“Calvin left. Left left.”
There was a beat. “What?”
“Calvin left me. For good. We’re getting divorced.”
Another pulse of silence, then, obviously to Margo’s father, “Not a good time, Charlie. You go on up and I’ll be there shortly.” She came back clearly. “What happened?” She lowered her voice slightly. “Do you think this is for real?”
“Oh, it’s very real. And nothing happened. It was sudden.”
And then it all came spilling out. The tale of the last two weeks, including the thoughts of homicide-by-Shun, Robin, and her own suicidal ideations—though by admitting them out loud, she recognized them for their melodramatic nature.
“Oh, honey.”
“And I told my book club I was once a widow, like a crazy person.”
“You told your book club that he . . . died?”
“No, no, of course not. I made up a first husband.”
“Oh, of course not, that was silly of me. A first husband? Margo . . .”
“We can unpack what a psychopath I am later. But for right now I just need to freak out because suddenly, I am alone. I don’t have Calvin or the life I’ve been living and I don’t even have any real friends. I’m such a mess!” Everything, large and small, was making her cry. She’d almost added the upstairs sink that was draining slowly to her inventory of things that were wrong, but no one would understand unless they were going through it themselves.
“Oh, baby.” Something about the pity in her voice made Margo feel even sorrier for herself. “Do you need me to come home?”
It was like when Margo was little and would hurt herself. Somehow she could bear up until she got to her mother’s loving arms and then she’d lose it. That she called Maryland home, even though they’d moved south ten years ago just made it even more poignant. “I’ll be okay. I just need to get through this.”
“You need your family.”
She went to the pantry and pulled out a twenty-eight-ounce can of Wegmans San Marzano tomatoes. “Honestly, I’m not up for it. I don’t want to waste a visit on shock and misery, I’d rather you come when we can both enjoy it. Like in the fall, when we can go antiquing and do all the holiday bazaars.” She fished in the drawer for the can opener she needed to replace, found it, and pried the can open.
“Honey, are you sure? I can come twice, you know.”
“Dad needs you more than I do.”
“Oh, pshh, he wouldn’t even notice I was gone.”
But they both knew that was a lie. Ol’ Charlie was a great orthodontist at work, but at home he was a six-foot toddler who wanted his wife to do everything for him—gee, where had Margo gotten the nurturing gene?—and while he wouldn’t say anything if Jane came up to visit, he’d probably just quietly manage to burn his clothes in the dryer and flood the kitchen trying to boil water.
But on top of that, a visit would mean Margo would have to leap right into an energetic life, and she just wasn’t up for it. She needed to get out of her rut but not by running six marathons a day. “I don’t need anything right this moment, Mom, honest.”
“Every once in a while you need to accept help.”
She dipped her finger and thumb into the tomatoes and pinched off a piece. It was sweet and perfect, even without any seasoning or cooking at all. How could one strain of tomatoes, grown in one specific region in the world, be so superior to all others? “I promise I’ll let you know when I do. I promise.”
“All right . . .” She didn’t sound certain.
“I’ve got to go now, Mom; I’ve got stuff to do.” Her plans were to sit on the sofa and scarf this stuff down in three hours when it was finally ready. She was going to top it with as much nutty, salty, crystal-pocked Parmigiano Reggiano as she wanted, and she was going to give no fucks.
Then she was going to sleep as late as she damn well pleased tomorrow.
“Enjoy your pasta. And then get your butt out of that house. One thing I know is that moss doesn’t grow on a rolling stone and a glum mood can’t fester in an active person.”
Margo wasn’t so sure that was true, but it still made her smile. Momspeak. “I will. I really will.”
“I’m calling you tomorrow.”
“I’m sure.” Margo hung up, paused for a moment, then went back and dumped the tomatoes in the Dutch oven and prepared to simmer for three hours. With nothing better to do, she went to her computer and idly checked Instagram, or, as she’d come to think of it, her only portal to the outside world. Over the past couple of weeks, she’d subscribed to multiple food threads, decorating threads, and a few cute animal threads. If a hashtag had any of about fifty key words, she saw it. And so she saw food porn, fabulous homes, front porches, and cute animals every time she picked up her phone to look.
Her mom was right, she really needed to do more than this. It took no time to go from a sabbatical to an ancient hermit vampire in the imaginations of neighborhood children. She didn’t want to be a person who cowered like Nosferatu at the rays of the sun, or even like her neighbor, Mrs. Bach, who drove to the dentist literally three doors down the road from her house.
Good God, maybe Mrs. Bach had been looking at Margo’s house, shaking her head thoughtfully and saying, “Lazy, self-pitying cow, won’t even go out and get her mail.”
With a mental shrug, she returned to Instagram and cooed at a golden retriever slipping down a playground slide, then squinted at a table setting so elaborate she couldn’t even figure out how many courses there had to be. But she stopped at the third picture, a gorgeous baking tray of golden buttery-topped tiropetes, with a bowl on the side of bright-colored Greek salad with what appeared to be fresh oregano.
It had popped up because she was following #bethesdafood scene.
The caption, written by BoozyCrocker, said:
BoozyCrocker MUST EAT BUTTER. #TheCookbookClub is now open to new members. Foodies, come join us! Three-drink minimum. No skipping dessert. Meet in Bethesda. DM me. No psychos, no diets. #foodporn #saycheese #cheese #feta #musteatbutter #delicious #whenindoubtaddbutter #bethesdafoodscene
Chapter Three
Margo
Knocking on the door of the little house on Leland Street was more nerve-racking than walking into a crowded bar looking for a blind date.
Everything in her wanted to turn and run, but she knew enough about anxiety to know that would be feeding a very dangerous monster, and she couldn’t possibly afford to do that. The last thing in the world she needed was to become a completely neurotic mess who never left the house.
Before she could even make contact with the door, it swung open and a blond woman exclaimed in surprise, “Oh! Hi! I didn’t know you were there!”
Margo’s face flamed. Now she felt like a stalker. “I was about to knock.”
“Are you Aja?”
Margo felt her face grow even hotter. “No, Margo Everson.” She’d gone back to her maiden name with some optimism. “I DM’d with, um, BoozyCrocker on Instagram?”
“Yes!” She reached her hand out, noticed Margo’s hands were full with a bowl of sweet and salty coconut rice, and gave a little wave instead. “Of course! I’m Boozy! Well, Trista Walker. Sorry, I had a fifty-fifty shot and I got it wrong. Come in, come in.” She stepped back. “Welcome to Chrissy Teigen Cravings night!”
Margo stepped into a compact, chic, industrial-style living room that extended back to a dining room and table at the far end, already getting loaded up with dishes, despite the fact that no one else seemed to have arrived yet. “Should I take this . . .” She nodded toward the table.
“Yup, put it anywhere. What’d you bring?”
“The Sweet and Salty Coconut Rice from the first Cravings book.”
“Yum! I almost made that, since I did the Shake and Bake Chicken with Hot Honey and the garlic and soy shrimp. That should be great with both of those!”
Margo knew it was Grilled Garlic-Soy Shrimp with a homemade hot sauce, because that was another thing she’d though
t about making but dismissed, wary of ending up with an army’s worth of shrimp decaying in her fridge if she decided not to come. “You did all that yourself?” This was going to be so sad, all that leftover food.
Trista splayed her arms slightly. “I’m trying to get a good collection of recipes together, so it requires a lot of testing. And leftovers are always a good thing, aren’t they?”
Margo smiled. She couldn’t help it. She liked Trista. “That’s a good way of thinking.” She indicated her purse. “I also brought spiced rum. You left the booze options open, so I figured this went with coconut.”
Trista gave a laugh. “Perfect. I have wine. Ooh, and I have ginger beer and limes we could use! I love this!” There was a knock at the door.
“Aja,” Margo suggested with a smile.
Trista nodded. “Got to be. So, make yourself at home and just . . .” She shrugged. “Help yourself to whatever you want.” She hurried off to the door.
Margo suspected that Trista had already had a drink or two, owing to her effervescent personality and the light pink hue of her face. But she was very fair, and that might have been her look in general; it had just been a long time since Margo had met anyone who was just fun.
Trista came back into the room, followed by a petite girl, maybe midtwenties, with perfect golden-brown skin, chestnut hair with funky copper highlights, and almond-shaped eyes that would keep her looking young forever. She also had both hands on a large green Saran Wrap–covered glass bowl. Fortunately it was a different shade of green from Margo’s bowl.
“Well,” Trista said, “we’re all here now. Margo Everson, this is Aja Alexander.”
The John Legend soundtrack that was playing swelled.
“You both brought coconut rice!” Trista raised her hands. “I can’t wait to dig in! I’ve got to run to the back room but I’ll be right back.”
Aja made her way straight over to Margo after putting her dish down. She was holding a bottle of water. “Sorry,” she said. “I feel like I copied you because you got here with the rice first.”
Margo laughed. “You might have started making it first.”
“Probably. If you count the dozen batches I burned or otherwise ruined as I was trying to make this one.”
“Oh no, really?”
Aja crossed her heart. “I finally had to ask my landlady for help. I’m no cook, so I thought rice would be easy.”
Margo was a cook and she felt sudden embarrassment at having chosen such a potentially plain dish, not because Aja had said that but because of why Aja had said it. “Rice can always burn easily,” she said. “It’s a weirdly delicate art. And if you get past that hurdle, and make it really well, there’s the risk of consumption.”
“Consumption is a risk?”
“It is if you eat it all. I ate a ton while I was making it.”
Aja nodded, with a smile. “I get that. I can usually take or leave rice, but once I got it right, I was going to town on this stuff! I had to toast extra coconut just to eat it like an animal with my hands while I was cooking. Then again, my eating it all and constantly adding more was probably the only reason I didn’t burn the hell out of the coconut too and ruin the dish.”
Margo laughed sincerely, picturing this small, pretty thing pigging out on the good half of a half-horrible dish. “So if you don’t cook, how did you end up in a cookbook club?” she asked her.
Aja answered without apparent self-consciousness. “I need to learn to cook, man, I grew up on Stouffer’s frozen lasagna, and that is not impressing anyone these days.”
“Please tell me you’ve tried to pass it off as your own.”
“No!” Aja said, but her cheeks turned pink. “But I’m just not into the idea of microwaving a factory-built-and-frozen dinner for three minutes and then sitting down in front of Netflix to binge Gossip Girl and obsess over Chuck Bass all over again.”
“God, that sounds relaxing.”
Aja pursed her lips and nodded. “Granted. But my boyfriend thinks of himself as a lot more cosmopolitan than that, so I’m trying to keep up with the Barefoot Contessa, you know?”
“Dating is the worst,” Margo said involuntarily. She regretted it immediately. What an obnoxious, bitter thing to say.
Aja’s gaze drifted to her left hand. “Are you married?”
Margo remembered her widow lie but felt no compunction whatsoever to use it. “Not anymore. I guess.” She frowned. She wasn’t divorced but she was, what? Separated? Legally? So did that make her Not Married? Something made her settle on the truth and let Aja sort it out. “My husband was a jackass and he walked out on me unexpectedly about three weeks ago.”
Aja’s reaction was to look horrified.
“It’s okay,” Margo assured her, then smiled. “I mean, he really was a jerk and now he’s gone, so all of that is good. I’m just here now because I needed to get out of my house before I went nuts or started adopting a lot of exotic animals.”
It had been clear Aja had taken in everything Margo said, but when she got to the part where she said before I went nuts, Aja’s shoulders had relaxed and she’d begun nodding vigorously. “I so get it. I’ve had a couple of relationships like that, though they weren’t actually marriages, but not much feels better than taking the power position over a bad relationship. When they leave first”—she shook her head—“man, I know that sucks. Particularly when you don’t see it coming. Yuck.”
Margo would never, ever have said all of that to a veritable stranger, but somehow Aja had a guileless appeal that made it seem perfectly normal coming from her. “Yes,” she said quietly. “I think you’ve defined it.” She didn’t add that she felt she might spend sleepless hours later thinking about that and trying to assemble it into a rationale for her current state. “So how did you come to join this group?”
Aja was immediately out of the Ex-Zone. “Just coincidence. I was having this craving for beer cheese soup—go figure—and did a search on Insta and boom! There it was. Trista posts a lot of food stuff. I guess you probably noticed that too.” She stopped and grimaced. “Am I talking too much? My boyfriend says I always talk too much.”
He sounded like a peach. “No, go on!” Admittedly, Margo had lost track of what Aja was saying. “You were hungry . . .”
Aja nodded. “God, so hungry. So anyway, I was following her because of her food posts and then she had this group idea and I thought, why not?”
Margo laughed. “That’s basically what brought me here too.”
Aja nodded and shrugged. “Looks like we’re the only ones so far.”
“That’s okay. Trista seems to have cooked just about everything in the book.”
Trista swooped back into the room. “Come eat, come eat! It’s only us, so let’s have at it!”
Margo went to the table with Aja. She noticed she felt really good. Still a little uncomfortable, admittedly, she wasn’t at ease with strangers in general but at least it wasn’t a crowd.
When they got to the table, it was easy to recognize some of the dishes just from their pictures in the book. Skillet Broken Lasagna, which smelled of garlic and bright tomato; Fluffy Popovers with Melted Brie and Blackberry Jam (she started eating that the minute she picked it up and could have cried at the sweet, creamy-cheesy contrast to the crisp browned dough). There were also the two versions of the coconut rice, of course, and Trista had placed them next to the platter of gorgeously browned crispy baked chicken with a glass bowl of hot honey, specked with red pepper flakes, next to it, and in front of the beautifully grilled shrimp with serrano brown sugar sauce.
Every dish was worthy of an Instagram picture. Which made sense, since Trista had, as Aja had pointed out, done quite a lot of food porn postings.
There was also Cool Ranch Taco Salad on the table, which Margo had been tempted to make but, as with the shrimp dish, given that she had been ready to bail on the idea of coming right up to the last second, had thought better of, lest she have taco salad for ten that needed to be eaten in
two days.
Not that she couldn’t have finished all the Doritos that went on top that quickly. But there hadn’t been a Dorito in her house since college, and she kind of thought it ought to be a cause for celebration when she finally brought them back over the threshold of Calvin’s ex-house.
The Deviled Eggs were there too, thank goodness, and tons of them. They were creamy and crunchy and savory, sweet and—thanks to an unexpected pocket of jalapeño—hot, all at the same time. Classic party food. Classic church potluck food too. Whoever made those knew that deviled eggs were almost as compulsively delicious as potato chips with French onion dip. And, arguably, more healthful. Depending on which poison you were okay with and which you were trying to avoid.
There was a gorgeous galaxy-colored ceramic plate of balsamic-glazed brussels sprouts, with, from what Margo remembered of the recipe, crispy bacon crumbles, sour cranberries, walnuts, and blue cheese, which was—Margo tasted it with hope and was not disappointed—creamy Gorgonzola Dolce.
She knew the full lowdown on the dish because, again, she’d been drawn to the recipe when she was perusing the book. If nothing else, she’d discovered some new dishes to try, and God knew she had the time.
Margo was finished with serving rules and tablescapes and which spoon went where. She had her own system now, which was much more realistic than Emily Post’s, of making a meal inviting, reassuring, and easily accessed. Take what you want, sit where you will, talk to your favorite guests. Since she was the only guest she’d had so far, it was working well.
But she had never once been part of a Norman Rockwell Thanksgiving with a long rectangular table, set with candles and china and silverware and people who were either too small for the chairs and kept falling off or too old and stiff for the chairs and couldn’t get up. Rather, she’d grown up with Thanksgiving being a “perch” holiday, where everyone found a comfy seat in the living room or family room (the dining room was strictly for setting up the buffet) and made conversation with whoever was around. People would come and go, conversations would shift, children would run in, interrupt, and run away.
The Cookbook Club Page 4