“Sorry,” she said, a little winded, strapping the seat belt on. “I was coming down as fast as I could.”
“You gotta get in shape, girl.” He chuckled without wit, then raked a hand through the salt-and-pepper hair that reminded her of the old Bob’s Big Boy mascot. “You’ve gotten a little softer in the middle lately.” Before she could fully feel the sting of the insult, he added, “In fact, let me feel that middle to be sure.” He reached over to her and playfully put his hand under her shirt. “That actually feels pretty nice.”
She laughed, though she didn’t think it was funny, and pushed him away. “Sir! We are in public!”
That didn’t stop him. “Mmmm, even more exciting.”
“Gross.”
He gave her a devilish smile. “You say that now, but wait until you try it.”
It had seemed obvious he was kidding at first, but now she wasn’t so sure. “For real? You want to do it in public?”
He met her eyes briefly before putting the car in gear and taking off like a rocket. “Maybe.”
Her only option was to take that as a no and make herself believe it for the time being, or to have an uncomfortable conversation. And with the huge uncomfortable conversation that was already swinging over their heads like that big slicing blade in the Indiana Jones movies, she opted to let it slide for now.
“So,” she said, trying to establish a new tone. “Where are we going?”
“I’ve got reservations at Flaps in Potomac for six.” He looked at the clock on the dash, as if time precision were of the utmost importance. It was five-thirty.
“We’ll be fine,” Aja said, leaning back in the passenger seat, feeling her stomach was bloated and obvious. There was no way in the world she believed anything would be fine, but what else could she say? If things were as she thought, soon she wouldn’t even be able to strap the seat belt around herself. “I hope they have that butternut squash ravioli. Oh, and the brownie sundae! I think they always have that. But I’m not sure.”
His hands tightened on the wheel, making his knuckles go white for a noticeable moment.
Aja looked out the window at the passing landscape of old farmhouses, many with new additions, and huge new constructions taking over old plots of land, all along Falls Road. The father of one of her friends used to joke about how they started building “one-acre homes on half-acre lots” back in the day, and the problem of “McMansions” had only gotten worse since then.
Once upon a time, she’d managed to look at those houses as the scourge of the neighborhood, as if she would—but of course!—have much better options in her own future. Now she realized those places cost a flipping fortune and she was living in a studio apartment with no sloping fields or horses or other creature comforts, and she could barely afford that. If she had a baby, how in the world was she going to work less, to care for it, yet afford more, to accommodate it?
What on earth was she going to do?
He drew to a halt at the light in the four corners of Potomac Village. Massive strip mall complexes crossed the road in front of them, but the old Mitch and Bill’s Exxon still stood sentry on the left. It had been there forever, right there, a few yards from the road. She smelled the gasoline, even from here, but that had to be her imagination, surely. She also smelled cigarette smoke and saw someone in the passenger seat in the car in front of them smoking, a lazy hand holding the burning butt out the window between two fingers.
Again, she thought it was the power of suggestion, but the smell made her feel like vomiting. To the point where she actually gagged embarrassingly.
Michael gave her a sidelong glance. “You okay?”
She nodded, swallowing so hard against her gagging throat that she couldn’t talk, and gave him a thumbs-up.
The light turned and he pushed the accelerator, jolting the car forward. Aja was both relieved that he stopped looking at her and a little miffed that he wasn’t more concerned about her. Admittedly, had she been choking or otherwise in some sort of emergency, she wouldn’t have given him the thumbs-up, but still. He should have noticed not everything was all right, since she wasn’t able to actually speak.
Would he be like that with a child? What if they were at a birthday party or something and the kid started to choke on cake, or on a balloon or on a Dixie cup of Kool-Aid that he shouldn’t have been drinking anyway because that stuff was full of toxins?
She was taking this too far. She needed to get ahold of herself. Michael was no different today than he was yesterday and . . . honestly, even if she was pregnant, she too was no different today than yesterday. She didn’t need to put so much weight on everything. She needed to take this one minute at a time at this point. Right now she was in the car with Michael. If she was pregnant, he was the father of her child, so it would do her good to deal with him in a calm and reasonable way, even when the things he did and said might drive her crazy.
“We’re near your mom’s house, right?” she asked.
He nodded.
“Maybe we should invite her to come along.” If she was pregnant, that would be her child’s grandmother.
He scoffed, apparently at the very idea. “She’s not a last-minute kind of gal.” He laughed again, like the idea was even more preposterous than she could comprehend.
“Oh. Okay. It’s just, you know, we’ve been together for a while now and I’d like to get to know your mom a little. Maybe we could even take a weekend trip to Raleigh and Wilmington so you could meet my brothers and their significant others.”
“Wilmington!”
“The one in North Carolina,” she clarified, as if it would obviously be absurd to expect him to go to Delaware. “It’s on the beach. It’s nice.”
“I’m not a big fan of the ocean.”
She didn’t know what to say to that, so she said nothing. And apparently that was just fine with him because he also said nothing, just turned up the radio when “Bohemian Rhapsody” came on and drove the rest of the way to the restaurant without speaking.
* * *
MEETING 2—JULY
The Silver Palate Cookbook
CHICKEN MARBELLA—Better without cilantro, good specialty entrée.
GREEN SAUCE—Easy, fast, versatile, but anchovies? Ethical to not tell people?
APPLE CAKE—Perfect for fall.
LEMON CHICKEN SOUP—Spring/summer EASY.
Notes: Suspect Aja is pregnant, not drinking, eats a ton, turns green if eggs are mentioned, regardless of context.
Margo asking if I know anyone looking for a place to live cheap; hopefully she’s not so hard up for money from the divorce that she needs to take in a roommate. Is it insulting to ask if she needs legal advice?
Must get oven thermometer, think clay oven at restaurant is running cold—chocolate cake was liquid in the middle—must check!!
* * *
August
Chapter Eight
Trista
Okay, I’m not going to tell you which one is which. Totally blind tasting.” Trista cut three plain cheeseburgers into quarters and handed one piece to both Susannah, the lead server, and Ike, the bartender.
“Excellent,” Ike declared. “I like the bun. What is this, a dinner roll?”
“Brioche. But Parker House rolls were an option. This is a little lighter.” She considered. “Though I did give it a quick, buttery toasting.” Butter made everything better, every time.
“It’s perfect,” he said.
“I agree,” Susannah said, closing her eyes and nodding, as if forming an opinion on a fifty-year-old Bordeaux. “The texture is good and the bun is great, but the rest of it is kind of ordinary. No offense! I’m sure it would be amazing with toppings and all.”
“Got it,” Trista said. “We’re going as naked as possible for this test. Now, have a sip of water and try the second one.” She handed them over and watched for their reactions.
Susannah’s shoulders relaxed and she moaned her approval. “Delicious. Did you grill this or
something? The burger is different. Smoky or something.”
Trista shook her head. “Everything was done on the griddle. All cooked the same.”
“Same cheese?” Ike asked.
“Tillamook sharp cheddar.” For eating, she liked Kerrygold Dubliner, but it didn’t melt the same way. “There will be other choices on the menu, but the difference here is just the meat.”
“It’s not something weird, is it?” Susannah asked, setting the uneaten half of her sample down. “Like buffalo or moose? Oh God, it’s not oxtail, is it?”
“Are you kidding? I can’t afford oxtail. No, it’s all beef, no pink slime, no scraps. Just different cuts.”
“I think this one is perfect.” Ike popped the last bit into his mouth. He could eat like a giant, even though he was slender. He used to model for a local company, but once he hit thirty they didn’t want him anymore, and bartending made him more money. Particularly with his dark good looks. The demographic here was weird, there were as many women willing to overtip a hot young male bartender as there were men eager to flatter a female bartender. Trista had one particularly flattering—read tight—shirt that got her good tips every single time.
Problem was, it was just so obvious that she couldn’t stand to wear it that often, lest her employees think she was playing her assets unreasonably. Not that anyone would actually accuse her of that.
“Next one,” she said and handed over her personal favorite. The first had been ordinary ground chuck, good and fatty, seasoned with salt and pepper—the most underrated beef seasoning there was—and smashed on the griddle.
The second was brisket. Toothsome, but leaner than chuck. If she went with that, she’d have to add some oil to the mix, maybe smoky olive oil, to give it some juice. For now, the buttered bun did some of the work for her and kept the playing field even.
But she would probably go with her third option: brisket, chuck, and short rib mixed. It wasn’t as expensive as the pure brisket, but she thought it was far better. Then again, the fact that it wasn’t as expensive was part of what made it a better option to her, so she wasn’t entirely sure she trusted her own taste on this.
“Last one.” She handed them the third without further comment. “Then you’re free.” It was time to set up for the evening. But it was Tuesday, so she wasn’t exactly expecting a crazed crowd to run through the door at five.
No sooner had Ike popped the whole thing in his mouth than he said, almost unintelligibly, “This is it.”
Susannah was immediately on board. “Incredible. It’s almost like . . . I don’t know, sausage? That’s not it, but it’s just got so much flavor. I don’t even need toppings.”
Trista smiled. Her instincts were on. She’d spend seventy-one cents more per burger, charge a buck more, and beat the competition with a comparatively small difference in margin. The more they sold, the less significant that margin would be. “You’re sure?”
Both nodded.
“It’s sooo good,” Susannah cooed. “Much better than the frozen ones the last owner served.”
True, but he still made a ton on them. Until people realized there were better options elsewhere and business fell off enough for him to sell the place at a price Trista could afford.
The door opened, and they all turned to look—no one ever came in the minute it opened—and Trista was surprised to see a semifamiliar face smiling at her.
“Brice Kysela,” she said, then added, “See? I know who you are now. No more ID mix-ups.”
He gave a nod and said, “And you are . . . Trisha?”
Something in her deflated slightly. “Trista,” she corrected, grateful that Susannah and Ike moved away to do their thing as Brice came toward her. “License loser extraordinaire.” She almost held out her hand but decided at the last second that would be stupid and clunky. “How was Tennessee?”
“Tulsa.”
She knew. “Sorry. The storm. How was it? Did you stay afloat?”
“Well, I went two days late.”
Guilt immediately overcame her. “Oh no, the license?”
He nodded. “MVA wasn’t open on Saturday. But it wasn’t a big deal, at least to me, because I got some work done.”
“And your fiancée? Was she okay with that?”
He gave a laugh. “She was not pleased with me.” He pulled out a barstool and sat down in front of her. “What’s this? Trying something new?”
“Taste test. Want to try?”
He splayed his arms. “I’m game. Add a Sam Adams to the mix?”
“You know we’ve got a pretty extensive list of craft beers.”
“I’m fine to keep it simple.”
“You’ve got it.” She went to the cooler and took out a bottle of the lager, popped it open on the side of the bar. “Want a glass?”
“Nah, I prefer to do it the old-fashioned way.” He held the bottle up to her then took a swig. “Okay, what are we looking at here?”
“Three meat combos.” She gestured. “In whatever order you want.”
He started with the middle. Chewed it thoughtfully and nodded. “Brisket?”
She widened her eyes. “Very good.”
“Don’t get excited; I recognize it because my mother went through a period of taking cooking classes to combat housewife boredom. Brisket burgers were her specialty.”
“Impressive.”
Brice smiled, and the light touched his blue eyes. He was really cute, damn it. “Not really, they were dry.”
“Oh.”
“Not yours, hers. The butter is a nice touch.”
“You seem to have a pretty developed palate. Are you in the business?”
He shook his head. “Nope, I’m just a hog. I love to eat. My cooking repertoire consists of about three things, so I should really keep my mouth shut so no one calls me on it.” He took another sip of his beer and looked at her long enough to make her face grow warm.
She took out a glass and poured some water in it. Her nerves were getting the better of her, and she was getting dry mouth. “So you’re not looking for a job as a cook, huh?”
“No, no, the boss wouldn’t take too kindly to me jumping ship for a pretty face.”
She turned away before he could see her turn pink and busied herself getting limes. When she turned back to him, he was looking at her curiously.
“By any chance, do you need someone to do chopping or prep work, stuff like that?”
“A line cook? Yeah. Why, do you know someone?”
“My brother needs a job,” he said. “He’s a little . . . out there.” He paused, and she wondered just how bad that meant he was. “But I know he’s bored and looking for something to occupy himself. He used to work at the Tastee Diner.”
She raised her eyebrow. “Doing what?”
“Flipping pancakes.” He shrugged. “Line cook,” he added, then smiled. “I’m not really sure, but he was there for a few years until they wanted him to do the overnight shift. Look, he’s never been a particularly ambitious guy, but he doesn’t really drink anything stronger than root beer and he’s reliable.” He hesitated. “I can’t say he’s particularly creative, but he could certainly follow orders.”
“Reliable would be great,” she said. The lower people were on the kitchen ladder, the more likely they were to seek greener salads, sooner rather than later. “Tell him to come by.”
Brice took out his phone and tapped something out. A moment later he looked up and said, “Tomorrow afternoon okay?”
“Sure.” What was she getting into? Was it nuts to interview a stranger just because his brother was cute?
And polite. Brice was definitely polite. Even-tempered too—he hadn’t blown up when she’d lost his license and been unable to find the guy who had it to get it back. So, actually, he wasn’t too bad of an advertisement for a family member.
“Tell him to come in around two,” she said, getting him another beer, unasked. “This one’s on me. And if he works out, I’ll give you another one, on the
house. Maybe even a burger.” She winked, then felt like an idiot, because the guy had a fiancée and she had no business flirting with him. “Bring your girl, I’ll treat her too,” she tagged on, lamely. “What’s her name?”
“Whose?”
“Your fiancée?”
“Oh. Of course.” He raked a hand through his hair. “Denise.”
Denise from Tulsa. She wanted to imagine her as a stereotypical hick, but it seemed more likely she was a gorgeous southern belle, with bouncy blond hair (Trista was six months late on highlights), crystal blue eyes (not denim, like her own), and boobs like large balloons (Trista barely filled out her bralette).
Why had she asked that? Now what was she supposed to say? “Oh, that’s a nice name.” Stupid. That’s a nice name. He must think she was an idiot. “What about your brother? What’s his name? I mean, since he’s coming in. I’m not trying to do a whole . . . inventory here.”
Brice laughed. “Louis.”
She smiled. “Okay. Louis. I’ll look for him around two.”
* * *
Trista would have bet money she didn’t know Brice’s brother, but when he came in, he was unmistakable. He looked exactly as he had the last time she’d seen him. Fifteen years ago.
In high school.
“Oh my God, Louis Williams,” she said, as she thought it. Her voice, she noticed, held the same note of dread she had always felt when he’d huff down into the seat next to her in English and scratch it across the floor toward her just a little too close—okay, a lot too close—so he could yammer at her all the way through class.
There had been three years of that. The only year she’d lucked out of it was her freshman year, so she hadn’t even realized how fortunate she was until it was gone. After that they’d been grouped together for English 10, 11, and 12. On top of that, anytime they were lined up in alphabetical order, they were next to each other. Walker, Williams.
He looked puzzled as he continued to amble in, but as soon as he got close to her his round Muppet face broke into a big smile. Actually, he didn’t look like a Muppet—someone else might have thought he was very good-looking, all gangly tall and dark—but for her his personality had always captured his expression and taken it over. “Trista Walker! I’ll be a monkey’s uncle. Not actually.” He laughed. “You’re the boss I’m interviewing with?”
The Cookbook Club Page 9