Opposites Attack: A Novel with Recipes Provencal

by Jo Maeder

“Let’s start now.” She picked up her fork. “Fourchette.”

  He touched her hand. “How about we begin my first lesson in the boudoir?”

  He returned to perusing the wine list that went on for pages. “Speaking of learning, did you know that restaurants typically jack up wine prices 300 to 500 percent? That’s where they make their money. Whatever you pay for a glass is probably what the entire bottle cost them. You know how you can tell if they’re gouging you? If the Beaujolais is more than 20 to 30 dollars.”

  The waiter was placing fresh slices of bread on their bread plates. She gave him an apologetic glance just in case, behind his poker face, he understood what Nelson had said. She inwardly viewed it as shop talk.

  Lightly putting her hand on his forearm, she said, “Jean-Luc once told me it’s best to try wines you’re not familiar with in a restaurant. They’re probably the best value and best tasting. Let’s order the Meursault. That’s one I don’t know.”

  “An excellent choice, Madame,” piped in the waiter, in French. Either he picked up on the word Meursault or he knew exactly what she was saying. “It will stand up to the flavors of the escargot.”

  She translated to Nelson. He snapped shut the wine list book and asked the waiter to bring them a Chablis.

  “I’m sure it will be great,” Nelson said to her. “French Chablis is completely different from the American version. It’s considered to be the purest expression of the chardonnay grape with little or no oak used in the process.”

  “I didn’t know that, honey. See how much you’re teaching me?”

  When their server returned, Nelson tasted, gave his approval, and they went back to their goo-goo eyes state.

  In a hushed voice, she said, “Wouldn’t it be romantic to cook together?”

  He caressed her hand. “I’m terrible in the kitchen, but I’d love to watch. Especially if you’re wearing something sexy.”

  They moaned over the garlicky escargot. She could have eaten fifty of those slimy slugs that would have disgusted her before this trip.

  Next came her Crêpes de Haricots Verts (crêpes stuffed with a green bean purée and dusted with freshly grated nutmeg) while he savored Potage aux cèpes (creamy mushroom soup bolstered with a healthy shot of cognac).

  Her entrée was bouillabaisse. She had ordered it to compare it to the one she and Jean-Luc had made. The velvety Chambolle-Musigny Burgundy took the experience to another level—though she liked Jean-Luc’s version of the stew with spinach better. It not only looked nicer with a little green floating in the bowl, it added a slight buffer to the pungent seafood. Nelson’s rack of lamb with a pignoli nut and sage crust was melt-in-your-mouth divine.

  She had no idea what the meal was costing. Her menu was sans prices.

  Silence followed as the wonderful tastes transported them. Then Nelson put on his earnest gaze she’d seen when he’d called on Bernadette to buy magazine ads from him.

  She stopped eating.

  “Ally, I’m tired of dating. It hit me hard the other day.” His department hired a guy seven years younger who was already married with a kid on the way. “I may have done it in reverse, kid first, but it doesn’t feel right anymore to not have a wife.”

  Again she felt like the equivalent of a sofa being picked out to finish a living room.

  Again she told herself to shut up.

  He reached across the table for her hands. “Let’s talk hypothetically.”

  She sat on the edge of her seat, spine straight as a broomstick, as he floated the idea that if they were to get married, how would she really feel about Carmelita and Junior? Was she pretending it didn’t bother her? Nothing was going to change. He would still see them regularly, he would still have to budget them into his expenses.

  Junior was one thing. Surely he wouldn’t keep supporting her forever.

  Think again.

  He explained that, though his parents insisted early on that he put his financial obligations to Carmelita in writing, he didn’t.

  “I was young, obstinate, idealistic. I didn’t want to be some rich asshole making it all about money. I thought if I treated her well, we’d be fine. I also thought she’d get a job.”

  The only thing she knew how to do was tend bar, which kept her away from Junior at night and wasn’t the kind of thing he wanted the mother of his child doing. He sent her to cosmetology school. No salon that offered her a job was good enough for her and the good ones wouldn’t hire her. Now a precedent had been set. The line of scrimmage was clear. She could sue him if he cut back financially. He’d end up paying out as much as he was now, maybe more, plus a ton of money to lawyers.

  Alyce was ill-prepared to respond to this news. Thankfully, the waiter asked them for dessert orders. Nelson ordered Reine de Saba, the Queen of Sheba cake—the French version of what Americans would call Death by Chocolate. He ordered the most expensive German ice wine as well.

  He said to Alyce, “It’s made from grapes left on the vine to freeze. They not only have very little juice, they have to be handpicked in the freezing cold. Very small amounts are made and good half-bottles start at 50 bucks. I’m ordering the one that’s 300, figuring it’s really worth a hundred.”

  “How about next time, honey? I’ve already had way more to drink than I should.”

  “Tonight is special, baby.”

  A familiar queasiness started to burble inside her.

  The waiter approved of his choice of wine, but suggested a different dessert, something moderately sweet like crème brûlée, or non-sweet such as cheese and fruit.

  Nelson ran his hand through his hair, something he did when he was ticked off or needed to prop up his confidence. “No, I still want what I ordered. Ally?”

  She went with the crème brûlée and excused herself to go to the ladies’ room. She imagined Carmelita sitting on her fat ass watching bad TV all day while Nelson footed the bill.

  She made it there just in time to throw herself over the toilet. That expensive meal! This was turning into a replay of her birthday. How was she going to make it in the wine business if she couldn’t hold her liquor?

  She rinsed her mouth and saw a bowl filled with wrapped peppermints on a table with other toilette accessories. It offered everything but what she really needed: an antacid. She could still feel rumblings deep within.

  She returned to their table and cautiously tried the Eiswein. It was too sweet but at what it cost, she acted like it was the best thing she’d ever sipped. He couldn’t eat his chocolate cake fast enough. She slowly ate her dessert.

  “Everything okay, Ally?”

  “Hypothetically?” She tried to bring a playful spark back. “What more could I ask for?”

  He wiped his mouth with a soft white linen napkin. “That’s what I love about you. You’re a team player. Most women only think of themselves. As for what more could you ask for? How about this.”

  He reached inside his blue blazer and took out a small red velvet jewelry box. When he flipped it open, she practically fell into the table to get a closer look.

  “It’s huge.”

  Very pleased, he responded, “Tiffany D flawless, set in platinum, five carats.”

  “H-how many?” It was such an upscale restaurant she had to control herself—and the unpleasant feeling swirling in her gut.

  “Only the best for my wife. C’mon, try it on.” She sat back. “You do accept, don’t you?”

  She said nothing. She couldn’t. She was praying to God not to throw up. She nodded yes.

  He slid it on her left ring finger. It felt lighter than she expected and was too loose.

  “Did you lose weight? Don’t worry. That can easily be fixed.”

  “Nelson, I’m afraid to wear it. Someone might kill me for it.”

  “Honey, it’s a copy. Mother’s is, too. The real one’s in a safe deposit box.”

  She blinked a few times. Huh?

  “I wasn’t going to travel with a $50,000 ring!”

  Fifty-tho
usand dollars? That was more than she made in a year. Was she supposed to tell a mugger it wasn’t real and expect him to believe her? She’d rather wear a smaller real diamond than a monstrous fake one. To say that would spoil the moment she’d been waiting for all these years.

  Instead, she spoiled it by tossing her dessert into her half empty water glass.

  “Too much alcohol and rich food, darling.”

  Nelson quickly took care of the tab.

  They walked back to the hotel, not touching. She said meekly, while trying not to cry, “Please don’t take it personally. I just drank too much! And this is quite an emotional moment. Nelson, I’ve loved you since the moment we met.”

  He stared ahead.

  Alyce was certain he was going to ask for the ring back. Since it was too big she had put it on the silver necklace she was wearing. She touched it one last time.

  He looked at her and broke into a wide grin. “I can’t keep a straight face any longer. What a proposal! Better stay away from the champagne at the wedding.”

  She ran into his waiting arms. “That’s another thing I love about you, Nelson. Nothing bothers you for long.”

  “Don’t worry, baby. We’re a team. Right?”

  “Right!”

  22

  Siren Song

  I was reading O. Henry’s Gift of the Magi when I came across a word I did not know. My frustratingly small five-year-old arms lifted my father’s heavy brown dictionary from its place on the bookshelf. I did not want to disturb him while he read his newspaper.

  I looked up “mendicancy.”

  Destitution.

  I would soon know firsthand the word’s meaning.

  We lived in a modest third-floor apartment outside Paris, redolent with lemon polish from my mother’s continuous dusting. Father, in a dark business suit, disappeared every weekday morning for work. I had no idea what he did other than “sales” and that it deeply upset my mother when he had to take business trips, which occurred often.

  Today he was in casual pants and a sweater, signaling it was the weekend. If I was lucky, we would play pétanque in the courtyard. I waited for his cue while he sat in his favorite living room chair reading the newspaper. Birds flocked to the feeder he had attached to the kitchen window so Maman would have something to look at while she cooked.

  He was tall, quiet, and so soft-spoken he sounded detached, as if he wasn’t quite there. My mother was loud, as though she were trying to make him hear her in his distracted state.

  Even at my age, I knew my father was good-looking by the way women responded to him.

  The telephone rang. Maman wasn’t there, having left to do some shopping. I assumed it was she who was calling because of the way my father spoke. His tone picked up ever so slightly. I ran to him.

  “I would like to speak to Maman.”

  His face grew dark. He whispered into the telephone, “Can’t speak. One hour.”

  He returned to his newspaper as if nothing was wrong. I went back to reading The Gift of the Magi. Something did not feel right.

  After a few minutes he rattled his paper. “How would you like a bath, Jean-Luc?”

  Maman usually did that.

  He stood up and smiled. “Come. I haven’t given you one in a long time. I need the practice.”

  I hesitated but his enthusiasm persuaded me to go along with it.

  Soon I was in the bathtub, smacking my hands into a blanket of soft foam, watching white bubbles float away. My father soaped up my back and washed my hair as he gently hummed.

  Just the two of us. So close.

  “Will you be okay for a few minutes? You’re a big boy, right?”

  I nodded yes though I didn’t want him to leave.

  I heard him in the bedroom doing something for several minutes. Just as I was getting bored and chilly, the front door closed.

  I crawled out of the tub, foam in patches over my small body, water dripping on the floor. I looked out the living room window. My father appeared below by his car. He put a suitcase in the trunk.

  I had never seen him leave for a business trip wearing anything but a suit.

  “Papa!”

  I banged on the glass. He looked up, surprised, and smiled like a clown smiles, not real. He waved in an equally exaggerated fashion. I tried to open the living room window. I did not have the strength.

  I stood there, cold and wet, crying “Don’t leave! Don’t leave!” as he drove away.

  I remember wiping the water off the floor so Maman would not be upset with me.

  I never took a bath again. Only showers.

  My mother put on a good front to the world. The tears came when I pretended to be asleep, when the strange men began showing up. She would put me in my room, close the door, tell me to stay there. I heard their voices. Some were polite, others made sounds like animals when they went in her bedroom. I thought it was a game they were playing. Once I went in to join them.

  “Maman! I want to play, too!”

  They were undressed.

  She began beating the man, telling him to leave her and her child alone. He quickly fled, after shaking his fist at me. His angry face haunted me in nightmares for years.

  I never saw the men again. I didn’t see much of Maman, either. She worked two jobs now: a waitress during the day and somewhere at night she wouldn’t talk about.

  In the evening, when I was confined to the depressing cabbage-scented apartment of an elderly woman in our building, I drew pictures of bulls being stabbed, men being decapitated, buildings toppling. I wanted to

  Jean-Luc ripped the yellow-lined pages off the pad and threw them in the trash can in Raymond’s office. He did not want to relive this. He did not want people to feel sorry for him.

  Marlaison

  She had called her parents right away and was pleased to find that Nelson had asked her father for her hand before he proposed.

  “I raised the subject of his child and his relationship with the child’s mother,” her father said. “I thought it was commendable of him to be there for his son emotionally and financially—especially in this age of deadbeat dads. But I thought his financial responsibility to Carmelita should end when the child became an adult. He said that was a long way off and his situation was complicated. He would think about it.”

  Her mother’s joyful reaction was, “Mrs. Nelson Mansfield sounds like a name right out of 1940s Hollywood! I’m so happy for you, Alyce. You’ve been dreaming of this for a long time.” Her tone changed. “Don’t rush into getting pregnant. With your sister expecting, I can imagine how you feel. You can be quite competitive with her. I still believe you should be married a year before becoming a parent. Especially given Nelson’s circumstances.”

  Alyce did not tell her she had stopped using birth control.

  “Have you set a date?”

  “When I brought it up, he was evasive. Should I be upset?”

  Her frosty response was, “From what you’ve told me about Glorianna, it may be entirely up to her. I do hope I have a say in this. I am your mother.”

  “I’ll be sure you do.”

  “And what about the other woman in Nelson’s life? Does she know?”

  “Yes. Their son’s been a real handful. I think it’s bothering him the most.”

  “As long as Nelson makes you feel like you come first, this might work.”

  “No might, Mom. It will work.”

  Alyce ladled Aurora sauce over fresh steamed mussels and handed Nelson the white bowl. “It’s like a Normandy white sauce with a little tomato paste added to turn it a coral pink.”

  He gave her a dazed look.

  She still could not believe they were engaged. She thought about sending a photo of her gigantic ring to her sister, but that would have been too m’as tu vu.

  After their delicious lunch of mussels, Alyce parked herself by Jean-Luc’s still-covered pool to study while Nelson hooked up a Wi-Fi router in the office.

  It didn’t take long befor
e she heard him cursing.

  She found him at Jean-Luc’s messy desk, trying to decipher the router instructions.

  “I have to get online and I can’t get this thing going.”

  “Aren’t you on vacation?”

  “I’d rather spend an hour a day staying on top of emails than 20 when I get back.”

  She handed him a cold glass of Kronenbourg, a French beer.

  His gulp was followed with “That hits the spot.” He eyed her in her two-piece bathing suit. “So do you.”

  “Let me at that thing.”

  “You were just at it an hour ago.”

  “I mean the router! Maybe it’s a translation issue.”

  “Be my guest.”

  As she grappled with the instructions, Nelson looked around Jean-Luc’s office. He peeked behind the office door. “Interesting.” He’d found a black cape, black pants, and a black leather mask dangling from the top of the hanger they were on. Black tape covered the eyeholes.

  It was the mask Jean-Luc had used while giving her the herb lessons. What she’d thought was a sign of kinkiness was part of a costume. Or was it a costume he used in the bedroom?

  “I think it’s a Zorro outfit,” he said. “That Jean-Luc is one weird dude.” He took a beat before saying, “But if it turns you on, I’ll wear it.”

  He proceeded to don the cape and break into a flamenco/bullfighting dance, swooshing it around, clapping and stomping his feet, ending with “Olé!”

  No doubt Jean-Luc actually knew how to flamenco dance and slay a bull. She did not share that with Nelson.

  She enthusiastically applauded. “Bravo!”

  “Hey, maybe your next challenge should be learning Spanish.”

  “I’m still trying to learn French.”

  Nelson turned his head. “What’s that noise?”

  “The mailman,” she said. “He delivers it on his moped.”

  He went downstairs after he left, still wearing the cape, and brought back a stack of letters.

  “Look at this, Ally.” It was an envelope from a bank in Zurich. “He has a Swiss bank account. Could he have a fortune stashed away?”

  She watched out of the corner of her eye to make sure he didn’t look too closely at Jean-Luc’s mail.