Let's Dish

by Catherine Wade

  "Maybe you should keep a separate makeup bag at work. For touch-ups. And some hair curlers."

  I didn't even pause. “And secondly, I did find a husband."

  My mother's face pinched, but her smile remained steadfast. “We're not going to discuss Ted tonight, dear. We've discussed him enough. As far as Daddy and I are concerned, you were never married."

  "Whatever,” I said.

  "Did Lyla get that box to you? I hope you don't mind, but I went through some of the things you brought over when you moved out of your lovely little bungalow and into that drafty barn you're living in. I needed more room in the basement for your father's Packer collection."

  "I got it. And I do mind. I don't suppose it would do me any good to say that if you wanted me to move my private, personal things, you could have just told me."

  My mother stirred away at the stove, unfazed. “I know how busy you are, Margaret, and I didn't want to bother you."

  "You hate me working, but my job sure gives you a convenient excuse when you want to snoop, doesn't it?"

  She blinked, but showed no outward sign that she was in the least bit perturbed. “Those things were left in my house. It's not snooping when it's under my own roof."

  "God grant me serenity!” I left for the living room as quickly as I could. “Hey, Dad. What's up?"

  He grunted, putting his cigar out in the ashtray beside him. “Ack, the Pack is losing. Damned Giants are cheating. Have the officials bribed, I'm sure of it. In the days of Lombardi, you wouldn't see none of this crap."

  "Dad, you do realize you're the only person in the state of New York who hates the Giants, right? Well, except maybe Jets fans."

  He smiled up at me. “You can take the boy out of Wisconsin—"

  "But you can't take Wisconsin out of the boy,” I finished for him. For the life of me, I'll never understand why my parents picked up as newlyweds and moved from Milwaukee to Fallsview. New job or not, they were just too dyed-in-the-wool Midwesterners.

  "Ah, damn it.” Brett Favre had fumbled. “Oh, hell. Theresa, when's dinner?"

  "It's coming,” Mom called from the kitchen.

  "Good. Get me a beer, Margaret Mary. Take it to the table."

  "Sure, Dad.” It was like living in an episode of I Love Lucy. Face it; a night at my parents’ house is like finding yourself in a nightmare about Nick at Night. “You switched to Light yet, like the doctor suggested?"

  "He's a kid, how can he be a doctor? He's younger than you!"

  Ouch. The truth hurts.

  I went back into the kitchen, which by now was stinking of Mom's garlic bread. Correction: garlic briquettes. I tried to breathe through my mouth and opened the fridge to find it full of Little Sarah's cheesecakes.

  "Ma! What are all these cheesecakes for?"

  My mother plopped some unidentifiable goo onto three plates and didn't bother to look up at me. “They're for the church bazaar on Friday and Saturday. We're going to auction them off."

  "What? Mom, you do know that I bake cakes and pastries for a living, right?"

  Mom's smile tightened. Again. I was such a trial. “Well, of course I know that, Margaret."

  "So why didn't you call me? Do you have any idea what it's going to look like? Your daughter's a caterer, and you don't even order my cheesecakes for the church bazaar?"

  "I didn't want to bother you, dear.” For someone who didn't want to bother me, she was sure bugging the hell out of me.

  I was trying to decide if her expression was clueless or conniving when it hit me. “Good, God, Ma! No one at church even knows I'm a caterer, do they? You didn't even tell them!"

  The smile was gone. “Margaret, please watch your language."

  "Well, this explains it. I haven't gotten one customer from that church and now I know why. It wouldn't kill you to drum up a little business for me, you know. I could sure use the cash flow."

  The psychotically sweet smile returned. “Well, sweetheart, if you're having money trouble, you know you could always move back in with Daddy and me."

  "Fat chance.” I carried two plates into the dining room and put one in front of my father. The second I lay at my place and flopped down into my chair, trying to figure out what it was supposed to be. “What the heck is this stuff, anyway?"

  "It's spaghetti,” my mother said, but I wasn't sure I believed her. Dad took one bite, looked confused, and then shrugged his shoulders in resignation. Apparently he wasn't any more impressed than I was, but he must have been hungrier since he was eating it.

  My mother, however, was utterly oblivious. “I think you should come to the bazaar on Saturday, Margaret. There will be several single young men there. Of course, we won't mention your divorce."

  "Hey, now,” Dad said, waving the goo on his fork in the air. “We're not discussing him in this house ever again. As far as I'm concerned, Margaret Mary, you were never married. Do you understand me? Never married!"

  "Say it over long enough, Pop. It won't make it true. Trust me, I've tried."

  Mom fluttered her hand at him, attempting to calm him down. “Remember your blood pressure, Harold."

  "It's not my blood pressure that's going to kill me, Theresa, it's your cooking. Where's my beer?"

  Mom looked wounded but turned away from Dad, pinning her gaze on me. “You know, Margaret, your father's blood pressure would be so much better if he just had some grandchildren to play with. But instead, you insist on being a businessman."

  "Businesswoman,” I corrected, but I might as well have been talking to a wall.

  "I should be a grandmother by now. And I would be if it weren't for your—if it weren't for T-E-D."

  "We're not talking about him!” Dad dropped his fork with a clatter, grabbed his beer and made a beeline to his recliner. Even watching Packers lose was better than discussing my pathetic failure of a life.

  Mom didn't appear to notice he'd left. “You know if you hadn't been going to school and working, maybe T-E-D wouldn't have needed to find—other things to do."

  I took a garlic briquette off the platter and gnawed on it. There was no way I was going to let her get me riled. “Where'd you hide it?” I asked after a moment.

  "Hide what?"

  "The time machine. I seem to have arrived in 1955."

  Her mouth became a fine line and she looked at me like she did the time I spilled India ink on her beige carpet. “Just because the world is moving toward damnation doesn't mean you should forget your real place in God's kingdom."

  So much for not getting riled. I dropped the briquette with a clatter. “Good Lord, Mom, I tried that June Cleaver bullshit! And it sucked!"

  "Margaret!"

  "And you know what? It didn't work! It will never work. It's not that kind of world anymore, Ma. This is the twenty-first century. Women work! We survive and make our own way in the world. And I'll let you in on a little secret. We even get to vote."

  A small tear started to form in the corner of my mother's eye, leaving my conscience stinging. For all of thirty seconds. She'd pulled this act before. A lot.

  "There's no need to be sarcastic,” she said, her voice so low I could barely hear her. Okay, so a tear has no effect on me, but when my mom whispers dejectedly, I turn into a puddle.

  "Mom, I'm sorry. But you know I have no choice. And I can't count on a man to make me happy. If Ted taught me one thing, it's that you can never count on anyone else for your happiness and stability."

  She sniffled. Oh man, she was laying it on thick. “If you must, Margaret, but all I know is that the world shouldn't be that way."

  "Maybe it shouldn't.” Who was I to argue? “But I'm afraid it is. There's nothing I can do about it."

  She sniffled again, but lifted her head and put that infernal smile on her face. “Did I tell you that Mrs. Baker's daughter is getting married? The dress she picked out would look so good on you."

  Oh God, here we go again.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Chapter Three
>
  July 26

  Dear Diary,

  I'm getting married! My life is all coming together now. I love Ted so much! I can't wait to be his wife. All my dreams are coming true. Life couldn't be more perfect.

  I endured two years alone at college while Ted went to chiropractic school, and the summer after my junior year, he graduated early. We decided that a good way to celebrate the fact that my boyfriend was the most brilliant man ever was to go on a romantic weekend to Niagara Falls. I have to admit, when Ted recommended it, I was secretly hoping he was going to propose. I spent most of our three-day weekend gingerly picking at my dessert and checking my wineglass before drinking it. It probably looked like I was checking for poison.

  By Monday's sunset, I gave up. It had been a wonderful weekend, but I was disappointed and, as we took one last walk by the falls, unusually quiet. But so was Ted, though I was too busy being an idiot at the time to notice.

  We stopped at the railing, both of us staring into the water. Just when I was considering whether or not to jump, Ted said, “So what do you think?"

  I sighed. It was late and time to leave. “Yeah, I suppose we'd better get going."

  "Yeah, me, too. But not back home."

  It took me a few seconds to process what he said. Puzzled, I turned to see him smiling. “Huh?"

  "I think we need to stay one more night."

  My heart started pounding. “Why?"

  "Well, I'm a doctor now."

  "A chiropractor."

  "And I'm going into practice with Ralph and his dad soon..."

  "Yeah?"

  "Well, the reason I thought we could stay one more night is to celebrate ... and plan."

  My heart thumped, my stomach rolled and my head swam. I didn't know whether to throw up, faint or scream. “Plan what?"

  His grin turned wicked as he turned to me. “Our wedding.” He knelt down to propose and tried to slide the tiniest, most perfect diamond on my finger. But he slipped, and the ring went tumbling into the falls.

  Should have given me a clue.

  But ring or no ring, I said “yes” and quit college two days later. It wasn't a huge surprise to anyone, since I had yet to declare a major.

  Mom insisted on throwing the world's biggest bridal shower. There were so many guests I didn't know, I felt like I should have worn a nametag.

  Afterwards, Lyla and I sat picking at the remnants of the cake.

  "That was exhausting,” I said.

  "Don't worry, honey. I'm going to throw you a bachelorette party that will blow the pants off this little-old-lady shindig."

  "She means well.” I sank back into the cushions on the couch with a sigh. “I can't believe it. Two weeks and I'm going to be Mrs. Ted Taylor."

  Lyla tried to hide the look of distaste on her face, but it was hard to miss. “I'm still bummed you're not coming back to school next semester. What am I going to do without you?"

  "You'll get a single room. And I'll no longer put a cramp in your social style."

  She frowned. “Is it my fault that guys like me? I couldn't be stingy and keep it all for just one man. Honestly, Maggie, you're twenty-one years old. How can you give up your education and settle down with one guy for the rest of your life?"

  I sighed again in a nauseatingly dreamy way. What an idiot. “Oh, Lyla, I don't need college anymore. I have what I've always needed."

  "That's right. You went to school to obtain an MRS degree, didn't you?"

  It was my turn to frown. “You'll understand one day, Lyla."

  "Doubtful!” She nibbled a leftover ladyfinger and pointed the bitten end at my bow-and-ribbon hat. “What's with the fashion statement, anyway?"

  The smile spread across my face again as I fingered the ribbons. “These represent all the children we're going to have."

  Lyla nearly choked on her ladyfinger. “What are you going to do? Have them in litters? Not that I'd put it past you."

  "I hope to have five. At least. Six would be nice, too. Three girls and three boys."

  "Holy crap, girl. You need to get a new hobby."

  "One day you'll find Mr. Right and get married, too."

  "Ha!” she laughed. “Fat freaking chance! Nope, marriage is not for me. If I ever decide to get hitched, you have my permission to rip my fingernails out by the roots. It'll hurt less."

  I just smiled. I knew better.

  * * * *

  I spent my afternoon roasting beef and baking five thousand dinner rolls in preparation for the Fallsview High School senior tea. When Armand came in the room, I stashed my still-open diary in the drawer with the dishcloths, glad his eyes never moved from the meat slicer. Well, maybe his fingers and the slicer. You never want to be the one to lend a whole new definition to the term finger sandwich.

  "You're awfully quiet,” he said, never looking away from the blade. “Still feeling sick?"

  "No. Like I said, probably a touch of that flu Mrs. Adler had. Nothing too serious."

  "Still thinking about Kevin?"

  My head popped up from the bread dough I was kneading. “And why would I be thinking about him?” Armand's shoulders were shaking with laughter. I, however, wasn't feeling so amused. Mostly because Kevin was exactly who I was thinking about.

  "It's okay, Maggie. He's a good-looking guy and you know how he feels about you."

  "Don't tell me you've jumped on Lyla's ‘You need to date again’ bandwagon."

  "She just thinks it's time you moved on. And I think it's time you got Ted out of your system. Who better to use and abuse as a transitional guy than somebody who's had the hots for you for a hundred years?"

  "The only part of that sentence that sounded remotely tempting was the abuse part. Get me a dartboard and his picture. I'll be all set."

  Armand stopped the slicer. “You mean after Ted left, it never crossed your mind to see Kevin?"

  "I'd like to see Kevin go bankrupt.” I looked down at my dough again. “At least before we do."

  "We'll make the taxes.” His voice sounded calm and certain. I wondered if he really felt that way or was just a really good actor.

  My teeth dug into my lip. I hadn't even realized they had been resting there. “Well, I've decided not to think about it. I'll think about it tomorrow."

  He smiled and went back to slicing. “Sounds like Scarlet O'Hara syndrome to me."

  "Maybe a little.” I buried the heels of my hands into the bread dough. “But I got to thinking we've got a couple of gigs coming up, and the possibility of some other big ones."

  He nodded. “Yeah. That's right."

  "And Mrs. Adler told me her granddaughter is getting married. She's going to give us the number. And knowing that family, it would be a seriously big party to cater."

  "Yep. So see? We're good."

  I dusted off my hands on a dishrag. “And if I need to, I can always get another loan."

  "What can you possibly mortgage now?"

  I shrugged. “My virtue?"

  Armand's full brown lips curled upwards. It was easy to see what Lyla saw in him. “Yeah. We're tough stuff, you and me. We'll find a way."

  "Uh, Mrs. Taylor..."

  The shudder that ran through me was a reflex and uncontrollable. “Heather, just call me Maggie, okay?"

  I turned around to face the ten-year-old we'd hired to help out behind the counter. Oh, all right, she was actually eighteen and “looking for direction” in her life. In other words, a Rent-A-Bimbo. But she could handle the till and kept her mitts off the merchandise—unlike her predecessor Carl, who cleaned me out of fudge daily. She wasn't the brightest bulb in the pack, and the fact that she continued to call me Mrs. Taylor months after the judge had restored my maiden name annoyed the crap out of me, but what else are you going to get for minimum wage?

  "Uh, Mrs. Maggie..."

  I shut my eyes so tightly I could see colors behind them. “What is it, Heather?"

  "There's somebody out front wants to talk to you.” When she spoke, she gave the impr
ession she was popping her gum even without having any in her mouth.

  "He's back.” Armand winked. “Getting persistent in his old age."

  I groaned. “Tell Kevin I died. Maybe he'll get the hint."

  "Um, it's not a Kevin.” Heather twirled her hair. “It's some lady named Hansen."

  In a split second, Armand and I locked eyes. “Roberta Hansen? Atlantic Gourmet Magazine Roberta Hansen?"

  Heather shrugged. “I dunno. Just wants to talk to you is all."

  "Holy cannoli! I mean, I wrote to her, I've submitted recipes to the magazine, but she's never come down to the store!"

  "I know!” Armand's eyes lit with a mix of excitement and terror. “If it really is her, maybe she wants to put us in the magazine."

  "And if word gets out that Atlantic Gourmet is doing a story on us, this could be our break!"

  I slipped on a new apron and washed my hands. I lightly brushed my cheeks with my palms and thought, for the slightest moment, that my mother may have been right about that spare makeup kit.

  "This could solve our tax problem, that's for sure.” He went back to the slicer. “I'll try to concentrate back here while you go out there and decide our future."

  "No pressure.” I ran my hands through my unruly red curls, locking them into a clip at the nape of my neck.

  I hurried out to the dining room, where a tall, lean and mean-looking gray-haired woman waited. She wore a sleek suit I was certain cost more than my fire insurance and property taxes combined. I have to say, it was a mother bear and cubs to be so close to that much wealth and not be able to reach out and grab it. But I knew this was my big break.

  If I just didn't blow it.

  "Ms. Hansen?” I approached the counter and realized I hadn't checked to be sure I didn't have flour on my face.

  Madame Gray Hair didn't look so mean after she smiled, but there was still something icy about her. Maybe it was the color of the suit. “Miss Donnely? Or is it Mrs. Taylor?"

  Did my eye just twitch? “My married name was Taylor, but I'm divorced, so I took my maiden name back. A lot of women do that now, I guess. To avoid complications, you can just call me Maggie."