Recipes for Disaster (17 page)

But the money shot is the look of horror on their faces as they spit out the pie.

The photographer, who is on rote, keeps clicking away, catching every squint, pucker, and gag.

I bite my lip to keep from snorting. 

Only Robert doesn’t feel the need to hold his tongue or look the other way. He’s laughing so hard that the others can’t help but join in.

Everyone but Catherine.

Her eyes flash angrily. As if driven by a heat-seeking missile, they seek me out.

I wave back, innocently. But there is no mistaking the message in her glare: 
Destroy.

She stalks off, her advance team in tow.

Evan is looking over Mary’s shoulder, reading her notes. When she realizes it, she blushes deeply. He says something that makes her laugh. Her reply has him doubling over.

I feel as if I’m looking at my past.

Robert is watching them, too. I catch his eye. He winks back. Worse yet, he comes up to me. 

It would be rude to walk away.

It will break my heart to make chitchat and pretend there was never anything between us.

Then again, maybe there wasn’t, and I imagined it all.

“The publisher is suggesting that they reduce the spread to just the interview, and nix the recipe,” he says with a grin. “But Catherine won’t hear of it. She says it’s all or nothing. I can’t wait to see how she spins this one.” 

Lydia sidles beside him. With a take-no-prisoners tone, she announces, “The congresswoman is leaving and requests that you join her.”

Evan hears her, too. “Dad, do we have to? Can’t we just meet up with her later?”

“That’s a great idea,” he says firmly, all the while looking at Lydia.

She gets the message, loud and clear: Make up some excuse for us.

She frowns at me as she stalks off.

“I’ll be glad to give you a lift. Jack and Dominic can accompany the congresswoman.”

“Ryan isn’t going to like it,” Jack and Dominic warn me in unison, through my ear bud.

For once, what Ryan wants isn’t my concern.

I’ve taken off my ear bud, and disengaged my phone.

It’s time to go home.

Because of Evan’s proclamation that he was cheated out of a slice of apple pie, Mary insists on making him one.

“It’s the best you’ll ever have,” she promises. “It’s my grandmother’s pie recipe.”

When he tastes it, he’ll never go back to store-bought. Or stolen, for that matter. Now having watched his mother cook, I’ve no doubt she screwed up Mother’s recipe many times before now.

While Mary bakes and Evan flirts and Mary flirts back, Robert meanders from the kitchen into my living room. He picks up a picture of Trisha and Mary, taken this summer, for a formal family portrait. Both are dressed in identical pink sundresses adorned with tiny white rosebuds. "Why do girls always seem happy in that color? It's CeeCee's favorite."

He then strolls over to one of the floor-to-ceiling bookcases. He seems impressed with the depth and breadth of our reading material: Jack’s world history and science tomes, my collection of classics and mystery novels. Then he spots something sitting flat on the tallest shelf: one of my high school yearbooks—

It’s the one from my freshman year. He reaches it with no problem, and flips through the pages. I’m too far away to see which one stops him. Since it was CeeCee’s senior year, I’m sure it’s one of the many shots glorifying her reign as the school’s queen bee.

“Do you still hate me?” he asks in a soft voice.

“Hate you?” The thought pulls me down into a wingback chair. “No, never! Why in the world would you think that?”

“I …” He shrugs. “I guess it was nothing, really. You may not remember, but we ran into each other once. By then, I was in college and you were a senior in high school. I was home during a holiday break, and I went to catch an East Pasadena basketball game. I came up to you, but you ignored me completely. I thought that, after the letter…never mind.”

“I’m sorry, but I don’t remember you at one of the games,” I murmur. 

I’m lying. Of course I do. I could tell he wanted redemption, to talk through his shame. But what was the point? The last thing I needed was for the rumors to start up again.

More importantly, I didn’t want to feel for him again.

He buys my blank stare. “Forget I said anything.”

There is one thing I can now acknowledge wholeheartedly. “I hated CeeCee. For what she did to my mother.”

He snorts. “Your mother? What about for what she did to you?”

“I guess it would have hurt much more if I hadn’t lost Mother around the same time. But I didn’t have time to think of me. I had to take care of my father, before I lost him, too.”

Robert nods. “Yes, I heard he—that he had a hard time of it.”

“Everything you heard was right. We both missed her, terribly. He became a drunk. I became … me.”

“You seem the same to me,” he insists.

I laugh, but I’m not happy to hear that. “Trust me, I’m a much different person than the one you remember.” I shrug. “But you haven’t changed. You’re still in top form. And you and CeeCee—”

He frowns. “There is no ‘me and CeeCee.’ There is only CeeCee. And then there’s Evan and me.” He bows his head. “She promised she’d quit Congress after this term. Little did I know that she meant to run for the presidency instead—and hold onto her seat, too, in case she loses the primary.” When he sits down, the yearbook is still in his hands. 

That’s when I notice the page isn’t turned to a picture of her. On it is the only picture of me: my class picture. The photographer wanted me to smile, but instead I glared at the camera. I’d lost my mother and my reputation. There was no reason to say cheese. He’s lucky I didn’t say 
fuck you.

Robert stares down at it and says, “She won’t be the next president.”

“What? How do you know? I mean, if anything, she’s now got a wide open field.”

“Because she’s a fake, and she’s a liar. She has been, all her life. And no matter how many voters she fools, or how much money comes her way, she’ll always be just that—”

I laugh. “That sounds like the definition of ‘politician’ to me.”

He laughs, too. Freely. Uncontrollably. 

Until he cries.

Until he comes out with it:

“It's over between us,” he chokes through his tears. 

“No. You're wrong, Bobby. With CeeCee, it's always about you.”

“You’re wrong, Donna! Somewhere along the way, she quit believing in that—in 
us
.” He drops his head on his chest. “The people who own her are dirty. But she doesn’t care because doing their bidding will make her the most powerful person in the world.” He shrugs. 

“Queen of the Universe,” I murmur.

“You remember that, do you? Yes, queen of the universe.” He sighs heavily. “If only she cared as much about our marriage.”

“She's got to! It’s what has defined her life, from the beginning. For God’s sake, she stole my mother’s apple pie recipe over it! She spread rumors about me, because of it! Don’t tell me it was all for nothing.”

He shakes his head. “Donna, trust me, it’s over! There’s someone else now—some guy who calls her on a hot pink cell phone. It’s not a family phone, or registered with her campaign, or the secure phone for her congressional business.”

“Oh.” I fall back into the cushions. “Have you asked her about it?”

“Why? So I can hear another one of her lies?” He shakes his head. “I can’t stomach what she’s become. All I wanted was a normal life—just the two of us, and Evan. “This—right here—could have been us.”

Is he right?

If there had been no CeeCee, would Robert have hung around and fallen in love with me?

If my mother hadn’t died, would I have been the strong person I am today?

Would I have run into Carl at a shooting range and fallen in love, and married him—only to have him disappear, and for Jack to take his place, both within Acme, and my life?

But Robert loved CeeCee once. There is no denying it.

And no matter my mother’s fate, mine put me in the path of Carl, and Jack.

Instead, I say the one thing he needs to hear: “This would not have been us. We were never meant to be any more than this—the closest of friends—always.”

He nods because we both know this to be true. 

“In any event, I’m asking her for a divorce, after the awards ceremony tomorrow night.” He sounds hollow, soulless. “She’ll hate it because it will damage her political career. On the other hand, it may save her—it may save 
us
. Maybe she’ll be my CeeCee again.”

I say nothing. But I hold his hand while he cries.

When his sobs finally subside, he wipes his tears away, nods, and stands up. “I could use a piece of your mother’s pie,” he says.

It’s time to put the past behind us, and live in the present.

It is time for pie.

Chapter 12

Front Burner

Any issue that must be dealt with immediately is, metaphorically, moved to the front burner of a campaign.

The same thing goes for a relationship, or a family. For example, if you discover your husband is having an affair, you don’t sweep the knowledge under the carpet. You confront him with it. 

If anything is to be buried, it’s his body in the backyard.

Preferably under your rose bushes. Great fertilizer! (Just sayin’.)

While you’re at it, plant his harlot there as well. 

Speaking of front burners, put this stove-top dish in front of your family, and watch them gobble it up:

Great Tasting Goulash

(From Alicia Carmical, of Cabot, Arkansas)

Ingredients

1 lb ground beef

1 pkg elbow macaroni

1 can diced tomatoes with basil, garlic, oregano

1/4 cup of ketchup

1/2 to 3/4 cup of V8 juice

1/2 onion, diced

Directions

1: Fry hamburger and onion until cooked, drain.

2: Cook macaroni, drain.

3: Add all ingredients to the meat, and adjust to taste.

“If you’re to continue on this mission, you’ve got to apologize to Congresswoman Martin,” Ryan growls.

“Apologize? For what, pray tell?” Yes, I’m being a brat.

“Where should I start?” he roars. "Wait—I have an idea! Why don’t I just read the list sent over by her campaign manager?” I hear him rummaging through his desk. “Okay, let’s start with ‘insubordination.’”

“What does that mean, exactly?”

“I take it to mean, ‘being a smart ass.’”

“Okay, yeah, I can live with that.”

“Well, I can’t. Nor can I live with ‘sabotaging her with a media outlet’ or ‘kidnapping her family.’”

“Whoa—
so
 not true! Bobby and Evan begged me to take them with us—”

“‘Bobby?’ Who the hell is Bobby? … Oh, you mean 
Robert
.”

“It’s … an old family nickname. We’re close, dear friends.”

Ryan mutters, “Donna, you aren’t his family. You haven’t talked to the man in years. At least, not according to his wife.”

I think that one through. Then I whisper, “Ryan, neither you nor Catherine tell me who I am to anyone—especially someone who calls me a close, dear friend.”

He gets it. 

I know this, because he’s silent.

Now it’s my turn in our little game of quid pro quo.

“Okay, I’ll apologize. What’s her number?”

“She wants you to do it in person.” 

“Where, and when?”

“Lee Chiffray’s. She’s there now for a meeting with some top donors. I presume I don’t have to tell you to behave.”

“Of course not.”

“Good. Now get over there, before she changes her mind.” The next thing I know, I’m listening to a dead phone.

Time to start up the hill, to run the gauntlet of Acme agents who stand sentry from the gate at the street to the circular drive at the front door.

One thing I know for sure: even crow would taste better than Catherine’s apple pie.