a chance to flesh out Jag’s ideas, we head upstairs for a coffee break.

“I have to say, Anneke, this project is the most exciting thing I’ve ever been involved with. Thank you for letting me work with you.”

“The pleasure is all mine. You’re definitely bringing much added value. Have you talked to your folks about the school thing yet?”

He shakes his head. “It’s hard, you know? They have given me so much, and they want what’s best for me. They will tell me that all they want is for me to be happy, and deep down they mean that; it isn’t like they would disown me or anything. But I know it will be a huge disappointment. That’s why I’m trying to figure out my visa problem. If I could stay here, finish out this project, get a job in the industry, then I could present the news to them from a place of strength.”

“And your dad, he’s a diplomat, couldn’t he pull some strings for you?”

“He’s a stickler about stuff like that. When we first got a sense of the whole diplomatic corps stuff, he always told us that as far as he was concerned, there was no such thing as diplomatic immunity, and if we ever got into trouble, we would have to deal with the consequences like anyone else. I’d never ask him to help me with something like this. I’m a grown man, I can’t have my daddy bailing me out.”

“I get that. You have to stand on your own, make your own way.”

“Exactly. I just want to introduce them to the life I want in a way that makes them believe that my future is secure. Especially because I’ve fallen so in love with Chicago that I know I want to make it my permanent home, I don’t want to go back to England. And I especially don’t want to go back a failed student with no job, slinking home with my tail between my legs to start all over.”

Every time Jag reminds me that his time here could be limited, my stomach turns over. I just can’t imagine being here without him. In such a short time, he’s become a friend, a good friend even, and a hard worker and inspiring partner. It feels a little like working with Joe in a strange way, even though I’m taking on the teacher role; Jag has the same calming energy, meticulous attention to detail, and easygoing manner. I love working with him, and personal affinity aside, I’m not sure at all what I will do if he does leave. Every sub I’ve called since I left MacMurphy, all the guys who used to show up at the drop of a hat to help me out, they are insanely busy; not one has been able to fit me into his schedule. If Jag leaves, I’m monumentally screwed.

“What’s going on with trying to get the different visa?” He has a friend who encouraged him to apply for a six-month tourist visa to replace the soon-to-be-defunct student visa.

“Waiting to hear back. The primary concern is that they know how long I’ve been here and that I am here on a student visa, and they may question my reasons for staying if I have no work and no school. But maybe it will go through; I should know something soon.”

“Well, I’m keeping my fingers crossed! I really don’t want to have to finish this beast without you.”

“Thanks, Anneke, that means the world to me. We’ll just keep hoping. And working. Aren’t we on upstairs bathroom duty today?”

“Absolutely.”

“I’ll go pick up the tub from the glazer, and grab the stuff on the list from the Home Depot and be back in about an hour and a half or so.”

We need a break from the cold and filthy downstairs, and frankly, I need access to a better bathroom than the one upstairs. Now that the flooring tile is grouted, we can reinstall the freshly reglazed claw-foot tub and the new toilet, put in the vanity cabinet and sink; by the end of today it should be functioning, and we might even get to the powder room demo if we work clean and fast.

First I have to take Schatzi on her morning walk. I hate the morning walk. At night, dog people respect solitude. The evening walk is about two things: getting your dog tired enough to sleep and hopefully not wake you at some ungodly hour, and getting your dog to poop. It isn’t big socializing time, especially in the cold. But daytime walks? Then everyone in the neighborhood wants to meet and let the dogs cavort and make chitchat. I’m terrible at chitchat. And Schatzi is terrible at cavorting these days. The neighborhood is full of dogs, and it should be a way to meet people and make friends. But so far, no such luck. In the few weeks we’ve been in residence, Schatzi has kicked dirt in the eye of a Chihuahua, resulting in a squealing of eardrum-perforating shrillness. She nipped the fingers of a very nice young woman walking her terrier mix when she tried to pet her. She growled at a Yorkie so menacingly the dog had immediate violently explosive diarrhea. All over my leg. It was like some invisible hand just squeezed her in the middle and hot liquid poop shot out of her with such velocity that despite being only like eight inches tall, she hit me from ankle to over the knee. I’m still grateful she wasn’t a bigger dog.

Schatzi was never mean to other dogs, or owners for that matter, when we were in the West Loop. She had her neighborhood pals, Otto the black Lab, who always tried to give her gifts of mangy tennis balls, Lucy, the sweet old arthritic collie who would nuzzle Schatzi like a doting grandmother, and her best buddy, Klaus, a giant schnauzer, the perfect replica of Schatzi herself, just supersized. They would romp around and then put their square bearded heads together and have what appeared to be very serious conversations about things. Jimmy, Klaus’s dad, would always lean over and ask, “Do you think they’re planning to invade Poland?” which never failed to make me laugh. And thinking of that makes me sad. I haven’t thought much about what she has gone through, but I realize these past couple of years must have been hard. First she lost her person, and got uprooted out of the only home she had known since she was eight weeks old. Then she came to know Grant, whom she loved, and got comfortable in the condo and that neighborhood, made new friends. And now, with no warning, upended again, in a drafty dusty place, with no Grant and his little nibbles and bits, no Otto, no Lucy, no Klaus.

I realize I know very much how she must be feeling.

I spot Gemma’s journal in the kitchen. Might as well.

“Gemma? What can I do for poor Schatzi to make her a little bit happy?” I reach over, stand the large book on its spine, and let it open. Closing my eyes tightly, I point my index finger, make a couple of dramatic circles over the page, and drop my hand.

I have few skills beyond what I can do in this kitchen, but what I can do in this kitchen can make you happy, can comfort your sorrow.

Apparently Gemma thinks I need to cook for Schatzi. I scan the next paragraph to see whom she is cooking for and what she is making.

Poor Mr. Rabin. The Missus has taken the children to visit their grandparents in Ohio for the week, but work keeps him so busy he cannot join them till the weekend. He is a man who is only fully alive when his beautiful wife and their lively children are near him. The only thing I can do is try to cheer him with his favorite things, nursery food mostly, soft-boiled eggs with buttered toast soldiers and crispy bacon. Sausages baked in sweet beans. Shepherd’s pie. Cookies and cakes. Bread and butter pudding with candied ginger. The food seems to soothe him, and he often takes it in the kitchen with me and the other staff, letting us share a growler of beer or bringing up a bottle of wine from the cellar to pour. His twinkle comes back a bit, admonishing us all to not tell Missus of his adventures belowstairs.