Cook the Books

by Jessica

  EIGHT

  DURING the next week, I divided my time equally between school and Kyle’s notes—or an effort to make sense of them, anyway. My classes this semester were slightly better than they’d been the previous year, mostly because I had more electives this term than ever before. I’d chosen my classes with an eye for ones that would irritate me as little as possible. It amazed me that no one from my graduate school had shown up at my place to demand that I immediately remove myself from the program. Since I was far from the model social-work student, I did my best not to call attention to myself, lest the dean expel me for failure to show even the slightest hint of enthusiasm for my impending profession.

  I blamed my lack of militant devotion on my dead uncle Alan, who had inserted an infuriating clause into his will that made my inheritance contingent on the completion of a graduate program. Any graduate program. I could hear his desperation from the grave. I found it mildly insulting that my uncle had thought so little of my professional drive that he’d had to manipulate me into pursuing higher education. Having chosen social work on a whim, I’d regretted the choice almost every day since. My few bursts of interest had been short lived. I’d made few friends at school, undoubtedly because my fellow students smelled my loathing for social work. Also, I consistently failed to show up at the state house for various protests, and I avoided letter-writing “parties” where I was expected to devote hours to composing thoughtful or irate letters to senators and representatives. I refused to study in the library, which I entered only when necessary and which I fled as soon as possible. I could practically hear my classmates groan when I was assigned to one of their study groups, since I was unable to speak passionately about topics such as narrative therapy and ethics in medical settings.

  My dissatisfaction increased when an Internet search revealed that instead of enduring the classes that I hated, I could have enrolled at what were probably nonexistent universities that offered interestingly titled online courses that would have required no interaction with anyone: “You Can’t Make Me! Highly Effective Treatments for Resistant Clients” and “Can We Meet at Starbucks? Clients and Ethical Issues.” I loved the idea of courses with dialogue in the titles, but my school offered no such inspiring classes. As I hated to admit, there were, however, elements of school that I enjoyed. Granted, most of my courses this semester had generic, meaningless names like “Working Across Boundaries” and “Using Theories in Social Work.” Consisting as it did of vague concepts, the content of the courses made it easy to write essays. But I did enjoy some of my studies. My class on attachment had been quite interesting, and the class on working with individuals was coming in handy at my internship at the mental health center, so there were moments when I didn’t cuss out my program. Not many moments! But a few. Still, my strategy was to keep my head down and barrel ahead as I awaited the arrival of my May graduation. As much as I disliked school, I also couldn’t accept doing poorly, so I busted my hump to get good grades.

  As for my job, I stayed up late every night that week working on Kyle’s box of chicken-scratch writing. Touched by his desperate desire to present the evidence of capable work to his famous father, I dutifully transcribed all of his notes and recipes, and I spent an excessive amount of time converting scrawled bits of chef interviews into coherent paragraphs. The file on my computer was growing, but it was nowhere near close to being book length. At the end of every day, I e-mailed Kyle the number of hours I had worked. On Friday afternoon, when I received an overnighted envelope with a check made out to me from Hank Boucher’s office, I blinked and read the amount again. I hadn’t added up my hours in my head, but the number was much bigger than I’d expected.

  At seven o’clock on that same Friday night, I took the T and went to meet Kyle at the Italian restaurant he’d chosen, Contadino’s. It was so cold out that I was glad I’d worn my puffy down parka, but why I’d bought a white parka was beyond me. I should’ve known that it would have a one- in-six-million chance of staying white for long. But the cute fake-fur collar had suckered me in. Standing outside the restaurant, I crossed my arms to stay warm and stared in the window at a neon sign that beckoned me to come in and try the AL YOU CAN EAT P ST . So the sign was missing a few letters. That was okay. And the dirty windows could be cleaned. Despite the frumpy exterior, the place deserved a shot; it was exactly the kind of hole- in-the-wall that might serve up fantastic fare. The door squeaked loudly as I entered what honesty forces me to call the ratty restaurant. I cringed at the worn carpet and red pleather booths. Plastic leather would’ve been bad enough. But pleather with rips? I joined Kyle, who was already seated at one of the booths. Except for Kyle and one table of rowdy, drunk college kids, the place was empty.

  Kyle stood to greet me. I had dressed casually tonight, but Kyle was wearing one of his requisite suits, this one dark brown with a red patterned tie.

  “Hi, Kyle,” I said as I slid into the booth. “Have you been waiting long?”

  “Nope, I just got here myself,” he said.

  A waitress walked by and tossed menus onto the table without pausing to see whether we wanted drinks. I eyed her suspiciously and picked up one of the laminated menus. It took only a quick skim to see that the dishes were typical of many old- school Italian restaurants: lots of pasta with a few sauce and meat options, piccata this, Parmesan that. Still, I resolved not to judge the food until it was served. After all, this unpromising dump could be the source of the most flavorful red sauce in Boston. I did, however, decide not to risk ordering seafood. The odds felt good that the kitchen was hideously unsanitary, and I didn’t happen to have a craving for rotten mussels. Our disgruntled waitress eventually stooped to taking our order, but she managed to act positively put out by our presence and annoyed at us for wanting something to eat—in a restaurant, of all places.

  “So how is your friend Adrianna doing?” Kyle asked as he moved to take a drink from his water glass. “Have you two been friends for a long time?”

  “Don’t drink that,” I said, touching his wrist. “The glass is dirty.”

  Kyle peered at his water and frowned. “Indeed it is.” A large glob of some dark substance clung to the inside of the glass. He set it down and pushed it to the center of the table.

  “Adrianna is doing well. I’ve hardly seen her this week, though, since I’ve been so busy with school and the cookbook work. But we’ve known each other since high school, so we each understand when the other gets bogged down with life. The poor girl has been so tired, of course, because of Patrick. I don’t think she was prepared for how stressful being a parent is.”

  Kyle nodded. “Well, she doesn’t show it. Does her husband, Owen, help out much?”

  “Sure. It’s a rough time for him with work, though. He gets up at about four thirty in the morning to get the seafood orders for his restaurants, and then he isn’t home again until five or so. Sometimes later if people call because they ran out of tuna or forgot to order scallops or something. And his income is dependent on the market, of course. He determines the price for what he sells, and there’s only so much he can raise the cost of fish. Sometimes he makes only pennies per pound on some items. Oh, and he pays for his gas, too. It’s a rough business, but some weeks are better than others. And his schedule is really good. He’s at home with Ade and Patrick every night.”

  “He must be exhausted, though, when he comes home.”

  “True, but at least he has a regular job now. This is much better than the puppeteer phase.”

  Kyle laughed. I admired the small dimples that appeared on his cheeks. “Well,” he said, “Patrick is adorable. He must be good company for Adrianna, huh?”

  “That bundle of baby yumminess is more amazing than I could have imagined. I knew that I’d be loopy about my best friend’s baby, but I had no idea how deeply attached I’d become. And so quickly. He’s only three months old, but I can’t imagine not having him in the world.” I thought about my class on attachment and about how important a
nd meaningful our familial, romantic, and friendship attachments were. I knew how strong my attachment to Patrick was, how innate it felt and how uncomplicated it was. Since Patrick was Adrianna’s son, she must have magnified versions of those same feelings. “I know he’s only a baby, and I’m not his mother, but I can’t help feeling that he and I have a truly special bond. There’s just something magical that takes over when I’m with him.”

  Kyle nodded and looked at me with kindness in his eyes. “I could see that when I came to your house the other day. He’s very lucky to have you in his life, Chloe.”

  When the waitress brought our food, I managed to refrain from wrinkling my nose at the glob of thick spaghetti slathered with lumpy Alfredo sauce. Kyle looked equally horrified by his chicken Marsala. A few small bites of our food confirmed that some of the time, looks are not deceiving.

  Kyle rested his fork on his plate and shut his eyes, laughing softly. “Okay, this restaurant has officially been cut from the list of possibilities for the cookbook.”

  “You think?” I asked with a grin.

  “Let’s get out of here.” Kyle didn’t bother getting a check for our pathetic meal. He stood up and threw some cash on the table. “This meal isn’t worth deducting as a business expense,” he joked.

  Kyle held the door open for me as we exited into the busy scene in Kenmore Square. The college kids were out in full force, and groups of laughing students brushed past us on their way to the bars. Kyle offered to walk me to my car, but I’d taken the T. Public transportation was easy for me because the C Line ran right into Cleveland Circle, which was only a few blocks from my place.

  “I’m not letting you ride home with all these drunken idiots,” Kyle said as he waved his arm around us. “A pretty girl like you would be fending off ogling frat boys the whole way home. Come on. I’ll give you a ride.” He flashed me a sexy smile and held his arm out for me. “Madame? Or should I say, signora?”

  “Ugh,” I groaned. “No Italian right now, please!” I looped my arm through his and let him escort me to his car.

  I stared at Kyle as he drove us down Beacon Street toward Boston College and listened to him ramble about other restaurants we could try. He really was good looking and genuine and . . . well, normal. Plus, he drove a badass Audi with leather seats and a kickin’ sound system. I let my focus drift over his body and admired his solid chest and narrow waist. When I worked my gaze back up to his arms, I wondered what sort of defined muscles might be lurking under that suit of his. His lips were full and sort of . . .

  “Chloe?”

  “Yes?” I whispered a bit too breathlessly.

  “This is your turn, right?”

  “My turn?”

  “To your house.” Kyle pointed to a street sign.

  “Oh. Yes, that’s it.” As we drove up the side street, I fidgeted nervously and flipped my hair over my shoulder twice.

  Kyle pulled up to the curb and set the car in park. “Sorry dinner didn’t go as planned, but I’ll make it up to you. You pick the next restaurant, okay?” He touched his hand to my arm and smiled.

  I held his look. We were having a moment! I could feel it! “I had a great time,” I said in a voice that I hoped was steamy and seductive. “I really did.” With no forethought, I leaned awkwardly across the gearshift and flung my arms around Kyle’s neck. I touched the back of his head with my fingers as I pressed myself against him. I inhaled. He smelled like the icky Italian restaurant, but I couldn’t fault him for that, especially because I must’ve smelled the same way. I was making my first move since Josh. And it felt wonderful! I was moving on, charming new men, and leading an exciting single life! I buried my head in his neck and then kissed him softly there, letting my tongue tease him. Kyle patted my back, slowly at first, and then suddenly with great urgency. Well, I thought, this is an odd way to show affection, but rapid back-patting was apparently Kyle’s way of encouraging me, of letting me know that he was responding to my sexy neck-kissing move.

  “Oh! Plowee!” Kyle’s voice sounded weirdly muffled and frantic.

  I yanked myself away. My winter jacket had puffed up around my shoulders and was pressing against his face. I was suffocating the man!

  “Sorry! Sorry about that!” I stammered as I fumbled with my seatbelt. “So, so sorry!” I yanked repeatedly on the door handle, willing the stupid thing to open and free me from further embarrassment. “What’s wrong with the door? It won’t open!” I pounded my shoulder against it just as Kyle hit the unlock button, and as the door flew open, I lurched violently to the right. Amazingly, I caught myself, dangled precariously over the curb, and held still, possibly in hope of finding a graceful way to make a recovery. But there was none. I waved my left hand in Kyle’s direction, and he grabbed hold and pulled me upright. I did my best to compose myself and appear relaxed. “Well, thank you for dinner. I’ll call you in the next few days with an update on the cookbook progress. Good night.” I beamed idiotically and stepped out of the car.

  “Chloe, it’s okay,” Kyle called after me. He rolled down his window and continued talking. “You don’t have to be embarrassed. Please, come back.”

  I waved as I crossed the street. “Of course not. Everything is fine!” I said with a chipper ring in my voice. “Talk to you soon!” I tried to stroll casually to the front door, but my body wouldn’t listen, and I practically ran up the walkway. What the hell is wrong with me? I unlocked the front door and stomped angrily up the stairs to the third floor. I am a sex-starved lunatic who just molested and nearly asphyxiated my boss. I opened the door to my condo, yanked off my stupid puffy coat, and hurled it across the living room, startling Inga and Gato, who went running for the bedroom. “Sorry,” I muttered. “I’m having an off night, okay, kitties?”

  I stormed into the kitchen. It took more than humiliation to kill my appetite; I was hungry. I pushed food around in the fridge and assessed what I had to work with. Aha, perfect. I pulled out a hydroponic tomato that I’d paid a fortune for, some heavy cream, an egg, and grated Parmesan cheese. I turned on the oven and then sliced the top off the tomato, scooped out the pulp, and flipped the tomato upside down onto a paper towel. I sat in a chair and stared at the tomato while it drained.

  I was totally annoyed with myself. What had possessed me to fling myself at Kyle like that? Furthermore, what was up with that weird neck thing I’d done? Who does that? Obviously I’d been reading too many of those vampire romance books. Stupid Stephenie Meyer. Well, reading about vampires was going to stop immediately. Who knew what more I was capable of? One more vampire read, and I might actually have bitten Kyle. I dropped my head into my hands and shook my stupid skull back and forth. I’ll just pretend this never happened, I thought. The next time I see Kyle, I’ll behave like a completely normal, nonfreakish employee.

  I turned the tomato upright and set it into a small baking dish. I broke the egg into the tomato, poured in a spoonful of cream, and then topped the cream with some of the grated Parmesan. In twenty minutes the egg would be set and I’d have a hot, comforting meal to soothe my frazzled nerves. And the tub of Friendly’s Forbidden Chocolate in the freezer wouldn’t hurt, either. Ah, food.

  NINE

  AFTER attacking Kyle Boucher, the least I could do was devote my Saturday to his cookbook. Gastronomic repentance, I suppose. My success in pulling the book together would prove that I was not some basket case, but a skilled assistant. Besides, the hefty paycheck I’d just received was no small motivator. Even if my bizarre display of affection had spoiled any chance of a relationship with Kyle, I could still whip through the cookbook and rake in some money.

  Easier said than done. I frowned at the computer screen as I scrolled down my rough and incomplete draft of the table of contents. The worst problem was the existence of substantial gaps in some categories and an overabundance of material in others. Twenty-six soups and only four desserts? And five different recipes for roast chicken. Five? I like a good roast chicken as much as the next person, b
ut the recipes were nearly identical. I made a note to delete four and to keep my favorite, the simple salt-crusted chicken that was bound to taste fantastic, judging from the aroma emanating from my kitchen. It had taken me all of six minutes to rub the chicken with olive oil, salt, and pepper, stuff it with rosemary and basil, and then cover it with coarse salt. When it was done, I’d break off the salt crust and dive in. The need to test the recipes provided a good excuse to try out some of the more delicious-sounding ones. Plus, the chef who’d been the source of this recipe had actually taken the time to write a coherent list of ingredients and clear directions. Most chefs were impossible. One recipe I’d tackled earlier this morning was for an Asian-style hotpot that would serve sixty people. Sixty! I’d never heard of half of the ingredients, and the instructions were confusing. Chefs just didn’t seem to understand that the rest of us lacked their inherent brilliance in the kitchen; we needed to be told what to buy and what to do.

  Kyle and I would have to get new recipes for the short-changed categories in the cookbook, and we’d have to avoid getting yet more duplicate and triplicate recipes, but I hated to sound picky and bossy in asking chefs for the favor of sharing recipes. We need a beef dish that does not have potatoes or leeks but does have cumin and rutabagas. And no roast chicken! What I needed to do was to browse through a great chef’s recipes and pull out what we needed.

  Digger, I thought with a smile. Digger had had recipes. If I could find them, if they hadn’t burned with the building, we could include them in the book as a wonderful tribute to him. Plus, Digger cooked damn well. No one would imagine that including him in the book was an act of pity. Ellie would probably like the idea as much as I did. I even had the feeling that, in spite of her grief, she’d be pleased to have Digger gain the posthumous celebrity.