Too Many Cooks (34 page)

CHAPTER 45

“Tom?”

He jumps as I knock on the doorframe and peers over the computer screen. “Blimey, you startled me.”

“Sorry. I seem to be good at that.”

“Not to worry. Shower finally fixed, then?”

“Yep. More than a week later. And just in time for me to leave.”

“Very sorry to hear about your departure. Are you flying back to America this evening?”

“I'm making a little detour first and heading home next week.”

“Ah. Lovely.” His eyes flit toward the suitcases at my side. “Taking all of that on your ‘detour'?”

“No. That's why I'm here. I was wondering . . . would you mind storing these in your office for the next five days? I'd ship them, but when I calculated what it would cost, I realized I'd be better off burning everything and buying new stuff at home.”

He looks at the luggage, then at me, then at the luggage again, as if he is contemplating whether or not he can ask me to burn my own belongings.

“I suppose you could leave them here. A bit unconventional, but . . .” He waves me toward his desk. “Come along.”

I wheel the two suitcases behind his desk, and as I do, Tom clicks manically on his keyboard.

“Bloody Windows!” He frantically presses the Escape key, and I peer at his screen, which is open to a photo of someone dressed as a furry teddy bear in a bikini. He gives a sideways glance. “I . . . What in God's name is this? Bill Gates's idea of a joke?”

He keeps pounding on the Escape key, and I avert my eyes and head for the door. “I'll stop by next Tuesday to pick up my bags,” I say, though I am now having second thoughts about leaving any of my possessions with him.

“Jolly good,” he says. He stops clicking when I reach the threshold. “Incidentally, where are you heading on your little detour? Somewhere nice?”

I look over my shoulder and smile. “Paris.”

 

Before I leave for St. Pancras station, I call my dad from a pay phone near my flat. Ever since Stevie and I spoke last week, I haven't been able to shake the idea that I've been selfish in trying to evict Irene O'Malley. Sure, she was my mom's arch nemesis and is a supremely annoying individual, but if she makes my dad happy, well, how bad can she be, really? And who am I to say they shouldn't spend time together?

He picks up on the second ring, his voice more cheerful than it's been in weeks, though given that it's my dad, “cheerful” might overstate his demeanor.

“So what's the word?” he says. “Heading back to the motherland already?”

“I'm taking a quick side trip to Paris first, but I'll be home next week.”

“What the heck happened? I thought things were good over there. Couldn't take any more fish and chips?”

“Something like that . . .”

“So what's next?”

“I'm working on a book proposal.”

“A book? Like a cookbook?”

“Sort of. More like a memoir with recipes.”

“Whose memoir?”

“Mine.”

“
Yours?
” I try not to bristle at my father's blatant shock. “You're only twenty-eight. What the heck do you have to write about?”

“It's about Mom and me and growing up in Ypsi, and what it's like to be a cookbook ghostwriter.”

My dad hums, as if he is the great arbiter of memoir proposals. “I guess it could be interesting,” he says. “Does anyone besides your friends and family actually want to read about that?”

“My agent seems to think so.”

“Your agent?” My dad whistles. “Well,
excuuuuse
me.”

“It's not as fancy as it sounds.”

“Really? Because it sounds pretty impressive. Then again, most of the stuff you do sounds impressive to me.”

This is possibly the nicest thing my dad has said to me in the past twenty years. “Thanks, Dad. That means a lot.”

“When would this book come out?”

“I have to sell it first. After I finish the proposal, my agent is going to pitch it to a few editors, and . . . we'll see. Hopefully one of them will want to publish it.”

“You're saying you don't have a job
or
a book deal?”

“Correct.”

“Then how are you affording a trip to Paris? Last I checked, that wasn't exactly the cheapest destination. . . .”

“I made enough money from this job to pay for a quick trip. I'm only staying five days.”

“Must have paid well, huh?”

“Well enough.”

Larry's deposits finally came through two days ago, after he resolved the series of problems, including lost paperwork and routing number typos. Since Natasha fired me, I worried I'd never see a penny from her, but to my relief, she agreed to pay me for the work I'd completed. Whether this was her idea or Hugh's influence—or possibly another screwup by Larry—I'll never know, but my bank account is now a lot fuller than it was three months ago. I'll never get the full $200,000 stipulated in the contract, but considering the circumstances, I'm not complaining.

“You planning to write this book from Ypsi, then?”

“Not sure. That's where I'll probably finish the proposal, but after that we'll see. Maybe I'll move near Meg in Ann Arbor. Or maybe I'll go someplace totally different, like Portland or New Orleans or Boston.”

“Keeping your options open, eh?”

“Something like that.”

“Good for you. Your mom would have liked that.”

I smile at the mention of my mom, the words in her letter replaying in my mind. She was right: I needed to leave the Midwest, at least for a little while. What she probably didn't realize was that doing so would make me appreciate what I'd left behind.

“Speaking of Mom, I wanted to apologize for giving you such a hard time about Irene O'Malley. I spoke with Stevie, and he said you seem happy lately.”

“
Happy
's a bit strong . . .”

“Happier, then.”

“Yeah, I guess that's true. But don't worry. Irene isn't sleeping in your bed anymore.”

My stomach turns as I flash back to Stevie's e-mail about the snakes. “Oh . . . ? Why not?”

“Well, it's your bed, and I figured you might be coming back at some point. And anyway, you didn't seem too thrilled about the idea.”

“I was kind of getting used to it.”

“Really? Because it sure didn't sound that way last time we talked.”

“I guess I was worried she was taking advantage of you.”

“Listen, I'm no dummy. I thought she might be, too. But you know what? I didn't care. I missed the companionship. Having somebody in the house. I hadn't lived alone for almost forty years, Kelly. I either had roommates or your mom, and when I didn't have either . . . well, it was weird. Being all by myself with my thoughts—I didn't like it. Not one bit.”

“Then it's good she was there for you.”

“It was. And I realized . . . well, I kinda like her. She's not so bad. She's actually kinda nice to have around.” He catches himself. “God, your mom is probably rolling in her grave.”

“I wouldn't rule it out.”

He sighs. “The thing is, Irene makes me feel good. Better than I've felt in a long time. It's not like I'm going to marry her or anything. She's just keeping me company. Your mom was the love of my life, and she always will be. Full stop. But your mom's been gone four months now, and I know her better than anyone. She might have hated the idea of Irene and me spending time together, but that's because she loved me and wanted me for herself. Well, she's gone now, Kelly. And she's not coming back. And sometimes we don't have to listen to voices from beyond the grave. Sometimes we have to listen to the voices in our hearts.”

His words echo in my ears, and my eyes fill with tears. This is the most profound thing my father has said since . . . well, ever, as far as I can recall, and whether that's down to Irene or my mother's ghost or some secret depths he's managed to plumb, I'm glad for it. I brush away the tears with the back of my hand, wondering if my heart still has a voice, and if it does, if I have the courage to hear it.

“So where is she sleeping now, if she's not in my bed?”

“At her own place. She still comes by to check on me a fair amount, and she's signed up for a massage class, so that should work out real well for me. She has remarkably strong hands, and when she works them the right way—”

“That'll do, thank you,” I say, cutting him off.

“Suit yourself.”

I glance at my watch. “Hey, Dad? I hate to do this, but if I don't leave in the next two minutes, I'm going to miss my train.”

“Then by all means . . .”

“I'll e-mail you from Paris, and I'll call from Heathrow before my flight.”

“Okeydokey. Don't let me hold back the Madigan world traveler.”

I laugh. “You sound good, Dad. Really good.”

“I sound how I sound.”

“Well, whatever you're doing, keep it up.”

“Couldn't stop if I tried.”

“Good. I love you.”

“Love you, too. Oh, but real quick before you go—I'm considering getting a pet. A dog. Maybe a black Lab or something like that. What do you think?”

A grin crosses my face as I remember the words in my mom's letter. “I think it's a great idea.”

“Yeah? Okay, good. Then it's settled. You can tell your brother to take his crazy ideas and stick them where the sun don't shine.”

“Crazy ideas?”

“About pets.”

“What about them?”

He sighs into the phone, as if merely speaking the idea out loud is too ridiculous, even for him. “I don't know,” he says. “Something about snakes . . .”

 

As I wait on the platform at St. Pancras, I glance up at the arched glass roof, which is traversed by wrought-iron beams and rises some one hundred feet from the ground. Light pours in, drenching me in the shimmering evening sun, and as people rush around me, I close my eyes and soak up the noise bouncing off the rafters.

“Now boarding, the 19:01 train to Paris Gare du Nord . . .”

I snap out of my trance and push through the open doors, taking a window seat in the second car from the front. I watch throngs of busy travelers scurry along the platform and wonder where they are heading. I decide the man in the tailored navy suit is rushing home to see his family after a busy day of meetings in Paris, and the teenage girls running toward my train are about to visit France for the first time. I've always loved creating stories for other people—it's what I've always done, it's what I'm good at—but now, as I sit on the train, I wonder what story I am creating for myself. Who am
I?
Where am I headed?

“This seat taken?”

I look up, and my eyes land on a stocky young man with thick brown hair and black-rimmed glasses. “Nope. All yours.”

He hesitates for a moment, gripping his bag in his hand. “It's . . . Kelly, isn't it?”

I hold my breath as I try to place his round face and broad shoulders. “Sorry . . . do I know you?”

He reaches out his hand. “James. We met at The Blind Pig last month. With your friend Jess?”

“Oh—right, of course. I'm sorry. A lot has happened since that night.”

“No worries. You spent most of the time chatting to my mate, Harry, so I'm not surprised you don't remember me.”

My cheeks flush at the mention of Harry's name. Oh, God. What must James think of me? What must Harry think of me? I never did hear from him.

James gestures toward the aisle seat. “You're sure you don't mind if I sit here?”

“Not at all.”

I scoot closer to the window, as if to make room, even though there is plenty of space between us. He plops into the seat and pulls a well-worn book from his bag.

“Harry and I were actually supposed to meet up a few times,” I say, “but I kept having to cancel because my boss was a little crazy.”

“Maybe you'll have better luck in Paris, then.”

“Sorry?”

“In Paris. I'm meeting up with Harry and some other mates from uni. Sort of a sendoff before Harry moves to the States at the end of the summer.”

“He got the fellowship at Harvard?”

James looks surprised. “How did you know about that?”

“We talked about it at The Blind Pig. He wasn't sure he'd get it—or that he'd take it.”

“Well, he did, and he is.”

“That's amazing. Tell him I say congrats.”

“Tell him yourself. I'm sure he'd love to see you.” James leans in conspiratorially. “He'd kill me for telling you this, but he was really disappointed when you kept canceling. He figured you weren't interested.”

“No—really, it wasn't that at all. My boss kept changing her plans, and then life sort of . . . spiraled out of control. But I'd love to meet up with him—with all of you. I'll be on my own.”

“Brilliant. I'll let him know. You have his number?”

“Unless he's changed it.”

“Nope. Same as always.” He grins. “We all thought he turned you off with talk of trade subsidies or globalization.”

“No—at least not yet.”

James laughs. “He always was a bit of a swot. But a lovable one.”

“What's a swot?”

“Think Hermione Granger. Number-one student. Eager to please. Loves learning for learning's sake.”