The Kitchen Shrink (8 page)

We were almost half-way through production, at the end of our third week, but still had a long way to go. The cabinets had finally arrived but weren’t installed yet. They looked pretty and I think I like them. I hoped I would, but you never can tell.

As I was taking my mic off for the day, Sam put down his camera, making a point to turn it away from me. “Lisby, it’s been a long week. We’re all going out for drinks tonight, why don’t you come?”

“Oh, thanks, but I think I’ll take a raincheck. I’m going to Ryan’s football game tonight.” Besides, I was still miffed at Sam.

“Come after it’s over, Lisby, it’ll be fun, the whole crew is going,” Elgin said. He held up his hands, “No lights, cameras or action, I promise.” Sam nodded behind him, smiling.

I did kind of like these people and it would be fun to just hang out with them without worrying if my bra strap was showing or if I was saying something stupid. Friday night, my kids both had plans, of course, that did not include me. I could go to Ryan’s football game and meet up with the crew later. I called Daria who agreed to meet me. “They said it’s someplace downtown, some new hip, hot spot that I’ve never heard of,” I told her.

“Oh yeah, Lush, it’s very cool. You won’t like it, but trust me, it’s great,” said Daria, who in her minor celebrityhood got front row seats to all of the must-be-seen places.

“Why won’t I like it?”

“Honey, it doesn’t start hopping until midnight, they don’t have TVs playing the History Channel, and you can’t ask them to ‘turn that noise down.’”

“Sounds great. Can’t wait.” She knew me so well. I was even excited. Usually by Friday nights, I was ready to mark another week off the calendar and turn in early. Well, earlier than usual. I could always DVR the History Channel’s show on Shovels. And since both Nicole and Ryan were spending the night with Brett, I was officially off duty.

I never will understand football or why I get teary-eyed when I see the team march through the stands together toward the field, or why I always think, ‘we who are about to die salute you.’ After Ryan’s game, in which he survived with no major visible injuries, I waved at him from the stands and he pretended not to see me. I, in turn, pretended not to see my ex, and sprinted to my car, as fast as my spiky heels would let me and headed for downtown San Diego.

Daria was right. I could hear the music from blocks away, where I had to park. They even had a bouncer at the door. “I’m meeting the Kitchen Shrink crew,” I told him, feeling very soignée. He looked me up and down, and let me in without saying anything. God this was cool, I thought as I entered. And dark. I really don’t get out much. I guess I’ve lived in the Pleasantville known as suburbia for way too long. I was thinking a night club called ‘Lush’ would be an adjective, conjuring up dim lighting, cozy cushy seats stuffed with royal blue, gold and rich red raw silk pillows, cocooning groups of friends and colleagues in a conversation cove. Silly me.

While there were dim bulbs, and they were sloshing their drinks on me, I quickly realized ‘Lush’ was in full uninhibited use as a noun. I scrunched up my eyes, worried that I’d never find anyone. I rode a wave of people to the far back corner and tried not to notice when someone’s platform shoes clomped on my toes. Isn’t there a fire code here? Surely there are too many people. Where was everyone? If this was supposed to be fun, I really needed to get out more. If I could slip to edge of the bar I bet I could sidle my way back to the entrance. I mean exit. All of a sudden a chorus of voices greeted me.

“Lisby!”

Aw. There they were. My crew. And they seemed really glad to see me.

“What are you drinking, sweetheart?” Eglin sprayed his question over my face. “My treat.”

“Oh, I’m driving, but thanks. I’ll just have a diet coke.”

“Dr. Pepper,” everyone shouted.

“Oh no you di-n’t,” Daria said, coming up to me wagging her finger in front of my face. “We’re celebrating tonight. Party with your crew! Come on, just one drink.”

I was no longer a sixth grade girl, I was now hmmm, somewhere in my late teens, succumbing to peer pressure. “What are you having?”

“Mojitos for everyone,” Elgin squealed. They all cheered.

When the drinks arrived, Sam raised his glass in a toast. “To Lisby.” Seems this crowd would cheer for pretty much anything.

I took a sip and immediately felt it zing through my arms and legs. My feet stopped hurting and my smile felt ginormous. I didn’t think it could get any bigger until Phil-O showed up. He was drinking a beer and clanked it against my glass. “Good job, today. You’re going to have a great kitchen.”

“You think so?” I flirted. Ooh, Mr. Man, share your great knowledge with me.

He nodded. “Yeah, I heard you were freaked about the teal cabinets, but I think you’ll like it.” We looked at each other and at the same time said, “Teal, or no teal.” That really tickled my funny bone.

“Elgin’s something else,” Phil-O said when he stopped laughing, “but he’s good. I’ve worked on other rooms he’s done and they’ve been brilliant.”

“I’m glad to hear it. So what do you do? Just drywall?” Oh geeze, who did I think I was? How pretentious of me. “Not that there’s anything wrong with that…” I tried to back peddle. I really wanted to know what Phil-O was all about.

“Chill, Lisby. It’s OK. No, I’m a carpenter by trade, but I take on these jobs for extra money. I do a lot of custom work. In fact, I just finished up my own loft.”

“What did you do?” I loved HGTV and was a total sucker for house makeovers, not to mention very impressed with the craftspeople that were able to make it happen. Combine a talented handy man with a handy-some man, and I was hooked. I took another drink and tried to remember to tell that one to Daria.

“I bought a loft in an old warehouse near here, gutted it and totally redid it. I’m pretty happy with it,” he added.

“What style is it? Describe it to me.”

“Well, it’s my own style.”

“Trinidadian?” I teased.

“You could say. I hate clutter, so it’s almost Scandinavian looking. Lots of clean lines.” He shrugged. “I like it.”

“That sounds so great. Good for you. I’d love to see it. It must be so satisfying to build your own space.”

“Yeah, it is. I could show you, if you want.”

Uh oh. Did he think I was angling for an invite? “Oh. Sure. Sometime.”

“Finish your drink and we can go see it. I’ll give you a ride.”

At that, Elgin, who had obviously been eavesdropping, began whipping his own ass and prancing around the room like he was riding a hobby horse.

I looked down. When did I get another mojito? I sucked on my straw noisily and happily and pretended that all was well in my world.

The crew was in rare form, louder even than the techno music that I would never ever understand. I’d rather hear a crying baby, which is what its repetitive annoyingness reminded me of; high pitched synthesized waah-waah squeals, speeded up. Somebody feed that baby. They wouldn’t let me go until I did a shot with Elgin and let him profess his love for me.

“Bye, thanks. Love you too, Elgin.” I blew a kiss to him and saw Daria working her eyebrows and signaling me to call her later.

Phil-O grabbed my hand and guided me through the crowd and out the front door. We had only taken a few steps when I heard him jingle his keys. I looked around, wondering what he drove. I had him pegged as a big truck kind of guy. “Here we go,” he said. I looked again. All I saw was a, no. No. Motorcycle. I was scared to death of motorcycles.

“I can’t,” I told Phil-O.

“Sure you can,” he said, sweetly putting a helmet on my head.

“No, I’m really scared. Do you know the fatality rate of motorcycle crashes?” My voice was shaky.

“Yes. And I’m very safe. Extra cautious with precious cargo.”

He really was flirting with me. I swallowed and watched him straddle the beast, start it up, and rev its engine. He looked over his shoulder and at the come-hither tilt of his head I tossed my left leg over the saddle and hauled my hiney aboard. Fortunately I had just enough to drink that I didn’t care that my jeans needed to be hiked up. Besides, I was too busy clutching Phil-O. And away we went.

He was a safe driver, in terms of obeying the rules of the road. But you didn’t need to be psychic to be able to predict that one hunk of a hard body times vibrating horsepower mixed with a dash of cocktails divided by nobody’s looking equals a pretty dangerous fantasy. If I ever caught my daughter doing this I’d be horrified. I clung tighter to Phil-O as he took a curve and I concentrated on not thinking about my kids. For once, it was easy.

I survived the disturbingly erotic ride to his loft, more charged up than ever. He led me into a sumptuous entryway, the huge over-sized Verdi-gris coppered door opened on a rotating axis instead of from attached hinges. I stepped inside. “Oh. I’m such a sucker for hardwood floors. These are gorgeous.”

“Thanks,” Phil-O said, as he flicked on a light that seemed to melt soft warm beams down the walls. “It was a lot of work but they came out pretty nice.”

What an understatement. The floors were so shiny they looked wet, a pool of dappled honey and maple, yellow and red striations of wood. He led me into the living room as I realized we were on the second level.

He pointed to an open suspended wooden stair case that headed down. “To my workspace.” He flicked on another light. “This is my living room.”

“Phil-O, this is so amazing.” It was. It looked like something out of San Diego Magazine. The deep low slung couches were a robin’s egg blue, and made of soft velvet. I sunk down on one end. “Mm, nice.” Dark chocolate brown end tables and built-in shelving around the fireplace were simple but striking. I ran my hand over the smooth wood of the coffee table.

“I made that.”

I couldn’t believe it. “This is so great. I love this room.” The end of the room was a giant window and I could see the lights of the Coronado Bay Bridge in between tall buildings. “What a great view. I bet it’s so pretty in the daytime, too.” I leaned back against the tufted buttery gold kidney shaped pillows that were the perfect touch. “You designed this?”

Phil-O nodded. “Come and see my kitchen.”

He pulled me up and I followed him to the next room. It had a smaller sized window as a focal point, sharing the same view as the living room. The cabinets were of a lighter wood, with no handles, streamlining the whole effect. Some of the upper cabinets had opaque glass fronts with soft light filtering through. “What are the countertops made of?”

“I poured concrete and mixed several glazes to get that color.”

“Just gorgeous,” I continued my rave. I ran my hand over the shimmering bronze-colored countertop. “It almost glows. I can’t believe this is concrete.”

“Yep.”

I was feeling so comfortable I went to the cabinets and rubbed my hand over the cool wood and opened a door. “Oh, my gosh!”

“What?” he asked.

“You alphabetize your cans?”

“I just like things in their place. It’s part of being a carpenter, I guess. I like my stuff organized.”

“If you say so,” I teased. “I don’t know many guys who take time to be this neat. I love it,” I added, in case he thought I was making fun of him or questioning his manhood. Which, believe me, was the farthest thing from my mind.

“How about something to drink?” he asked, opening his stainless, of course, refrigerator door and trying to use his body to shield me from the contents.

“Just some water for me, thanks. What have you got in there?” I stood on tiptoe and peeked over his shoulder. Oops, I had to grab onto his bicep. Sniff. Yum. Something fresh and muted and masculine, a complete XY saturation was hijacking my olfactory receptors. Nice. My son was going through a body spray phase that earned his sister a grounding when she kept complaining he smelled like ass. (I had misunderstood her; she actually said he smelled like Axe.) I didn’t bother to clear that up; she was annoying and Ryan was using too much.

I peered into the refrigerator. Then I burst out laughing. His water bottles were marching in precision, trooped above his eggs, butter and milk. Exactly four beer bottles were squared off behind a lime. I had just enough time to glimpse a bottle of champagne, before he closed the door. No sticky rings of who knows what; no unidentifiable food objects.

“Nice man-refrigerator. You sure you’re not married?” What must it be like to live so organized?

He smiled and shook his head.

“Housekeeper?”

Another shake of his head.

“Servant? Valet? Butler?” My eyes widened. No kids, that’s for sure.

“Cut it out. Come on. Let me show you my bathroom.”

“Ooh. Please, just have one balled up, smelly towel, and I’ll leave you alone. Were you expecting company or do you always live like this?”

“Like what? I like things nice and neat,” he said, pulling me by his rough strong calloused Renaissance man hand.

I shivered.

We entered his bedroom but before I could get a good look he opened the door to his bathroom.

“I could live in here. This is amazing.” I was afraid I was gushing again.

“It’s Italian glass tile.”

“It looks like it has gold in it.”

“Yeah, I think there are some threads among the blues and greens.”

“The lighting is so perfect in here, too.”

“You can never overlook lighting when you’re working on a project. So many people don’t understand the importance of diffused lighting.”

“You do,” I said, catching a quick glimpse of myself in the framed mirror above the vanity. Looking pretty good, I thought. It’s amazing what a little alcohol, a throbbing motorcycle ride with an adorable Adonis and good lighting can do. I smiled at my reflection and then reached for his medicine cabinet.

“I can’t help it,” I added. “I’ve just got to see.” I reached for the door of the cabinet next to and flush with the mirror.

“No,” he tried to stop me, putting both arms around me from behind, but I pulled the door open.

“OK,” I said, looking at his graduated sizes of skin care products and shampoos. “You color-coordinated your bath stuff? That does it. You are one chromosome away from a gay man.”