I nodded. “So are you having another book club tonight?” I loved the idea of him having that group of equally elegant, old-fashioned guests over to shoot the shit.
“Not tonight.” He gave a small smile. “I canceled. Tonight there will be just one guest.”
“Ooooh! Are you divulging details? Who is it?”
He pressed his lips together for a moment, then said, “Terry. We have some very exciting things to discuss. But that’s all I’m going to say. I don’t want to jinx things.”
“I understand.” I didn’t, though, and I totally wanted to. Was Terry a man or a woman? There didn’t seem to be a way to ask that without seeming really nosy and inappropriate.
Which, of course, I was.
He took the shaker to the sink and rinsed it out. It had probably been driving him crazy, sitting there, empty and uncleaned. “Back to your dinner-party-that-wasn’t, what will you do on Friday nights now that you’re not working for the Lemurras?”
“Good question.” I took out ziplock bags I’d brought of diced turkey breast and crisp bacon and made columns of them on a platter. “I have a few prospects, but nothing I feel really good about.” I went to the stove, turned it off, and let the eggs sit to continue cooking until they were hard-boiled.
“There have got to be some nice, normal prospects for you.”
“You’d think. But there are all kinds of difficults out there.” Understatement. “It’s kind of chancy every time you go into someone’s private domain.”
“Indeed. However, if you don’t mind my saying so, I’d feel better if you worked for a woman.”
“But all too often, it’s the women who are the most difficult.” I raised an eyebrow. “Marie Lemurra.”
He nodded, but raised one silver eyebrow knowingly. “Yet less likely to try to impose themselves on you.”
I rolled my eyes. “You’d be surprised how little the men I work for seem to notice me.”
He looked me up and down, but I think he thought I didn’t notice. I just knew he was assessing my current appearance and deciding that I was not only not camera ready, but I was not man ready, either, and he was, in fact, not the least bit surprised that the men I worked for didn’t notice me.
And, really, he was right.
“Stop judging,” I said lightly. “I’m not saying they should be noticing me sexually, only that half the time they bump into me like they’re not even aware there’s another human being in the room.”
Lex waved a hand. “I’m sure that’s an exaggeration.”
“Only a little.”
“You know”—he sighed—“you’d look so pretty with the right clothes.… Let me take you to the store and have a shopper work with you. On the house!”
“I have clothes.” I laughed. The clothes I had probably wouldn’t qualify as clothes to him. “But if you want me to get dressed up to come cook for you, it’s gonna cost you extra.”
He laughed, too. “Now, Gemma, this is starting to sound like an illegal operation.”
“It probably should be. I’d make a lot more money!”
“Naughty, naughty.” He wagged a finger, joking. “Yet so true. I’m going to change my clothes for dinner. Do you need me to do anything here?”
He was the only one of my clients who ever bothered to ask, though I would never have any of them do work in the kitchen when that was what they’d hired me to do. “No, thanks, Lex. You just get ready for your”—I hesitated over the word but said it—“date.” My hope was that he would elaborate, but he didn’t.
“Will do!” was all he said.
I worked alone in the kitchen while he was gone. This was my meditation. I didn’t have the patience to sit for twenty minutes, chanting om in the lotus position twice a day, but I could chop, peel, slice, simmer, and bake for hours in complete silence.
I could also do it with anything from Maroon 5 to the Partridge Family blasting, too. It was the Zen of the action that did it for me, not the distraction or lack thereof.
About twenty-five minutes later, Lex came back, wearing the kind of cigarette slacks Rob Petrie would have worn to dance in his living room on The Dick Van Dyke Show and a crisp pin-striped shirt. He smelled of expensive cologne.
“Do you know,” he said thoughtfully, walking into the kitchen. He went for his drink and took a sip, all the while considering me over the rim. “I have an idea.”
“What’s that?” I peeled and sliced avocados and popped a piece into my mouth. Avocados are one of my weaknesses. Creamy but firm, even plain, they call margaritas, chips, and good times to mind. Fortunately, they are so nutritious that the fat content is pretty much canceled out. I ate one more small piece, wishing I had some Frank’s to drizzle on it, then arranged the rest on the platter.
“If you’re serious about needing another client for Friday nights,” Lex said. “I might have the solution.”
My heart leaped. If Lex had a referral, that would be great. So much better than taking a chance on a complete stranger.
Plus, Lex’s people were always so fun!
“I’m very serious about it,” I said excitedly. “Who do you have in mind?”
He perched on one of the Pottery Barn barstools next to the counter. “Today I was speaking with my niece, Willa, and told her you were coming tonight to do the Cobb salad—which is looking fabulous, by the way—as I was trying to get her out of her house.…”
“And—?”
“And it was a no-go.” He sighed. “Not surprising, really. She hasn’t left in ages. Honestly, I was trying to tempt her here with your food. Anyway, she declined, but actually … she needs a private chef.”
“Really?” How incredibly fortuitous.
“Yes. But…”
There always seemed to be a but.
But she just got out of prison for accidentally hacking her last chef into pieces?
But she likes to eat the meat of domestic animals?
But she’ll have to pay in buttons instead of cash because she’s a little strapped right now?
“But what?” I asked, bracing myself for the answer.
“But she might not agree. I’m thinking about making that particular executive decision for her.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Hiring you to work for her.”
“Wow.” Sounded good to me. “That’s generous of you. All around.”
He looked dubious. “You might not say that when you know all the facts.”
I paused and looked at him. “What are you getting at?”
“She is somewhat … challenging.”
“Challenging in what way, exactly?”
“Well…”
“Come on, Lex. Hit me with it.” I piled the chopped greens into the middle of the platter, then went to the sink to rinse the hard-boiled eggs in cold water.
“It’s the reason she never leaves home, actually. She’s very … heavy.”
“Heavy?”
He nodded gravely. “Yes.”
“You mean she’s into deep, philosophical conversations about being and creation? Or that she’s fat?”
“I don’t like to use such derogatory terms as ‘fat,’ especially about my friends or family, but”—he sucked air in through his teeth—“yes, that might be the way many people would describe her.”
I cracked the eggshells and peeled them off. “Why would that be a problem? Sounds like the perfect client, actually. Someone who loves food.”
“Well, she needs a private chef because frankly, she can’t be trusted in the kitchen. She needs all the food out of there except the things that are ‘safe,’ meals you could leave for her to heat and eat.”
“There are a lot of diet services that do that,” I said. “I think it’s pretty successful for people. Does she cook, or what? You said she doesn’t leave the house much.”
“Delivery,” he said with a shake of his head. “Delivery delivery delivery. Chinese, Peapod from Giant”—Giant was the local grocery store, and Pe
apod was its delivery service—“pizza … you name it.”
Who on earth could afford that? “Does she work?”
He took a deep breath that indicated this was another bone of contention for him, though not one I could solve, in any event. “She gambles.”
“What?”
He nodded. “Online. Poker.” He closed his eyes in disdain. “Of course, her inheritance was not inconsiderable, either. Now, listen, I can tell you right now she’s not going to like this. She can be rather a pill. You need to just bulldoze her. Otherwise, she’ll bulldoze you.”
I laughed. “Gotcha.”
He looked concerned. “This might not be a lot of fun for you.”
Might not be a lot of fun? He’d never met the Van Houghtens. I could definitely rise to the challenge of reinventing comfort food. Neufchâtel and low-fat sour cream were my friends! Low-carb pasta with omega-3s and protein were the greatest inventions ever! I’d had luck using all of them.
Granted, even though I couldn’t resist a good fatty slice of prime rib every now and then, and Fromager d’Affinois bursting into cream in my mouth was like heaven for me—and certainly I had the curves to show for it—but even if I didn’t follow a strict diet, I could certainly cook one!
I would convert this Willa from a nonbeliever to a believer!
“Compared to some of the people I’ve worked for, she sounds like a dream,” I told him.
“Are you sure?” His face took on an expression of great uncertainty. “I’d hate to have you so overwhelmed by the reality when you meet her that you decide you’re not interested. She’s had a lot of hard knocks in this life.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Give her my number!”
“All right, I will. As long as you understand what I’m saying.” His tone was careful. “She’s very heavy.” He drained his glass.
“I hear you.” I gave him a querulous look as I passed him on my way back to the sink. “I’m sure it won’t be a problem.”
“She’s morbidly obese.”
“I’m still not seeing the problem.”
“Perhaps hundreds of pounds overweight.”
I paused, the water running over my hands. “Wow.” The challenge was still alluring, though.
“So you see what I mean? It might not be that much fun to cook celery.”
“Oh, it won’t be celery.” I turned off the water and took the eggs back over to the counter, slicing them slowly and placing them on the platter. “There’s the mistake skinny people always make, thinking you have to eat horrid, flavorless food in order to lose weight.”
Lex shrugged. “I must say, I’m very glad that is not something I have to be concerned with.”
“I’m glad you’re not concerned with it, too.” I looked at the Cobb salad and wondered how many gazillions of calories were in it.
And I hadn’t even made the creamy dressing yet.
It would be fun to try to transform it into a low-calorie meal.
I knew I could do it.
“Tell her to call me,” I said, getting out a bowl to make the dressing.
He looked pleased. “I sincerely hope this works out. My sister passed away more than ten years ago now, and my brother-in-law…” He rolled his eyes and shook his head. “Anyway, I’m all Willa really has, and I want to see her get well.”
“That’s really nice of you, Lex.” It was funny. He’d always felt kind of like an uncle to me, and here he was, being all wonderfully uncle-y, just as I could have expected. “And I’m thrilled. She’s related to you, so that’s a plus right there, and it’s a different kind of cooking than I’m doing the rest of the week, which mixes things up.” This was sounding better to me all the time.
“All right. All right, then! Let’s call her now!” Lex took out his cell phone and began scrolling through the contacts. “I just love getting people together!”
I had to smile. What Lex loved was taking care of people. It was nice that he had this niece, as it seemed unlikely that he’d ever have kids. He was in his late fifties now, a good twenty years older than me, but he would have made a great dad.
My father had died when I was three; I really never knew him. I didn’t have even foggy memories. My mother never remarried, but the stress of his death and being a single mother took a toll on her. She smoked nonstop and resorted to fast food and junk for as long as I can remember. She died when I was twenty-two, three days after having a massive heart attack. So there was something very nice about having Lex around. He was sort of adult without being parental, or even distinctly masculine or feminine. He just felt like a grown-up to me. It felt like I could call on him in an emergency, though I’m not sure what kind of emergency he’d be best equipped to deal with.
Fashion emergency, certainly.
But I was pretty sure he’d be a calm head in just about any kind of crisis, and my world was better for having him in it.
I added the spices and oils to the bowl and whisked while he called Willa and introduced my services to her. By the time he was finished describing me, I was pretty sure he had the Barefoot Contessa or perhaps Julia Child herself working for him.
“… hold on, let me ask her.” He put his hand over the mouthpiece and asked me, “Can you meet with her tomorrow morning at her place in Woodley Park?”
“Sure.” I tasted the dressing and shook a little more Worcestershire into the bowl. “How’s ten?”
He asked her and gave me the thumbs-up.
I tasted the dressing again—now it was perfect.
Maybe things were going to work out after all.
* * *
Willa lived in a glorious apartment building near the National Zoo. As I walked through the brisk fall air, and leaves skittered across the sidewalk in front of me, I could really picture myself coming here every Friday night. Every season was beautiful in this part of town, and there were two Whole Foods and the Chevy Chase supermarket right on the way there.
I had a good feeling about this.
Right up until I got to the door and rang the buzzer.
A voice inside called, “Go away!”
Lex had warned me about this. Still, I was very uneasy about being heavy-handed with someone I didn’t know.
I texted him.
I’m at the door. She said go away.
His response dinged immediately.
Go in anyway.
I can’t do that!!!
Okay, wait a minute.
I stood there, and a moment later I heard a phone ringing inside and her voice murmuring like Charlie Brown’s teacher.
Next thing I knew, my text tone dinged again.
Go in, she’s expecting you.
“Hello?” I opened the door to a beautiful slate foyer. It smelled like crème brûlée. “Wow, it smells great in here!”
“It’s no substitute for the real thing,” she answered. “So don’t start in on any bullshit about replacing one sense for another and fooling my brain into thinking I’m satisfied.”
I followed the voice into a white-on-white living room, where sat, on the sofa, the largest human being I’d ever seen. This was not Tyra in a fat suit. It wasn’t even Divine in Polyester.
This was just a couple of Twinkies short of What’s Eating Gilbert Grape. It was largeness on a scale I’d rarely seen in real life. It was arms that looked like puffy sleeves, cutting at the wrist before a hand that looked the way a rubber dishwashing glove looks when you blow it up.
I was shocked, and immediately felt guilty. I wasn’t being an asshole—she was just … very big.
But my shock clearly registered on my face.
Her expression fell almost imperceptibly, along with her brow. “Is something wrong?” she asked, unmistakably defensive, which was ironic, given the cheerful bright pink, purple, and green hibiscus pattern on the muumuu she wore.
I faked a bright smile. “Wrong?” As if I didn’t have any idea what she could possibly be referring to. Ridiculous. God, who did I think I was fooling? “Of course
not.”
She cocked her head and looked at me in a way that said she totally had my number. “So it’s not my weight problem that’s giving you trouble.”
Now, I have a terrible confession to make. My first thought upon seeing Willa was that she had to be stupid. I mean, most of us have struggled with weight issues to some degree. I’ve cooked for people who had fifty, a hundred pounds to lose. I know there are medical reasons, I know there are emotional reasons, and I know that sometimes the two intersect in seriously damaging ways.
However, I have never understood how someone gets hundreds of pounds overweight. It seems like it has to be a self-control issue. What else could it be? Maybe something metabolic, but the body can’t convert nothing into fat, and it also can’t convert a sensible diet into that much fat.
Clearly, it seemed to me, this was someone who had zero self-control. Who had somehow passed all the “point of no return” warning signs and thundered on, eating her way out of even semi-reasonable health, social acceptability, even clothing.
“Don’t pretend Lex didn’t tell you that’s why you’re here,” she went on. Her face knotted in something like anger. “And do not try and tell me you didn’t notice. I see that look you have on your face all the time.”
You know the old cliché about “such a pretty face” and so forth? The idea that the diamond can clearly be seen in the rough? Well, in this case, the truth was that I couldn’t see what Willa would look like without the weight. Her face was like risen bread dough with a few finger dents poked into it for eyes and a mouth. Her nose was there, of course, but indistinct. If she lost weight, maybe it would remain a bulbous bump or maybe it would become a refined slice; it was impossible to guess.
“I’m sorry,” was all I could say. I went into the room and reached out to shake her hand. “It’s very nice to meet you. I’m Gemma Craig.”
She ignored my outstretched hand and met my eye. “You’re joking, right?”
A million thoughts whizzed through my mind. Joking? Why? Was she a germophobe, too? Did I look like I couldn’t cook? “What do you mean?”
“Gemma Craig?” She looked at me expectantly, then, when I didn’t take the bait, added, “Like Jenny Craig? The whole diet guru thing?”
When in Doubt, Add Butter Page 10