by JoeAnn Hart
He took another loop out of his pocket, then removed the shirt, letting it fall on the floor. He put a loop in her hand and touched his left nipple. “Put it on for me.”
With great difficulty and much giggling, she maneuvered the gold through the holes. She thought of his tongue stud, sitting quietly in the warm wetness of his mouth, and she leaned up to kiss him and felt like she was back at the pool, under water, swimming in the dark. His mouth gave her breath, pulling her back to the surface. “Want to see the other one?” he whispered.
She opened her eyes to the sight of him running his hand over his bathing trunks, under which an erection pressed. He rested his other hand on the back of her damp neck.
They were both very quiet. “Before we go any farther,” she said, not quite believing the words were coming out of her mouth, “shouldn’t we talk about what we’re going to use?”
“Use?”
“Condom?” She felt very liberated saying the word. It was what they all used now, wasn’t it? To protect not so much against fertility as disease.
“Pet.” He nuzzled her cheek with his nose. “I didn’t think we’d be doing, um, all that.”
“All that? All that what?”
“I mean, you could play the snake charmer with your mouth, and I could do something for you.” He nuzzled her neck and stuck his tongue in her ear. She pulled back.
“But, what about. . .sex?”
He put his hand to her cheek. “I couldn’t do that to Sarah.”
Madeline was stunned, humiliated, and immediately sober. She tasted Smurf bile in her throat and pushed herself away to the corner of the bench, hating him. He held his hands out for an explanation. But what was there to explain to this boy? He, at least, was being loyal, in his own perverse way, to his girlfriend. Yet she, legally married, had been willing, more than willing, to go the whole hog. It was herself she hated.
“I’ve got to go,” she said, pulling the towel up around her.
He looked at her with a mixture of longing and confusion. “Don’t, Mrs. Lambert. I mean, let’s talk about it, okay?” He knelt on one knee in front of her and rested his chin on her thigh like a puppy.
Madeline leaped up and froze. A face was looking at them through the open curtain and bars. She grasped for the chain and snapped off the light, shielding herself from Ellen Bruner, who was out in the hall.
In the sudden darkness, she scrambled for more towels, practically kicking Scott away. It took him a second to realize what was happening, and then he looked up. “Oh, Mrs. Bruner,” he said, with a certain practiced calm. “We’re looking for Mrs. Lambert’s contact lens.”
Madeline winced, and Ellen softly snorted. Scott grabbed his shirt off the floor and, in the same motion, slid open the door. Ellen stepped back to let him through, then stood at the opening, holding a bundle of clothes in front of her.
“I came down to take a shower before dinner, rather than go home,” Ellen said, with unrestrained glee in her voice. She held out Madeline’s clothes. “I thought I was doing you a favor.”
Madeline gathered a towel around her with great primness and murmured, “Thank you.”
Ellen turned to go to the showers, then spoke, somewhat gently. “Remember to call me if you need any help, Madeline. Legal or otherwise. I’m in the book.”
As Madeline listened to Ellen’s heels tap and echo down the hall, she realized with relief that her life at the Club was over. Everything was over. Her marriage. Her reputation. The person she used to be. She wanted change, she got it.
Chapter Thirty-seven
The Yips
VITA OPENED and closed more drawers than necessary as she charged around the crowded kitchen looking for something she could not name. Her head throbbed with the hum of hood fans; her nerves recoiled at the clatter of dishes being stacked and loaded. Filthy plates, sparkling plates, plates licked clean, plates hot and steamy in the dishwasher—which among them was Dr. Nicastro’s? She stared intently into a utensil drawer, hoping basters and skewers would point the way.
When she shut it, the drawer screeched painfully on its rollers. Out of habit, she flipped two latex gloves from the box on the counter, then struggled to put them on. Gerard—the old Gerard, the one whose bedtime reading included the Department of Health Code Book—would have curdled if he’d known she’d been bare-handed all night. She had wanted nothing to stand between her and the geese, but now, what did it matter? The entrées were served, and she was as unnecessary as tits on a bull. It was Jordan’s time to shine. The pastry chef was already beginning to glow as she carefully, oh so carefully, removed trays from the walk-in. She’d created little beehives of meringue, with honeycombs of dark chocolate. Studded with nougat “bees,” they were going to be served on an ethereal landscape of whipped cream. Dr. Nicastro would die at the very sight, and it would serve him right.
Vita adjusted one of her gloves with a sharp snap. The saturated fat in the goose was lethal enough for one meal. She would save Dr. Nicastro’s life and make faux cream from egg whites, just for him. But it was too early yet; he hadn’t even finished his entrée—if he was eating it at all. Wasn’t he going to send down a verdict? She stood uncertainly, staring at the back steps, which to-night led up to a protected corridor that ultimately connected to the tent, to him. Him and her offering of goose.
She found a quiet place next to Sloane to help with the fruit and cheese plates. From a colander of glassy strawberries, she chose one shaped like a plump heart. She sliced it, keeping it connected at the stem, and tenderly spread it out. The deep, wet red against the starkness of the plate stirred some bleak emotion within her, and she had to rest both hands on the counter to pull herself together. She had wanted to give Dr. Nicastro a perfect evening and, in doing so, had given him a piece of herself. Was he really going to reject it?
She pushed a sodden strand of hair back under her toque and lifted a green Maradol papaya from its wooden box.
Conner, one of the tuxedoed waitstaff, appeared at the door clutching a giant pepper mill under each arm while maneuvering an overburdened tray of dishes to the sink, where Pedrosa helped him set it on the counter. The workers were beyond exhaustion. “So, where did Gerard go?” Conner hadn’t been on duty since the weekend before, so in between the relentless action of the banquet, the kitchen staff tried to fill him in on the week’s strange events: that Phoebe Lambert had staged a sit-in at Trough in exchange for vegetarian concessions, and Gerard, seemingly just to annoy her—or maybe he had just gone mad—chained himself to the tree too, but Mr. Clendenning refused to cough up so much as a carrot stick for either of them. They camped out under the tree for a few nights, and then yesterday, sometime after lunch and before dinner, they disappeared. Not only hadn’t Gerard come back to the club-house, but Barry couldn’t find him at his apartment either.
Conner removed the pepper mills from under his arms and held them out like a pair of pistols. “Does anyone suspect foul play?”
“Barry thinks we should call the police,” said Merle, who was helping Pedrosa with the dishes, scraping up a few extra dollars to pay for the semester’s textbooks. He hadn’t caddied in days because fate had paired him with early losers in the tournament. Success could make the members insufferable, but failure always made them terrible tippers.
“Good idea,” said Conner. “I think the big cop is sweet on Vita.”
“Will you people please stop your yammering and get to work,” snapped Vita. Everyone paused to look at her, and she bit her lip. Her temper was something she usually exercised only on Gerard. But there was no Gerard. “We have two more courses to serve, and we haven’t even cleared all the entrées. Don’t worry about him.” She debated whether to let them in on the secret. If dish of this magnitude leaked out to the members right now it would distract them from her food, but maybe her staff could use a high-energy goody right about now. She motioned them all in closer and whispered, “He’s flown off with Phoebe Lambert.”
“Ewww!” The
staff stepped back and gasped in unison, slightly revulsed, partially disbelieving. Vita glanced at Pedrosa, who had looked up in terror at the mention of Phoebe Lambert, quite possibly the first English words he’d learned to recognize. Vita had a surprise for him, though. It had certainly been a surprise for her: an envelope of supermarket gift certificates from Phoebe. A regular supermarket too; she hadn’t even tried to control his purchases by steering him toward some organic emporium far from where he lived. It made her feel better not just about Phoebe but, after the initial shock of seeing her and Gerard hand in hand, about the two of them. Maybe they were so different they canceled out the worst in each other. Maybe they would even go on to bring out the best.
“Not that chick with the messy dreads?” Merle’s voice echoed from inside the giant stockpot he was scrubbing, his upper torso almost entirely enveloped in stainless steel. “What’s Gerard thinking?”
“Never mind him.” Sloane went back to slicing fruit and did not look up. “What does a vibrant girl like Phoebe want with a stiff like him?”
Vita shrugged and contemplated her papaya. “Love happens.”
Gerard and Phoebe, wet from showers, had shown up in the kitchen that afternoon while the rest of the staff was setting tables in the tent. Vita was so engrossed in her first pan of hot, gorgeous geese that when she saw the couple at the door she almost dropped them, her beauties. As Mrs. Suarez had promised, the slow heat had drained the birds of fat, and their dark, mysterious flesh was sealed in a mahogany armor. Deep within lay the grain stuffing of barley cooked in the stock, with morels and hazelnuts. She quickly shoved the birds into a warming oven, away from Phoebe’s eyes. Gerard gave Vita a congratulatory wink before the birds disappeared, but Phoebe saw nothing but Gerard. The two of them looked so happy, so normal.
“Good-bye, Vita.” Gerard gave her a hug, and she smelled patch-ouli on him. “We’re off to Arizona for a Southwestern adventure. Good luck to-night. I’ll be thinking of you.” He stepped back, looking so happy that Vita decided he was either truly in love or completely deranged. “Do you know where Barry is?” he asked. “I want to pass the crown to him.”
“And Forbes,” said Phoebe. “The Club can be, you know, ruled by a partnership of man and bird.”
Gerard took both of Phoebe’s hands and beamed. He’d bonded to her, as surely as that baby goose had bonded to Barry.
“Barry’s setting out parking cones,” Vita said. She was getting nervous about the next batch of geese, which she could not take out of the oven until Phoebe was gone. “Why don’t you two go find him?”
Phoebe threw her arms around Vita, who thought for a moment she was being attacked. “I’m sorry about the other night, Vita. Here.” She pulled out an envelope from the front of her bib overalls. “For Pedrosa.” As she handed it over, she abruptly lifted her nose and smelled the air around her. She stood very still, thinking.
Vita gave Gerard a desperate look, which he registered. “We’ve got to go, Phoebe,” said Gerard, pulling her toward the door. “We still have to stop at my apartment to pack.”
Phoebe paused at the bottom of the stone steps, and Vita thought this was it, she’s just identified the scent of roast fairway goose. Well, go ahead, prove it!
“Vita,” said Phoebe. “Gerard and I, we’re going to start a therapeutic spa with my grandma. It’ll be all about massage and hot stones, and we’ll be in the desert, where people are really into environmental walks and stuff. Gerard said he’d run the inn, and grandma will do the spa stuff, and they want me to do the cooking. Can I e-mail you for some recipes?”
Vita did not have time to roll on the floor and laugh. She would have to save that pleasure for later. Right now, her geese had to be taken out of the oven, and this girl had to go. She gave them both a little nudge up the steps. “I don’t have any vegan recipes except for those cookies I brought to the gate.”
Phoebe made a face. “Not those. I’m thinking of your food, how it seems to make people happy even if it is full of meat and dairy. So you send me the recipes, and I’ll convert them to vegan.”
“We could do a cookbook!” said Gerard.
“Convert?” Vita prodded the two of them farther up the stone stairs. “Could you replace Gerard with someone else and still be the same couple?”
“I guess not,” Phoebe said, sighing. “But send them anyway. I need all the help I can get.”
“So long, Vita.” Gerard waved, backing up. “We’re off to explore the beauty of the soul and the joys of ecotourism. Call me on my cell if you or Barry have any questions.”
“I will,” said Vita. “Safe trip. Both of you.”
Vita watched them go. An odd match but a handsome couple. They would produce beautiful kids, if it came to that. No matter what, it was good to see Gerard finally get a life outside of the Club. Maybe a day would come when she would too.
After they left, the afternoon became a single blur as preparations shifted into high gear. In no time, service officially began with cocktails on the terrace and moved along with great success, as the Romans would say, ab ovo usque ad mala, from eggs to apples. The members were on their best behavior, since Gerard wasn’t there to raise their threshold of self-indulgence. Clendenning’s absence had helped in that respect too, since there was no big cheese in the center of the room for all the other men to pose for.
It was odd, the president not coming. Clendenning had called Vita early that morning, canceling his dinner reservation, saying that he and his wife had been unexpectedly called away on family business. He put Vita in charge, unless of course Gerard happened to show up.
“Vita,” said Conner, going back up the stairs with a tray of fruit and cheese plates. “The Wiggleworths said to tell you that the goose was the best thing they’ve ever eaten.”
Vita just nodded, cutting the papaya into translucent slivers, which she would then roll into delicate flutes. The compliments had poured in from the start, as had a couple of hesitant requests for the beef instead. That was fine. She had never expected everyone who tried goose to love goose, and she did not take those exemptions personally. One man’s meat is another man’s poison, after all, and such a robust flavor was not an experience for the weak of heart. But Dr. Nicastro had the heart of a lion. There was no flavor too strong for him, no aroma too earthy. She refused to believe he had not prostrated himself before the plate, offering himself up to the meal and to her.
She was arranging her papaya around the splayed strawberry, deciding what next, when Luisa ran into the room.
“Table six, ready,” she panted. Sloane lined up four finished plates, dipped a ladle into a pan of wine sauce, and dribbled a fine, ruby-colored spiderweb over the fruit and cheese.
“How’s it going up there?” Vita asked, with what she hoped was a casual tone. She picked up her knife, wiping the blade on her apron.
“Mrs. Fenwick say to tell you that the goose was ‘sup-perb.’ She wants recipe.”
This put a smile to Vita’s lips, the first all night. She pictured a dead goose hanging to age in Mrs. Fenwick’s pseudo-chateau down the street.
Luisa laughed. “I tell her, secret recipe.” She arranged three plates up her arm and held the fourth in her hand. “Guess who sitting with who outside?”
Vita twitched and cut herself, drawing blood. She peeled off the latex glove and put her finger in her mouth. “Who?” she mumbled.
“Nina and Eliot.”
Vita, and the entire kitchen staff, expelled a satisfied “Awww.”
Except for Sloane. “I guess there’s forgiveness for just about anything,” she said, then slammed down a fresh row of plates with equal, measured thunks.
Luisa adjusted her grip on her plates. “He make a little mistake, but he love her.”
Sloane laughed, a sound so unfamiliar that everyone stared. “You’re so young. Don’t confuse lust with love.”
Luisa stuck her tongue out and hurried back up the stairs, with the sound of Sloane’s bitter snicker behind he
r.
Vita refused to sound needy by calling after Luisa to ask how Dr. Nicastro was faring. It was bad enough being the one in the basement, with her sensible work shoes and her chef whites, while there he was, upstairs under the stars with the upper crust, le gratin. She felt like a high school dietitian in comparison.
Her dinner had failed to reconcile them, but at least the geese had worked their magic on Nina and Eliot—although she hated to think of the young couple out on the terrace, so exposed to the Club’s judgmental eyes. Atmosphere was everything, with love as well as with food. The enclosed garden was the place to be, even in its moldering state. Maybe she would free herself between cheese and dessert to contemplate its prospects. With Gerard gone, and before the next manager was hired, maybe she could sneak some restoration funding past the board.
“We’ll need more sauce.” Sloane made a feathery movement with her gloved hand over the plates. “I’ve got all these to dribble yet.” She did not include in her gesture the single plate that Vita had been fussing over for twenty minutes.
“I’ll do it,” said Vita, adjusting a bandage on her finger. “I don’t trust myself with a knife right now.”
Merle and Pedrosa whispered to each other in pidgin English as they emptied the racks of dishes. Pedrosa had picked up enough words over the summer to gossip, which had warmed him to the other employees.
“Vita, why don’t you go take a break,” said Sloane. “It’s been a long day.” Sloane then reached out and quickly grazed Vita’s shoulder with the tips of her fingers. It was the first physical contact they’d had since Vita hired her two years before, when they had shook on the deal. How bad must she look?
But Vita still shook her head. She was not ready to leave her post yet. She arranged her ingredients, taking a good Burgundy out from under the counter. The wines had been matched by the distributor weeks before, and he had paired the cheese course with an ancient sherry, but it was so refined it tasted of nothing at all, and was therefore useless for cooking. She poured a splash of the Burgundy into a pan with some brown sugar and took a swig, à la chef, softening her anguish with a warm glow. She put the bottle away, for now.