Too Many Cooks (33 page)

“But I thought you wanted a family. Not a fake one—a real one.”

“I do. And I still might have one.”

“With whom?”

“Natasha.”

The blood rushes to my face. “
What?
”

“She is my wife. Do you understand? Legally, she is my wife.”

“But she doesn't have to be.”

“Yes, but as you've said, I'm not getting any younger. Neither is she, for that matter. And to make up for this hideous lie, she agreed that maybe we would consider trying for real.”

My eyes fill with tears; my fists are clenched. “No. You can't be serious. No.”

“It isn't what I want, but it's the only way I could see out of this mess.”

Tears stream down my face. “You're an asshole, you know that?”

“Kelly . . .”

I punch him in the chest with my fists, again and again, choking on my sobs as the salty tears run over my lips. “I hate you. I fucking
hate
you!”

He grabs my hands and holds them tight as I try to wrest them from his grip. “Well, I fucking love you. Okay? Do you hear me? I love you.”

“No, you don't. You're full of shit.”

“I do love you. I understand why you wouldn't believe me, but I do.”

The words slice me down the middle, and my heart throbs. “If you love me, then . . .”

But I can't finish the sentence. If you love me, what? You'll leave your movie star wife? You'll give up your dreams? You'll trade in everything you've worked for your
entire life
so that you can run off with a cookbook ghostwriter?

“If you love me,” I say, “then why are you staying with a woman who plans to trash my entire career?”

“She won't.”

“Oh, yes, she will.”

“No, she won't. That was one of my conditions for not leaving. I told her if she says so much as one nasty word about you to anyone—a chef, a stylist, anyone—I would destroy her.”

“Whatever. It doesn't even matter anymore. I'm planning to go out on my own anyway. I don't need your help—or Natasha's.”

“Good.”

“Good?”

“Yes, bloody
good
. I told you—you're unbelievably talented. And not because you do great work for other people. Because of who you are. If I were to find out five years from now that on top of my letting you slip through my fingers, you were still doing grunt work for people like Natasha, I wouldn't just be disappointed in myself. I'd be disappointed in both of us.”

My lip quivers as I study his face: his blue-green eyes, his soft lips, his chiseled cheekbones. God, I wish I could hate him. But I can't. As hard as I try, I can't.

“Don't cry,” he says. “Please.”

I wipe the tears away with the back of my hand. “I just . . . I wish things were different. That we could be together, or at least try.”

He casts his eyes at the floor. “So do I.”

“No, you don't.”

He looks up. “Yes, I do.”

He leans forward, rests his hand on my cheek, and presses his lips against mine. His kisses are soft now, slow and sad, like a good-bye. He pulls away, his hand still on my face.

“One day, when I look back on all of this, letting you slip away will be one of my great regrets.”

Tears run down my cheeks and over his hand, and as he kisses me one last time, all I can think is,
But not quite great enough
.

CHAPTER 44

If you'd asked me before today whether I'd ever had my heart broken, I would have considered the question and, after a lengthy pause, said, “Yes. Definitely.” I lost my mother. Is there a heartbreak greater than losing a parent?

But there is a difference, however nuanced, between losing someone by circumstance and losing someone by choice. It's not that losing Hugh is a greater loss than losing my mother. It's that the million little heartbreaks that led up to my mom's death—the screwed-up birthday parties, the missed school plays, the disappointing Christmases—prepared me, on some level, for that final loss. With my mom, it was like ripping a bandage off at an excruciatingly slow pace, feeling the sting of each hair as it was torn from my skin, until suddenly, the bandage was gone. I got used to that feeling, the searing prickle on my skin, and now that it's disappeared, I even miss it. But with Hugh, it's like yanking the bandage off in one painful tug. The experience will probably leave me with less pain in the end, but for now, I feel bruised, raw, and, on top of it all, entirely expendable.

I go to bed at seven and don't get up until three the next day. There are dozens of things I need to do—figuring out how and when I'm flying back to the States, for example, or sorting out my career before it collapses—but the weight of the conversation with Hugh bears down on me and prevents me from doing anything useful.

My appetite has vanished, and the prospect of searching for flights makes me want to cry, so instead I grab a glass of water and my laptop and head back to bed. When I open my e-mail account, I notice that my brother is online. Part of me would rather walk on broken glass than discuss another one of his harebrained ideas, but I decide I could use a distraction that bears no resemblance to my current reality. I ping him with an instant message:

I log on for a call, and Stevie's face appears on my screen. His light brown hair sticks out in every direction, the stubble on his face about a day away from a full-blown beard.

“Did you just wake up?” I ask.

“No, but apparently you did. . . .”

I catch a glimpse of myself in the corner of my screen. Oh, God. I look like a rabid wildebeest in a pink terry-cloth robe.

“It's been a rough twenty-four hours,” I say.

“Why? What happened?”

“I don't even want to talk about it.”

“Are they making you eat weird shit? Mike said his uncle went a few years ago, and they made him eat pig's blood or something.”

“He probably meant black pudding.”

“They put blood in their pudding? Sick.”

“No, it isn't pudding like Jell-O. It's . . .” I take a deep breath. “Never mind. That isn't why I wanted to talk.”

“Then why did you?”

“To hear your voice, I guess. To see your face. And to hear more about this plan involving . . . snakes?”

“Oh, right.” He rubs his hands together. “Are you ready?”

“I don't know. Am I?”

“It's pretty sweet. I think you'll be impressed.”

“Okay.”

“So, like I said, the mouse thing sort of backfired.”

“How? What did you do?” I lean toward the screen. “Did you put mice in my bed?”

“No. Well, not exactly.” He waves me off. “It's a long story.”

“I have time.”

“Okay, but consider yourself warned.” He takes a deep breath. “I decided live mice might be a problem, since they could infest Dad's house, even after we got rid of Irene. But then dead mice might kind of smell, and I wasn't sure if they had diseases and stuff. So—”

My phone rings, interrupting him. It's Poppy. I contemplate ignoring her call, but considering I still have loose ends to tie up regarding Natasha's book and my possible expulsion from the country, I decide it's worth answering.

“Hey, Stevie? Sorry to cut you off, but I have to take this call. Can we pick this up later?”

“We don't have to pick it up at all. Like I said, I'm moving on to Plan B.”

“Which involves snakes?”

“Maybe.”

“Isn't there a better way to get rid of Irene? Something that doesn't involve pests or vermin?”

“Listen, you asked me to come up with something, and this is what I came up with.”

“I know. But there must be a better way. Couldn't you talk to Dad?”

He shrugs. “I tried. Or sorta tried. But the thing is . . . he actually seems happy. Happier than he did a month or two ago, at least.”

“Yeah, but is that because of Irene?”

“I kind of think it is. I hate to say it, but I think she's been . . . good for him.”

I glance at my phone and see I've missed Poppy's call. Crap.

“Shoot—I have to call this person back. Can we talk later?”

“Sure. Although I'll be out this afternoon. I have to swing by Washtenaw before work.”

“Washtenaw?” I ask, referring to the community college Stevie started but never finished. “I thought you dropped out.”

“I'm registering for the fall session. I realized I only need a few credits to graduate, so after talking to you last month, I figured . . . might as well.”

“Stevie, that's great. I'm really proud of you.”

“Don't be proud until I actually finish.”

“I'm proud of you for trying. Sometimes that takes the most courage.”

“Listen to you, all philosophical and shit. You should, like, write a book or something.”

“I wouldn't go that far.”

“I'm not kidding. I saw that thing you wrote about Mom. It was . . . pretty awesome, Kel.”

“Really? You read it?”

“I know how, believe it or not.”

“All I meant was . . . I didn't think reading public radio Web sites was your thing.”

“It isn't. But everyone around here has seen it. You kind of said all the stuff I feel about Mom, too. Only you said it better.”

“Well . . . thanks.”

“You should write more stuff like that.”

“About Mom?”

“About you. I'm sure you have some stories to tell about the work you've done for other people. And the way you write—you make people feel stuff, you know? Like, real stuff.”

“As opposed to not-real stuff.”

“Hey—I'm trying to give you a compliment, okay? You'd better take it. This doesn't exactly happen every day.”

I smile. “You're right. Thank you.”

“You bet I'm right. Now, don't you have an important call to make?”

I look at the missed call on my phone from Poppy. “I do,” I say. “But you know what? It's not half as important as this one.”

I called Poppy back later that afternoon, and in a brief exchange, we agreed to meet on Friday morning at the café across from my flat so that I could hand over my notes and recipes.

Now as I wait at one of the tables, I close my eyes and picture Hugh's face the way I saw it last. I wish I could erase him from my mind, as if he never existed—as if
we
never existed together—but I can't, and no matter how hard I try, I doubt I ever will.

“Are you asleep?”

I open my eyes and find Poppy towering over me. She is wearing a form-fitting coral shift dress with cap sleeves and square neckline, and her hair is drawn into a high ponytail.

“Sorry,” I say, shaking myself out of my daydream. “I was thinking about something.”

“Or some
one
.” She extends an open palm. “Do you have the notes?”

I reach for the manila folder on the table in front of me. “Everything is in here. Most of the notes are handwritten, but I printed a few things off my laptop. I hope my handwriting isn't too illegible.”

She takes the folder from my hands and flicks through a few pages. “Good God.”

“It isn't that bad!”

She slams the folder shut. “It is. But I'm sure your successor will be able to decipher something from it.”

“Natasha has already chosen a successor?”

“Not yet. She's deciding between three candidates. Given how behind we are, she needs someone quick and professional—who, incidentally, won't sleep with her husband. It won't surprise you to hear she's only looking at men this time.”

“Ah.” Part of me feels strangely comforted by that. At least Hugh won't have a fling with one of Natasha's other ghostwriters, as if that should be my primary concern.

“When do you leave for America, then?”

“Not sure. Soon. I'm still trying to sort out my next career move.”

“Good luck with that.”

“I don't need luck,” I say. “But thanks.”

“You sound very confident for someone who's just been fired.”

“I'm striking out on my own,” I say. “I've already sent out a few e-mails to editors I've worked with on other projects. A couple of agents, too. I don't need Natasha anymore. Maybe you do, but I don't.”

Poppy looks as if she's been slapped. “I don't need her. She needs
me
.”

“To be her lackey. . . .” I mumble. Then I catch myself. “Sorry—that was rude. I know you're just doing your job. And I know it isn't easy.”

She holds her head high. “It can be quite difficult at times.”

“To be honest, I don't know many people who could put up with all of the shenanigans you tolerate on a daily basis. You work really hard. And I know Natasha trusts you, which is no small feat.”

“Well . . . thank you.”

“You're welcome.”

She smoothes her ponytail. “This doesn't make us friends, you know.”

“I know.”

“Good.” She grips the folder in her arms. “Right. I'm off. I'd say good luck, but I'm not sure I'd really mean it.”

“That's okay. You can just say good-bye.”

“You know, it would be a lot easier to hate you if you weren't so bloody . . . nice.”

I hold back a smile. “Who said life was easy?”

She rolls her eyes. “
Good-bye,
” she says, and then she walks out the door.

 

When I get back to my apartment that afternoon, I find an e-mail in my in-box from one of the literary agents I contacted in New York. I sent her the piece I'd written for Meg, along with a pitch for a memoir about my experiences growing up in Michigan and working behind the scenes for some major players in the culinary world.

My fingers tingle. I rest them on the keyboard and take a deep breath, at last ready for the risk I'd never had the guts to take.

Then I click Reply, excited for what the future might bring.