Recipe for Disaster (46 page)

I laugh. “Yeah. Go me.”

He stands, slips back into his coat, leans over and kisses me lightly on the temple, leaving a mark that I can feel long after he is gone.

F
rom Gemma’s Journal:

Everything is abuzz with the coming of the New Year, especially such a monumental year. 1920. Seems impossible, as if the distant future snuck up on us all. The Rabins have decided to host a classic dinner party, a nod to the old world, sixteen people, fourteen courses in the old Victorian style. The table in the dining room is extended to its full eighteen feet; a new linen cloth and napkins have been sewn for the occasion. I’ve hired in two extra cooks, and a pastry chef to assist, as well as three young men to serve. Starting Monday, we will begin preparing in earnest, and hope that a week will be enough time to get everything perfect. In the meantime, tomorrow is the annual servants’ Christmas dinner. Since the Rabins don’t celebrate, they always go out for dinner on Christmas Day so that those of us who have family nearby can spend the holiday at home, and those of us without can make a party here at the house. They give me free rein to put out a feast, and we eat in the dining room and pull crackers, and decorate a tree belowstairs. It always touches my heart that they embrace the celebration of a holiday that isn’t theirs in their home, and they always return in time to join us for Christmas pudding and biscuits, and Mr. Rabin will bring a bottle of port up from the cellar, and the family gives us all gifts, small handmade things from the children, personal items from the Missus, and envelopes with bills from the Master. It is probably the happiest day of the year, and one of the days I am most delighted to be me.

“Okay, pooch. A very merry Christmas to you, I’ll be home before bed.” I lean down and give Schatzi a head scratch, which is met with a sharp nip. The more things change. I call out to Jag. “Hey, husband, get a move on, would you? If we’re late, Marie will eat all the sweet and sour meatballs.”

“Sorry,” says Nageena, her pretty round face appearing in the stairbend. “My fault entirely.”

Nageena and Jag mostly stay at her place, but she has been helping him pack for our upcoming move. I think they pack one box and then make out for the rest of the night, and I’m very grateful both for the soundproofing insulation we installed, and for the fact that they will be cohabitating a floor below me in the new place.

“No worries. I just like to give him shit.” I think for a moment. “You know, we got into the habit of calling each other husband and wife, but we can stop if it makes you uncomfortable.”

She laughs. “Not at all. Frankly, I like being reminded that you cared enough about him to keep him here so he could finally see me in front of him. And being the mistress makes me feel deliciously wicked and femme fatale.” Turns out Nageena had her eye on Jag from the moment they had met, and had confessed her feelings to him one night after a gathering when I had been conspicuously absent again, and she suspected things were not all rosy at home.

“Well then, Mistress Nageena, go tell that husband of mine to shake a tail feather.”

H
oly CRAP this is yummy,” Marie says, rolling her eyes. Caroline has outdone herself, with a huge pork shoulder cooked with dried cherries and port, a ridiculously creamy Parmesan polenta, sautéed spinach, glazed carrots, herb bread dressing, creamed onions, and buttery garlic knot rolls.

“It’s a miracle you have any room, considering how you hit those meatballs,” Hedy says.

“You’re just mad she didn’t make the pigs in blankets,” Marie counters, not insulted in the least.

“Well, even Caroline can make a mistake,” Hedy says with mock disappointment. She doesn’t love the meatballs the way Marie does, but she can eat forty-seven little pigs in blankets if no one is watching.

“So sorry to have let you down, I was a tiny bit busy, and the piglets are fussy and time-consuming,” Caroline jumps in, mock defensive.

“Not if you make them like a normal person, Martha,” Hedy says bluntly. Because of course, Caroline makes them with sausage meat she makes herself, and homemade puff pastry instead of a package of cocktail franks and a can of Pillsbury Crescent dough like the rest of us.

“Well, I for one think the whole meal is a triumph,” Carl says, raising a glass.

“Hear, hear!” we all chorus, clinking. I try not to feel like the odd girl out. Caroline and Carl, playing Mama and Papa Bear. Marie and John, feeding each other bits off their plates. Jag and Nageena with their heads together, flush with love that is at once still new and yet has the obvious comfort of permanence. Hedy and Jacob, emitting nearly visible sparks of electric passion. And me. Sitting at the end of the table with plenty of elbow room.

H
ow goes it?” Hedy says, handing me a platter to dry. She’s at the smaller of the two sinks in Caroline’s kitchen with me doing serving pieces and pots while Marie and Nageena flank Caroline at the big sink, Marie drying silver and Nageena loading the dishwasher with plates. The boys, all of whom offered to help and were solidly rebuffed, are off in the den watching football.

“It goes. We’re picking up the keys to the new place this week, and will start to move stuff over. The mover can’t come for the really big stuff till the second, but we should be able to do a lot with my truck and Jag and Nageena’s cars.

“Want to borrow Walter?” This is as close as Hedy would ever come to helping someone move.

“Maybe. I’ll let you know. Thanks.”

“I may have a job for you.”

“That would be good. What is it?”

“A client just called, empty nester moving back to the city from the burbs, just bought a pretty spectacular penthouse space on Lake Shore Drive, but it needs a total gut. You should see the kitchen. The wallpaper matches the Formica countertops matches the freaking CEILING. Some blue-on-white Dutch china pattern. It is so insane I actually weirdly love it, but it cannot be kept. Lots of very good custom woodwork that needs refinishing, new layout. Not as vintage as you would normally want, but they have pretty old-school style, so I think it will be a good fit aesthetically. I showed them the pics of the Palmer house that Jacob took, and they want to meet you. They have plenty of bucks, and are strangely non-annoying. I think you’ll like them, and I think they will love what you and I will come up with.”

“Oh Hedy, that would be amazing.” We haven’t worked on a project together in years, much to our chagrin.

“We’ll schedule something once you are settled after the move.” She hands me a sauté pan. “How about the Liam thing?”

“I dunno. It’s weird. He says we’re friends, that it will be what it should be when it should be, but I feel weird reaching out to him, and so I’m just kind of waiting for him to get in touch. If he even wants to.”

“Do you think maybe you should be just thinking about letting that whole thing go and maybe consider looking at other options?”

“Nunnery?”

She laughs. “I’m thinking more just, you know, normal dating. Jacob has a friend from college who recently moved here; I’ve met him, very nice guy. Maybe the four of us could go out?”

“Oh, honey, I don’t think so. The one thing that Liam said that actually made sense was that I needed to figure my shit out. I want to move, close the house, get the new business open, land the first client. I want to start to research new places that night be good for our next big thing. I want to process everything that I went through this year, and put it well in my rear-view mirror before I even think about dating.”

“So return to the back burner.”

“Yeah. At least for a while. Talk to me in the spring. If Jacob’s pal is still single, we can make plans.”

“Will you promise me one thing?”

“Of course.”

“If you meet someone organically, no fix-ups, no Internet dating, just random meeting, will you at least be open?”

“I will promise to try.”

“That’s all I can ask.”

We finish the cleanup and bring out all the desserts to the now-clear dining room. Caroline made a steamed fig pudding with brandy hard sauce. Hedy and Jacob brought a platter of dense, moist gingerbread squares studded with chunks of candied ginger and frosted with a lemon cream cheese icing. John and Marie brought a flourless chocolate soufflé cake filled with chocolate mousse, glazed with chocolate ganache and decorated with white chocolate swirls. Jag and Nageena brought a really interesting dessert called halwa that is made with carrots. And I brought Gemma’s shortbread. We make a buffet of all the sweets, and call the boys in. We all fill plates with tastes of everything, Caroline pours coffee and Carl pours Madeira, and there is warmth and joy and laughter. One thing is for sure, I may not have a man in my life or any prospect thereof, but I have good friends and there is sweetness, and for now, that has to be enough.

O
kay, dog, happy New Year,” I say, putting some cut-up chunks of steak into her bowl. I look at the spread on the counter. I took Jacob’s advice and went all out on the classic Southern good luck New Year’s foods. In addition to my medium-rare porterhouse, there is hoppin’ John over buttered Carolina gold rice, slow-cooked collard greens, corn pudding. The black-eyed peas are good luck in the Southern tradition but also in the Jewish, albeit not usually cooked with bacon the way these are. The greens are supposed to represent money, the corn represents gold. We’re closing on the house this week, and I’ll take whatever good luck I can find to start the New Year, hoping for a career resurrection and some personal clarity. There is a pan of three-layer slutty brownies sitting on the counter, chocolate chip cookie on the bottom, a layer of Oreos in the middle, brownie batter on top with swirls of cream cheese.

Jag and Nageena are spending their first New Year’s in the new apartment; I insisted they have a nice romantic night there before I move in day after tomorrow. Nageena got all her stuff moved in earlier this week, including her bedroom set, and I think Jag was thrilled at the prospect of a quiet couple of bonding days with Nageena, not having to spend one more night on the blow-up mattress. Most of my stuff is already moved; we’ve got a guy coming on the second to pick up my bed, Jag’s old pullout couch, and the furniture I inherited from Joe that is stored in the garage. Between the three of us, we’ll be fairly well furnished for starting out.

“Everything smells good, sis.” Emily comes into the kitchen. We are having a quiet night just the two of us, slumber party time with some John Hughes movies and a bottle of champagne from Carl’s cellar. She is leaving in two days for Boston to start school. She has a cute little apartment in Cambridge waiting for her.