Love, Life and Linguine

by Melissa Jacobs

  “Nick is evil,” she states. Things are simple in Madeline’s chocolate and vanilla world.

  “I shouldn’t have traveled so much. I should’ve been there for him.”

  “Don’t blame yourself,” Madeline says. “Blame him. Blame the girl. She’s a traitor.” Madeline knows about tarts of all kinds.

  “Do you think it was just that once?” I ask quietly. “Just her?”

  “I don’t know.” Madeline’s voice has an edge to it. She either doesn’t think it a one-time incident, or she doesn’t care.

  Madeline rises from her couch and goes to her refrigerator. She returns with two forks and a plate, on which sits a piece of hot pink cake.

  “What in the Julia Child is that?” I ask.

  “One of my brides wanted a fuschia wedding cake. I did a small test cake. She changed her mind.” Madeline hands me a forkful. “But it tastes good.”

  “I just broke up with my boyfriend and you’re feeding me wedding cake?” I say.

  Madeline considers this while she chews. “Think of it as breakup cake.”

  I accept that, and the forkful of cake. My cell rings. Madeline looks at the caller ID. “It’s Nick.”

  “I don’t want to talk to him. Do you think he’s calling to apologize?”

  Madeline shrugs. Again, she doesn’t know and doesn’t care. Madeline says, “You should sleep. You’ll think more clearly in the morning. The guest room is yours for as long as you want it. My home is your home. Okay?”

  “Okay. Thanks, Maddie.”

  In an awkward but touching gesture, Madeline leans toward me. She kisses the top of my head. Her exterior is tough, but Madeline has a soft, chewy center.

  Nicco

  The ringing of a phone wakes me. Eyes closed, I reach toward the nightstand and the phone. “Hello,” I mumble into my cell.

  “Did I wake you?” Nick asks. “It’s two o’clock in the afternoon.”

  “Whatever,” I mumble.

  “Do you want to talk?” Nick asks. Then, “Hold on, Mimi.” Nick shouts, “Jimmy! The fish guy is here with the late delivery. Can you go sign for it?” I hear the bustle of the restaurant. “Okay,” Nick says. “I’m back.”

  “Why don’t you call me when you’re not at the restaurant?”

  “It’s Friday,” Nick says. “The reservation book is filled. I can’t leave. But I want to talk about this now, before it gets worse.”

  “Worse?”

  “Mimi, I don’t want you to blow this out of proportion.”

  “Well, Nick, I don’t think you should be using the word ‘blow.’”

  Nick exhales into the phone. “Where are you?”

  “Madeline’s.”

  “Great,” Nick says. “She’ll probably jump me in an alley and stab me with a candy thermometer.”

  That makes me laugh. Nick laughs, too. Then he says, “Will you please come to the restaurant? We can talk out front.”

  Should I forgive him? As I cab toward Il Ristorante, I try to think clearly. He’ll apologize. He’ll ask for another chance. Can we get past this? Other couples have survived infidelity. Maybe it will strengthen our relationship. But if I forgive him too easily, I’ll appear desperate. I need to be strong.

  As the cab pulls up to the restaurant, I see Nick talking to diners who are entering the restaurant. “Thanks,” he calls to them as they go inside and I get out of the cab. “I’m going to cook your dinner specially!”

  Turning to me, Nick says, “They saw me on television. I was on two morning shows while you were gone. And the Daily News did a big story with my picture in it. All of a sudden, people know who I am. They want to talk to me and shake my hand. I’m, like, a big shot.”

  “Hey, Nick,” I say. “There’s a valet if you want to park your ego.”

  “Nicco,” he says.

  “Pardon?”

  “Call me Nicco from now on. It sounds more Italian than Nick.”

  “I could call you a few other names. Pick a language.”

  “Very funny,” Nick says. He puts his hands in the pockets of his black chef pants. “Listen, Mimi, I’m sorry you walked in on…that.”

  “Fellatio interruptus. Sounds like a pasta dish.”

  “You don’t know what’s been going on here. I’m under a lot of pressure. It’s the three-month mark. Restaurant critics are starting to come in for reviews. Dine International is looking over my shoulder. The staff complains about everything. I’m stressed out.”

  This conversation is supposed to be about me and my righteous indignation. “Is that what you were doing with tongue ring girl? Relieving stress?”

  “Listen,” Nick says. “I hope we can be friends.”

  “Friends?” I ask. This conversation is getting off course. Where’s the grovel?

  Nick holds up his hands. “While you were away, I realized that we don’t want the same things. You want a husband, children, and a house in the suburbs. You’ve had a successful career and now you’re ready to settle down. But I’m just starting to make it big. I want to enjoy it. Being the chef of a restaurant is like being a rock star.”

  “So, what? It’s sex, drugs, and linguine?”

  Nick glares at me.

  “Anyway, you’re not a rock star. Dine International wanted you for your cooking skills, not your guitar work. Don’t forget that.”

  Nick shakes his head. “That right there is why this relationship isn’t working. You can’t separate your work from your personal life. You’re not supposed to manage me like I’m a client. You’re supposed to be my girlfriend.”

  “Girlfriends aren’t supportive?” I say.

  “There’s a difference between being supportive and being controlling.”

  “I don’t want to control you. I want you to benefit from my expertise. Since when is me being a restaurant consultant a bad thing?”

  “It’s not just the job,” Nick says. “It’s your whole life. You have a great career. You’re a world traveler. You have your own apartment. Your own stock portfolio. Your own everything. You don’t need me for anything.”

  I stare at Nick’s black kitchen clogs and absorb his words. “So you would be more secure if I were more insecure?”

  Nick leans against the brick wall and runs his hand through his hair. He knows he can’t out-logic me. I win the witty repartee contest. Fat lot of good it’ll do me.

  Nick says, “You think you’re so smart, Mimi, but you don’t know everything.”

  “Is that right?”

  “Yeah, it is. You think men want to feel inferior? That we want to be pressured? Domesticated? You know a lot, Mimi. But you don’t know what men want.”

  “Okay. Fine. I didn’t mean to pressure you. I mean, Nick, I just…”

  “Nicco,” he says without looking at me.

  Mathematics

  “Ouch.” Madeline winces.

  “Nick turned all of my attributes into faults,” I say.

  “He’s wrong,” Madeline says. She’s perched on the arm of her couch, all of her muscles taut and ready to spring into action. But there’s nothing she can do. What’s done is done.

  “Maybe Nick’s right,” I say, staring at a spot on the wall. “Maybe I am too independent. But I spent my twenties working so I could spend my thirties raising a family. I thought that’s what I was supposed to do. I thought I had time. I thought I’d meet someone, eventually. Later. But it is later. And I’m alone. And old.”

  “You’re not old,” Madeline says.

  “Do the math, Maddie. I’m thirty. Let’s say I meet someone tomorrow. To date, get engaged, and plan a wedding would take a year, and that’s moving at lightning speed. I’d be thirty-one, at least. Say we spend a year being newlyweds, fixing up the house, whatever. Then I try to get pregnant. There’s no guaranteeing that I’ll get pregnant right away. So, allow a year to get and be pregnant. That means I’ll have my first child when I’m thirty-three. Then I have to recover, nurse, and try to get pregnant again. Another year passes. T
hen I spend another year pregnant. That means I’ll have my second child when I’m thirty-five. Thirty-five, Maddie. And that’s assuming I meet someone tomorrow. Which I won’t. Not tomorrow. Not ever.”

  “Mimi, lots of women today don’t even start families until after thirty-five. You are a strong, successful, intelligent woman. Nick’s not man enough to handle you. He doesn’t know what all men want.”

  “Do men want women like me?”

  “Who cares what men want?” Madeline says. “We know what we want. That’s all that matters.”

  But Madeline is wrong. I look at her through glassy eyes.

  “Yell,” Madeline says. “Scream. Let it out. Hit something. Not me. Something else. You’ll feel better.”

  Strong, successful, and intelligent I may be. But right this minute, there’s only one thing that will make me feel better.

  I want my mommy.

  Sally

  I schlep Olga four blocks to my garage, where sits my car. It’s a 1966 Mustang GT convertible. Beige leather interior, white body with black LeMans stripes and a black power top. Her name is Sally. She belonged to Dad, but now she’s mine. Stripping the car of her tarp, I whisper, “Hello, girlfriend.”

  Home

  To get to Mom, I have to get to Lenape Hill, New Jersey. It’s a half-hour drive from Philadelphia. When I turn Sally onto the Benjamin Franklin Bridge, I look out at the dark waters of the Delaware River and try to remember the last time I went home.

  Well, it’s not exactly home. Home will always be the house in which I grew up, which is in Westfield, New Jersey. It’s the same distance from Philadelphia, but in the opposite direction of where Mom now lives. A few months ago, Mom sold our Westfield house and bought a townhouse in a development called The Garden. With Dad gone, Mom said she didn’t need a whole house. I have visited The Garden townhouse twice. It’s nice. The thing is this: Mom’s new house is Mom’s house. Not Mom and Dad’s house.

  Sally and I cruise down the Ben Bridge and merge onto Admiral Wilson Boulevard. The sign on my right says, “Welcome to New Jersey.”

  I hold back my tears as if I’m holding my bladder and looking for a rest stop. We’re almost there, I tell myself. Hold it in.

  Up and over a ramp and onto another highway. This one is Route 108. It carries me past full-service gas stations, dollar stores, and more Dunkin’ Donuts than seems necessary. Lonestar Steakhouse, Outback Steakhouse, Subway, Quizno’s, TGI Friday’s, Houlihan’s, Pizzeria Uno, Pizza Hut. Only yesterday I was sipping a café crème on Boulevard Saint Germain.

  When I get to Kean Road, I turn left and drive quickly away from the highway to strip mall hell. Then comes heaven, or at least purgatory. Trees. Woods. A farm. And hey, a farmstand. Oh, Jersey. My schizophrenic state.

  Finally I see the giant sign for The Garden, Mom’s development.

  The Garden’s neat townhouses sit side by side, ten to a street. The houses have identical gray siding. The color of the trim varies. Cranberry red, spinach green, dark peach. Mom lives on Tomato Road and when I turn onto it, I breathe easier.

  “Come on, Olga.” I wheel her to Mom’s front door and realize that I don’t have a key to Mom’s townhouse. Why would I? I don’t live within shouting distance like my brother.

  It feels weird to ring the doorbell at my mother’s house. But I do, and hear the chimes. Quickly, I smooth my frantic hair and try to wipe away the black mascara that leaked onto my cheeks. It’s no use. I’m a mess. Lace curtains on the door separate and a pair of green eyes look at me. The door opens. “Hello, gorgeous,” Mom says.

  I start to cry.

  Bobbi Louis

  “Oh, honey!” Mom pulls me into her house. I leave Olga by the door and let Mom lead me to her taupe couch.

  “What happened?” Mom says as she puts her arms around me.

  I tell Mom my tale of woe. Rather, I start to tell her. The phone rings, interrupting me. “Let me get that,” Mom says. But the phone gets her. Mom chatters away to someone named Helen.

  Leaning out of the kitchen, Mom says, “I’ll be off in a minute.”

  No hurry. I’ll still be a mess when she gets off the phone.

  While Mom continues her conversation, I look around the living room. Mom’s done quite a bit of decorating since last I was here. The room is done in soft, feminine colors. Pale peach walls, beige carpeting, glass and chrome etagere, egg white couches, champagne and peach pillows. A vase of white tulips sits on the blond wood coffee table. Nice. Different from Westfield. But nice.

  “Sorry,” Mom apologizes when she comes back to the couch. “That was Helen.”

  “Okay,” I say, having no idea who Helen is. “Did you have plans for tonight?” It didn’t occur to me that she would.

  Mom waves her hands, which I see are French manicured. That, too, is different. Dad liked his woman to wear red nail polish. “Helen and I are taking a sculpture class. She can go without me.”

  “You sculpt?” Who is this woman?

  “I’m not going anywhere,” Mom says firmly. “Tell me the rest of the story.”

  Lipstick Theory

  When I finish describing Nick’s philandering, Mom looks angry. She says, “I’m going to call his mother.”

  I laugh.

  “I’m serious,” Mom says. “I called Stevie Klein’s mother when he broke up with you right before the winter dance.”

  “That was in eighth grade, Mom.”

  “Stevie got grounded for a month for being a schmuck.”

  “I don’t think Nick’s mother is going to ground him,” I say. “But I appreciate the sentiment, Mom.”

  “Nobody makes my little girl cry,” Mom says fiercely. “Although…”

  “What?”

  “Well, Mimi, you did rush into the relationship with Nick. You dated him for, what? Three months? You should’ve gotten to know him better before you quit your job and gave up your apartment.”

  “Mom,” I say, wounded.

  “What? You came to me for help. I’m helping.”

  “I didn’t come to you for help. I came to you for comfort. Can’t you make me chicken soup or something?”

  “I’m all out of chicken soup,” Mom says, “but I can give you a bowl of logic.”

  What does Mom’s logic look like? Dad was the logic chef. From Mom, I only ordered comfort. No matter. I say, “It’s too soon for logic. First comes moping. Logic comes later.”

  “You can mope as long as you want. And you can stay here as long as you want. You want your mommy? You got her.”

  “Thanks, Mom.” Really? I want my dad.

  “You know, Mimi, I do feel a maternal obligation to impart some wisdom.”

  I groan. “Go ahead.”

  “You thought Nick was the love of your life after your first date. From now on, you should go slower. Shop.”

  “Shop?”

  “Sure,” Mom says. “That’s what dating is. Shopping for a partner. You don’t buy the first lipstick you try on in the store, do you? You try on different lipsticks and see if they suit you. Same thing with dating.”

  “Maybe you’re right,” I say.

  “Of course I’m right. Find the right lipstick. Find the right man.”

  I smile at Mom. “Lipstick theory for dating. Like chaos theory, only simpler.”

  Mom smiles back at me. “You’re going to be okay, Mimi.”

  “Yeah.” Exhaling, I lean against Mom. Which takes some doing, because I am considerably taller than she is. Arranging myself on the couch, I lie down and put my head in Mom’s lap. She runs her hand through my hair.

  “Mom, you know what really bothers me? Nick said that I don’t know what men want.”

  Mom sighs. “Neither do they, baby. Neither do they.”

  Allison Louis

  The next morning, laughter wakes me. Padding barefoot into the kitchen, I see Mom sitting at the kitchen table with Allison Louis. My sister-in-law.

  Allison looks perfect. She is perfect. I want to be Allison when
I grow up.

  Tiny and trim with highlighted blond hair, Allison is always wearing the right makeup, the right clothes, the right attitude. And why shouldn’t she have the right attitude? Allison Louis is twenty-eight and she has a loving husband and three wonderful kids. Sarah is eight. Twins Gideon and Ezra are four.

  “Good morning,” Allison says in her musical voice.

  “Good morning, honey,” Mom says.

  “Morning.” I’m not ready to decide if it’s good or not.

  Mom says, “Ally and I usually have our breakfast club at her house, but I wanted to be here when you woke up. How do you feel, Mimi?”

  “Fine. You have a breakfast club?”

  Mom nods. “We have breakfast together twice a week. It was Ally’s idea.”

  Mom and Allison smile at each other. I feel like the in-law.

  Sisters-in-Law, Part One

  Allison Greene met my brother at Penn. Jeremy was getting his MBA at Wharton. Allison was in Wharton undergrad.

  I was in my first year of working for Dine International when Jeremy arranged for Allison to meet our family over brunch at the White Dog Café near Wharton. At the end of the meal, Allison went to the bathroom. Looking seriously at me, Dad, and Mom, Jeremy asked, “Do you like her?”

  We nodded.

  “Good,” he said. “Because we’re getting married.”

  “Married?” I blurted.

  “Why?” Mom asked.

  “What we mean,” Dad said calmly, “is why are you getting married so soon?”

  “Ally’s pregnant,” Jeremy answered. “I love her and she loves me. It’ll be okay.”

  But we knew, the three of us, that this was not the life Jeremy had planned for himself. “Are you still going to Los Angeles?” I asked. He had been offered a mondo job at an accounting firm there.