He pointed at the piece of tiramisu still sitting on the coffee table. Its fluffy cream accentuated the tender form of the espressosoaked lady fingers. Jackie kicked herself forward, grabbed a plastic fork, and dove in.
“This is decadent,” she said, offering some to Anthony. He waved it away. “So . . . have you seen the girls? Doris or anybody?”
Anthony raised an eyebrow. Mysteriously, he said, “Doris or anybody might have just saved the restaurant. I don’t want you to get your hopes up but you really need to come in and see for yourself.”
“No,” Jackie said, eating a big hunk of the tiramisu. “Not going to happen.”
Anthony got up and went over to his bed. He flopped down and wrapped himself in those faded sheets that smelled like old Tide. From the bedside table, he picked up the necklace Gabe had given him, letting the gold star glimmer in the lamplight.
“How is our elusive little Gabe?” Jackie asked. Anthony snorted, the sound very brief, very New York.
“As elusive as ever,” Anthony said. After a long moment, he added, “I miss home.”
“New York?” Jackie said, surprised. For all the information he’d managed to drag out of her in the past week, Anthony had told her next to nothing about where he was from or why he’d left.
“New Brunswick,” Anthony clarified. “It’s a train ride away but I’m still a New Yorker. In every fiber of my being, I’m a New Yorker.”
Anthony narrated the sour smell of the hotdog vendors, the sweet scent of cinnamon nuts, that constant hum of energy and vibration of the subway underfoot. He told her about his home; the din of his father talking back to the television, the silence of his mother reading her Harlequin novels.
“Ma’s been calling me lately,” Anthony admitted. “She keeps reminding me there’s love for me back at home.”
“What’s your mother like?” Jackie asked, sipping at her tea.
Anthony explained his mother had a big heart, was the type to include all the kids in their New Brunswick neighborhood, no matter what. She provided grape Popsicles for the summers and mint cocoas in the winter and had a soft spot for kids from rough families. She had spent more than one afternoon counseling bullies, convincing them to stay for dinner instead of going back to their troubled homes. Anthony’s closest friends ended up being those tough kids, thanks to his mother. By the time they were all teens and everyone could see that he was gay, Anthony already had a group that would protect him, no matter what.
“She was smart, you see,” he said, running his hand over his fuzzy head. “When I told my parents my big secret, Ma just laughed and said they’d known since I was five, mesmerized by the makeup counter at the corner store.”
“She sounds wonderful,” Jackie said, eyes shining. She had always wondered what it would be like to have a mother.
Stretching his legs to the ceiling, Anthony let his dancer’s feet move in a slow jig through the shadows on the ceiling. In the silver moonlight, Jackie watched his perfect performance, imagining an audience of twelve hundred, tapping their toes and bobbing their heads.
“Why did you leave?” Jackie asked.
“A stupid boy broke my heart,” Anthony said, dropping his legs with a flop. “We started dating when we were both starting out as actors. We were starting out. When he booked Broadway, he threw me in the Dumpster like last year’s playbill.”
After five years together, Lance hadn’t even been creative about how he’d ended it. He had breezed into their coffee shop at Broadway and Sixteenth in a tight leather coat, his hair pulled back into a slick ponytail. Ordering a chamomile tea with honey to protect his (shitty) voice, Lance had sung, “It’s not you, it’s me.” Anthony had just nodded, stuffing a brownie into his mouth.
“I hopped the first Amtrak out of New York and headed straight for Chicago.” Anthony sighed. “I sat next to an old man who smelled like Swiss cheese and chewed on sunflower seeds the whole time. The whole time.”
“You know, my dear . . .” Jackie said. “If Gabe wrote a good play, all you’d have to do is get it to New York and get it on Broadway and you could tell Lance to kiss your sexy little ass.”
Anthony laughed, clapping his hands. “Wouldn’t that be fun?” The two friends sat in silence for a long moment, caught up in their fantasies. Finally, Jackie set down her teacup. After washing the teacups and silverware in the tiny porcelain sink, she went and got ready for bed.
Settling into the warm blankets on the futon, the lamp clicked off and the steam heater hissing, Anthony said, “Jackie? Everything’s going to be okay. I just want you to know that.”
After what seemed like a lifetime of silence, Jackie said, “Anthony, you can’t even begin to know how long I’ve waited for someone to say that.”
Resting her head on her pillow, Jackie fell into a safe, deep sleep.
Chapter Forty-seven
STAN SAT LIKE A STONE IN THE COURTROOM. TRYING NOT TO LOOK over at him, Cheryl took a seat in her straight-backed wooden chair. She adjusted her skirt and positioned herself gingerly, wondering if the chairs were a form of punishment from Puritan times and trying not to jostle the cargo in her belly.
Cheryl hadn’t even started to show but she was surprised to find herself consistently excited. Until now, children had bugged her. She had never planned on having any and her attitude had always been an issue between her and Sean. He wanted a soccer team; she wanted box seats at the game. Thinking of Sean, she finally got up the nerve to take a look at Stan. After all, her former boss had spent more time with her than her ex-husband.
She was surprised to see that Stan’s face looked pinched and drawn. Cheryl wondered how many all-nighters he had pulled lately, playing the online poker. Was it even legal anymore? She should ask the judge, just to watch Stan’s fleshy face turn to her, aghast.
Melody had left Stan’s criminality out of their case. She didn’t think they needed it. Now that Cheryl was face-to-face with her former boss, she was happy they’d made that decision. Stan really was a sad sack. For such a successful guy, his very presence filled the room with desperation and failure. Seeing that, Cheryl no longer felt the need to make him suffer.
Stan sneaked a peek at her from the corner of his eye. Raising her hand, Cheryl gave a friendly wave as though they were at one of their racquetball games. But this time, Cheryl wouldn’t be the one who would get hurt.
When the judge called their case, Melody hit the floor running. The judge was a woman and sat listening with eyes half-closed, her chin in her hand. When Melody brought up the lunches Cheryl was forced to attend at Hooters, the woman sat up straight. “We’re not suing for sexual harassment,” Melody assured her. “I just want to paint an accurate portrayal of my client’s work life at TurnKey.” From that moment on, the judge sniffed at various statements, including how much money Cheryl had brought in for the company. Once the hard-drive report was laid out, the judge didn’t even move to her chamber to deliberate. A trial date was set. Melody slammed down her folder, victorious.
Stan’s skinny lawyer caught up with them in the hall. Cheryl leaned against a wall, enjoying the way the cool tiles seeped through the thin material of her suit. The two lawyers stepped away from her to chat and Cheryl eyed the passersby in the courthouse.
It was interesting—cars were driving by outside the glass windows, security was checking attendants for weapons, kids were hoping their police officer wouldn’t show up to follow through on a contested ticket. Cheryl watched all these different people bustle back and forth. Suddenly, her eyes settled on a tearful, tense couple. Instinctively, Cheryl knew they were here to get a divorce.
“Nice work,” a voice hissed by her ear.
Cheryl’s back stiffened. She turned to face Stan. He let his eyes flicker over her body, per usual.
“Hi, Stan.” Cheryl sighed. “Your breath smells like egg.”
Stan pulled out his trademark cherry ChapStick and smeared it across his fleshy lips.
“Look, we might be able to
come to an arrangement.”
“We’ll see,” Cheryl said.
He rocked back on his heels, looking around in that way of his; always ready to dodge the law. “Look, what is it you want? This is your shot. Door’s open.”
Cheryl’s eyes widened. She had heard that phrase used on clients a billion times before. It meant her former boss was willing to cut a deal. She had seen it so many times with so many people that Cheryl knew, in spite of her lawyer, this was her chance to get what she needed.
“Bob Turner,” she said quickly. “Let him out of his contract and let him come to me.”
Stan shifted from foot to foot. “No surprise there. What else?”
Really? He’d give her more?
“Uh . . . and the fee for our last three years with Fitzgibbon Ale.”
“One.”
“Two.”
“Fine,” Stan scoffed. “Use it to open up your own place. You should have done it years ago anyway.” It was the closest thing to a compliment he’d ever given her. “I still can’t believe you’re a part of that restaurant,” Stan snickered. “I read about it today. You could have knocked me over.”
“What do you mean you just read about it?” Cheryl asked. “It’s old news.”
Stan gave her a funny look. “It’s on the front page of the Weekend Review. Listen, it’s not going to be easy handling that and opening your own firm,” he said, pushing his hands into his pants pockets. “I’m just saying. You both seem to think you can do it better than anyone but I taught you everything you know.”
Cheryl was totally confused. “What do you mean, you both?”
“Andy,” Stan scorned. “The kid left us. Like you didn’t know. He’s opening his own house.”
“What?” Cheryl cried but Stan was done with the conversation. He turned his back on her and then walked over to his lawyer.
Melody listened to what he said, glancing at Cheryl at every other word that came out of Stan’s mouth. Eventually, he slapped his skinny lawyer on the back and walked out of the courthouse. From the way the lawyer’s shoulders drooped before he turned back to Melody, Cheryl knew she’d gotten everything she’d asked for.
There was still one more thing she needed. Cheryl went up to a security guard and tapped him on the shoulder. “Do you know where I can get a copy of the Weekend Review?”
Chapter Forty-eight
JACKIE TOOK A DEEP BREATH, LIFTED HER HAND, AND RAPPED ON George’s office door.
“Come in.” George’s voice was gruff. It was lunchtime, just the time of day George hated to be interrupted, but when he saw Jackie peeking in, he jumped to his feet and rushed forward.
“Jacqueline,” he said, taking her hands like a blind man. “Where have you been? I’ve been calling and calling you. None of the girls knew where you were. I thought you had gone back to Paris.”
“With whose money?” Jackie laughed. “Honestly, George. Your faith in my resources is boundless.”
Jackie took a long look at him. George did indeed look like a man who had been worried for several days. He was even thinner than before, his dark eyebrows adding shadow to the circles under his dark eyes. She smiled.
“It’s nice to see you,” she said.
“Cut the shit, darling,” he said, crossing his arms. “Where have you been?”
Jackie drew back her hands and fluttered over to the leather sofa. Patting the seat next to her, she reached into her purse and pulled out a framed picture. George didn’t budge.
“I don’t bite,” Jackie purred, fluffing her hair. “Come here. I want to show you something.”
George continued to stand there, arms crossed. His jaw was pulsing and his dark eyes were flashing. After a moment, he turned his back on her and started to walk out of the room.
“George, wait,” Jackie cried, leaping to her feet. “I . . . I’m sorry.” He hesitated at the door. Trembling, Jackie said, “I was scared. I didn’t know what to do. My friends hate me, Doris is never going to speak to me again, and I haven’t exactly been honest with you either. But then I opened that gift from Robert, saw this and . . . I just needed some time to think.”
Jackie walked over to George and held out the picture. “Very anticlimactic, I know, but . . .”
George took a brief look and nodded. He handed it back to her. “We look good.”
Without thinking, Jackie reached up and caressed his face. It was soft under her fingertips. George jumped.
“I added a little something to it,” Jackie said. Walking back over to the couch, she pulled out a tiny painting she’d made of the three of them. Shyly, she handed it to George.
It mirrored the picture exactly, down to the moment in the photograph when George had just finished making one of his jokes. Jackie was still hanging on his arm, mouth open with laughter, gazing up at him with her dancing eyes. Robert was the only thing changed. She had painted him as a faded image, a friendly ghost standing off to the side. His hands were still in his pockets and he was watching over them.
George stared at the painting for a long time, visibly moved.
“I want you to have this,” Jackie said softly. “You were Robert’s best friend and he wanted what was best for both of us. I understand that now.”
Jackie’s return to art had been all Anthony’s doing. One night, he’d brought home some painting supplies and left them in the corner, not saying a word. There were brushes, oil paints, and even a blank canvas. Jackie had walked to the bathroom, lathered on a face mask, and put curlers in her hair. She’d walked back out saying, “Ready to watch some TV?” Anthony had sighed and clicked on a movie.
The urge to use the paints didn’t strike her until several days later. Jackie was lying in bed, staring at a wall, unable to shake that image from the photograph from her mind. Finally, she drew herself up and stomped over to the blank canvas. Hours passed. Her mind pulsed as the brushes stealthily transferred the haunting image.
That night, Anthony stopped in the doorway. He hesitated like he’d stumbled on a baby bird. Silently, he came in, took off his coat, and started boiling tea on their hot plate. He placed Jackie’s at her right side, a robust Earl Grey that cooled through the night. Anthony slept peacefully in spite of—or maybe because of—the lamp burning over her easel. As the dawn was starting to break, Jackie set down her brush and reached for her tea. It was cold and went down smooth. When she climbed onto the futon, Jackie was grateful to finally close her eyes and see nothing there.
“Jacqueline, I . . .” George started to say.
“I might be a good artist after all,” Jackie puzzled, eyeing the painting like it had been done by someone else. “You know?”
“Yes.” George chuckled. “You just might be.” He was staring at the painting with reverence. “But we’ve always known that.”
Jackie stood up on wobbly legs and walked to the door. “I’ll be picking up my phone again now,” she said. “So . . . feel free to call.”
DORIS SET DOWN the phone, wringing her hands. According to Gabe, the restaurant was on the front cover of the Weekend Review. She rifled through the papers on the table until she found it. Sure enough, there was a photo of The Whole Package, gleaming in the winter light.
“Who was on the phone?” Doug asked, walking into the kitchen and kissing his wife on the forehead. “Anybody exciting?”
The first time Doug met Gabe at The Whole Package, he took in the perfect body and eight-pack of abs and muttered, “Guess I should go to the gym.” To his credit, Doug never told Doris she couldn’t see him but since her husband had come home, Doris found herself spending less and less time with Gabe.
“Just Gabe,” she said. Taking a deep breath, she held up the Weekend Review. “Look.”
“It’s all because of my wife.” Doug beamed, picking her up and spinning her.
Doris smiled. “No. It wasn’t just because of me.”
The night Doris had a revelation about the restaurant, her mother had visited her in a dream. Doris had fallen
asleep worrying about The Whole Package. Drifting off into sleep, Doris suddenly found herself sitting with her mother at the kitchen table.
“I just don’t understand it,” Doris said, passing her a plate of cookies. “Why is The Package failing?”
“Why do you think?” her mother said. “You designed a restaurant for men.”
“Huh?”
“Men are visual, women are emotional,” her mother explained. “Right now, your restaurant is for men.”
“I . . . I don’t understand,” Doris said, taking her mother’s hand. Half aware she was no longer with her, Doris took a moment to appreciate the fine lines on her mother’s face, the wisdom in her eyes.
“Women want romance, honey,” her mother said. “Your restaurant gives them about as much romance as a one-night stand.”
“You’re right,” Doris blurted out, leaping across the table to hug her. Then, because she knew there was so little time left to say it, Doris squeezed her mother tight and said, “Thanks for everything, Mom. I love you.”
When Doris sat down with Gabe and Anthony, nervous that the dream had just been something sentimental because she missed her mom, Doris tried to downplay her idea. But the moment she repeated what her mother had said in the dream, Anthony practically tap danced his way across the table.
“Exactly,” he said, slapping his chest and pointing his finger at her like that poster of Uncle Sam. “That’s what I was trying to say to Cheryl in that first interview. I knew one of you would figure it out eventually. I knew it.” The flamboyant manager had already pulled out a piece of paper and started partitioning it for lists. “Boy, we have a lot of work to do.”
“Carolyn was here with her boyfriend opening night,” Gabe said. “She said the same thing.”
Carolyn had been at the restaurant with another man? And Gabe didn’t mind?
Doris looked at him in surprise. Gabe gave her a half smile and a shrug. Anthony cleared his throat.
Ah. Suddenly, everything made sense. Gabe was gay and Anthony was his boyfriend, just like her friends had tried to tell her. Thinking back, Doris realized Gabe and Anthony had definitely been kissing that night in her bedroom. Who knows how long that had been going on? Well . . . Doris eyed her new friend . . . Anthony was a great guy. If he made Gabe happy, then so be it. She gave Gabe a smile and a little nod. He smiled back.
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