The Cookbook Club

by Beth Harbison

  Jimmy Fallon—unfollow.

  Khloé Kardashian—unfollow.

  Jen Garner—he hesitated, then clicked. Unfollow.

  A “real” housewife he had met when guesting on Watch What Happens Live with Andy Cohen—adios, Crazytown.

  The weeding went on and on.

  Wait, what was this? A tranquil farm on a misty morning. That looked like bliss. It was exactly what he needed.

  In fact, where was this? He would buy it right now. That’s how strong his feelings were about it. The text under all the pictures said, Local friends: reliable caretaker needed for 20-acre farm, house, and outbuildings. If you know anyone, please DM me. Reduced rent, depending on how much work he or she is willing to do around the place.

  Who was this?

  Margo Brinker (Everson). Oh yeah. Margo Everson from college. Interesting, he wouldn’t have pegged her for a farm girl. He frowned and scrolled through some of the other pictures. A small, rolling-green hill, surrounded by trees, trees, trees. Some big birds—turkeys? peahens?—of unclear origin, and a big red coloring-book barn.

  This was absolute Nowheresville, though the tag said Lovettsville, Virginia, which a quick look at Google Maps said was near Leesburg and horse country. Not a cheap spot. But private, as he vaguely recalled it. And right on the Potomac.

  He reread the caption. A caretaker. A caretaker! He smiled, then chuckled. Then outright laughed. He could be a farm caretaker! How hard could that be?

  Something for the memoir, right?

  He pictured himself stretching at sunrise on that wide, wraparound porch, the smell of his morning coffee drifting out a screen door into the dewy morning air. No horns honking, only geese. No sirens, just a distant rooster crowing. No thundering footsteps in a too-small hallway outside a too-thin door, just horses galumphing.

  No people. He could write. He could think.

  God, he needed this.

  Did he even have her number? He remembered meeting Margo in an improvisation class he’d taken in college. For him, it had been another class in his performing arts curriculum, but for her it had been an elective and an unspoken dream.

  He and Margo hadn’t been in much touch over the years, but he remembered meeting her for coffee when she was in Manhattan eons ago when he had just started on a soap called Candlelight Lane. She’d been a big fan of the show and wanted to know all the scoop on the stars. Since he was just starting out, he felt cool and chatted up a storm, saying a whole lot more than he should have about people who, like he did now, just wanted to maintain some privacy.

  To her credit, she must not have told anyone, because he’d never heard the stories repeated.

  Margo Everson. Nice girl. He’d liked her. They’d had a lot of laughs in college, before life had gotten real and responsibilities had gotten heavy.

  So, sure, he’d like to see her again.

  And this was when he pulled out the dichotomy that was his life, and his personality. Now he needed to be Maxwell Roginski, star of Broadway, film, television, sweetheart of the biz.

  He called his lawyer.

  “Stephen, I’m going to need you to find a phone number and address for me,” he said to him.

  Stephen Jakes was immediately on alert. “Has something happened?”

  “No! No, no, it’s for an old friend from college. Her name is Margo Brinker. Maiden name Everson, E-V-E-R-S-O-N. I don’t know what Margo is short for, if anything, Margaret? I guess I think she’s in Potomac, Maryland. Has a farm in Virginia.”

  “That’s it?”

  “What do you mean that’s it? Did you want a scandal?”

  “This isn’t the mother of some long-hidden child or anything, is it?”

  It was pretty amazing how many times Stephen leapt right to that very conclusion when a woman’s name came up.

  “Still no, Stephen. Just an old friend.”

  “I have to allow for all possibilities, Max. At all times. I ask the questions, you answer them, I handle appropriately.”

  The guy was so good that Max didn’t want to take any chance on alienating him, so he just let it go. “I appreciate that.”

  “Any need for an NDA?” Nondisclosure agreements were getting to be the norm for anyone wanting to have so much as a cup of coffee without risk of exposure.

  “We were friends only. I just want to talk to her.”

  “Are you going to see her?”

  “I hope so.”

  There was a hesitation, then Stephen said, “I’ll draw one up just in case.”

  “Just get the number, please.” Max hung up and tossed his phone onto the coffee table. How had his life become this? Growing up in the 1990s in Langley, Virginia, even right there next to the CIA headquarters, he’d never dreamed he’d live a life of such paranoia.

  He pictured himself on the porch of that old farmhouse Margo had photographed. Surrounded by nothingness. Trees.

  Admittedly, he could find a remote inn somewhere, probably. But there were always guests. Proprietors. Advertising and so on. Margo’s farm would be private.

  * * *

  He answered the phone and took down the number Stephen gave him, waiting quietly through the obligatory words of caution.

  “Be careful,” Stephen said in closing. “I realize you think you know her, but it’s been a long time and you never know for sure what people will do for a buck.”

  Even though he knew damn well it was true, Max rolled his eyes to himself. “Thanks for the warning. Buh-bye.” He ended the call and then immediately input the number Stephen had given him.

  No answer.

  He didn’t leave a message. In case he changed his mind.

  Instead he opened the Insta app and jotted a quick DM.

  * * *

  It was surprising that Margo hadn’t answered him.

  He recalled his DM.

  Margo, hey, it’s Max Roginski from college!

  Hopefully you remember me? It’s been awhile since we’ve seen each other, I think it was in the old soap days back in the city. Anyway, I saw you are looking for a caretaker for your farm in NoVa, and, believe it or not, I’m looking for a place to escape and get some work done, so maybe we can help each other? I know this probably seems weird and out of the blue, but I’m serious. Please let me know if you are interested and I will come down right away.

  Give me a call at your convenience, my number is . . .

  Of course, he hadn’t meant at your convenience in his heart. He’d meant right away, I am desperate, but that felt like a bit much to put on the line when they hadn’t seen each other in almost ten years.

  Still, it had been four days and there had been no response.

  Why?

  Had he done something to offend her when he’d seen her last? Something he couldn’t remember? Something he wasn’t aware of? Not to be egotistical, but since he’d gotten successful, people didn’t tend to take their time in getting back to him anymore.

  So four days felt like an eternity.

  He was ready to give up and began looking at rural places on his own, but there had been something comforting about segueing in via someone he knew. Not just someone he knew, but Margo in particular. Someone who knew him—the real him, not the him she needed him to be for her own agenda.

  A friend.

  Plus, Margo knew the area, the neighbors; he felt she’d be honest with him about all that, instead of just working him to try to get him to buy. Hell, he wasn’t even sure if she’d sell, and something about that made it better too. He liked it when things fell into place because of fate, rather than because he threw enough money at it.

  And he truly felt fate was calling him to this place.

  The point was brought home to him when he went to the grocery store on a Saturday afternoon to pick up some coffee and creamer. No big deal, but what kind of lazy douchebag would he have to be to pay a premium to have stuff delivered? These were common grocery store items. He should have been in and out in five minutes.

  In
stead, he ended up in an unexpected altercation by the avocados. He’d never made avocado toast before but he’d certainly eaten enough of it, so he figured it couldn’t be that hard to assemble. He picked up a loaf of bread, a red onion (easily identified, he wasn’t a complete kitchen idiot), and he was trying to figure out how to tell if an avocado was ripe when someone swatted him on the back of the head. Hard.

  He put his hand up to the spot and started to turn, but a voice was already in his ear, a staccato shriek with an unmistakable edge of indignation.

  “I said I liked your performance in Iron and Sage, but you know what? Fuck you!”

  This time, the hand made contact with his face as he was turning to see who it was—a tall woman, broad in the shoulders and the middle, with long hair in two worm-thin brown braids and a face the color and consistency of seared meat.

  “Whoa!” He put his hands up to protect himself. He saw a lot of crazy but it seldom came at him like this. “What the hell are you thinking?”

  “You think you’re so cool, the big famous actor who doesn’t have to pay any attention to the little people who put him on the pedestal he enjoys so much.”

  He was hard-pressed to figure out how she considered herself a little person but he was even more confused as to what she was talking about. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I think you have me confused with—”

  “To think, I paid money to see that play.” She sneered. “I think you owe me that money back. Including the Ticketmaster fees.”

  “Even if I was who you think I am, I wouldn’t owe you any money because I—”

  “Entitled prissy boy, that’s what you are.” He did take exception to that but he didn’t have a chance to express it. “Expecting the whole world to fall at your feet like you’re so high and mighty.”

  He could hear people around them talking, speculating on who he was and what the hell was going on.

  “I should have known with a dumb title like Iron and Sage it would be a dull play, certainly no Starlight Express, but I sat through it out of respect. And this is the respect you give me?” She lifted her hand.

  “That was Bradley Cooper!” he said, dodging another blow. “I was never in Iron and Sage.”

  The woman stopped and wrinkled her bulbous nose, frowning down at the ground. When she looked back at him, it was without any appreciable contrition but, instead, a new expression. Anger that she’d been duped. “Who are you, then?”

  By then a small crowd had gathered around and someone said, “That’s Max Roginski! Can I have your autograph?”

  He didn’t even glance in their direction.

  “Why did you say you’re Bradley Cooper?” the attack dog in front of him demanded.

  “I didn’t!” He was still holding a too-hard avocado and briefly considered pelting it at her, but instead he put it back in the crate and set his basket on the ground. “You’re nuts,” he said, walking away. “Take it somewhere else.”

  “Mr. Roginski.” A store employee with a name tag that said CRAIG hurried toward him, his face alight with both excitement and embarrassment. “I’m so sorry this has happened to you in our store. Please, take whatever you want. Security will see to it that you’re safe.”

  Safe? That’s how this story was going to go down? That he’d been cowering in fear for his safety from this woman? “It’s all right,” he said, continuing on his way. If he pointed out he wasn’t scared he was just going to sound defensive. He’d learned this kind of thing many times already. “Thanks, but I’m just going to go.”

  “Please, Mr. Roginski! I don’t want you thinking Lenders is anything but a friendly place to shop.” He threw a hostile glance at the woman, who was resisting security’s efforts to remove her. She was now talking about Jennifer Lawrence. “I’m sure we can turn this around and make your experience here a pleasant one.”

  He just wanted out. He felt like a caged animal in the zoo, with all eyes on him. This was just disconcerting. “Thanks, I’m good,” he said, striding out the door and onto the bright sunlit sidewalk. It was worse than a spotlight. If it wouldn’t have been so obvious, he would have broken into a run, just to get away from the clusterfuck that going out in public had become.

  He didn’t look back, just kept going, making a mental note to cross Lenders off his list, now that he was on their radar and they were bound to make a big deal of making his shopping experience pleasant if he ever stepped foot in there again.

  It wasn’t until he’d rounded three corners and was within sight of his building that he finally felt like he wasn’t being watched or followed.

  He had to get out of here.

  Chapter Seven

  Aja

  How had she not thought of it before?

  To be fair, it was probably because she hadn’t had anything like a normal period since high school. Taking the pill had made her brain feel whacked, so she’d stopped a couple of months ago with the hopes of feeling a bit less moody and upset. She wasn’t. She’d been depressed and upset for months now. Not constantly but often enough to concern her. She would have gone to the doctor, but she figured it was just the blues (or Holly Golightly’s mean reds) and her deductible was so high that she wasn’t likely to go to the doctor unless her head was actually chopped off.

  Who could afford $180 for a doctor’s visit only to be told she’d had a bad couple of weeks and needed to get out more and meet new people? She didn’t need an antidepressant, she needed friends.

  That was one of the reasons she’d joined the cookbook club. She’d had such mood dips, and no one to really talk to. Most of her friends were yoga teachers, like her, and while she loved the practice and the peace of the lifestyle, there were times when she just wanted to hang out with someone who could call bullshit what it was. Someone who understood that maybe not everything was meant to be, it wasn’t always time to be Zen and let it be, and that sometimes life could just plain suck.

  How she had pegged Margo Everson as that person she didn’t know, but she seemed to have been right. The time she’d spent with Margo at her house had been really nice. Relaxing in a way she hadn’t felt in . . . she didn’t know how long.

  Except for the part where Margo had asked if she was pregnant.

  Which was what had led her here: standing in her studio apartment bathroom in Rockville, opening a pregnancy test with shaking hands. The packaging was ridiculous: a cardboard box that seemed to have a zillion parts in order to keep the wand exactly in place, an instruction booklet so thick she fully expected there to be plastic gloves included, like with a box of hair coloring—which she’d made a few mistakes with in the distant past.

  She had a Solo cup handy, so as not to have to rely on her own aim.

  She dipped the wand into it, making sure the fuzzy part was fully saturated, then set it sink side, and pulled her pants back up to pace for five minutes until the results were official.

  A quick glance at the little window showed two very faint lines, including the “pregnant” one, but the instructions had been clear about waiting a full five minutes to see the verdict, so hoping against hope that the line would disappear, she walked from the bathroom into the main room, around the daybed that served as sofa and bed, then into the tiny galley kitchen before returning to the bathroom.

  She studied the walls as she went, the things she knew better than the back of her hand since she, herself, had put them there.

  Walking the small blueprint of the floor and assessing the things she’d collected over the years that made her feel like herself helped soothe her nerves, which were pulling tighter by the moment.

  It felt like forever, but her watch told her that it had only been two minutes and forty-five seconds.

  She made another round and sang to herself. “Oops! I Did It Again.” Why was early Britney Spears stuck in her head? Why was any Britney Spears stuck in her head?

  I’m not that innocent.

  Her watch said it had been six minutes and two seconds. She w
ent back into the bathroom to check the test.

  Two lines.

  Two distinct lines.

  And the word she’d dreaded: PREGNANT.

  * * *

  As Aja waited for Michael to pick her up for dinner, she was agitated beyond words, but the last thing in the world she wanted was to let him know that. Somehow she had to pull out any acting skills she’d ever had—and to her knowledge she didn’t have any—to try to keep things steady and unsuspicious when she saw him.

  She had thought to call and cancel at least a hundred times, but what then? She couldn’t avoid him forever.

  He was potentially the father of her child. Or, rather, the father of her potential child.

  She was pregnant. She knew it. That was just her damn luck. If it was bad or untimely and the odds should have been against her, somehow they always stacked neatly on her side.

  She paced her living room, putting on one shoe at a time then making two rounds to look for the light shawl she took out in summer for air-conditioning. She had to do everything piecemeal because she suddenly wasn’t capable of holding tight on to a thought for longer than a second or two.

  When she was finally completely ready, she was still alone, waiting to hear from Michael.

  He texted her, as usual. I’m here. Fair enough. There was no need for him to find a parking space in the crowded lot and come up the four flights of stairs to her door. Just as easy for her to run down, she got that.

  And yet she still felt a little “less than” because he didn’t make the effort. Ever.

  She was on the last flight down when her phone dinged again. Hello? I’m waiting out front.

  It would have taken longer to answer the text than to run to the car, which she could see at this point, so she opted for the latter, opening the side door of his black Mercedes and climbing into the cool interior, and sitting on the downright icy leather seat.