“Barb, baby, you look better than ever.” Sam leaned in and kissed Barb on the cheek, lingering a beat longer than Lizzie thought was polite, but Barb didn’t seem to mind.
“Oh, please, I feel like a cow lately—I haven’t been to the gym in two days.”
Two days? Lizzie hadn’t been to the gym in two years. Three, actually, the more she thought about it. She could barely afford her Equinox membership even when she was still on TV and making decent money, so when that income dried up she downgraded to a cheap plan at Planet Fitness. But once the cookbook royalties dwindled and she had more and more trouble finding personal chef work, a gym membership was one of the first expenses on the chopping block. She still tried her best to stay in shape, but if two days without a workout made Barb a cow, Lizzie wondered what animal she might be. A hippo, maybe. Or a sloth.
“Whatever you’re doing, it’s working,” Sam said. “Here—have a cocktail. You deserve it.”
“Well, if you insist.” Barb winked. Lizzie couldn’t remember ever seeing Barb without a cocktail or a glass of wine.
Soon Diana and Wendy arrived, and the party was officially in full swing. Lively music pumped through the Silvesters’ sound system as Renata ferried cocktails back and forth from the butler’s pantry. Lizzie set to work on preparing the guacamole, using a mol-cajete the Silvesters had purchased on a trip to Riviera Maya.
“Oh, look, Lizzie is making the guacamole!” Kathryn cried as she shepherded everyone toward the kitchen island.
“I am obsessed with guacamole,” Barb said, trading her empty glass for a full one. “You shouldn’t let me near it—I swear I’ll eat the whole bowl myself.”
“How do you make it?” Diana asked.
Lizzie felt the crowd’s eyes on her and took a deep breath as she switched into performance mode. “Well, first you start with a bunch of perfectly ripe avocados.”
She explained to everyone how to spot a ripe avocado (yields to firm gentle pressure, is green under the stem) and began slicing open the avocados and removing the buttery green flesh. She felt the personality she’d cultivated on TV return, describing each step carefully before moving on to the next and peppering her performance with amusing anecdotes. This was what she’d been trained to do: keep them listening, put on a show, avoid awkward silences, and cover up any mistakes. Before now, she had almost forgotten what it was like to be the center of attention, to have the spotlight on her as the expert and star, but as the Silvesters’ guests hung on her every word she realized she missed it.
“And there you have it,” she said as she scraped the guacamole into a large serving bowl. Renata swooped in and placed the bowl at the center of a platter that she’d already filled with tortilla chips.
“Bravo!” Barb said as she reached in for a chip. She scooped up a large dollop of guacamole and shoveled it into her mouth. “Oh my God. Take it away. I’m not kidding. Take it. Now. I’ll eat the whole damn bowl.”
Sam tried some next. “Yeah, baby. That’s what I’m talking about.” He nodded at Renata. “You give her a few tips?”
Renata looked puzzled. “No. . . .”
“I get it—better keep those family recipes a secret, right?”
It took a minute for Lizzie to catch on, but once she did she was offended on Renata’s behalf. She was pretty sure Renata was Bolivian, not Mexican, and anyway, what kind of thing was that to say? But to Lizzie’s surprise, Renata didn’t look bothered, and that almost upset her more. Was this the kind of behavior she put up with on a regular basis? Would Lizzie be expected to do the same?
Lizzie had begun tidying her station when Zoe appeared in the living room. “Did I miss the show?”
Everyone turned around, and Zoe raised an eyebrow as she smiled and waved, as if she were uncomfortable being the center of attention, even if that had been her objective. She wore a floaty pink dress with an uneven hem that came to the floor in the back and her mid-calf in the front. Lizzie had to admit: For all of Zoe’s quirks, she was beautiful and seemed to look good in just about everything.
Sam whistled. “Jim, you better look out for this one. If I were a younger man . . .”
Kathryn nudged him with her elbow, and Zoe rolled her eyes.
“If you were a younger man, I wouldn’t let you anywhere near my daughter,” Jim said. Everyone laughed.
“Would you listen to this guy? Like I didn’t know you back when. You were worse than I was!”
“I don’t think that’s possible.”
“Oh, really? Maybe it’s time for a few stories from our trip to Miami circa 1973—”
“I don’t think anyone needs to hear those stories,” Kathryn jumped in. Lizzie wasn’t sure if it was the margaritas or Sam’s threats, but Kathryn’s cheeks had gone a little pink.
“No, no—by all means,” Zoe said, rubbing her hands together as she approached the island. “I’d love to hear more. Sounds to me like this party is just getting started.”
Her parents’ friends laughed, and in the blink of an eye Zoe became the funniest and most interesting person in the room.
* * *
The party continued for several more hours. The booze flowed freely, and the menu was a hit, and Lizzie felt comfortable saying the latter wasn’t entirely due to the former. Even Zoe seemed to enjoy the things she could eat, though she never explicitly said so. Lizzie wondered if Zoe had taken any pictures. She’d been too busy to notice.
Lizzie cleaned up the butler’s pantry while the Silvesters and their friends took turns whacking a piñata shaped like a dollar sign in the living room. She wondered if, instead of candy, there was actual money inside and, if so, how she could get in on the action. As a chorus of hoots and hollers filled the house, Lizzie removed a fruit platter and tres leches cake from the refrigerator in preparation for dessert. She suddenly heard footsteps behind her, but before she could turn around she felt a hand on her back.
“That pork was out of this world, sweetheart,” Sam said. He was slurring his words a little, and even without facing him Lizzie could smell the liquor on his breath.
“Thanks . . .” she said. She couldn’t bring herself to turn around. At the same time, she couldn’t leave the refrigerator door open forever, so she awkwardly slipped to the side with the platters in her hands, squeezing past Sam before sliding the desserts onto the counter.
“What do we have here?” She could feel him moving closer, and before she knew it he was peering over her shoulder. His stiff, apricot hair grazed her cheek. She shuddered.
“Fruit, and pastel de tres leches.”
“Oo-o-oh, I love it when you habla espanol.” He rested his hand on her shoulder. Lizzie thought she might throw up.
“Listen, if you don’t mind”—
“Uncle Sam, stop being gross.”
Zoe appeared in the doorway, a glass of wine in her hand.
“Aw, come on, Zo. You know I’m a gentle giant.”
“So you say. . . . Why don’t you go hit on someone your own age? Barb looks pretty lonely out there.”
Sam smirked. “And we can’t have that.” He gave Lizzie’s shoulder one last pat. “Another time, sweetheart. Keep up the good work.”
He lumbered toward the doorway, giving Zoe a peck on the cheek before leaving the room.
“Sorry about that,” Zoe said.
“Not your fault. But I appreciate the help.”
“Any time. My parents’ friends are pretty lame. Barb is okay, but the rest . . .” She took a sip of wine and pointed at the cake. “My dad will love that. He’s totally into anything rich and creamy. Basically, if it’s unhealthy and might give him a heart attack he wants it.”
Lizzie wasn’t sure if Zoe was complimenting her dessert or dissing it, but she was too tired by this point in the evening to care. “Well, I hope he enjoys it. And if he feels like being virtuous, there’s always fruit.”
“Which is all the rest of us will probably eat, except for my dad and Sam, who could probably eat the whole cake the
mselves. Or at least Sam could. That belly . . .” She leaned against the door frame. “So what do you think of the gig so far?”
“I like it,” Lizzie said.
“Must be pretty different from what you’re used to.”
“Yes and no. Cooking in front of everyone tonight reminded me a lot of my old show.”
“Really?”
“I was surprised. But it’s funny—once my show got canceled, I actually had to get used to cooking in silence again. I’d been so used to talking as I cooked that I found myself saying, ‘And now add a squeeze of lemon juice . . . ,’ even though no one else was there.”
“I guess the difference tonight is that no one here really wants to learn how to make any of this themselves. They all have other people cook for them. I bet they don’t even know how to turn on their ovens. I mean, I do, but Barb? Wendy? No way.”
Lizzie laid a serving spoon on the fruit platter. “Speaking of cooking, I’ve been meaning to ask. . . .”
She hesitated. Did she really want to bring up Zoe’s blog? What difference did it make if she posted photos of Lizzie’s food and claimed credit for herself? Did it really matter? But that was the problem: It did matter, at least to Lizzie. Those were her recipes and her meals, and even if their provenance wasn’t a matter of life and death, it bothered Lizzie that Zoe would imply she’d made them herself.
“Yes?” Zoe prompted, her eyebrows raised.
“I think I came across your blog.”
“Oh.” An uncomfortable silence hung between them. “Sorry—you said you had a question. Is that a question?”
“No, I just . . . I saw some of the photos. Of my food.”
Zoe stared back at her. “Like what?”
“My beet salad, the roasted vegetable platter, a few other things . . .”
“Oh. Right.” She took a sip of wine. “Okay . . . so what’s the question?”
“Did you . . . I mean, you seemed to suggest those were things you made, and I wasn’t sure . . .” Lizzie tripped over her words. Why was she pussyfooting around the issue? Something about Zoe’s demeanor made it very difficult for Lizzie to say what she wanted, which wasn’t a question at all: I don’t appreciate you claiming my recipes as your own, and I’d like you to stop.
“You weren’t sure what?”
“I wasn’t sure if you planned to add those recipes to your site, since you didn’t actually make them yourself.”
Zoe swirled her glass and didn’t say anything for what, to Lizzie, felt like a long time. “I was sort of using them as placeholders,” she said eventually. “I mean, hello, you’re in the kitchen all the time. When am I supposed to do any cooking myself?”
“Oh—well, if you ever want to use the kitchen, just tell me. It’s your house.”
“It’s my parents’ house.”
“Right, but by extension . . .” Lizzie remembered the whispered conversations between Jim and Kathryn about wiring money to Zoe. Even though Zoe was twenty-three (and by all accounts had been flitting about Europe over the past year, exploring the likes of London, Budapest, Zagreb, and Nice on her own), their financial lives still seemed inextricably linked, and from what Lizzie could glean, the only one who had a problem with that was Jim.
“Yeah, I guess, but if you need to make my dad lunch it’s not like I can kick you out.”
“True, but I’m sure we could share the space. All you need to do is ask.”
Zoe shrugged. “Sure, okay. Next time I’ll do that.”
“And if you want to post photos of my food . . . could you at least credit me with the recipe? I’d be happy to contribute a guest post sometime, if you want.”
“Most of my audience probably doesn’t even know who you are. It’s not like you’re famous anymore.”
Lizzie knew she’d set herself up for that, but the words still stung. “That doesn’t mean I couldn’t write a post—”
“Oh, I get it. You want to tap into my readership. Get a little name recognition from a new crowd.”
“No, that isn’t it at all.”
“Please, I know how this works. Most people don’t remember who you are, and the ones who do don’t really care, unless they’re lame like my parents’ friends. So you figure you can ride my coattails.”
“That isn’t what I’m trying to do.”
“Really? You don’t wish you had your old job back?”
“No.” But even as Lizzie said the words, she wasn’t sure they were entirely true. If her old producer, Nick, called her up today and offered her another show, would she accept? In a heartbeat. Regardless, her reasons for wanting recognition on Zoe’s site had nothing to do with a desire for fame.
“I find that hard to believe,” Zoe said. “But whatever the case, I don’t really do guest posts, so that wouldn’t work anyway. I can mention you in one of my posts, though. Maybe if you give me the recipe for the beet salad, I can tell people you developed it.”
Lizzie hesitated. “Okay. That works.”
She couldn’t believe she was negotiating with someone seven years her junior, who’d probably never had a summer job, much less an actual career. Yet Zoe had a domineering personality that always made Lizzie feel as if she needed to apologize, even when she’d done nothing wrong.
“You can e-mail me the recipe. Or just leave it for me in the kitchen or something.”
“I don’t think I have your e-mail.”
“Considering you found my site, it shouldn’t be that hard to figure out. My e-mail is right there.”
“Oh, right. Sorry.” Lizzie drew a cake knife from one of the drawers and laid it on the cake platter. “By the way, I’m really sorry about your friend Marie.”
Zoe blanched. “What?”
“Your friend Marie. The one mentioned on your site. You said she had cancer . . . ?”
“Yeah, so?”
“I’m just sorry she had to go through all that, and that you did too. It must have been a really tough time.”
Zoe stared at her for a long time. “You don’t know anything about it,” she finally snapped, and then she turned around and left without saying another word.
CHAPTER 15
Linda,
Sorry I hung up so abruptly earlier, but I’m still trying to process all of this. I know you’re upset, but trust me when I say you aren’t even half as upset and confused as I am. Obviously I always knew at the back of my mind this was a possible outcome, but the doctor had seemed so sincere when he reassured me it was probably nothing that I convinced myself he was right. If he’d used the word “possibly” instead of “probably,” I would have braced myself a little more, but nothing I can do about that now.
Like I said, it’s pretty small (only 7mm), but apparently it’s an aggressive type (triple negative—ugh). So while the surgeon said they often just do radiation and hormone therapy after a lumpectomy with a lump that small, he thinks the oncologist may want to take a more aggressive approach. You know what that means: chemo. I’m waiting to hear what the oncologist says, but I’m just not sure I can bring myself to do it. I’m all for getting rid of the cancer cells (obviously), but chemo is just thoroughly, horribly brutal. We’ve both watched friends go through it, so you know what I’m talking about. And sometimes it doesn’t even work. Remember Alice White? Six rounds, and she lost her hair and all of her energy, and in the end the cancer still came back. I remember at the time thinking, “What a waste.” Imagine all of the other things she could have been doing during that time. And then, of course, I think of Ryan and everything he went through as a baby. Hell of a lot of good “modern medicine” did him.
Anyway, I haven’t decided yet what I’m going to do. But now I really do need to say something to Gary. It was different when it was probably nothing, but now that it’s something, I can’t keep him in the dark. It isn’t fair. I wouldn’t want him to keep something like this from me. Our relationship has gotten serious pretty quickly, so if I expect him to stick by me through this, I have to be open about
what’s going on. In a lot of ways, it’s more important for him to be in the loop than Frank. (I am going to tell Frank, by the way. Don’t ask me why—I guess I still feel connected to him, given all we went through.)
Having said all of that, I have one request of you: Do NOT say anything to Lizzie. Please. She’s been going through a rough time lately, professionally and personally, and the last thing I want is for her to worry about me. She needs to sort herself out first. I don’t want this diagnosis to throw her life off track, too. Obviously I will tell her once I have a treatment protocol, but until I decide how and when, please keep this news to yourself. Promise?
I’ll give you a call later to talk about all of this in more detail. But for now, please don’t worry. I’m doing enough of that for the both of us. Just be there for me, like you always have been. I need you now more than ever.
xxoo
S
CHAPTER 16
The rest of Sam Offerman’s visit passed without incident, much to Lizzie’s relief. She could tolerate Barb’s drunkenness and Kathryn’s loquaciousness, but she had a much harder time putting up with Sam’s arrogance and chauvinism. Every time he entered the room, Lizzie stiffened, praying he wouldn’t make another pass at her or say some horribly offensive thing that would force Lizzie to bite her tongue until it bled. When he left Sunday, she felt her shoulders relax, as if they’d been carrying a heavy weight all weekend.
“Isn’t Sam a laugh?” Kathryn said once she’d seen him off. She pulled up a chair along the kitchen island.
That’s one word for it, Lizzie thought.
“Lucky for us, we get to have him back in two weeks!”
Lizzie tried to mask her disappointment. “Oh? What’s the occasion?”
“Only the birth of our great nation!”
The Fourth of July. Lizzie had almost forgotten. For as long as Lizzie could remember, Independence Day had snuck up on her. In her mind the holiday took place in the middle of summer, when really it was closer to the beginning. But somehow summer always felt like a big hill, where you climbed and climbed until you reached the Fourth of July at the peak, and everything that followed was a clumsy roll and tumble toward Labor Day.
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