Julia's Child (9781101559741)

by Pinneo, Sarah

  “Yum!” she enthused. “Our housekeeper is from Ecuador. She told me her grandmother cooked corn together with white cheese. I think she said it was made like a pancake.”

  “Interesting . . . Thank you!” I made a mental note to look up Ecuadoran corn recipes. I’d already wondered if ethnic combinations would be the next toddler-food trend. I’d been brainstorming about Indian flavors. What, with yoga being such a rage. But Ecuador . . .

  Cheery Pam chose three boxes of muffets, after which we tangoed again so that she could get to the cash register and I could get back to the freezer case. I gave each flavor its own stack and was just squaring their corners when I heard the bell jingle at Pam’s departure.

  “Ciao, bella,” Luigi called after her.

  I rolled my cooler toward the door.

  “You see that, bella? People like your stuff just fine. You don’t need a heavy like Pastucci fronting for you.”

  I stopped. “Luigi, what do you mean?”

  “Bella, I understand why you get protection from Pastucci, I really do. You pay him a little on the side to look out for you—”

  “Luigi! I just rent freezer space.”

  He held up a hand as if to silence me. “I know. I know. He’s a very convincing guy. But Brooklyn’s changing, bella. The streets are safe. I don’t stand behind bulletproof glass anymore. And I got nice people like”—he waved his hand out the door, in the direction where Pam had just gone—“bella buying baby food at my store.”

  “That’s . . . great, Luigi. But what does that have to do with Mr. Pastucci?”

  He shook his head. “Guys like Pastucci—they think it’s still okay to push guys like me around. They think if I’m not with him, then I must be against him.”

  My mouth must have been hanging open. I’d always assumed it was just luck that had brought me a flood of Brooklyn orders right after I’d begun renting from Mr. Pastucci.

  “I tell you, bella. He’s not a nice man. I do what he says. I sell him beer at the prices he sets. I look the other way when his guy is running numbers out of my store. But when he finally kicks the bucket, there’s gonna be a thousand people at his funeral, all happy he’s pushing up daisies. You don’t need him. You’d be successful anyway. I can see that about you.”

  “Luigi, are you saying that Mr. Pastucci pressured you to carry my product?”

  “Bella, I love your product. I’d carry it anyway. That’s all I’m saying.”

  “God . . .” I didn’t know what to say. “I’m sorry, Luigi, for any trouble I may have caused. I didn’t know.”

  He waved a beefy hand dismissively. “If I was you, I’d probably listen to him too. You take care of yourself, bella. I see you next week.”

  Stunned by this new complication, I opened the door and pushed my cooler out ahead of me. “I’ll . . . see you around, Luigi.”

  I trudged toward the subway, horrified by this new revelation. If only I’d had my wits about me, I might have checked the time. It was almost three o’clock.

  Chapter 30

  “Honey,” Luke said softly, the one word holding all the empathy I’d called looking for. I stood outside our offices on Twenty-second Street, trying not to cry from stress. Pedestrians sped past me, taking little notice of the quaking woman outside the door to the Chelsea Sunshine Suites.

  “Honey,” he repeated. “Calm down. Everything is going to be okay.”

  “Is it? I’ve got to sign with GPG now, or I’ll miss the chance to recoup my investment. And I’m working with a . . . mobster. That’s what Marta had always called him, Pastucci the Mobster.”

  “Forget about him for a minute,” Luke said. “The GPG offer—it isn’t a decision for life. I don’t think you realize that.”

  “It’s three years.” At the end of three years Jasper would be eight. And he wouldn’t recognize me, because I’d be too busy racking up the frequent-flier miles.

  “But, sweetie, it’s not. If you sign with GPG, you’ll get your debts repaid immediately. And in six months, you’ll vest the first third of the sale price. So what if you just gave it six months? If you hate it, you can quit.”

  “But then I won’t get paid . . .”

  “So what? You’ll lose the other two-thirds of the money. But it’s a free country. That’s your choice. One step at a time, okay? You don’t have to plan your life today. Only the very next part.”

  I gulped, trying to believe him.

  “Julia?”

  “Yes?” My voice was a squeak.

  “Remember the free-range chickens, Julia?”

  “What chickens?”

  “You told me about them yourself. The ones that live on the big farms.”

  I’d once burdened Luke with the myth of the free-range chicken. At the grocery store labels promise us “cage-free” broilers. They’re drawn on green grass, by a red barn, under a yellow sun. But it’s usually a terrible lie. In truth, they begin life sequestered in a crowded metal shed. Animals living nose to tail feathers with thousands of their relatives were highly susceptible to disease, so the birds aren’t allowed outside until they reached five weeks of age.

  Then a tiny little door is opened by the farm workers, giving the chickens access to a rectangular little prison yard outside their shed. But do those chickens rush outside to glory in the newfound sunshine? Sadly, no. Those poor scared birds, knowing only life indoors, are too afraid to go outside, even to scratch around under the big blue sky. Just two weeks later they are slaughtered, never having seen the sun.

  “Luke, why are you bringing this up?”

  “Don’t be that chicken, Julia,” Luke warned. “Go out in the yard!”

  For the first time all day, I laughed. How had I ever landed this kind, funny, smart man? That was all the luck I really needed. All the rest was icing.

  My phone gave a beep. I held it out to read the display. Four missed calls.

  “Honey, I’d better go. Thanks so much for cheering me up.”

  “Baby, it’s going to be fine. Will you have dinner with me tonight? Out, in a restaurant, like grown-ups?”

  “We can do that?” It had been so long since we went out on a date.

  “We can bribe Bonnie with . . . concert tickets. Or expensive cosmetics. You choose the place.”

  “Deal!” I shouted.

  When I hung up with Luke, I felt buoyed. Perhaps I could finally look Marta in the eye and move forward.

  As I reached for the door of our office building, it flew open. My arm was knocked backward. I lost my grip on both my purse and my phone. Everything fell to the sidewalk.

  “Sorry!” Yona tumbled out of the doorway. “Shit. I finally have a new client, and now I’m so late to meet him.” We both knelt down to gather up my things. Yona grabbed my fallen phone from the sidewalk and handed it to me. But the wind had picked up, and the other spilled contents of my messy purse began to blow around.

  We both dove for scraps of paper that took flight. I captured a gum wrapper, but a yellow Post-it note escaped Yona’s grasp. Whatever had been written on it—a shopping list or maybe a reminder that Jasper needed to bring a certain size jar to school for a project—was lost.

  I spread my arms over the rest of the embarrassing rubble that was the contents of my life. “Go ahead, Yona. Don’t worry. Go meet your client.” As quickly as I could, I scooped the rest of the spilled goods back into my purse. Another gust of wind made off with a couple of scraps of paper. But mostly I’d reclaimed my scattered belongings.

  “I’m so sorry,” Yona gasped. But then she took my advice and ran for the subway. I watched her blue hair bounce along after her, and then I slung my bag back onto my shoulder and went upstairs.

  “Do you know what time it is? It’s three o’clock!” Marta said when I walked through the door. She stood beside her desk, holding a messenger envelope, which I guessed was the latest version of our deal documents.

  My eyes darted to the clock. We both imagined that Melissa of Melissa’s Munchers might
be about to walk into Smith’s office in midtown.

  “I know it is.” I tried to hold tight to Luke’s assurances that I wasn’t about to make a life-altering decision. Because it sure felt like one.

  “Julia, there’s something I need to tell you.” Marta’s lips formed a solemn line. She sank slowly onto her chair.

  “What is it?”

  Her voice was flat. “I think I might need GPG’s health insurance.”

  Marta had asked about the insurance before. But now as I looked into her haggard face, something clicked—something I’d been too self-centered to pick up on until now. “God, Marta. What’s wrong?”

  “I have . . .” She swallowed. “I found a lump.”

  “Oh!” Just before I’d met Marta, her mother had died. From breast cancer. “But . . . it still could be nothing, right?”

  She nodded almost imperceptibly. “I’m on a waiting list at the clinic for a mammogram. If they see something, I’ll need a biopsy.”

  Blessed as I was with good health, I didn’t know much about hospitals. But even I knew there shouldn’t be a waiting list for an X-ray.

  At that moment, my big decision got a whole lot simpler. If Marta had corporate health insurance, she could have a mammogram by the end of the day. And—God forbid—if she needed more care, she could take her pick of hospitals.

  “Marta, I’m so sorry. For your troubles and also for my flaky behavior.” I plucked my desk phone from its cradle. The dial tone waited for me. It was so easy, once you’d made a decision. Like rolling off a log.

  “Lord, I didn’t want it to be about this,” Marta said. She grabbed a tissue out of the box on her desk and blew her nose.

  I shook my head. “I’d already decided. I talked to Luke about it just ten minutes ago.” I took a deep breath. “We’re going to call GPG now, and everything will be fine.”

  Relief washed over Marta like a rain shower.

  I looked around on my desk for Smith’s business card. But it wasn’t there. With a sick feeling, I set my phone back down and dumped my hastily repacked purse back out on my desk. I saw a lot of pennies, a lip balm without its cap, and one Playmobil man dressed for European law enforcement. But no business card.

  “They called, you know. Right after you left. I gave them your cell phone number.”

  I set down my purse. “Really? I didn’t get the call.”

  Marta was silent for a moment. I looked up to find her face red, her lips pressed together. She was trying so hard not to say it—of course I didn’t get the call.

  My heart pounding, I opened my finicky cell phone to look at the numbers of the missed calls, but the screen was oddly dimmed. I pressed the “menu” button, but nothing happened. I pressed it again. Then I pressed all the other buttons.

  “It’s . . . frozen. I can’t tell who called.” My phone had hit the sidewalk, and it must have broken upon impact.

  “I called you twice,” Marta said.

  “That leaves two more.” Frantic, I dug once again through the pile on my desk.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Looking for Smith’s business card. I need his phone number.” I sifted through old grocery store receipts, my ANKST attendee pass, pens, credit cards, a MetroCard.

  But no white business card.

  Marta stood there, her face changing from crimson back to pale. “You can’t find it?”

  “No, but . . .” I threw the purse down. “We’ll just have to get the number some other way.” I shook my computer mouse to bring the machine to life. Then I pulled up the GPG website, for contact information.

  There was only an 800 number, which I dialed immediately. It brought me to the global switchboard. “GPG, how may I direct your call?”

  “Smith!” I said. And then my heart sank. Because I knew what question the cheery operator was about to ask me.

  “And what is the first name?”

  “It’s . . . uh . . . J. P.” If only J.P. Smith could have used his real name. I glanced at the clock and was not surprised to see the big hand had inched passed the twelve. It was officially after three.

  “There is no J. P. listed,” the operator said.

  “John?” I guessed. “James? Mr. Smith is in the New York office, if that helps.” I was flailing.

  “There are . . . four John Smiths and three James Smiths in the New York office,” the operator replied. “If you have the department . . .”

  Get me the corporate raider department. Stat! “Um, Food Brands?” I guessed. “Or acquisitions?” How long would it be before the operator ditched me?

  Across the room, Marta was hammering on her computer keyboard. “Got it!”

  “Really?”

  “Last month’s phone bill.”

  I hung up on the operator. “Go!”

  “Two-one-two,” Marta said, with the calm presence of a radio announcer. “Four-nine-six—”

  Then our phone began to ring. Marta snatched it. “Julia’s Child, this is Marta.” Her eyes grew wide. “One moment please, Mr. Smith.”

  I exhaled with relief. Marta put the call on hold, with a piercing stare in my direction that clearly said no more funny business, Hoolia.

  I picked up the line and nodded at Marta. She might as well listen in. “This is Julia,” I said as coolly as possible.

  “There you are. Look, I don’t want to walk into this other meeting without talking to you one more time, okay? I thought the two messages we left you would clear up our feelings on the situation.”

  I opened my mouth to apologize, but Smith’s chuckle cut me off.

  “I must say, Julia. I’m surprised. I was sure that after I asked Ralph DaSilva to personally beg you to help him change GPG for the better, you would have responded. But then, after I left you that counteroffer and you still didn’t call! Let’s just say that you’re one cool customer. I’d rather have you on my team than play against you. You know what I’m saying?”

  Marta’s eyes were as round as saucers.

  “Hmm.” I choked. My mind whirled with possible ways to get off this call until I could figure out what message he’d left on my ailing phone. But short of faking an office fire, I couldn’t think of a way to extract myself from the uncomfortable moment.

  “Look,” Smith said. “It would take Smythe and me some time to try to figure out what other company would fill the same spot at GPG as Julia’s Child. And time is money. So let’s not fool around. If you’ll sign today, I can get the board to authorize a purchase price of $350,000. But really, that’s the best we could hope for.”

  “Um, errrrf. . . .” I was having trouble speaking.

  “Are you okay?” Smith asked.

  I took a deep breath and tried to recover. “Yes. That helps, J. P. That really does. I, uh, I think three fifty is a number I can live with. But there’s one more thing I need to ask you. And I should have asked this earlier.”

  “Shoot.”

  “How much travel do you see for us, going forward? How many nights per month away from home?” I tried not to look at Marta, who must be apoplectic by now. But it would matter—to both of us—and I should have realized when Smith called me on Thanksgiving Day that GPG looked at the workweek a little differently than I did.

  “I dunno? Six?” Smith began to sound a little wary.

  “I think a number like two is more realistic for me,” I said.

  Silence. “We could meet in the middle, Julia. Four?”

  Everything is negotiable. Everything. I was finally catching on. “Let’s put down three, J. P. And I’ll fly to the meeting in Monterey, but I can’t be in D.C. on Friday. But I’ll get you those papers before cocktail hour. Signed.”

  He only hesitated for a moment. “Done. I look forward to signing them too.”

  After we hung up, I put my head in my hands for a minute, to compose myself. When I looked up, Marta was gone.

  I rose from my chair, my legs shaking as if I’d just run a marathon. I peered out our office door, but she was nowhe
re. I wanted to hug her and tell her everything would be all right. It had been a rough day, for both of us. No, not just a rough day. The last couple of months had really hurt. I just hoped she could find a way to forgive me.

  I had the worst kind of adrenaline rush. The big moment was over, but I was jumpy with a bad case of fight-or-flight. I sat down in my desk chair and forced myself to think about dinner reservations. Where should Luke and I dine? Should I pick a celebratory setting—or just somewhere quiet enough for me to tell him every sorry detail of the last twenty-four hours?

  I was scanning Zagat restaurant reviews when Marta walked back into the office fifteen minutes later. She had composed herself all the way up to a shy little smile that played across her lips. She held a gift bag in one hand. Tissue paper was sticking out from the top.

  I held up one hand for a high five, and Marta came over and slapped it. I grabbed her and gave her a squeeze. “I’m so sorry,” I said again.

  But Marta didn’t want my pity. She pretended not to hear me. “Three fifty,” she said instead. “I can hardly believe it.”

  “Me either! Actually, I don’t know what to think. Maybe the higher price really did push them to the limit. Or maybe they’re jumping around their office right now, laughing about how cheap they just bought our company.”

  Marta dragged her chair around to the little space between our two desks. “I don’t even care,” she told me. “I’m just so glad it’s over.”

  “Me too. And again—I’m sorry. I’m so sorry I freaked out at the end.”

  She held up a hand. “Don’t . . . It’s okay. Here. I got you something.” She put the gift bag on my desk.

  “Marta! You shouldn’t have.” I reached into the bag and pulled out something small, wrapped in tissue. When I unwrapped it, I thought the same thing again. She shouldn’t have. Because it was a BlackBerry—a beautiful pink one. And I was still wary about coltan and the cell phone industry.

  “It’s refurbished,” Marta said before I could argue. “This is a recycled phone. Instead of becoming landfill, you will give it a new life. No new . . . stuff was used to make it.”