Love, Life and Linguine

by Melissa Jacobs

  Saturday Night Special

  At seven o’clock, the door opens. In walks a delivery man wearing a Hunter Farm T-shirt and holding three stacked boxes of produce. This guy is white; our usual delivery man is black. “Where’s Eddie?” I ask the man as he hands me the delivery list to sign. His hat is pulled down over his face as he opens each box for me to quickly inspect.

  “Eddie doesn’t make Saturday night special deliveries,” he says. “Sorry to bring this through the front door. No one answered my knock on the kitchen door. I’ll carry this stuff to the kitchen.”

  “Sorry about the mix-up,” I say. Once again, I botched the ordering. “Please tell Joe that I apologize.”

  “Apology accepted.” The man raises his head, and hat, and I see Joe Hunter. He hoists the boxes to his shoulder and walks toward the kitchen. “Be right back.”

  But he doesn’t come right back. Fifteen minutes later, I abandon the hostess desk, to see what Joe is doing in my kitchen. Peering through the kitchen window, I see Joe talking to the cooks. Entering through the swinging door, I hear Joe speaking in Spanish to the San Padre brothers. “What’s going on in here?”

  Joe smiles and holds up a bunch of green herbs. “Lemon verbena. The newest thing in my herb house.” Joe holds the lemon verbena out to me. “Smell.”

  Leaning forward, I put my face near Joe’s hands and inhale. “Lemony.”

  Joe looks at my face intently. “Really good with fish.”

  “I bet.”

  “Thought you’d like to try it,” Joe says. “A little present.”

  “Thank you.”

  Joe hands the bunch of herbs to Horatio, who says, “Gracias, amigo.”

  “De nada,” Joe answers. Then he looks at me, and puts his hands in the front pockets of his jeans. “So. How you been?”

  Glancing at the San Padre brothers, I see them grinning, looking from me to Joe. I point to the dining room. “I have to get back to work.”

  Joe follows me into the empty restaurant. “I can see that you’re really busy.”

  Trying to look industrious, I walk back to the hostess desk and start rifling through the reservation book. Joe follows me. Quietly, he says, “I’ve been thinking about you.”

  I look at Joe and smile. But he doesn’t say anything further. My boredom segues into frustration. I’m not interested in playing games. Aaron told me how he felt. Why can’t Joe? Put up or shut up. “Thanks for the lemon verbena. I’ll see you around.”

  “Kicking me out?” Joe asks with a smile.

  “Do you want to stay? If you’re hungry, you can have a seat at the counter.”

  Joe shakes his head. “That’s why I haven’t asked you out.”

  “What’s why?”

  “You’re a hustle bustle. I’m a slow and steady.”

  I think about that for a moment, then say, “I don’t get it.”

  “I like things to grow naturally,” Joe says. “Let nature takes its course.”

  “Are you talking about relationships or farming?”

  “Both.” Joe takes off his hat and his hair flops into his face, just grazing his cheekbone. With a dirty hand, Joe tucks his hair behind his ear.

  It’s not that he is good-looking, I think. It’s that he’s earthy. Sensual.

  Joe says, “I’d like to take you out. Someday. One day. Soon.”

  “You let me know,” I tell him.

  “I will.” Joe smiles and heads for the door. “Good night.”

  “Good night.”

  Women

  After a particularly tiring Thursday, I park Sally in front of Mom’s townhouse. Looking at Sally’s clock, I see that it is only 11:30 P.M. It feels like 3 A.M.

  “Mimi?” Following Mom’s voice, I go into the den.

  Sitting on the couch are my mother and a man. I stare at the man. “Who are you?”

  “Mimi, this is Sid Weiss. Dr. Sid Weiss.”

  “Just Sid,” he says. “It’s nice to meet you.” Sid stands and extends his hand. He’s shorter than my father, and a lot grayer. Dr. Sid is wearing olive-colored pants and a white, short-sleeved polo shirt. He speaks in a quiet, educated voice.

  I shake his hand. Then we stare at each other.

  “Mimi, Sid is the man I told you about? We went to the Phillies game?” She’s nervous, turning all her statements into questions. “We’ve been spending quite a lot of time together the past few weeks?”

  “Great.”

  Mom waves at a vase. “Sid bought me flowers, see? Aren’t they beautiful?”

  “Yes.”

  “Tulips?” Mom squeaks. “My favorite?”

  Sid clears his throat. “Your mom says that you are in the restaurant business.”

  “Yes, I’m working at my father’s restaurant. He’s—” I stop.

  Mom raises her eyebrows. “Sid knows your father died.”

  “Right.” I rub my eyes. “I’m tired.”

  Sid stands. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to use the restroom.”

  Sid walks straight to the bathroom without asking for direction. Has Sid been here before? While I’ve been at the restaurant?

  Mom comes toward me and whispers, “I waited until you got home so I could tell you in person that I’m spending the night at Sid’s. I didn’t want to just leave you a note.”

  I stare at my mother.

  She stares back at me. “You said you wanted to know where I am at all times.”

  “I just changed my mind.”

  “Mimi.”

  “Mommy.”

  “What can I say,” Mom says, “to make you okay with this?”

  She’s not volunteering to stay home. What Mom is saying is that she’s going, and she’d like to help me deal with it. But she’s still going.

  There’s nothing Mom can say to make me okay with her spending the night with a man who isn’t my father. I didn’t want to know about Mom having sex with Dad. I surely don’t want to know about her having sex with another man.

  “Mom, you go do whatever you want to do. I’ll be fine. We don’t have to talk about it. Let’s not get Oedipal. Anyway, Oedipus was a man. I’m a woman.”

  “So am I, Mimi. So am I.”

  Family Business, Part Two

  “The love of your life is sitting at the counter,” Christopher von Hecht tells me.

  “Who?” I peer out the kitchen window and see Aaron Schein.

  “Chrissie, please.” But Aaron looks particularly cute this evening. He’s smiling.

  Christopher leans over my shoulder. “He asked to see you.”

  Aaron smiles even wider when I come out of the kitchen. You know what? It’s nice to be wanted.

  “I just ordered dinner,” Aaron tells me. “Will you join me?”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “Oh.” Aaron’s smile fades.

  “But I’ll sit with you while you eat.”

  “Yeah?” The smile returns. “Good.” He pats the stool next to him. When I sit on the stool, next to Aaron, I catch a whiff of his cologne. Normally I don’t like cologne on men. But it’s something light and summery and it smells good on Aaron.

  “Guess what?” he says.

  “What?”

  “I made a big deal today.” Aaron shakes his head as if he’s somewhat amazed at his success. “Can I tell you about it?”

  “Sure.” I expect him to chronicle the saga of the next great SHRED shopping center. Instead Aaron talks about residential development. Interrupting, I say, “I thought SHRED did commercial real estate development.”

  Aaron nods. “My father specializes in commercial. I’ve never been very interested in commercial properties. There’s not a lot of room for creativity. As evidenced by almost every suburban shopping center. I worked on the commercial stuff to gain Dad’s trust so he’d give me the freedom to branch into residential. Which is what happened today.”

  “The deal you made was with your father?”

  “Yeah. It was just a handshake. But it was the bigg
est deal of my life.” Aaron smiles. “Dad gave me permission to launch a residential division of SHRED.”

  “Congratulations,” I say sincerely.

  “Thanks.” Aaron focuses his brown eyes on me. “It may sound silly to you, but I’m really excited about it.”

  “It doesn’t sound silly to me. It sounds like an accomplishment.”

  Aaron blushes. How adorable is that?

  “Well, Mimi Louis. You are speaking with the vice president of SHRED Residential. I am no longer a strip mall scion. Now I build homes. Quality homes for quality families. That’s our motto.”

  Without thinking, I put my hand on his leg. “That’s wonderful, Aaron.”

  Aaron raises his eyebrows. “See that? I’m going to tell our grandkids that you made the first move.”

  Removing my hand, I say, “Slow down, partner.”

  Aaron smiles. “When I want something, I get it.”

  “Do you want me or my business?”

  “Both.”

  “I’m being serious, Aaron.”

  “So am I.” Aaron takes my hand. “Mimi, you are going to sell SHRED the restaurant. That you are going to fall in love with me is an entirely separate matter.”

  “It’s not a separate matter,” I insist.

  “But it is. Business is business. Personal is personal.”

  “Nay. Café Louis is my family’s business.”

  Aaron looks serious. “To make good business decisions, I think it’s best to take ego and emotion out of the equation. Not that I’m coldhearted about business. But I do separate it from the rest of my life. Work is here, play is there.”

  “That sounds like a nice way to live,” I say. “I’ve never done that.”

  “Because you work in restaurants?” Aaron nods, answering his own question. “You work where most people go to relax.”

  “I guess.”

  “Well,” Aaron says, “we’ll find a new playground.”

  Sisters-in-Law, Part Two

  All hail exhaustion. I fall asleep as soon as my head hits the pillow. Too soon, I am awakened by a gentle nudge. “Mimi?”

  Opening my eyes, I see Allison sitting on my bed. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing, nothing. I didn’t meant to startle you. I’m supposed to have breakfast with Mom. Do you know where she is?”

  “She spent the night at Sid’s again,” I tell her. Mom’s been doing that more and more.

  “Oh. Wow. Wait until Jeremy hears this. Maybe I won’t tell him. He’s instituted a don’t ask–don’t tell policy about Mom’s dating.”

  “Can I get in on that?” Under the thin sheet, I stretch my arms and legs.

  “Come on, Mimi. One of you has to be mature about Mom dating.”

  “Why? Hang on. Do I smell bagels?”

  “They’re still warm.” Allison smiles. “Shall we breakfast?”

  I sit at the kitchen table wearing a tank top and jammie bottoms. Allison stands in the middle of Mom’s kitchen holding a brown bag and a folded section of the Philadelphia Inquirer. She holds the newspaper out to me and I see it’s the Food section. She says, “I thought you should see that.”

  What I see is a big picture of Nick above a review of Il Ristorante. The Inquirer restaurant reviewer has given Il Ristorante a top-notch, three-star rating. I toss the paper aside. “I don’t care.”

  “Good,” Allison says. “Me, either.”

  I change the subject from Nick’s success to my own. “Café Louis is doing really well. We’re up twenty percent for the month.”

  “Good.” Allison holds up the brown bag. “Cinnamon raisin, pumpernickel, or poppy?”

  “Do you have plain?”

  “No.” Allison frowns. “I got the kinds we like. Mom, me and Jeremy, and the kids. I was going to take the leftover bagels home. No one in my house likes plain.”

  “No big deal. I’ll take the unseeded half of the poppy and the unonioned half of the onion.”

  Allison wrinkles her brow. “But that leaves two halves that don’t match.”

  “So?”

  “Fine. Sure. Whatever you want.” Allison holds the bagel bag out to me.

  “No, you’re right. I should have a whole one.” Reaching into the bag, I find a pumpernickel bagel.

  “I’m sorry,” Allison says. “You like plain bagels. Now I know to get them.”

  I smile at her. She’s such a sweetie pie. “Have we cream cheese?” I ask.

  “Of course!” Allison reaches for a plastic bag. “What kind of Jewish girl would I be if I got bagels without cream cheese?”

  “I’ve heard stories about people who eat bagels with butter.”

  “No. I can’t believe that.” Allison holds up three tubs. “Would you like plain, strawberry, or chives?”

  “Plain, please. I’ll put fresh chives on top.”

  “Oh, right. It’s probably better that way. You’re the food person.”

  Allison sits. I stand. “Fresh is best. But you know that, Ally. I bought really ripe strawberries yesterday. Why don’t I slice them for you to put on your bagel?”

  “No, no, the strawberry cream cheese is for the kids. I bought it out of habit.”

  “You’re a good mom.”

  “I don’t know about that,” she says. “Speaking of moms, how is ours? I haven’t seen much of her since she started dating Sid. I miss her.”

  There’s sadness in her voice, but when I look at Allison, she’s smiling. I put a bowl of freshly cut chives on the table. “Did you tell Mom? That you’d like to spend more time with her?”

  “No.” Allison shakes her head vigorously. “She’s enjoying herself. I don’t want to get in the way of that.”

  While I make coffee, I make a mental note to suggest to Mom that she schedule Allison time. But how can I do that without sounding judgmental? Also, I haven’t been so good at scheduling Allison time for myself.

  “Mimi, how much do you think we’d get if we sold the restaurant?”

  “I don’t know. Why?”

  “Just curious.” Allison avoids looking at me by sprinkling chives on her bagel. She changes the subject. “Met any interesting men?”

  “Two of them, actually.” I tell Allison about Joe and Aaron.

  “Joe sounds hot,” she says.

  “Yeah, but Aaron’s probably the better choice.”

  “Why?”

  Pouring coffee into two mugs, I say, “Aaron’s a nice Jewish boy. Marriage material.”

  “You don’t have to decide right away, do you?”

  “I have to get on the marriage track.” I tell Allison my mathematics equation. “How else am I going to catch up to you?”

  “Me?” Allison laughs. “You don’t want to catch up to me.”

  “But you have it all, Ally.”

  “Do I?”

  “Yes.”

  Allison takes a bite of her bagel. “You’re coming over tomorrow? For the barbecue? It’s Father’s Day.”

  “Is it?”

  Family Business, Part Three

  “Do you make special deliveries to all of your customers?” Farmer Joe has once again brought boxes of produce to the restaurant. It’s the middle of Saturday, a slow, hot day, and we are standing in the shade of the awning that covers the restaurant’s back door.

  “Your deliveries are always special,” Joe says. He looks at the opened boxes, which I have inspected to make sure they match my order. “Everything here?”

  I nod. “We don’t need much. Tomorrow will be slow because it’s Father’s Day.”

  “Yeah.” Joe leans against his truck. “Not my favorite day. Not yours, either, huh?”

  “No.”

  “It’s not even a good restaurant day,” Joe says. “Mother’s Day. Now that’s a big business day for restaurants, and thusly for me. But Father’s Day? Most people stay home and barbecue. Not good for us restaurant folk.”

  “No,” I agree.

  Joe pushes his baseball hat back on his head. “You all right, Mim
i?”

  “Yeah.” I lean backward, against the whitewashed wall of the restaurant. “Well, no. This is the first Father’s Day that I’ve been home. Kinda sucks.”

  “Where have you been?” Joe asks.

  “Oh, lots of places. Most of my restaurant clients were in Europe. Paris, Rome, London, Budapest, Berlin.”

  Joe asks, “Do you miss traveling?”

  I think for a moment. “Yeah, I do. I’m glad to be home, but I miss traveling.”

  “Me, too.”

  “You’ve done a lot of traveling?”

  “Yep.”

  “Why, Farmer Joe, where have you been?”

  “Let’s see. All of America, Western Europe, some of Eastern Europe, bit of Canada, Mexico, a lot of South America, none of Asia, a little of Australia, Israel, Egypt, and the Rock of Gibraltar.” Joe smiles.

  “It must have taken you years to do all that traveling.”

  “Six years,” Joe says. “After college, I had a job with an agricultural research firm. I went to different farms in different countries to see how American farms could adjust their methods to better compete in the international market. I did that for four years, made a lot of money, got the traveling bug, and kept going.”

  “You came back to take over the farm when your father died?”

  “No,” Joe says. “I came back long before that.”

  “You came back because the farm was in trouble?”

  “I came back because I wanted to.” Joe looks over at me.

  “I guess you can’t imagine someone actually wanting to be a farmer.”

  “It’s a hard life, isn’t it?”

  “I love it,” Joe says. “It’s in my blood. My family has owned the farm for generations. My forefathers were original settlers of the area. Quakers. Welsh and British.”

  “My forefathers were Russian peasants.”

  Joe smiles. “I guess it depends which boat you got on.”

  “So, you worked the farm with your dad? That must have been nice.”

  “Not at first. Dad kept trying to get rid of me. He wanted me to be a doctor or a lawyer. I had to convince Dad that I wanted to be a farmer for myself, not for him.” Joe looks over at me. “I guess you made the same choice.”