“Okay, pooch. A very merry Christmas to you, I’ll be home before bed.” I lean down and give Schatzi a head scratch, which is met with a sharp nip. The more things change. I call out to Jag. “Hey, husband, get a move on, would you? If we’re late, Marie will eat all the sweet and sour meatballs.”
“Sorry,” says Nageena, her pretty round face appearing in the stairbend. “My fault entirely.”
Nageena and Jag mostly stay at her place, but she has been helping him pack for our upcoming move. I think they pack one box and then make out for the rest of the night, and I’m very grateful both for the soundproofing insulation we installed, and for the fact that they will be cohabitating a floor below me in the new place.
“No worries. I just like to give him shit.” I think for a moment. “You know, we got into the habit of calling each other husband and wife, but we can stop if it makes you uncomfortable.”
She laughs. “Not at all. Frankly, I like being reminded that you cared enough about him to keep him here so he could finally see me in front of him. And being the mistress makes me feel deliciously wicked and femme fatale.” Turns out Nageena had her eye on Jag from the moment they had met, and had confessed her feelings to him one night after a gathering when I had been conspicuously absent again, and she suspected things were not all rosy at home.
“Well then, Mistress Nageena, go tell that husband of mine to shake a tail feather.”
Holy CRAP this is yummy,” Marie says, rolling her eyes. Caroline has outdone herself, with a huge pork shoulder cooked with dried cherries and port, a ridiculously creamy Parmesan polenta, sautéed spinach, glazed carrots, herb bread dressing, creamed onions, and buttery garlic knot rolls.
“It’s a miracle you have any room, considering how you hit those meatballs,” Hedy says.
“You’re just mad she didn’t make the pigs in blankets,” Marie counters, not insulted in the least.
“Well, even Caroline can make a mistake,” Hedy says with mock disappointment. She doesn’t love the meatballs the way Marie does, but she can eat forty-seven little pigs in blankets if no one is watching.
“So sorry to have let you down, I was a tiny bit busy, and the piglets are fussy and time-consuming,” Caroline jumps in, mock defensive.
“Not if you make them like a normal person, Martha,” Hedy says bluntly. Because of course, Caroline makes them with sausage meat she makes herself, and homemade puff pastry instead of a package of cocktail franks and a can of Pillsbury Crescent dough like the rest of us.
“Well, I for one think the whole meal is a triumph,” Carl says, raising a glass.
“Hear, hear!” we all chorus, clinking. I try not to feel like the odd girl out. Caroline and Carl, playing Mama and Papa Bear. Marie and John, feeding each other bits off their plates. Jag and Nageena with their heads together, flush with love that is at once still new and yet has the obvious comfort of permanence. Hedy and Jacob, emitting nearly visible sparks of electric passion. And me. Sitting at the end of the table with plenty of elbow room.
How goes it?” Hedy says, handing me a platter to dry. She’s at the smaller of the two sinks in Caroline’s kitchen with me doing serving pieces and pots while Marie and Nageena flank Caroline at the big sink, Marie drying silver and Nageena loading the dishwasher with plates. The boys, all of whom offered to help and were solidly rebuffed, are off in the den watching football.
“It goes. We’re picking up the keys to the new place this week, and will start to move stuff over. The mover can’t come for the really big stuff till the second, but we should be able to do a lot with my truck and Jag and Nageena’s cars.
“Want to borrow Walter?” This is as close as Hedy would ever come to helping someone move.
“Maybe. I’ll let you know. Thanks.”
“I may have a job for you.”
“That would be good. What is it?”
“A client just called, empty nester moving back to the city from the burbs, just bought a pretty spectacular penthouse space on Lake Shore Drive, but it needs a total gut. You should see the kitchen. The wallpaper matches the Formica countertops matches the freaking CEILING. Some blue-on-white Dutch china pattern. It is so insane I actually weirdly love it, but it cannot be kept. Lots of very good custom woodwork that needs refinishing, new layout. Not as vintage as you would normally want, but they have pretty old-school style, so I think it will be a good fit aesthetically. I showed them the pics of the Palmer house that Jacob took, and they want to meet you. They have plenty of bucks, and are strangely non-annoying. I think you’ll like them, and I think they will love what you and I will come up with.”
“Oh Hedy, that would be amazing.” We haven’t worked on a project together in years, much to our chagrin.
“We’ll schedule something once you are settled after the move.” She hands me a sauté pan. “How about the Liam thing?”
“I dunno. It’s weird. He says we’re friends, that it will be what it should be when it should be, but I feel weird reaching out to him, and so I’m just kind of waiting for him to get in touch. If he even wants to.”
“Do you think maybe you should be just thinking about letting that whole thing go and maybe consider looking at other options?”
“Nunnery?”
She laughs. “I’m thinking more just, you know, normal dating. Jacob has a friend from college who recently moved here; I’ve met him, very nice guy. Maybe the four of us could go out?”
“Oh, honey, I don’t think so. The one thing that Liam said that actually made sense was that I needed to figure my shit out. I want to move, close the house, get the new business open, land the first client. I want to start to research new places that night be good for our next big thing. I want to process everything that I went through this year, and put it well in my rear-view mirror before I even think about dating.”
“So return to the back burner.”
“Yeah. At least for a while. Talk to me in the spring. If Jacob’s pal is still single, we can make plans.”
“Will you promise me one thing?”
“Of course.”
“If you meet someone organically, no fix-ups, no Internet dating, just random meeting, will you at least be open?”
“I will promise to try.”
“That’s all I can ask.”
We finish the cleanup and bring out all the desserts to the now-clear dining room. Caroline made a steamed fig pudding with brandy hard sauce. Hedy and Jacob brought a platter of dense, moist gingerbread squares studded with chunks of candied ginger and frosted with a lemon cream cheese icing. John and Marie brought a flourless chocolate soufflé cake filled with chocolate mousse, glazed with chocolate ganache and decorated with white chocolate swirls. Jag and Nageena brought a really interesting dessert called halwa that is made with carrots. And I brought Gemma’s shortbread. We make a buffet of all the sweets, and call the boys in. We all fill plates with tastes of everything, Caroline pours coffee and Carl pours Madeira, and there is warmth and joy and laughter. One thing is for sure, I may not have a man in my life or any prospect thereof, but I have good friends and there is sweetness, and for now, that has to be enough.
Okay, dog, happy New Year,” I say, putting some cut-up chunks of steak into her bowl. I look at the spread on the counter. I took Jacob’s advice and went all out on the classic Southern good luck New Year’s foods. In addition to my medium-rare porterhouse, there is hoppin’ John over buttered Carolina gold rice, slow-cooked collard greens, corn pudding. The black-eyed peas are good luck in the Southern tradition but also in the Jewish, albeit not usually cooked with bacon the way these are. The greens are supposed to represent money, the corn represents gold. We’re closing on the house this week, and I’ll take whatever good luck I can find to start the New Year, hoping for a career resurrection and some personal clarity. There is a pan of three-layer slutty brownies sitting on the counter, chocolate chi
p cookie on the bottom, a layer of Oreos in the middle, brownie batter on top with swirls of cream cheese.
Jag and Nageena are spending their first New Year’s in the new apartment; I insisted they have a nice romantic night there before I move in day after tomorrow. Nageena got all her stuff moved in earlier this week, including her bedroom set, and I think Jag was thrilled at the prospect of a quiet couple of bonding days with Nageena, not having to spend one more night on the blow-up mattress. Most of my stuff is already moved; we’ve got a guy coming on the second to pick up my bed, Jag’s old pullout couch, and the furniture I inherited from Joe that is stored in the garage. Between the three of us, we’ll be fairly well furnished for starting out.
“Everything smells good, sis.” Emily comes into the kitchen. We are having a quiet night just the two of us, slumber party time with some John Hughes movies and a bottle of champagne from Carl’s cellar. She is leaving in two days for Boston to start school. She has a cute little apartment in Cambridge waiting for her.
I’m shocked at how good everything is. And I realize that for the first time, there is nothing of Gemma’s here. All the recipes either came from Jacob or Caroline or the Internet. I followed them, and they are delicious. The steak is seared crunchy on the outside and meltingly tender inside, pink and juicy. The corn pudding is crispy on top, moist within. The beans are perfectly cooked, not mealy or mushy, the rice grains are fluffy and separate and al dente. The greens, with their rich pot liquor, are spicy and vinegary and smoky from the smoked turkey wings I used when I couldn’t find a ham hock. I think about when I moved in, all the boxes of Kraft mac ’n’ cheese and frozen pizzas, and I’m suddenly very proud of myself for how far I’ve come.
I promised myself when I turned down invitations from all the girls that I was not going to spend New Year’s reflecting on all I’ve lost this year, but that it would be a night of hopeful reflection on what I gained, most especially Emily. I can’t mourn Grant, the apartment, or my job, or my security, or my mother, or even Liam. I have to go forward knowing that I built a beautiful, special home. That I met a man who may not have been my soul mate romantically, but is my soul mate professionally, and we are embarking on an exciting new adventure together. That I have my friends around me, and now a sister, and that is the only family I really need.
And I learned how to feed myself, and anyone else who might eventually come along.
No one can take any of that from me, and so tonight, I celebrate the New Year, and the new me, with a heart that is ready to be truly hopeful, and maybe, someday, happy.
I’ve decided to leave the journal for the new owner. I think it belongs in the house; I just can’t bring myself to remove it. And I have to trust that whoever is coming to make this place their forever home, will understand why I left it behind.
And I have one more important thing to let go of.
“Em?” I ask as we are cleaning up the dinner dishes.
“Yeah?”
“You mentioned that when you went to look at your apartment that your upstairs neighbor had two puggles?”
“Yeah, Flotsam and Jetsam. So freaking cute.”
“So the place takes dogs.”
“Yes . . .”
“If you want, if it wouldn’t be a pain in your ass, I think maybe you should take Schatzi with you.”
“But . . . she’s your dog!”
“You and I both know that this dog hates me. She is more your dog than mine, and to be honest, she’s lost enough this year. She loved Grant, and she lost him. She had doggie friends in that neighborhood, and she’s lost them too. She loved Liam . . .” I don’t even want to finish that sentence. “The bottom line is that she adores you and has from the moment you first arrived, and I know you love her too. I think it would be great for both of you.”
Emily throws her arms around me. “You are the best sister in the world.”
“I think you are the best sister, I’m just trying to catch up.”
“You’re doing an admirable job. And we’ll be back for the summer.”
Emily finally did some fessing up of her own when she was home with her dad for Christmas. He knows the whole story, including the use of his purported rent money to invest in the house, where he will realize a very decent 50 percent return. And Emily got to meet the lovely woman he has been seeing, so everyone appears to be moving on at last. Emily still wants to be a family therapist, but she has also fallen in love with Chicago and houses, so she is planning on spending her summers here, doing internships as she can get them, and working part-time for Jag and me, and staying with me. I’ve agreed to come out to spend a long weekend over spring break with her and her dad and his family; they all want to meet me.
And for the first time in my life, I think I’m actually ready to be met.
Epilogue
SIX MONTHS LATER . . .
Jag and I finish our walk-through, and then give each other a big hug. We’ve just bought a redbrick three-flat on the corner of California and Logan that was gutted by fire and left vacant. The previous owners took the insurance money and ran. Because of the damage, it has been on the market for nearly two years. But the foundation and shell are solid, it just needs a complete redo on the inside. Jag and I are going to convert it into two duplex condos. We’ll have to excavate the basement to get the ceiling height we want, but we think it will be worth it to be able to gain the square footage. We’ve got a long haul ahead of us, but we’re both eager to get started. The fact that it is walking distance on a lovely June day like today is a bonus.
Last week we finished up our work on the Lake Shore Drive project, and it turned out beautifully. Hedy will take the next month to get it fully furnished and organized, but the clients are thrilled and have already recommended us to their friends, one of whom is considering hiring us to redo a kitchen and dining room, and another who wants us to create a bigger master suite now that the final kid is off to college, so our income, while not extravagant, is at least steady. And Bahal and Bahula insisted on investing in our company, and their seed money paid for the new Logan property. And in the best possible twist, we have a meeting next week with Oliver Jacobsen, who says that he had an opportunity to tour the Palmer house, and the owner referred him to us for a big project he is looking to do in the neighborhood.
“What time is he picking you up?” Jag asks, as we lock up the front door and head back toward home.
“Seven.”
“Are you nervous?”
“I dunno. A little.”
“It’ll be good.”
I’m having dinner with Liam. He and Jag have kept in touch, they get together about once a month to have a guys’ night out, so we’ve kept up a bit on each other, but hadn’t seen each other in person until last week when I ran into him at Home Depot. It was awkward for a bit, but we talked about work. He told me he had just finished the Manning job and before I knew what I was doing I said we should celebrate, and after a deadly pause that made my stomach knot, he said that we absolutely should, and was I available for dinner tonight. He insisted on picking me up, which makes me think that maybe it’s a date, but then I figured that we were probably just going to some big popular place and he wouldn’t want us both to have to deal with parking.
“I hope so. I hope maybe it will just break through a bit so we can be normal.”
“You don’t hope that it is a first step toward something more?”
I think about this. There’s no one else in my life right now. I’ve been on two dates with very nice, very boring guys that I didn’t spark with, but at least it got me back out there and got Hedy off my case. Sometimes, late at night when I’m alone, I remember Liam’s kisses and wonder where he is and who he is with, but not as often these past few weeks.
“I think I’m just going to see what it is, and whatever that is, I’m ready for it.”
“Good girl.”
<
br /> “And I still have bourbon at home, right?”
He laughs. “Would I leave my wife without an ample supply of brown goods?” The three of us are in and out of each other’s apartments and pantries and fridges like the gang on Friends, but we do try and not completely deplete someone’s stash.
“No, my husband, you would not.”
“If nothing else, Emily gets here next week, so that will be good.”
“That will be great. Except she’s bringing the hellbeast with her.” My spring reunion with Schatzi was much as I would have expected. She bit me twice, shat in my suitcase, and ate one of my shoes.
“Well, you could always make yeast rolls . . .”
The bell rings promptly at seven. I take a deep breath, steel my shoulders, and open it. Liam is wearing dark jeans, and an untucked white linen button-down shirt, with the sleeves rolled up.
“Hi,” he says.
“Hi.”
“Shall we?”
“Of course.”
He opens the door of a brand-new, red Ford F-150, which makes me smile. “Thought you should be the first one to ride in her, since I know how you love that new-car smell.” He grins.
“Of course. I’m flattered.” This cuts the tension a bit, and I settle in. We talk about the new project, we talk about the Mannings, he catches me up on the doings at MacMurphy. Apparently Disco Barbie finally snagged Murph, and they are getting married at the end of the year. We drive around for about fifteen minutes before Liam stops the car and parks. I look up. We’re in front of the Palmer house. I’ve walked and driven by now and again since I moved out, but I try not to go that way. Jacob says the new owner is very happy, which makes me happy, but I asked him not to tell me anything else; there is something about it that still stings. I know I’ll probably meet them eventually, since apparently they have become friendly with Jacob, but he and Hedy know better than to discuss it with me or try to arrange a get-together.
Recipe for Disaster Page 44