"But she's young, she doesn't understand loyalty. She wants to use this new fellow. Kent Basset or something."
My blood pressure shot up and my vision went fuzzy. Count to ten. Count to ten, I told myself. It had seemed to calm me down before. It wasn't working too hot this time. “Kevin Best?"
"Yes, that's it. Best Dishes, I think. He makes this lemon cream pound cake for a wedding cake, and a groom's cake of..."
"Chocolate mocha fudge torte,” I said.
"Yes! So you know his work."
I nodded, not letting myself scream from the rafters that I knew his work because it was my work. He'd just used my own recipes to steal a job from me. The job I was counting on to save my bacon.
I left the coffee carafe on Mrs. Adler's table, but wasn't able to speak enough words to tell her help herself. I went out the front door and onto the sidewalk and looked up at the façade of the old Victorian I had fallen in love with on first sight. The old Victorian I had refurbished with my own two hands, my blood, sweat and tears in every square inch. My eyes scanned the smooth white clapboards and found the green lettering on the sign. Let's Dish: Patisserie and Catering. My eyes burned, the same tears I'd held in at the memory of losing my son now fell as I thought about losing my business. I looked at the four-leaf clover that served as the apostrophe. A four-leaf clover I had painted myself. Somehow, it wasn't bringing me much luck.
Another wave of nausea washed over me and I fought the urge to fall to my knees. This was one mess a dozen four-leaf clovers couldn't get me out of. Hand painted or not.
* * * *
1. High tea to Presbyterian Women's group.
2. Eight dozen rolls with meat-and-cheese trays to Carlson Law Firm.
3. Cranberry scones and chai to PTA meeting.
I checked off my deliveries one by one, every stop making me realize that soon I would need to add wait staff. Ca-ching, ca-ching. Servers are not cheap.
I pulled up to Lyla and Armand's house a little after seven, the sun sinking as quickly as my hopes for success.
"Aunt Maggieeeeeee!” A small, dark-haired boy ran out to me, his arms spread wide.
"Hey, Jackie.” I swept up the little bundle for a snuggle. “How's my Jackie boy?"
"I wuf yoo, Maggie!"
Call me a softie, but a sweet, cuddly two-year-old saying he loved me melted my heart. And have you ever smelled the hair on a kid that age? Better than my favorite hazelnut café.
"Hey, Mags.” Armand came out of the house to retrieve his son. “Got all the deliveries done?"
"Yup. And did you enjoy Mommy and Me while I did them for you?"
Armand's tan complexion deepened. “It's Mommy and Daddy and me. This is a new century, Maggie."
"Whatever.” He had a gorgeous wife and a cute kid. Give me a little latitude here if I teased him, okay?
I walked into the kitchen to find pizza boxes on the counter. “So it was your night to cook, huh, Ly?"
Her butt was hanging out the refrigerator door. “I know I have a six pack in here. Where the hell did it go? Armand? Where's the beer?"
"I already put it out on the table. For God's sake, woman, you opened one!"
"Duh!” She pulled her head out of the fridge. “Well, if you're so on top of it all, why isn't it in my hand?"
"What am I? Your servant?"
"That's right, cabana boy. Now get those fine buns over here."
The little exchange was sealed with a kiss and a pat to Lyla's rump. Past our wedding, I don't remember my marriage ever being fun. Ted was far too much of a grownup for teasing and play. Of course, I acted thirty-five when I was sixteen, but I've promised myself to regress just as soon as I can get the Dish off the ground.
If I can get the Dish off the ground.
Armand turned to me with a look that told me he'd forgotten for a moment that I was even there. “You okay, Maggie? You're looking a little pale tonight."
"Yeah,” Lyla agreed. “You weren't looking so hot the other day when I came in, either. You feeling all right?"
I nodded. “Of course. Just got up too early the last couple of mornings to make the pastries."
"That's not all,” Lyla said, shaking her head.
"Well, maybe I have a touch of whatever's going around."
Lyla scowled. “Well, make sure you don't give it to Jack. All I need is that kid puking all over."
"I don't think he'll catch it,” I said.
Lyla and Armand set the pizza on the table, and we all got down to some serious eating. Ly, Armand and I did, anyway. Jack was smearing tomato sauce all over his face.
"Aren't you going to have a beer, Mags?” Lyla asked.
"Not tonight,” I said, earning myself stares from everyone, including Jack. “It's just that my stomach is still kind of upset."
Lyla nodded, but looked suspicious. “So what is this Armand was telling me about you running out of the store today? Was that your stomach, too?"
I glared at Armand. “Thanks, Mom. Glad to know you're watching over me."
He looked apologetic, but not nearly enough. “Well, you've just been acting weird lately, and since Lyla knows you better than I do..."
"Shut up.” I tore into my pizza and, ignoring manners, announced with a full mouth, “Kevin Best is stealing from me."
"What?” They both said it at the same time, their eyes wide open with surprise.
"My white chocolate mints and my lemon cream pound cake. Oh, and my chocolate mocha fudge torte, among other things."
"Bastard!"
"Armand,” Lyla admonished, glancing at Jack, who was ignoring his father while trying to shove a breadstick up his nose. “Maggie, are you sure about this?"
"Two different sources.” I held up my fingers to illustrate my point. “At first I thought the white chocolate mints had to be a coincidence. After all, we were partners once upon a nightmare. But there's only one way he would have heard of a mocha fudge torte."
"But I ... but Kevin never ... oh, hell.” Lyla forgot her own “no swearing in front of the baby” rule.
"Now tell me this again,” Armand said. “Why exactly did you and Kevin break up the partnership?” Lyla's elbow dug into his ribs. “What? All I knew is that Maggie and Kevin seemed to be an unbeatable pair, and then all of a sudden she's asking me to pair up and no one's discussed Kevin since. Until he showed up on our doorstep the other day. It just seems to me that it has to be a little bit more to it than Kevin having a crush on you."
I took a deep breath, wondering if I really wanted to go into it. “It was a little more than a crush."
"Lots more,” Lyla added.
Armand shook his head. “Kevin knew you were married, though. He wasn't the type to force the issue. At least I didn't think he was. So I don't understand why it would be such a huge deal for you.” He paused to search for the mental light switch he wasn't finding. “Unless the feeling was mutual."
"Of course not,” I snapped. “I was happily married to Ted."
"And he made that a little less happy,” Lyla said through a mouthful of pizza.
"I don't get it."
I had been hoping Armand would catch the drift. That I wouldn't have to row his boat into shore. It was obvious, though, that he wasn't getting the hint. “Armand, Kevin was the one who told me about Ted and ... and..."
"Tiffany,” he said, the light finally coming on.
"Ding ding ding!” Lyla called out. “And we have a winner!"
"Yay, Daddy!” Jack shouted. “Daddy, yoo a weeeennah!"
"Oh, you have no idea, honey,” Lyla said. “You have no idea!"
[Back to Table of Contents]
Chapter Five
April 4
It should have been me. I should be the one who didn't make it, not my baby. I'm just a pathetic shell, not a real woman. My life is over.
For months after I lost the baby, I lay in my bed and stared at the tube. My attention span wasn't long enough to process soaps, so I ended up watching game shows for hours on end. Event
ually I moved on to talk shows, envying the desperate single mothers trying to find out which guy had fathered their babies.
At least they had babies.
I was aware it was Friday night only because TGIF was blaring on the boob tube. I had no idea where Ted was. He'd been patient with me, but after two months, I guess he'd had enough. He'd bring in a sandwich and a glass of orange juice every night but was sleeping in the guest room. The one we had planned on making into a nursery. Some part of me cared that my life was falling apart, but I just didn't have the gumption to do anything about it.
I gathered enough energy to flip the channel, but a dark blob moved in the way and blocked my view. “Get up,” the blob said. The blob was waving a bottle of tequila in front of my face.
"Leave me alone, Lyla. I'm tired."
"Tired, my ass. You have to actually do something to get tired. All you've been doing is lying in that bed. When was the last time you showered?"
"I shower.” I motioned for her to move. “Come on, I want to watch this."
"Shower. Yeah, you shower. About twice a week. Then you climb right back into those smelly sweats. Have you seen your hair? You look like Medusa on crack."
I kept flipping. “Nightline looks good tonight, if I can stay awake that long."
"Goddamn it, Maggie, I've come for margarita Friday and you're not going to stop me."
"Who's stopping you? Go. Drink. Be merry. Just leave me out of it."
"That's it.” She grabbed me under the arms and pulled. I fought and protested, but she was bigger than me. And meaner. She dragged me out of bed, across the floor and into the shower. Once there, she tossed me, grubby sweats and all, under the shower head and turned the cold water on full blast.
"Jesus freaking Christ, Lyla!"
"There's some life left in you after all,” she said with a laugh. “Thank God, this depression crap is getting damned old. Don't let your mother hear you swearing like that, though. She'll make you do a million Hail Marys."
"She wouldn't hear me.” I was slumped on the floor of the shower, my hair dripping into my eyes. “She's been at the cathedral lighting candles and praying for the baby."
"Praying for the baby?"
I swallowed hard. “Since the baby wasn't baptized before he died, Father Howard told her he went to hell."
"Oh, that's helpful!” Lyla slapped her palms against her thighs as she kneeled beside me. “Father Howard is a drunk. And your mother is a sociopath. Jesus, it's a miracle you turned out normal."
We sat there just staring at one another for a while, both of us sopping wet from the cold shower. Lyla patted my knee and smiled. “Come on. Finish up and let's get you drunk."
"Do I have a choice?"
"No."
Lyla snapped the shower door shut and I dragged myself off the floor. A few minutes later, smelling more like shampoo and less like week-old gym shorts, I wrapped my hair in a turban and slipped into a clean pair of sweats. I was surprised to find them hanging off me, the pants nearly falling off my hips. That's when I realized I was living off a nightly sandwich and orange juice, but nothing else.
I tossed my damp towel in the corner and looked in the mirror. My hair looked wiry and thin, and my cheeks were sunken to the point where you could see the outline of my teeth. The skin on my face was dull and transparent, with a bluish hue from the veins running just below the surface. I pulled my hair back into a tight ponytail, hiked my pants up and secured them with a safety pin, and headed for the stairs.
By the time I got to the kitchen, Lyla already had an extra-big margarita at my place at the table.
"Are you ready to come back to life now?"
"Only long enough to get drunk."
"Wrong answer.” She grabbed the mail off the counter. “Let's see what we've been neglecting, shall we? Bill, bill, late notice. Eh, screw ‘em.” She tossed the stack in the trash. I suffered a miniscule pang of guilt as the unopened envelopes hit the bottom of the can with a clang. She continued through the heap. “Sympathy card, another one. Toss these, too.” As the cards flew into the trash, I drowned the pang with a gulp of salt-laced tequila. “Your car needs an oil change. Dentist. Oh, hello. What's this?"
In her hands, Lyla held a catalogue advertising the spring semester at the community college. I grunted and went in for another gulp. “Junk mail."
"Not so fast. You know, they have continuing education stuff in here. Ever think of finishing your degree?"
"Why should I? I'm going to drink this margarita, go back upstairs and die from boredom. Why do I need a degree for that?"
She scowled. “That was always your problem, Maggie. You just wanted to be a wife and a mommy. Throw a monkey wrench in it, and you go to Jell-O."
"I am not Jell-O!” I objected.
Lyla looked at me over the top of the catalogue. “Oh yeah. You're Jell-O.” She turned the page, scanning the courses. “Look, here's a class on pottery. That would be interesting, wouldn't it?"
I raised an eyebrow. “You're kidding, right?"
"You're right. Total crap. I'm sure we can find something better. Here's one about painting. You used to love going to Museum of Modern Art."
"I don't understand modern art.” I rolled my eyes and longed to bury my face in my smelly pillow. The problem with depression is that the housework goes to hell. Like I cared.
I could almost hear her grimace as she flipped another page. “I'm sure there's something here that would be fun. Let's see ... needlepoint, calligraphy, French pastry desserts, candle making..."
"What did you say?” Yes, the dead were stirring. A little bit.
"Candle making? They say here you can learn to make those scented candles. Huh. Not my thing, but you like them. Maybe you could give them out for Christmas."
"Before that.” I grabbed the catalog. “French pastry desserts. Crème brulée, cream puffs."
"Um, Maggie, you don't cook.” She paused, looking hopeful. “Might be kind of fun to learn, though."
"I don't know.” I ran my fingers through my matted ponytail. “I'm not sure I'm ready. I think I need more time to ... get over losing my family."
Lyla, apparently, had reached the end of her self-control. “Damn it Mags, you lost a baby and that's a major bitch, but you still have Ted and me. You still have yourself, at least until you manage to starve yourself to death. It's been two months. Now unless you're serious about going back upstairs and killing yourself by sleeping the rest of your life away, I suggest you get off your ass and do something. If you want to make some poofy French dessert, then do it. But for Christ's sake, do something! Anything!"
The numbness was still pervasive. Her impassioned plea barely stirred me. “But you said it, Ly. I don't cook."
"That's the point in taking a class, isn't it?” She sighed, settling her hands on the table. “Tell you what. I'm going to take you to sign up tomorrow. And don't even bother to argue, ‘cuz I will drag your butt out of bed again if I have to."
"And you would, too.” I emptied my glass.
"You go the first week and if you don't like it, you quit. Okay?"
Something in my gut clenched. How could I possibly go out and face the world knowing how defective I was? Then again, was I really ready to just die, entombed in putrid designer sheets? “I don't know, Ly."
"Just try it. For Ted. For me. For yourself, for Pete's sake! Please, just try it. We miss you, Maggie."
She was concerned, actually pleading with me. I thought back to the pale pallor I'd seen in the mirror and tugged at the sweatpants the safety pin was failing to keep up. Even in my mournful stupor, I could see she was right.
"I'll go. But I can't promise I'll stick with it. After all, I think my cooking is even worse than my mother's."
Lyla laughed and took a swig of her drink. “Honey, nobody's cooking is as bad as your mother's."
* * * *
As I did every morning, I stumbled down the stairs from my apartment into my kitchen at four thirty a.m., but it w
as particularly difficult that day. Before I'd come down, I'd slipped my diary under the silken things in the back of my underwear drawer, where even Armand wouldn't be brave enough to look. I'd spent most of the night reading the stupid thing, wallowing in old memories like some pathetic loser. Guess that description was pretty accurate, though.
I fought a yawn as I pulled out the canister of bread flour. Before I started Let's Dish, it was a miracle if I rolled out of bed before nine. It's amazing what a little desperation and a massive sense of responsibility will do for a person. As early as it was, I was in truth running behind.
I went about getting the donut dough into the mixer and was so distracted I almost didn't hear the knock on my front door.
I made my way through the dark café, and my toe suffered the brunt of the blow when I tripped over the bistro table by the south window. The pain was the least of my worries when I saw the face staring back at me.
I leaned back against the table and took a breath. I wasn't sure if I was relieved I knew the face outside my front door before the crack of dawn, or irritated that the face belonged to Kevin Best.
"What the hell are you doing here?” I asked as I opened the door. “Do you know what time it is?"
"I figured you'd be up. And I saw the kitchen light on."
We hovered in the door for several uncomfortable seconds while I glared at him.
"Can I come in?” he asked at last. “It's kind of chilly out here."
"It's kind of chilly in here, too.” But I backed away from the door and motioned him in. After shutting it behind me, I turned to him again. “What do you want this time, Kevin?"
"What? No offer of a cup of coffee?"
"Don't push your luck.” I stared at him expectantly, but he just stared back. If I didn't know better, I would have said he was trying to look sexy and irresistible. But he knew that I could damn sure resist him.
"I told you I'd be coming around again,” he said with a wink.
"Whatever,” I growled, channeling a very grumpy Heather. I stomped off back to the kitchen. Kevin followed me and watched me knead some bread dough. “I mean, why not come in here every other day and piss me off? Don't worry about getting to a point. Nobody else around here does. It would be just like you, Kevin, to show up at this ungodly hour just to irritate me. Well, you caught me before my coffee, so I guess you've accomplished your goal. Geez, will you just quit staring at me like that and say something?” As I proceeded with my tirade, Kevin just looked more and more amused.
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