“I didn’t want you to be lonely.”
“Lonely would have been a luxury,” Richard says, smiling.
“Hungry?” I ask.
“No, thanks. That nice young man stopped by and brought me some dinner.” Richard reaches over and pulls a grease-stained bag from his bedside table and takes out half a corned beef sandwich. “A cup of tea would be nice, though, if you’re making it.”
“What nice young man?” I ask, getting up to put the kettle on.
“Ben. Fiona’s nephew,” Richard says, his mouth full of corned beef. “He’s been working in the building, and he’s taken to stopping by, probably on your orders, I’m guessing,” Richard says, sitting up and donning his glasses, just so he can look superciliously over the top of them at me.
“I didn’t tell him to come. Maybe Fiona did,” I tell Richard.
“Or maybe it wasn’t me he was coming to see,” Richard murmurs, raising the newspaper to his face.
The last time I saw Ben was the night he kissed me on the balcony. It hadn’t been much more than a week ago, but it felt like months. I was afraid I’d hurt him, which I probably had. Given where my life is now heading, for once in my life, I’ve managed to do the prudent thing.
Make that twice. I’m instantly reminded of Jake and our aborted tryst in the kitchen. Jake’s kisses were so full of urgency—so different from Ben’s, which had been tender, sweet, tentative. Nothing like months of fitful ruminating, and the elegant foreplay of a terrific meal designed, I can now see, to push all of my buttons. The difference? A long and complicated history—which actually had turned out to be the problem.
While I’m waiting for the water to boil, I stop to peek in on Chloe again, asleep in my bedroom. My flight had been delayed for several hours, and I’d gotten home too late to see Chloe awake. But, because I’d insisted, Fiona and my father had dropped her off and put her to sleep in my room. I didn’t want her to wake up one more morning without seeing me. Back in the kitchen, I measure the tea out and put a few biscotti on a plate.
“Mira, I want you to do something for me,” Richard says, startling me. I hadn’t heard him get up and am surprised to find him standing at the kitchen counter leaning heavily on his cane.
“Of course, Richard.”
“I want you to take me to an AA meeting,” he says. It’s the first time either Richard or I have acknowledged his, so far as I know, one and only period of transgression in over twenty years.
“Of course I will, Richard.”
I keep Richard company at the kitchen table while he sips his customary nighttime herbal tea. It has wild nettle root in it, which Richard swears helps him sleep a deep and dreamless sleep. It also tastes like dirt, which is why I’m drinking silver-tipped Darjeeling with extra milk and sugar.
“Richard,” I begin. “About Nate—”
“It’s okay. It’s over, Mira. It’s been over,” he says, reaching up with a paint-spattered hand to brush a piece of hair from his eyes. His hair is the color of dust, and the way it hangs over his ears in ragged tufts makes Richard look old.
“It’s funny,” he continues, resting his chin in his hands. “I think you get to a certain age, and what you want from someone becomes very different from anything you’ve ever wanted before. But it’s hard to let go of your youthful sense of what love is. You want to hold onto it for as long as you can, even though it doesn’t fit. Even though it is,” he hesitates, “ridiculous. Let’s face it, there’s nothing romantic about Depends and three-pronged canes and sweat suits,” Richard continues. “But I’ve got to start thinking about the long haul, Mira. My chief requirement should be someone who is willing to see me through to the end.”
“Richard, what are you talking about? You’ve got years still. Besides, you’ve got me. Remember, we made a pact?” Richard rests his cool palm on my hand. His skin is translucent, the intricate network of veins running like tiny rivers beneath the surface, the remnants of a tired-looking bruise, left over from the IV, encroaching across the back of his hand, the bluish purple of a deep-water sea.
“So,” Richard says, taking a sip of his tea, “when are you leaving us?” Richard raises his hand to my face and strokes my cheek. His eyes are sad.
I sigh. “I just bought this place. Even if I can get a loan to cover the initial AEL investment, I’ll have to sell this place quickly to rent again in New York.”
Richard flaps his palm at me. “Don’t worry about it. If we stage it right, it’ll sell in a minute. Who knows, I might even buy it from you,” Richard says, looking around with his practiced decorator’s eye, which finally comes to rest on the yellow wall.
“You?”
“Yes, it might be time for a change—for both of us,” he murmurs.
“Richard—”
“I fully intend to get back out there and begin combing the geriatric wards for the unattached, the infirm, any eligible gay man of a certain age who can’t outrun me. And I suggest you do the same—age and appropriate sexual conventions considered, of course,” Richard says, raising his teacup. “You know, I think I like Caribbean Sunset,” he says, flicking his chin in the direction of the living room wall.
“Which one is that?” I ask, shifting slightly in my chair in order to have a better view.
“The third from the left,” Richard says, pointing.
“I don’t know. I kind of like the one two down, the big splotch that looks like Texas. What’s that one called?”
He consults the piece of notebook paper on which he has kept a record of his splotches, all of which are numbered, along with their corresponding names.
“Well, well. How appropriate,” Richard says, laying his hand once again over mine. “New York Cheddar.”
The next morning I awake before five and lie in bed for an hour contemplating, of all things, the blueberry muffin. Capitalizing on the tartness of the fruit is the key, I’ve decided. I’m thinking about muffins because it seems much easier to think about a relatively simple baking conundrum—namely, why there aren’t more good blueberry muffins in the world—than it is to contemplate the enormity of what I am about to do. Namely, sell the apartment I’d managed to convince myself just a few short weeks ago was the ticket to my getting over Jake, and move back to New York to reclaim Grappa. Chloe and Richard are still sleeping soundly, and I won’t be gone long. Quietly, so as not to wake them, I pull on jeans and a sweater, pad downstairs, and let myself out the front door. I buy several pints of wild blueberries from the guy on the corner, who also tries to talk me into buying yesterday’s lettuce so he doesn’t have to throw it away, which he knows he should. On my way home I stop in at Bruno’s, which is just opening, for a caffè latte. Bruno’s grandson fires up the espresso machine, and while I wait for my latte, I order a couple of croissants for Richard and a half dozen of the tiny hazelnut cookies I’ve lately fallen in love with.
On my way home, I see Ben coming out of Primanti’s across the street, carrying a large paper bag and a huge Dunkin’ Donuts plastic coffee mug. I wave, but either he doesn’t see me, or his hands are too full to wave back.
“Hey, I know you,” I call to him, darting across the street. “Had your fill of pigeon?” He gives me a halfhearted smile, but otherwise doesn’t respond, although at least he slows his pace a little.
We walk in silence for at least half a block before he says, “Actually, I’m still working in your building. A couple of the last buyers changed the specs on the plumbing, and the other day some woman saw me carrying a toolbox and begged me for an estimate. Wants an upgrade on her shower and bathroom fixtures, too.” He stops to shift his bags. “Looks like I’m gonna be busy servicing the ladies in your building for quite a while.”
“Great. Richard says you’ve been stopping by. Come for lunch some day,” I tell him.
“Why? Something needs fixing?” he asks, giving me a sidelong glance.
“You like that place, don’t you?” I ask, gesturing to the Primanti’s bag.
�
�Primanti’s? Yeah, I do,” he says, opening the bag and taking a fry. “Got them on the side today. Gotta shake things up once in a while.” He holds the bag open and offers me one.
I shake my head. “I didn’t know they served breakfast,” I say.
“They don’t. Same menu twenty-four hours a day,” Ben says, munching another fry.
“Gourmet magazine did a piece on them a few years ago. Do you remember?”
“Yeah, I remember. Food Network, too,” Ben says with a wry smile. “For weeks afterward you couldn’t get near the place. Yuppie suburbanites from six surrounding counties were lined up three deep at the counter.” He shudders.
“Do you know,” he says, turning to face me, “I’ve been going there practically my whole life. My stepdad used to take me there when I was a kid. We’d go early in the morning, sneak out while my mom was sleeping. We’d sit at the counter and eat these sandwiches for breakfast—always with the fried egg. Man, I could barely reach the counter, and my hands were too small to wrap around a sandwich. Whenever I think about him I remember the smell of stale beer and fried potatoes. Those were good times.”
“What happened to him? Your stepfather?”
Ben doesn’t say anything for a moment. “He and my mom divorced when I was about ten. We kept in touch for a while.” He shrugs. “You know how it goes.” He turns toward me. An edge has crept in and surrounded Ben’s easy drawl. “This place is an institution. You want to be a food writer? Why don’t you write about this—I mean the no-frills, real-life version of this place, not the high-end, food magazine, ‘isn’t it so cute we’re slumming’ version.”
We walk back toward the lofts in silence. I want to tell him I’m sorry, that I hadn’t meant to hurt him, but I’ve never really been good at that sort of thing.
“Hey, have you tried Bruno’s hazelnut cookies? Trust me, once you try these, there’s no going back.” I open the bag and offer one to Ben.
He takes it, and even though it’s only a little bigger than a quarter, bites off just a small piece. “Mmm. Good,” he says, popping the rest of the cookie in his mouth. “Got any more?”
“You can have one more, but that’s it. They are for research purposes only. I’m experimenting with the recipe, and I need to study the rest.” I’ve already made a half dozen attempts at duplicating Bruno’s recipe, but there’s something about his version that conjures memories of Italy, of the panetteria off the square in Scanno, each morsel crumbly and sweet, the taste of the roasted hazelnuts thick and full on the tongue.
Ben chews his cookie slowly. “So, what do you think?” I ask him. “A hint of Frangelico? Or coffee, maybe?”
He shrugs. “Don’t know. A dab of honey maybe, but not too much,” he says, looking pleased with himself.
“Hmm, right. Good catch,” I tell him, even though I’d already thought of it.
“You know, you could probably just ask Bruno for the recipe. I bet he’d give it to you,” he says.
“No!” I exclaim, horrified. “That would be like calling the tollfree number for the Times crossword puzzle hotline. The whole point is being able to do it myself. I’m usually pretty good at stuff like this, and besides, I’m nowhere near ready to admit defeat.”
Ben softens, smiling for the first time, a loopy, goofy grin, as if I’ve just said something incredibly silly.
“I’ll get it in the end, or, who knows, maybe I’ll come up with some version that I like even better,” I add, defensively.
“So,” he asks, “how’s the newspaper biz? What’s up next?”
“Barbeque Basics.”
“Oh,” he says, reaching into his bag for another fry.
Enid had e-mailed me the assignment while I was in New York, so I’m already a couple of days behind. This morning the FedEx package with the AEL financial statements is scheduled to arrive, and Ruth is coming over this afternoon to take a look at the documents, so I won’t have much time today either. I’ve promised to cook her dinner, though; maybe while she is sorting through the documents I could whip up a batch of barbeque sauce, something with an interesting twist.
We’re in front of the lofts, but Ben stops several steps before the front door. “Aren’t you coming in? I thought you were working here.”
“I am, but I can’t eat inside. I’m just the hired help,” he says. “I was going to eat by the river and watch the sunrise. Want to join me?”
“I’d like to,” I tell him, and I would, but I’ve already been gone longer than I anticipated, and I’m worried Chloe will be awake. “But I’d better not. Chloe—”
Ben nods and then raises his hand, the one with the Primanti’s bag.
“Do you want to come up?” I ask, but Ben has already turned away and is walking toward the river.
“Nah, too messy. And you’d probably make me use a plate.” He turns around and walks backwards, squinting upward into the blue-gray dawn. “It’s going to be a spectacular sunrise. It’ll be over in ten minutes, max. Sure you won’t change your mind?”
I shake my head. “I can’t.”
“Suit yourself.” Ben shrugs.
Ruth is sunning herself on my balcony, which is so narrow that half of the resin lawn chair she has imported from her deck and dragged upstairs from the trunk of her Jeep is in my living room. Carlos and Chloe are playing on the rug in the dining area, and Richard is napping by the window, his sketchbook open on his lap.
“You know, if you really want to get some sun, we could just go to the Schenley Park pool,” I tell her, handing her the Diet Snapple iced tea she has requested.
“No, this is great,” Ruth says, getting up to reposition her chair. “And besides, I can’t be seen in public without a cover-up yet. I’m taking this butt and abs class at the gym, but it hasn’t started to kick in yet,” she says, angling her chair so mostly just her legs are in the sun. She drags my coffee table, on which she has spread out a whole year’s worth of AEL’s financial reports, closer to her and dons the bifocal sunglasses dangling from a chain around her neck.
“So, what do you think?” I ask.
“Well, so far, it looks pretty good. They’ve got a two-year projection of increasing returns, based on their business plan.”
“So it looks like a good investment, right?”
Ruth frowns. “Not sure yet,” she says, biting the inside of her cheek.
“What do you mean? I thought you just said—”
“Mira, if this were a car you were buying, what I’ve done so far is the equivalent of walking around the chassis and kicking the tires. I know it’s shiny, the tires are full, and all the chrome is polished, but I’ve yet to open the hood.”
“So open the hood,” I tell her. “We don’t have much time. The closing is a week from Thursday!”
Ruth takes off her glasses and rubs her eyes. “I can’t,” she says.
“Why not?” I ask her.
“The documentation I need isn’t here. I need to know where the capital was generated and what the investment hierarchy looks like. They’ve just given us the summary financials.”
“Here,” I tell her, handing her a pad of paper and a pen. “Write down what you need to see, and I’ll make the call.” Ruth scribbles some notes on the pad and hands it to me. I call Marcus and leave a list of the information Ruth needs with his secretary, along with Ruth’s address and phone number. Next, I call Jerry Fox, who has faxed over a copy of the addendum I’d outlined this morning. When I ask if he’s had a chance to look at the financials, he tells me they’ll be in touch as soon as Avi Steiner has a chance to review them.
“What’s for dinner?” Ruth calls from the balcony as soon as I hang up.
“Barbequed chicken with a Spanish peanut sauce.”
“Sounds fattening,” Ruth says.
“It is. It’s for work. You and Richard are the guinea pigs.”
“Hey, do you think you could do a column on spa food next?” she asks.
“Maybe. Sure, I guess.” I look over at Ruth, wh
o is pinching a chunk of her thigh and frowning.
“Unless you don’t mind my camping out on your balcony for the rest of the summer, it might be a good idea.”
Richard asks me to give him a haircut, just a trim really, to neaten up the sides. He’s been on edge the last couple of days, anticipating tonight’s AA meeting. I think it’s a positive development that he seems interested in his appearance, which almost convinces me to overlook his poor judgment in having asked me to do it.
“You can’t use those!” he exclaims in horror as I advance upon him brandishing a pair of kitchen shears.
“Why not?” I tease. “I keep them sharp. Besides, these are not ordinary kitchen shears. They’re Wüsthofs and probably cost more than that antique coatrack in the corner, which, by the way, doesn’t belong to me.”
“I know, I know,” Richard says, reaching into his shaving kit for his pair of haircutting scissors and handing them to me. “But I couldn’t get to the shop while you were in New York, and I had deliveries that needed to be accepted. Besides, it’s only temporary,” he says, looking around at the crowded apartment, which is starting to look like an antiques warehouse. Richard has just accepted his first assignment in months, and in the last two days, he has had all sorts of things delivered here. Swatches, paint chips, and his drawing board cover the breakfast bar, and now, instead of being perpetually plugged into his beloved Steelers videos, Richard is almost constantly on his cell phone, barking orders to delivery people or soothing his nervous client in dulcet, patrician tones.
I set him up on a stool in the kitchen and wrap a dish towel around his neck. I’m gearing up to take my first snip when Fiona enters the apartment carrying a large, covered saucepan. She has agreed to come over and watch Chloe while I take Richard to his AA meeting.
“Fiona, you didn’t have to bring dinner with you. I already made—”
“I didn’t,” she says, depositing the pan on the counter with a bang. “I brought it over so you could tell me what is wrong with it.” She slumps into the stool next to Richard. “I found that barbeque sauce recipe of your mother’s you asked me to look for, and I’ve been practicing all day. Your father wants to have his new crop of advisees over for a welcome cookout this weekend, and I want it to be nice.” She presents me with the tattered recipe card, stained with the evidence of her recent efforts. “I know she was quite a cook and I—” Fiona stops short and stamps her small, sandaled foot on the kitchen floor in a display of thinly concealed angst. “I just want to get it right,” she finishes, frowning.
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