“Sounds amazing,” Owen said happily.
“Josh is off on Friday to prep all the food. I think he’s coming here to do it. I’ll actually get to spend some time with him, so it’ll work out for well for me.”
I sounded more optimistic than I felt. When Josh was here, he’d be in his chef mode, and we’d have no real conversation. Still, it would be good to be together, and our shared focus on the wedding might restore our relationship.
I sent Ade and Owen off with the promise of a beautiful ceremony with vows that didn’t rhyme. After cleaning up the kitchen, I spent an hour at the computer writing the service and quit only when I was so tired that my fingers started typing in Dr. Seuss style. I collapsed in bed with the intention of sleeping in the next morning. The prospect was shattered by the sound of feet pounding on my front door.
TWENTY
“CHLOE? Let me in!”
I glanced at the clock. What the heck was Josh doing here at eight a.m.?
I flung back the sheet and forced myself to stagger to the door. “Hi, honey,” I managed sleepily. I rubbed my eyes and stared in confusion at Josh. My boyfriend had evidently kicked my door because his arms were full of trays and containers covered in plastic wrap. A small cardboard box was teetering off the top of the pile, and I grabbed a squirt bottle just as it began to fall. “What are you doing here? Oh, my God! Is today Friday?” I really was not awake yet. Panicking, I thought, Oh, no! It’s the day before the wedding!
“No, no. It’s Wednesday. I just got the rest of the week off, and I thought I’d start cooking for Saturday. I’ve got a ton to prep, and my kitchen is a wreck.” In my opinion, the entire apartment that he shared with his sous-chef, Snacker, was a chronic disaster area, but I didn’t say so. “The goddamn stove broke again, and Snacker left a huge mess in there. Seriously, there’s no way I’m doing his dishes again, and he’s working at Simmer while I’m off, so who knows when they’ll get done. Can I use your kitchen?”
“Yeah. Of course.” I plodded into the kitchen and set the squirt bottle box on the table. “Coffee. I need coffee.”
I worked on brewing a pot of caffeine while Josh returned to his car for more food. I was psyched to have Josh here but totally surprised that Gavin had given him so much time off. Josh was lucky to get one day a week. Maybe Gavin had finally come to his senses and realized how badly he’d been treating his gifted and hardworking chef. Josh had had no vacation time whatsoever since he’d started at the restaurant last year, and Gavin must have realized that Josh was about to crack. Oddly enough, even though Josh would be cooking like a madman for the next few days, I knew that he was looking forward to catering the wedding. Chefs! For me, a vacation meant blue skies, burning sun, sterling ocean, fruity cocktails, and skimpy bathing suits, but Josh wasn’t the type to lounge around on a beach and do nothing all day. What did he do when he finally had time off? Cook.
“Okay, I have to make the pasta and then marinate the vegetables for the strudels . . .” Josh said to himself as he checked off a mental list on his fingers.
“What kind of pasta are you doing?” My question was vital. I could probably live on pasta alone.
“A butter-poached lobster on tagliatelle with a yuzu pesto and mushrooms.” Josh moved his eyebrows up and down and then winked at me. “You like the sound of that one?”
“Amazing,” I said, echoing Owen. “Except, what on earth is yuzu?”
“Japanese citrus fruit. Sour. You’ll love it.”
“Strudels. What’s in those?” I craned my head to get a look into my chef’s containers.
“Grilled vegetables rolled in puff pastry. Fantastic.” Josh clapped his hands. “All right! Outta my kitchen!” he ordered in a joking voice. “I’ve got a million vinaigrettes to mix up.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Oh, wait. Here. Can you charge my cell phone for me?” Josh handed me his cell and charger. “Thanks, babe.”
I went into the bedroom, plugged in Josh’s phone, and worked on Ade and Owen’s ceremony. Who’d have guessed that writing a wedding service would be so difficult? At the end of two hours, when my script for the wedding was in pretty good shape, I decided to go snoop in my kitchen to see what Josh was up to.
“Yum. What’s in that?” I sniffed a tray of vegetables that were marinating in an aromatic mixture.
“Not telling.” Josh grinned. Then he snapped his fingers. “Oh, damn. I forgot to pick up the beef tenderloin and the duck breasts I ordered. That was dumb. I’m going to run and get them. Back in a few.” Josh kissed me and ran out the door before I could even say good-bye.
I was proofing the ceremony when Josh’s cell rang. In case the call had something to do with food for the wedding, I answered. “Hello?”
“Ah, yes, is Josh there?” The woman spoke with a heavy French accent.
“No, he should be back soon. Can I take a message for him?”
“Er, yes. Tell him Yvette called. He has my number.”
“Sure. I’ll tell him.” I clapped the phone shut.
Who the hell was Yvette? On the night we’d been at the emergency room, Josh had had a call from a woman. The other day when he’d been here, he’d again had a call from a woman. He’d certainly never mentioned Yvette to me. I hated the knots that were forming in my stomach. When Josh returned, I didn’t give him the message. He was keeping some kind of secret from me, but I wasn’t up for having it revealed right now.
Besides, I had my own secrets.
“Look at this beauty!” Josh gleefully held out the large beef tenderloin. “And the duck breasts are beautiful. I’m going to do those in a red wine and orange sauce. I’m on fire today!”
I had to agree. Josh was in the cooking zone I’d come to know so well: all of his creative juices were flowing, and he was reveling in an endorphin rush.
His phone rang again. I ran to my bedroom, grabbed it, checked caller ID, and returned to the kitchen. “It’s Robin,” I said. “You want to take it?”
“Sure.” Josh wiped his hands on a dishcloth and took the call. “Hey, Robin. What’s up?’
I shamelessly eavesdropped on the conversation. Without even hearing what Robin had to say, I could tell that she was slathering on the praise and making grand promises. “Really? Thanks so much . . . Good, good. I’m glad . . . Excellent news . . . You think? Wow!” Josh hung up and turned to me. “Guess what? Robin called to tell me that we’re going to film the next episode on Tuesday. That’s a relief.”
Reluctantly, I said, “Josh, I found out something kind of strange.”
“What?” Josh began finely chopping a pile of herbs.
“It turns out that Robin and Marlee are friends. Good friends. It seems pretty likely that this supposed competition is rigged so that Marlee will win.” As much as I hated to dash Josh’s hopes of winning his own TV show, I had to tell him.
Josh stopped his knife work and stared at me in confusion. “What?”
“Josh, I know. I understand. It’s rotten. It’s unfair. It’s messed up. And not that anything would make it all right, but let me tell you that Marlee’s kitchen is filthy, and her food sucks. And on top of all that, I think she’s the one who killed Francie.”
“Marlee? Mousy Marlee is a killer? You’re crazy.”
“Josh, Francie was the Mystery Diner.” I let that sink in for a minute. “You should see what she wrote about Alloy.”
I filled Josh in. In particular, I told him about the defaced review posted in Alloy’s kitchen.
Josh was skeptical. “First of all, Chloe, even if Robin and Marlee are friends, it doesn’t mean that she’s necessarily going to win. It’s up to the viewers who vote. And second, I don’t think that anyone who was part of the show killed Francie. For a lousy review? Chefs are used to crummy reviews. It happens to all of us, and we don’t all run out and kill the reviewer. If we did, there’d be a trail of evil-reviewer bodies spread out across the country. I still think it was one of Evan and Willie’s stupid pranks that turned
deadly.”
In the spirit of full disclosure, I recounted the stories I’d heard at Ade’s shower. In describing Evan and Willie’s unfunny practical jokes to Josh, I again started to worry about their guilt.
“You see? That’s what I’m talking about,” Josh said. “Dropping rocks on someone’s head? Sending their brother skateboarding toward a death trap? Owen is lucky he survived growing up in a house with those two.”
“God, you don’t think they’ll do anything at the wedding, do you?”
“Well . . .” Josh spoke slowly. “I talked to Owen the other day when he dropped off Simmer’s seafood order.”
“And?” I said, panicking.
“He told me that Evan and Willie have been threatening to show up at the wedding with shotguns. You know? Shotgun wedding.”
“What? They’d better do no such thing! The last thing those two nutballs need is to get their hands on shotguns. Does Ade know about this?”
“No, and you’re not going to tell her. Owen said he’d convinced them not to do anything stupid like that on his wedding day. It’ll be fine.”
My lovingly crafted script for the wedding service made no provision for any such vile interruption. What if they made good on their threat? They’d catch hell from me, but I had no idea how I’d give them hell without ruining the wedding. As for Adrianna, she might just turn the shotguns on them.
By late afternoon, Josh, having finished the preparations he could do three days before the wedding, was crashed out asleep on the couch while The Usual Suspects DVD played on the television. To avoid awakening him, I went to the bedroom and spent an hour and a half on the phone confirming wedding arrangements. The white tent would be set up tomorrow, Thursday, and then the tables, chairs, linens, china, glasses, and silverware would be delivered on Friday. The order for champagne, wine, liquor, and ice was set, as was the delivery on the day of the wedding, when the floral decorations, bouquets, and boutonnieres would also arrive.
My fridge was brimming with gourmet food and fresh ingredients. I rooted through the produce, decided that Josh could spare a few items, and made a quick trip to the local seafood store to pick up a bag of mussels for a simple but aromatic mussel bouillabaisse. Josh was still snoozing when I returned. I thinly sliced green and red peppers, fennel, and onions, and then quartered a few tomatoes and began sautéeing the vegetables in butter. I added tomato paste, wine, and garlic, and let the mixture cook for ten minutes. The smell was already wonderful, and when I added clam juice, it got even better. I turned the heat down a bit to let the pot simmer. About an hour later, when Josh woke up, I tossed in the mussels and a pinch of saffron. An advantage of having a chef boyfriend who cooked in my kitchen was that Josh routinely left interesting spices and seasonings, including luxury items like saffron.
When the mussels opened, I dished out large bowlfuls for both of us and was pleased to get a compliment: “These mussels rock, babe.” But when we’d finished eating, Josh fell back asleep on the couch, so I crawled into bed by myself.
On Thursday morning Josh continued with his wedding preparations, but my own wedding duties meant that I couldn’t stay to smell his latest creations. When I was about to leave, the two cats sat poised on the small kitchen table, following Josh’s every move in the hope that he’d drop a piece of meat.
“Inga, Gato, and I have this all under control. Don’t you worry about us!” Josh was slightly manic today. Waving an oversized wooden spoon around, he announced, “Inga is in charge of cutting the pasta, and Gato will supervise her.”
“That’s reassuring. What are you working on this morning?”
Josh checked his prep list for the wedding. “Tabouleh, fruit chutney, celery root soup, butternut squash puree, fennel puree, and pickled peppers. That’s just to start. Easy stuff, though.”
Leaving Josh to cook and, evidently, to train cats as sous-chefs, I went to a boutique in Brookline to pick up my dress and my mother’s. Adrianna had wanted us to choose our own dresses, and she hadn’t wanted us in traditional bridal-party wear, so we were saved from having to sport pastel satin with poofy sleeves. I was wearing an adorable silk taffeta sleeveless dress in a soft shade that the salesperson referred to as “chocolate.” The dress had a fitted bodice, a scoop neck, and a pleated skirt. My mother had picked out a classically tailored suit in periwinkle blue with a beaded shell in a darker blue to go underneath. A wedding-party miracle: outfits we would wear again!
Instead of returning home, I decided to deliver our wedding finery to my parents’ house. Otherwise, I’d have risked leaving our beautiful things behind on the wedding day. When I pulled up to my parents’ house, the sight of the gigantic white tent being erected in their yard made the wedding vividly real: Adrianna honestly was getting married! Filled with excitement, I grabbed the garment bag from the car and practically skipped over to my mother, who was standing outside supervising the tent crew.
“Look at this!” I cried. “The tent is going to be fantastic!”
“The tent is fine. It’s the yard that’s the problem,” my mother growled.
I glanced around, looking for dead shrubs or insect-infested plants. “What are you talking about? The yard looks great.”
“No, it doesn’t look great. It’s late August, and almost everything is past its bloom time. I should have planted more late-blooming flowers when we decided to host the wedding here. Dammit!” My mother crossed her arms and continued to survey her garden with dissatisfaction. “Dammit!” she repeated.
“This event isn’t actually a garden tour, Mom. It’s a wedding. And we’ve got plenty of floral arrangements coming. It’ll be fine.”
“No, it won’t be fine. Everything out here is shabby and blowsy.”
My poor mother was funneling all of her anxiety about the wedding into unhappiness about her lovely yard. In a way, I couldn’t blame her. None of us had thrown a wedding party before. “Well, we do have our outfits,” I said. “I just picked them up. I’m going to put them in the house.” I gave my mother a hug. “Please don’t worry. This wedding is going to be perfect.”
TWENTY-ONE
ON Friday, the day before the wedding, I awoke to a scene of devastation. Entering the kitchen in search of coffee, I stared in horror at the apparent evidence that the explosive force of a small bomb had hurled cooking implements and food items everywhere. The bomb had a name: Josh. My boyfriend, in full cooking mode, was preparing a salmon mousse while simultaneously parcooking large pieces of meat on the stove top.
“How’s it going, Josh?”
“Good. Good, I think. Thank God your father is grilling dinner tonight.”
“We’ll see if you thank him later. Dad has the enthusiasm, if not the skill.”
By braving the wreckage of the kitchen, I managed to make coffee. As soon as I’d had a cup of it, I got ready to leave for my parents’ house, where Ade and I were going to spend the night. Ade had insisted that even though the word traditional described nothing about the wedding, she still wanted to spend the night apart from Owen. Furthermore, she was determined that on Saturday, he wouldn’t see her before the ceremony.
I packed a bag with almost every one of the hundreds of beauty-supply items I owned as well as with my digital camera and with clothes for tonight’s rehearsal and dinner. Later in the day, I would pick up Adrianna and return to my parents’ house with her.
“Josh, are you going to be able to handle all of this yourself?” I wrinkled my brow as I watched oil splatter out of a Dutch oven.
“Trust me, babe,” Josh said with a wink. “I’m in my element here. I guarantee everyone will be blown away. Besides, I’ll have help tomorrow. Digger will be there to deal with the kitchen during the ceremony while I’m standing up there with Owen. And that Emilio kid’ll be there, too, right? Your mother said he was going to do whatever we needed.”
Emilio. Yum. I shook all thoughts of that hottie out of my head. “Okay, then. I’m off. I guess I’ll see you tonight.”
&nb
sp; “Catch you later, hon.” Josh didn’t stop to give me a hug or a kiss.
I arrived at my parents’ house just as a delivery truck was pulling in. The chairs, tables, dishes, and glasses were there right on time. The white tent was fully set up now, too, and looked incredibly elegant. Things were coming together! Even the weather was cooperating. Today was quite hot, but the forecast for tomorrow promised temperatures in the mid to low seventies and, thank heaven, clear skies.
“Mom?” I called as I entered the living room and dropped my bags on the couch.
“Chloe? Is that you?” Mom poked her head out of the kitchen. “We have an emergency.”
Oh, no! By foolishly telling myself that everything was coming together, I’d jinxed the wedding. Grimly, I asked, “What’s going on?”
“Come look at this.” My mother’s voice was shaking.
I followed Mom as she led the way through the house to the front door and across the lawn to the tent. At the entrance, she came to a dramatic halt. “This,” she said with disgust, “is where Adrianna will appear! This is where the bride will enter! Can you believe it?”
“What the heck are you talking about?”
“Chloe! It’s dismal! And barren! We need plants. More plants. Lots of greenery! I need you to run down to the nursery and get . . . plants! Lots of them!” With the frantic air of someone boldly averting disaster, she gave me directions to the nursery, which emerged as the one owned by Emilio’s family. “Take the van. It’s here, fortunately, so that will save you some time. Charge whatever you get to our account there. And splurge! Go nuts! I want tons of plants.”
“Mom, the flowers are arriving tomorrow—”
“I know that! But this tent is mammoth, and we’re not going to have it look empty. Get plants with height! And lots of blooms! Hanging plants, too! Run!”
Fed Up Page 17