by Janice Weber
Several months ago, the last time the twins had seen each other, Philippa had been very blond. She had not been a brunette for years, perhaps in a tacit, merciful gesture to Emily, who was constantly mistaken for her famous sister. The confusion was understandable; they had the same face, the same graceful figures, the same enunciations. But their lives had taken very different paths, mostly because of the men they had met. Philippa’s first lover had been an actor in soap operas; Emily’s had been her aesthetics professor. On his account, she had stayed in school, earning a master’s degree in art history. She had fiddled around Europe in his wake for another two years before realizing that academics rarely divorced wives to marry their pupils. Crushed, she went to New York and worked in a museum. One overcast March afternoon, she met Ross in front of a Whistler. After their first date, she knew this man could become Permanent. He was very intelligent. He worked hard and aimed high. He came from an accomplished family and was not too shy, not too confident, not too poor, not too rich, neither plain nor perilously handsome; he was one boiling mass of superb potential, in need only of a woman’s refining hand. And he adored her. Marrying him had been the most positive move of her life. It wasn’t a flamboyant life, like Philippa’s. It wasn’t a particularly fearless life either, not compared to Philippa’s. Ah, always back to that famous sister. Now that their hair was different, people were always telling Emily that she reminded them of someone else, but they couldn’t quite figure out whom. She had finally learned to accept it.
So Choke Hold had made it to the box office; last time Emily had spoken to Philippa about it, the film was throttling its third director. Emily resolved to call her sister that evening. Maybe they could meet at a health spa and exchange a few secrets, give the other a little bad advice ... forget men for a while.
The oncoming train screeched to a halt. Emily took a seat and pulled the September issue of Gourmet from her briefcase. Most other commuters were reading about the Red Sox, who had startled the bejesus out of everyone last night by almost holding on to a four-run lead through the bottom of the ninth inning. Across the aisle, an Asian student was reading the Wall Street Journal; off in the corner sat a woman with a few bags from Filene’s Basement. She was probably going to charge the Returns line the second the store opened. Emily skimmed through some recipes and left the car after two stops.
The drizzle had now amplified into rain. Along State Street, a legion of umbrellas jousted for space six feet above the narrow sidewalks. Emily could smell the ocean. She took a deep breath: This was going to be a good day, damn it. In two hours her life was going to make an abrupt about-face. Stepping over the puddles surrounding Quincy Market, she noticed that the Yuppies seemed to have stopped wearing seersucker suits; summer’s lassitude was perhaps over.
As she entered the kitchen of Cafe Presto, the familiar aroma of yeast and cinnamon enveloped her. “Hi, Bert,”she called to the pastry chef as he eased a tray of scones from the oven. “Everything under control?”
“You’re late.”He had deeply resented all eight minutes. “Start grinding the coffee. There’s just so much one person can do all by himself around here.”
In the seven years since she had taken over, Presto had gone from a sleepy muffin dispensary to one of the busiest cafes in Boston. Emily’s pistachio twists, a recipe she had brought back from Turkey, had put Presto on the map; thereafter, hers was the typical seventy-hour-week success story. Whipping off her jacket, Emily donned an apron and prepared to face the first rush of die-hard workaholics. That was the danish and black coffee crowd. Afterward, the bran muffin and decaf contingent would start filtering in; then came the cheesecakers, who usually felt compelled to explain that they were combining breakfast and lunch. Lois, the cashier, arrived at seven-fifteen and dove into the ladies’room to apply her final two coats of hair spray and face powder; like Mass, it had been part of her morning ritual for the last umpteen years. She emerged just in time to open the registers.
“Where are Lucy and Randall?” she called, counting dollar bills.
The counter help had been fairly reliable until a month ago, when they had started sleeping together. Now they were either both late, both in a snit, or speaking a slobbery goo-goo to each other. Their co-workers, not in love themselves, were losing patience with the couple, who kept blaming everything on Not Enough Sleep Lately. “They’re not here yet?”Emily cried, up to the elbows in pancake batter. “Call them at home.”
“They went to the Cape yesterday,” Bert reminded her. “Right now they’re probably screwing on the beach as they look for whales. They couldn’t care less about serving breakfast to people with clothes on.”
“Call them up,” Emily repeated. “Maybe they got home early.”
Lois tried both numbers. “No answer.”
“Then call Guy at the gym,” Emily said, mounding croissants into the display cases. “Tell him to get over here and start pouring coffee.”
“The boss? He’s going to be furious! You know what he said last time we interrupted his workout!” Lois became so upset that she slammed the cash drawer shut on her finger. “Goddamn it!” She began dancing profanely behind the register, snapping her injured hand through the air.
The man standing first in line outside of Cafe Presto knocked on the glass and pointed at his watch. “Unlock the door,”Emily ordered Lois. “You can serve, can’t you? I’ll take the register.” As the first wave of customers tumbled in, Emily called the gym and was put on hold. She was still on hold twenty danishes later.
A fortyish woman in exhausted jeans came to the register. Her graying hair looked as if it had been blow-dried by a Boeing 747. Maybe she had been trying to polish hubcaps with the front of her sweatshirt. Odd face, disproportionately small for her neck. Emily looked again; no, the face was all right. The neck was too thick. The woman had the shoulders of an ox. “Three scones, two milks, one coffee,” she rasped.
Emily’s ear was beginning to burn from clamping the phone to her shoulder. “Seven-fifty, please.”
The woman paid and left. Soon she was back at the register with corn muffins and orange juice. Now a dot of raspberry jam gleamed on her sleeve. She leaned toward Emily. “Aren’t you usually in an apron behind the counter?”
“I got promoted.” Emily finally heard Guy’s voice on the phone. “Get over here,”she hissed. “Romeo and Juliet are late again.” She slammed the handset down, rubbed her neck, and stared at the food on the woman’s tray. “That’s four dollars.”
The woman fished some damp bills out of her sweatpants. “Do I know you?”
“No.” Emily looked pointedly at the next person’s tray. “Five twenty-five.”
Soon the woman was back with a couple of bagels. “Me again. When are you going on break?”
Come on! Why didn’t any of this crap happen when Lois was at the register? “Never,” Emily said.
Sighing, the woman placed a red business card on the counter. “Do you know the restaurant Diavolina?”
“Vaguely,” In the South End. It served things like lobster with blueberries.
“We need a new chef. Tonight.”
“What happened to your old chef?”
“He blew town.”
Emily collected six dollars from the next person in line. “I’ll keep my eyes peeled. You never know when a reject from the Cordon Bleu might wander in here looking for work.”
“Very funny. I’m serious about that job.”
“I’m serious about this one. Good-bye.”
Shrugging, the woman left. Lucy and Randall appeared around eight-thirty, after the run on bran muffins had ended. Guy Witten, proprietor of Cafe Presto, sauntered in at nine. Taking a scone and a cup of coffee, he made the rounds of his employees, greeting Bert and Lois, chewing out the inamorati. When he stood behind Emily, who was making chicken salad, he stopped. “Good morning.”
She flung a handful of walnuts into the tub. “I called you two hours ago.”
“I got over as fast as I
could.” He leaned over the counter, brushing her back with his elbow. “Whatcha making there?”
“Bartolo ordered ninety chicken-salad sandwiches for lunch.”
“And twelve cherry pies,” Bert complained. “I’m not sure I can finish in time.”
“Defrost a dozen,” Guy told him. “That should help.” He started toward his office in the back. “Emily, come with me. I need you to check the invoice we got from the dairy.”
“Just pay it,” she snapped.
Guy stopped in his tracks. For a moment he watcher her furiously stir the chicken salad, wondering if she was aware of the little smacking noises her wooden spoon made as it mucked through all that mustardy, meaty quicksand. “Come when it’s convenient,” he said finally, leaving the kitchen.
First she made the sandwiches. Then she frosted three chocolate cakes. Finally Emily went back to the office. Guy was on the phone trying to collect a few overdue invoices. Bartolo and Associates, the law firm across the street, owed him about six thousand dollars. Guy was trying to convince old man Bartolo that he’d never see ninety sandwiches and twelve pies until his bill was paid in full, preferably in cash. Fairly convinced he had won, Guy hung up. He studied Emily’s face a moment. “Are those two black eyes or are you trying to look like that dog on the Miller Lite commercials?”
She remained at the door. Say it! she thought. No words survived the trip from brain to tongue. “Which invoices did you want me to check?”
Guy got up from the desk and inspected her eyes at close range. Suddenly he kissed her deeply, roughly. “Let’s get out of here for an hour. I’ll get a room at the Meridien.”
She pushed him a few inches away. “Are you out of your mind?”
“What’s the matter, Plum? Don’t tell me you’re busy.”
“I just did.”
They stood a moment, angrily breathing in each others’faces as his warm, heavy hands crept over her shoulders, her back, reclaiming territory that another man had usurped for a few days. It made him crazy when she went home to that proper codfish of a husband. Crazy! Guy lifted her blouse, catching his breath when he touched stomach. One hand got under her bra, ah, it was so sweet there. And there. “I missed you,” he whispered, half amused, half terrified, at his own ludicrous understatement. What he really wanted to do was throw himself at her feet, beg, confess like a man, hope she’d pick him up—wrong, all wrong. What he really wanted was Emily to throw herself at his feet so that he could pick her up—wrong again. She’d never do that, not while her husband was around. The gulf between Guy’s aspirations and current reality overwhelmed him with hopeless lust. He kissed her again.
Too soon she opened her eyes, back in the grim world of dishes and dishonor. “I have to go.”
“Where?” He despaired as Emily’s hand squeezed not him, but the doorknob. “Can’t get messed up, eh? Must be lunch with your husband. That explains the suit and pearls.”
Without answering, Emily left. Guy’s stomach went cold. He sat a moment wondering if he should follow her. No: Such behavior was beneath his dignity. She could be meeting a girlfriend, seeing her gynecologist, getting a facial, one of those woman things. They always liked you to think they were doing something more exciting with a handsome stranger. Guy returned to his accounting and made quite a few addition mistakes.
It was a craven way out, but an exit nonetheless. After leaving Guy’s office, Emily took the red business card the woman had left at the cash register. She peered at the small script. Diavolina: “little she-devil”—how appropriate. She left Cafe Presto and began walking quickly toward the South End, needing air and movement away from Guy. No thinking, just movement. Suddenly the drizzle became steady, pelting rain. In her haste to leave Cafe Presto, Emily had forgotten an umbrella. Now she’d get her new suit wet; just a little more punishment for her naughtiness. Stuck at a traffic light, Emily beseeched the clouds. Give me a break, she thought. I ended it, didn’t I?
She stepped into the bustling intersection. Over the past decade, as the mezzo-affluent had renovated the brownstones lining Tremont Street, the area had become a mecca of tony eateries and boutiques. The new stores offered a nice contrast to the fire-gutted churches still jagging the boulevard. Despite the cars triple-parked on both sides of the street, traffic moved just fast enough in the one remaining lane to outpace the kicks of pedestrians, who felt they had the right of way, like in California. After a long, mindless walk, Emily stood outside a large window. A red neon sign in the upper left corner spelled DIAVOLINA. She went in.
Nearly lunchtime and there was no manager, in fact no human, in sight. Emily glanced over the pinkish brown walls and aqua tablecloths: Southwestern Vulva, a style Ross detested. It looked more like something his partner Dana would design. The low-backed chairs would keep their occupants comfortable for about two hours and the lighting would smooth the most corrugated complexions. How about the food? Emily took a menu. Diavolina offered the standard mishmash plus a few trendy entrées involving offal and invertebrates. At the moment it was one of the hot places to be seen eating in Boston.
Calling obscenities over her shoulder, the woman in the sweatshirt burst from the kitchen and stalked to the bar. Her hair had still not touched a comb; either a bottle of ketchup had scored a direct hit on her apron, or she had been slaughtering chickens out back. As she rolled up her sleeves, Emily realized that the woman wasn’t wearing shoulder pads at all; she was wearing muscles. They overlaid her body like dozens of little saddlebags. Emily watched her yank a mug from the freezer and mix herself a tremendous martini.
She walked to the bar. “Remember me? Cafe Presto?”
“Of course! The cashier! Your mascara wasn’t all over your chin then.”
Emily smiled pleasantly. “My name’s Emily Major. Still need a chef?”
“You’re looking for a job? What happened between eight this morning and now?”
Emily could feel the blood bubbling to her cheeks. Reminding herself that she was the sister of a great actress, she continued smiling. “I quit.”
“Now that’s handy.” The woman leaned mightily over the counter, displaying forearms laced with tattoos. “What can you do besides pistachio buns?”
This was not the same beggar who had come to her cash register this morning. Emily thought of leaving Diavolina; then she thought of returning to Guy Witten at Cafe Presto. “Anything. I’m a great cook. I spent a year in Korea, a summer in Paris, a couple months in Morocco—”
“Why?” the woman interrupted. “You got something against hot dogs?”
“My husband is an architect. I went with him to his projects.” It didn’t sound very hip, did it. “You were fairly eager to hire me this morning.”
The woman swallowed a large belt of her martini. “I’ve been reconsidering. This is a much bigger place than Cafe Presto, Ms. Major. What makes you think you can run it?”
“What makes you think I can’t? Food is food.”
“Ah, but how are you with kitchen personnel? Friendly?”
“Fine,” Emily snapped, feeling her cheeks flame again. “Ask anyone at Presto.”
“Diavolina’s different. How good are you with knives?”
The kitchen doors banged open and a small, ferocious man strode toward the bar carrying a plate of food. His nose looked as if it had spent some time on either cheek, courtesy of a sledge hammer. “Put it there, Klepp, I’m not hungry.” The woman pointed, then turned to Emily. “Eat some of that and tell me what you think. I’ll consider this your entrance exam.”
Emily began eating as her interviewer poured drinks for a half dozen customers who had wandered in. The food wasn’t bad but the book on power dressing that she had been reading recommended force, verbal as well as sartorial, in gaining the respect of a potential employer. In case after case, starting salaries were at least ten thousand dollars higher than an ordinary wimp’s. “The cole slaw’s compost,” she said confidently when the woman returned. “You could tile the Callahan Tunnel
with these corn cakes. The chicken is burnt.” She popped a pickle into her mouth. “I can’t tell whether this is tomato or cranberry relish. What’s for dessert?”
“Zero,” the woman replied. “Your interview is over.”
“Already? When do I start?”
“Never. I’m not impressed with your personality.”
This particular reaction had not been discussed in her book. Emily was on her own. “This is not my real personality,” she confessed. “I’m having a bad day.”
“I don’t think so. And I don’t think you’d make a good kitchen manager. You have about as much finesse as an earth-mover.”
“Listen,” Emily said, hunching over the counter. “I desperately need this job. I’ll work very hard here.”
“I’ve got three more interviews this afternoon,” the woman replied. “Serious contenders. They won’t give me any of this Korea or Morocco crap. My customers don’t want to eat monkeys and camels.”
Emily stood up. “I’ll come back at two o’clock. You’ll see who the serious contender is.” She wandered around Copley Place for several hours, then walked back to Diavolina. The woman kept her waiting for a few moments before bringing a dish of apple pie to the bar and introducing herself as Ward. Maybe that was her last name; Ward didn’t use, or divulge, another. They briefly discussed money. Emily was hired.
Having taken Dagmar Pola, the pretzel widow, to Legal Sea Foods instead of his wife’s cafe for lunch, Ross Major returned to his office in a foul mood. Not on account of Dagmar, of course: She had hired Major & Forbes to construct the gallery of her dreams. No, Ross had acquired a sharp headache the moment he was told that Emily had left Cafe Presto at eleven and would not return until three. Where had she gone? A thousand destinations, all involving mattresses, sprang to mind. He had hardly swallowed a bite of his lobster bisque and now could barely recall a word of what Dagmar and he had talked about. Fortunately, most of it had been gas about murals and pretzels.