Helen placed some scrambled eggs in front of Molly and she gobbled them down at warp speed.
“Let me run up and put some real shoes on and then we can go.” Rushing out of the room.
“Grab something nice for the party. And make sure you’re wearing one of your necklaces,” Helen called. “I forgot to tell you that the hospital called and they’ll have all the tests back tomorrow. What tests?”
“The stomach thing.” Yelling over her shoulder. “They think it may be a parasite or something.” Lying.
Molly had one more day to live in blissful ignorance, believing that the thing growing inside her was parasitic, and she was not going to waste one minute of it.
When Helen and Molly arrived, the restaurant was buzzing like a hive. Waiters and cooks, aromas and noises, were swirling around creating a mixture of sound, sight, and smell. Photographers were setting up in one corner and a journalist sat writing down a copy of the menu Henry had planned. Helen walked right into the center of the whirl, introduced herself to the people from Food & Wine, and went directly behind the bar to fetch the vases for the tables. Helen was all business and could switch hats at the drop of one. Molly set her bag behind the reservation desk and disappeared into the kitchen.
It was even more insane inside. Alex and Henry worked at the stove, stirring their sauces while the other staff prepared their stations, covering vegetables with olive oil and garlic and tossing them into roasting pans. In the oven went one tray, out came another: beets, potatoes, tomatoes, asparagus, mushrooms. She walked farther back and Vanessa, Ashley, and Renee were busy making all the various garnishes for the desserts. Peanut brittle was being broken into bite-sized pieces, strawberries were being chopped and fanned, mint was being sectioned and set in ice water, and lemon bars were being arranged on platters. Renee had decided to do one plated dessert, a chocolate-banana cream pie with the brittle and fresh whip cream, and trays of smaller petits fours like the lemon bars along with truffles, small cherry tarts, mini peach cobblers, and pineapple upside-down cakes. She also had made a fresh mango sorbet for a palate cleanser in the middle of the meal.
“Hey, Renee.” Molly, giving her a kiss on the cheek. “How’s it going?”
“Fine, actually. Vanessa and Ash rocked last night and really got most everything done. We are all squared away.” Brushing a hair from her eye. “Though this is definitely my last big event before the big event. How’s the hand?”
“Okay, a little sore. I feel pretty useless.”
“Don’t worry. Yours were extra hands anyway.”
“I’m going to go back out front.”
Molly wandered back through the kitchen feeling a little like a fish out of water. She returned to the front of the restaurant and her mother had already set out all the vases, filled them with water, and was wrestling with the buckets of flowers that had just been dropped off. She pulled both buckets behind the bar and wiped her hands on her jeans.
“Molly, grab the scissors from that drawer over there and go get a garbage bag from the back.”
Molly returned with the items and while her mother cut and directed, Molly placed the flowers in the containers. They were all yellow tulips. Helen was a purist. She liked tightly arranged bouquets with a single type of flower. Simple and elegant without the fuss of competing petals. While they were arranging, photos were taken, smiles interjected, and banter bandied about. The task was finished rather quickly and the two of them next set out to create the tables. All the tables had been lined up in the middle of the restaurant, creating a long one for the thirty guests. Helen placed white tablecloths down and then on top laid out patchwork quilts she had brought from home. Each quilt was different, but all of them had squares of pastel fabrics that contrasted with the intense yellow of the tulips. It was homey and modern at the same time. The napkins were all white and held firm with a collection of mismatched vintage napkin rings. The end result was fresh and accessible without being too quaint. Molly loved how her mother could pull things from different eras or genres and create a new whole. It was something Molly was lucky to inherit, and a source of Molly’s inspiration when it came to her jewelry. After they placed a smattering of votives along the table, they were done and set about cleaning everything up so it looked perfect. They only had an hour before the guests would arrive.
With Tom the bartender’s help, Molly and Helen went back to the freezer and grabbed the milk cartons Helen had placed inside a few days before. Within each was a bottle of vodka that Helen had then frozen into a block of ice and within the ice were suspended slices of lemons, limes, and grapefruit. They ripped off the surrounding cartons and exposed the ice sculptures.
“Mom, these are really cool.” Setting down a bottle on the tray Tom had prepared. “Where did you come up with this?” Looking at the beautiful ice-encrusted bottle.
“I actually saw it on Martha Stewart.”
“She always thinks up the best stuff.”
“Except those ice candles we tried to make. Remember?”
“Last New Year’s. They never froze right and all the fruit and leaves we put in fell to the bottom.”
“I found them still outside when all the snow melted this spring.”
“Aren’t these sort of the same?”
“Yeah, but I think the carton helped keep the fruit wedged. It will be a great way to serve the cocktails tonight.”
Helen, Tom, and Molly finished up, more photos were taken, and Molly slipped into the bathroom to change. She carefully pulled a black wrap dress around her and somehow managed to fasten a large coral necklace with a cameo around her neck. She also wound a piece of black lace ribbon around her bandage to camouflage her injury. Very Madonna circa 1986. She slicked her hair back into a bun, dashed on some makeup, and spritzed herself with perfume. She slipped on her nicer black thongs and went to the car to leave the bag of dirty clothes there.
The sun was setting and it was getting down to crunch time. Helen was ready when Molly returned from outside. Her mother was wearing a crisp white button-down and a long camel-colored suede skirt. She had on one of Molly’s necklaces as well, a carnelian multistrand with tiger-eye leaves. A good mother always advertises. Helen selected some Andre Bocelli, dimmed the lights, and poured two glasses of wine. She handed one to Molly.
“No, thanks. I took a few Advil for the hand and I don’t want to be any fuzzier. Also the stomach thing.”
“Perrier?” Handing the wine to Tom.
“Sure.”
“It looks great, doesn’t it?” Helen asked as she surveyed her restaurant.
“It’s going to be a wonderful evening.” Toasting her mother.
Twenty minutes later, the party was in full effect. People were laughing and mingling, enjoying the ambience. Molly helped pass around the appetizers, small savory tarts with onions and Parmesan as well as fried potato chips with avocado-tuna tartar, balancing the tray on her good hand and holding napkins wedged in her bad. Helen served the iced vodka martinis and the guests seemed to enjoy everything. Then it came time to start the meal. A snicker arose when the guests sat down to read their menus. Henry had been right about them getting the joke of Molly’s poem, and a little round of applause as well as a slew of typical responses like “This is just a poem, right?” wink wink were directed at Molly.
The meal began with a small purple potato, halved, and scooped out only to be refilled with a mixture of green onions, hard-boiled egg, and sour cream, then topped with a large dollop of Sevruga caviar. It was served alone on the dish, the purple contrasting with the white porcelain. Simple and clean. The second course was one of Molly’s favorite salads. The roasted yellow beets were layered like a Napoleon with goat cheese and a variety of baby greens. Scattered on the plate were more greens and candied walnuts. Then the whole thing was dressed with a lemon and olive oil vinaigrette. So far so good.
Molly and Helen continued with the wait staff to man the front of the restaurant. Pouring wine and water, clearing plates, c
hanging the music when necessary. They knew things were going well when the plates were returning to the kitchen practically licked clean. The next course was Renee’s sorbet. Just something a little sweet and cold to liven up the palate. More wine was poured and several guests stepped outside for cigarettes. When everyone had returned, Henry sent out the next dish. Homemade ravioli stuffed with sweet peas and ricotta salata, topped with the roasted tomatoes, small slices of fried garlic, and basil. Five guests asked for another serving if there was one. With each course, Henry asserted his skill at crafting fine flavors using fresh ingredients. He let the food speak for itself as opposed to drowning it in a sea of herbs and sauces. Everything was clean and tasted as it should. The guests had two choices for entrees: trout, of course, seeing how it was Idaho, roasted in the oven and served with vegetables and a turnip puree, all glazed with a balsamic reduction, and lamb, pan-seared crisp then finished in the oven, served with a mushroom bread pudding and summer vegetable ragout.
Molly went into the kitchen where the Food & Wine writer was huddled on a stool, sampling the dishes. From the look on her face, this piece was going to be glowing and definitely place Helen’s on the map. Molly smiled and as if in an instant, everything felt lighter. She took a deep breath and knew all of her was now on the mend. Seeing success for her family and watching how they all worked together to produce this major high was ecstasy. With a little hard work, people’s stomachs and hearts could be fed.
“Have you eaten yet, honey?” Henry asked his daughter as he wound down the service.
“Nope, and I’m starved! Everything looked so good, Dad.”
“What can I make you? Alex, what do you want?”
The waiters walked past Molly holding Renee’s desserts. Each looked like a little gift.
“The lamb, please. And if you have any more ravioli,” Molly answered.
“I’ll have the same, Dad,” Alex added as he began closing down his station.
“Coming right up.” Henry fixed his kids some dinner as the last plates were brought to the guests.
“Here.” Serving them both a dish.
“Join us?”
“I think I will.” Serving himself a plate as well.
Molly, Alex, and their dad sat on three little stools by the stove and greedily sucked back their meals. Molly looked up at her dad, then at her brother, and smiled. Another flash, another still moment captured, and Molly breathed another sigh of relief. About five minutes later, Helen came in.
“Henry, Alex, you guys outdid yourselves.” Kissing Henry hard on the mouth and squeezing her son’s shoulder. “They’re asking for you both.”
Molly stayed in the kitchen and could hear the applause. She could hear her father’s humble voice, his easy laugh, and Alex’s lower chuckle. Her mother’s glow could almost be seen hovering around the kitchen door. This was a moment for them, and Molly was glad to have been a part of it. She had been gone for too long. Renee came and sat down on the stool beside her. She hadn’t been down for but a second before Helen came in again.
“Renee, come on. They want to meet the maker of that banana cream pie.”
Renee slowly stood and followed Helen. This time Molly poked her head out the door and watched. With a mental camera, she captured this moment too, and bore witness to the glory of her family.
When she got home, Molly finally picked up her journal and scribbled away. She gushed about her family and what it meant to her to be a part of something like that. She even gushed about her brother and knew that Renee had been right about new things coming up that replace the bad. She wrote about how complete she felt in their presence, how she had forgotten how much better she felt around them, how much she missed them when she was away, even though she knew that being away was where she belonged. As much as they loved her, Henry, Helen, and Alex were a three-pronged fork, and Molly was the spoon. They had become a team, and Molly could only watch them from the sidelines and cheer loudly. Molly wasn’t sad about it, surprisingly. There was no sense of not belonging, she just belonged somewhere else, and that was okay. Was that other place by Liam’s side? There were too many questions, too many things that Molly couldn’t yet figure out. Was she really ready to give up on Liam, on the life they had, on his mother, on the relationships she had invested in and spent time nurturing? Did she want to flip on the TV one day and see her life living on without her? She wrote until her good hand got tired, then closed the lavender notebook. She traced her fingers softly over the cover. Liam had bought it for her a few months ago. Journal writing was something they shared. It was something that bonded them early on in their relationship.
Molly remembered coming home one day when they had been living together for a while. The apartment was alit in candles and smelled like cookies. Liam was sitting on the couch surrounded by journals, all classic old-school black-and-white composition books. They were ordered, labeled, and neat.
“What’s this?” Molly asked as she walked in and sat down next to him.
“Well, I wanted to share with you some stuff.”
“Stuff?”
“Me, really.” Pulling her closer. “I want to share myself with you, and these,” gesturing to the books, “are all of me.”
“Wow.” Picking up a notebook. “I have an idea.” Setting it down and getting up.
Molly went into their shared office and grabbed a large brown box from within the closet. She carried it into the living room and sat it and herself on the floor. She opened it and removed all of her journals. They were all different, a melange of color and texture, size and ornamentation. In comparison to his, all uniform and crisp like a Gucci store, Molly’s were bursting with flea market chic like a David LaChappelle photograph. It was kind of amusing.
“You show me yours, and I’ll show you mine,” Molly stated. “But, first,” sniffing, “are those chocolate chip?”
“Of course.” Getting up and retrieving a tray filled with milk and cookies from the kitchen.
“I love you.”
“I know.” Winking at her.
“Okay, even though this is your thing, can I go first?”
“You never have any patience.” He chuckled. “Did you go look for your Chanukah presents before they were wrapped?”
“Of course! Don’t tell me you didn’t search high and low before Elizabeth put your Christmas presents under the tree?”
“Never.”
“You are such a liar.”
“You’re right.” Laughing. “Mom had to get a padlock to keep me and Teddy out. We knew the minute it went on the closet that it was Christmastime.”
“So, can I still go first?” Batting her eyes.
“Ah, a sucker for those baby browns. My secrets can remain hidden for a minute or two longer.”
“Pick one, and open a page.” Pointing to her collection. “That way we are not sitting here reading everything from fifth grade on.”
“Sounds good.” Liam slid onto the floor and pondered his selection, his hands running over the covers like a blind man reading Braille. “This one.” Handing her an Italian handmade journal with brown-and-red swirling paper. “First entry, please.”
“I think this is from senior year of high school. Abby gave it to me for Chanukah.” Taking the book and opening it. “I remember thinking how cool a gift it was because it showed how much she knew me. It sort of cemented our friendship. Anyway, okay, here goes.”
Well, it’s a new year, so of course there’s a new guy and another rejection. I decided to tell him directly how I felt and stuff because rumors got started. I am amazed how brave I have become. I really like being more forward and honest, nothing weighing me down. He was cool about it and not weird, but he likes us being friends, nothing romantic. Is there something so horribly wrong with me that all the guys I like don’t like me? I want to fall in love so badly and be loved in return. I hate being alone. Well, that’s not true, I just think there could be more that I am missing. The worse thing about nice guys is that even
in rejection, they care about how you feel and are nice. It makes you like them more and more as they tell you no! Shit. I am frustrated. I hate him, no I hate that he doesn’t like me, but you can’t hate someone for that. It’s life and how much did I really like him anyway, spur of the minute crush. Yeah right!! It hurts, I’ll get over it. Soon, I’ll be back in the saddle (this weekend, ha ha). Later.
“I am pathetic!” Molly groaned.
“No, you were so brave. I could barely talk to girls back then much less tell them I dug them. I think that is an amazing quality about you. You are fearless in your emotions.”
“Thanks.” Blushing. “It’s weird, but that’s the only place I am fearless. I think I wrote something about that. Where is it?” Looking through the journals. “Here, this was when I went abroad to paint in Paris after college.”
I think I am a person that thrives on change and stimulus. I am not a physical thrill seeker but a mental and emotional one. I don’t jump off planes but I hop on them and then go it alone. It’s hard to sever ties with your life on purpose. It’s kind of nuts and brave and intense. I am choosing to say good-bye, see ya later, take care. I am choosing to go it alone. That’s a fucked up choice and totally amazing at the same time.
“Has it been hard for you being with me all this time? It sort of goes against your whole need to leave and change. No more Molly in perpetual motion.”
“All of this, you, me, living together, has been a huge emotional challenge in itself. A trip of some kind, I guess.”
“For me too. I think that loving someone is the biggest, riskiest, most intense adventure you can take.” Running his hands through his hair. “I didn’t think I would ever be brave enough to do it.”
“What about all that stuff you told me the first night we met?”
“What did I say?”
“You went on about how all guys aren’t weird about coupling and you have to jump in and let yourself be vulnerable and feel love to feel anything at all.”
“Oh yeah, I remember. I probably was trying to get in your pants.”
Tangled Up in Daydreams Page 20