“Marcy, it isn’t that simple, not on either end. Shawn went through some stuff that changed his mind on a lot of fundamental big issues, and that really pulled the rug out from under Lynne. I love Shawn, and I believe he is in a much different, more settled place now than he was when they were together, that he isn’t the same guy who did those things to her. But I also have to recognize that he is a person with faults, like all of us, and the end of their marriage was not one-sided. I believe that he handled a lot of things very badly in that relationship, that they both did, and all I can do is hope that the person I believe him to be today is in part because he learned hard lessons from that relationship ending the way it did. But it doesn’t make it okay, his part of things. And it doesn’t make it all Lynne’s fault either.”
“Okay, maybe, but she has to see how happy you are. That should count for something.”
“I think it does. She is trying, Marce, I know she is, and when she falters I have to give her space to do that. I appreciate your protectiveness. Your points are duly noted.”
But her points didn’t really sink in until I was lying in bed, thinking about today and how Shawn and I had the exact same idea about how to celebrate Valentine’s Day. How I feel like I’m the best version of myself when we’re together and how happy he makes me. He’s been a champ about letting the whole Lynne thing lie, hasn’t said anything except that he was glad she and I had cleared the air and that he hoped it would all be okay with some time. And he hasn’t made one negative reference about her since. I haven’t told him about the little comments and snipes from Lynne, no point in poking the bear. I do wish he were a bit more forthcoming about the whole marriage thing, especially now that we know the connection. Four years is not such a long time, and I know that people can change a lot, but Lynne’s warnings didn’t fall on completely deaf ears. She said he was perfect, perfect for their six months of dating before they got married, perfect for the first six months of the marriage. And then it all went sideways really fast. A year of great and then a year of slow slide to over. He’s never really acknowledged his part in it, never owned any of the end. That doesn’t exactly sit easy with me.
My mom texts that she is on her way to pick me up, and I head to the fridge and pack up the food I prepped last night. There is curried chicken salad with grapes and walnuts, and small homemade rolls to make sandwiches, along with some pickled onions to perk up the combination. Israeli couscous salad with cucumber, tomato, feta, kalamata olives, parsley, and mint. A bag of chips, a batch of Glenn’s favorite brownies, and a small bag of tiny clementines. I toss Simca a bully stick and get into my parka, since in true Chicago fashion, despite the brittle and bright sunshine, it is about four degrees out there. My mom honks, and I head out with the cooler bag.
“You should talk to Glenn about Shawn,” she says when I mention Lynne’s grits comment.
“Why?”
“Because no one knows more than he does about interracial relationships. If what Lynne said bothered you enough to tell me about it, you might want to unpack that for yourself. After all, you haven’t met his family yet; he might have some words of wisdom on that. I know it’s coming up and you want it to go well. And you said yourself that the few of his friends you’ve met so far have mostly been white. Maybe it is something of an issue, even a subconscious one, and it is just not on the front burner yet. Maybe it will never be an issue. Wouldn’t hurt to be a little bit prepared, just in case not everyone in the world is going to accept you happily.”
“Hadn’t thought about that. Maybe, if it comes up organically. I also don’t want to spend Valentine’s lunch with Glenn waxing on about my new love when it is his first one without Helene.”
“He’s thrilled for you.”
“Oh, is he?”
“He and I talk about you all the time, and he’s delighted to know that you have found someone you like, and wants to meet him. You’ll see, he’ll bring it up way before you do.”
Sigh. I suppose I can’t begrudge her talking to Glenn about me. After all, besides dead spouses, I’m the other thing they have in common.
We pull up in front of Glenn’s house, and I get the cooler bag out of the trunk.
“Now, this is every man’s dream! Two beautiful women bringing him delicious food and good company.” He comes out of the house to carry the bag for me, giving us each a kiss on the cheek. We head into the kitchen, and I start getting out serving platters and bowls for the food. Easy to do since I helped Glenn reorganize his kitchen to make better sense for him, so I know where everything is. Glenn has already set the table, and he and my mom set about pouring water and iced tea, all the while chatting easily. I set all the food up as a buffet on the kitchen island and call them in.
“Now, this is a true feast!” Glenn says. “Thank you, my dear, for all the hard work. You could have just picked up some sandwiches.”
“And still sleep at night? Never! It goes against everything I stand for,” I say in mock seriousness as we all fill our plates and head to the table.
“To two of the finest women I have ever known, thank you for coming to keep me company.” Glenn raises his iced tea glass to us, and we all toast.
“How are you doing today?” my mom asks him, taking a small bite of the couscous salad.
“Pretty well, all things considered. I’m lucky—Helene never really liked Valentine’s Day that much, always said that we didn’t need the chocolate companies to tell us when and how to be romantic, so it wasn’t something that we really celebrated. Sometimes we would get each other a card, the more over-the-top and sappy the better, but there were a lot of years we would sort of ignore it completely.”
“That’s good,” I say.
“Indeed,” my mom says. “Eloise’s dad was a sucker for Valentine’s Day, he would go all out. The first couple without him were really hard.”
“I bet. I suppose it is all just a series of tests, the holidays and birthdays, the little moments that remind us of who’s missing,” Glenn says. “We’re lucky to have friends and family around us to help us get through.”
“How is your family?” I ask, remembering their good intentions and annoying results around the funeral.
“My family is fine. Fairly absent, to be honest. They are all really good at rallying around in the moment of crisis, but once they go back to their regular lives, they sort of disappear. To be fair, I’m not really disappointed—there is only so much time you want to spend with people who think you are broken.”
“Oh, Lord, the head tilters!” my mom says. “For months and months, everyone you meet tilts their head to one side and furrows their brows and asks full of concern how you are holding up. The worst!”
“Exactly!” Glenn says. “My family is all those people. Every conversation is about reminding you how awful and sad you are supposed to be. God forbid you are having a fairly good day.”
“Right! It’s like, maybe ask me what I’m doing or how my work is going, what I’ve been reading or watching on TV or if I have any travel plans coming up. I’ve got plenty of times when the blues get me, no need to elicit them specifically.” My mom laughs.
“Well, I’m a luckier man than most, for whatever failings my well-meaning family has in that area, Helene’s family makes up for it. Her brothers keep taking me to sporting events and action flicks and to hear music, the women keep sending food and inviting me to dinners, and everyone is just utterly normal with me. They tell some of the old Helene stories, but nothing is ever morose or wallowing.”
“It’s wonderful that her family is so welcoming of you. Was it always that way?” My mom is opening a door on my behalf and it feels ham-handed and obvious, and I can feel the blush start.
Glenn chews a bite of his sandwich thoughtfully. “Pretty much. Don’t forget, it was the seventies when Helene and I got together, and she was the baby of the family—her siblings had already brought
home something of a United Nations of boyfriends and girlfriends. Helene’s previous boyfriend had been black, and something of a tool, so I think they were just relieved that I was a nice guy and treated her with kindness and respect. Plus, this is Chicago. The most important thing is that I was also a South Sider and a Sox fan!”
We laugh, since in this town, neighborhood and team affiliation often do trump other factors when it comes to community bonding.
“I assume you are trepidatious about meeting Shawn’s family?” Glenn says. “I hope you don’t mind, your mother has been sharing some of your joy with me. I’m enormously delighted for you.”
“Yeah, she mentioned that she told you. And yes, Shawn’s folks are coming back from their winter place at the end of March and we are going to do a dinner with his parents to meet. Then I’m spending Easter with them to meet the rest of the extended family.”
“Nerve-wracking under the best of circumstances, but potentially made more awkward by cultural differences?” He nods at me sympathetically.
“Something like that. Also, I have no practice in any of it. I met the parents of a couple of boyfriends in high school and college, but to be honest, Shawn is only the second real relationship of my adult life.”
My mom reaches over and squeezes my hand. Slowly, tentatively, I’ve shared with her a little bit about Bernard and what happened. She has been really wonderful and supportive.
“Well, my dear, I will tell you what Helene told me before she brought me home. Be yourself. Do not alter, change, adjust, or in any way be anything other than who you are. Because two things are true: People can smell pandering and obsequiousness from a mile away, so anything you might do or say to try and bond on a cultural level will come across as disingenuous. And second, remember that this man fell in love with who you are, and they love him and want him to be happy, so by being your true self you are letting them see the person he loves.”
“That is beautiful advice,” my mom says.
“Thank you for that. It makes me feel better,” I say, and it does. It is still a shock to me that who I am is the kind of person that Shawn could fall in love with, but he makes me feel so safe in that love that slowly I’m coming around to the idea that I’m worthy of it. I know that Glenn is right, you can’t bond with people by attempting to force cultural connections.
“You’re a wonderful girl, Eloise dear. Shawn’s family will love you because Shawn loves you, just as Helene’s family loves me because she loved me. Embrace your differences, let them be funny instead of fraught, and trust that these people raised the man who fell in love with you, so unless he is telling you that they aren’t going to be comfortable, trust in that.” Glenn grins at me.
I smile back at him and start clearing the plates. I load them quickly into the dishwasher and get the platter of brownies out to the table, then return to the kitchen to make coffee as my mom and Glenn chat.
As I wait for the machine to finish brewing, watching the dark liquid slowly fill the pot, I think about Glenn and Helene and everything they shared, the life they made together. And while his advice on how to handle meeting Shawn’s family is good and makes me feel better, it doesn’t fully alleviate my nerves. Because I know that Shawn is close to his family and if I want to stay with him, getting their approval is going to be essential. As much as Shawn makes me believe in his feelings for me, I’m still not so convinced that what he sees is going to be at all apparent to his family. Putting race and religion aside, who am I, really? I’m not particularly accomplished or successful, however financially stable. I know they won’t think I’m a gold digger, but will they think I’m a good match for him? I have such a small little life. A little family, few friends, one of whom is his ex-wife. How does that look to people who want the best for their son?
I shake off the doubt; I’ve still got a few weeks to go. And suddenly it occurs to me. The bet. Since the bet I’ve got some hobbies and outside interests, and I’m working on my cookbook proposal, which shows some career ambition. Maybe, just maybe, this silly bet might be the thing that helps me be the kind of complete person that makes a decent impression. Who’d have thought?
• • •
It’s like a cloud,” Shawn says, digging into the soufflé.
“I know,” I say, drizzling more crème anglaise into the crater I made in the center. “Old-school, but classic for a reason.”
“Damn, that is so good,” he says, rolling his eyes.
The whole meal has been spectacular, in no small part because we are good together in the kitchen. I stirred the risotto while he seared the steak. I made the salad dressing while he prepped the salad greens. He whipped the egg whites while I made the pistachio base. We operate in the kitchen like a well-oiled machine, which isn’t always true of couples. Cooking well and easily together? It isn’t instinctive and can’t be taught. I’ve always been something of a loner in the kitchen, no surprise there, but I love cooking with Shawn.
We finish the soufflé and clean up the dishes, Shawn sneaking bits of steak to Simca at every possible moment. When the dishwasher is loaded and running, I pour us each a short calvados, and Shawn takes my hand and leads me out to the living room.
“I have something for you,” he says, once I’m seated. “Stay right there.”
He heads for the back door, so that he can go out to his car, which is parked next to mine in my garage. I sip the calvados, feeling its wonderful burn settling my stomach after the rich meal. I reach behind the couch cushion and pull out the small box that I hid there for him, and place it on the table. I hear the back door open again, and Shawn calls out to me. “Close your eyes!”
I shut them dutifully and hear him approach and the sound of something heavy landing on the coffee table. Then the weight of him sitting down.
“Okay, you can open them.”
On the table is a large red bag covered in silver hearts, with silver and pink tissue spilling out of the top.
“Oh, Shawn! It’s wonderful!”
“Well, let’s hope you think so when you open it!”
I pull the tissue out of the top and look inside, and there is what appears to be a small silver metal suitcase. I lift it out of the bag. It is surprisingly heavy.
“What in the world?” I ask, unlatching the case and lifting the lid. My breath catches.
“You didn’t.”
Shawn grins. “I did. Did I do okay?”
My eyes fill with tears. “You did perfect. Thank you so much.” Inside the case is the complete set of Copic drawing markers, over three hundred colors. I had shown Shawn some of the illustrations I’ve been working on for the cookbook proposal, and he really loved them.
“I went to the art supply store and asked what someone doing your kind of work would really love, and the guy said that this would be the end-all, be-all.”
I throw my arms around his neck. “It is the most perfect thing.” I love that it isn’t jewelry or a spa gift card or flowers or anything expected for the Hallmark holiday. I love that it isn’t something to do with cooking, which is everyone’s go-to for gifts when you are a chef. It is the kind of gift that is a double whammy, first for its extravagance—I can’t begin to imagine how insanely expensive this kit was—but mostly, because it means he sees me. It isn’t something I mentioned wanting; he just knows me, knows how much I’m enjoying making the illustrations for the cookbook, knows that this is just the sort of luxury I would never indulge in for myself.
“I’m so glad you like it. I’m still new at this whole gift-giving thing.” He laughs. “But I swear I didn’t call Lawrence this time!”
“You did perfect. I’m afraid mine is a little bit small by comparison.” I hand over the box, my stomach doing flip-flops. I’m taking an enormous risk, and I know that it could backfire, but like Shawn, I’m going with my own impulses, right or wrong, and if there are consequences, I have to be prepared
to suffer them. If I’m going to live a bigger, fuller life, I have to own my feelings and not shy away from them.
Shawn pulls the ribbon and opens the lid of the box. He looks down, and then looks into my eyes, face serious. “Are you sure?”
I nod. “Yes.” In the box is a set of keys to my house and an opener for my garage. “I love you, Shawn, and I trust you.”
His face breaks into a huge smile. He leans forward, taking my face in his hands. “I love you, Eloise Kahn.” And then he kisses me right into my bones, pulling me tightly against him, and I know that letting him in, to my life, my heart, my home, is both the bravest and the best thing I’ve ever done.
Nineteen
I check on the chickens, which are spinning in the oven on the rotisserie spit. I do love these Gaggenau ovens; they have all the bells and whistles. I’ve got a pan of fingerling potatoes with shallots and lemon underneath the chickens, soaking up all the delicious chicken juices and fat and crisping up beautifully. The first sweet asparagus of spring, thin as pencils and tender enough to eat raw, are prepped in the steamer, for last-minute cooking. And on the counter, a tall chocolate cake with billowy, vanilla-scented frosting, Ian’s favorite. The whole meal is for him. Today he’s at the callbacks for America’s Junior SuperChef, and the production team requested the whole family be present for some background interviews, which makes me very hopeful about his prospects. In the meantime, this meal will be exactly what he will want, whatever happens, whether he wants celebration or comfort. And it is nice to have a quiet afternoon to cook and think.
How to Change a Life Page 24