Adventures with Max and Louise (11 page)

“Thanks a lot,” I mutter as I open the restaurant door.

It takes a few moments for my eyes to adjust to the dim light. The once elegant and reserved restaurant looks like a Victoria’s Secret boudoir. In the two months since I’ve reviewed it, the owner, it appears, has lost his mind. Wild patterned draperies with zebra stripes hang from every window, obscuring the light. Red paper lanterns glow over each tiny, tipsy table on which a red heart-shaped candle flickers in a pool of pink water. By the time my eyes adjust, I’ve tripped over the thick sheep’s wool carpet that the owner, apparently intent on killing his clientele before they see what a mess he’s made of his establishment, has installed. When I try to free my foot from the tangle, my heel gets caught. I crouch on the floor, one foot bare, trying to free my new shoe.

“Oh, sweetheart, welcome,” says a plump middle-aged woman dressed in what looked like zebra-print lingerie. “I redecorated while Bert’s in Poland visiting his mother. What do you think?”

I knew Bert was married. I didn’t know she was . . . this. “Well, it’s—is there a man here named . . .” I am on the floor frantically trying to untangle my pump from the sheep’s wool.

By the time I’ve freed my shoe, cursing Martin for talking me into heels, Chas appears. “Chas,” he says, lifting my arm, supporting me while I slip on the stupid shoe.

Nice shoes,” he smiles. “Been shopping?”

My face flushes beet red. “Uh, yeah.”

“When I saw you this morning, you looked, I don’t know, different. Even from the last time I saw you.”

“Same old me.”
With talking boobs
.

We find a table in the corner. “Would yer stop with the negativity? It’s drivin’ me mad,” Max grumbles.

“Well, the same old you has gotten some great new curves,” Chas says. He looks down at his plate, embarrassed. “Sorry, I just meant you look great. Seriously.”

Great,
I gloat;
not just good, great.

Chas liberates the window from its filmy pink curtain, and we sit down in the afternoon sun. He puts away his cell phone with the same crooked grin I remember from high school.

“Like some tea?” The owner’s wife arrives with a leopard-shaped tea pot; one arm is the spout. She leaves the tea, winking as she closes the frilly curtains. “More romantic,” she insists, leaving us bathed in a soft pink light.

Poor Bert; there goes his business crowd
. “I didn’t know this place was so, so . . . She’s the owner’s wife. I would have never picked this place.”

“Shut up and ask for tea,” Max says.

“I’d love some tea.” I try to relax.

Chas pours the tea, grinning at the ridiculous pot. “Where’d you go shopping?”

“Nordstrom.” Now, here was a boring subject upon which I am well versed. Thanks to Angeli I can write a book on the downtown flagship store: its failures and triumphs since its opening day as Nordstrom Best Shoes.

“Oh, I really like the new building. Takes a lot for me to say that,” he says, taking the menus. “We didn’t have the contract.”

“You’re still working for your dad?”
Great, make him sound like a leech
. I am beginning to doubt I can keep his interest.

He frowns again. “More like working for my mom is the pathetic answer. She has no grandchildren in sight and insists on managing my social life. Work is the vacation.”

I can still see his mother behind the wheel of a white Mercedes as she picked up Chas from track, fresh from the tennis club in her gleaming tennis whites. “Doesn’t she play tennis anymore?”

“Yes. It only makes her stronger for her larger plan to rule the world. But please, let’s talk about you. When I told Mom I was having lunch with you, she made me promise to find out if you’re Diner X.”

He talked to his mother about me.

“Don’t talk about his mum,” Max orders. “ ’e’s only doin’ it to be polite, ’cause you knew ’er an’ all. Tell ’im about the book.”

“Well, I don’t know about Diner X, but I can tell you that I’ve written a cookbook.” Bragging makes me uncomfortable. How much does Max know about me, my entire life story?

“Sip your tea; look directly at ’im. ’is eyes, ’is face. Get your eyes off the ruddy floor,” Max barks.

Desperate to strangle Max, I have to remind myself that it wouldn’t look good wringing one of my own breasts. Gazing over my teacup, I try for sultriness appropriate to the hour and occasion, not a younger version of Bert’s wife.

“Is it going to be published?” Chas is nearly whispering. We are talking so quietly, it is hypnotic. Chas’s face has flushed a soft coral, a deeper tan. It is working. Max knows his stuff.

“Um, yes, as a matter of fact. Sidney-Brace wants it, if I agree to do publicity. That’ll be hard for me.”

“Just be yourself. I remember you as being pretty funny when we were in high school. I bet it’s really, really good.”

“You know what to say. You know exactly what to say, luv! Do it!” Max urges. I can feel him simmering inside me, giving me strength.

“You should let me cook for you some time.” This is happening way too fast. I’ve spent my life wandering the back roads, and suddenly we’re on the freeway. It feels good; scary but good. Bert’s wife hangs behind a curtain, nearly tipping over as she eavesdrops.

“You have no idea how much I’d love that.” Chas fiddles with the menu. “I can’t remember the last time I had a home-cooked meal. Half the girls I know these days live in restaurants. Everybody works so much they don’t even have time to grocery shop, let alone prepare a meal. I’m not really one to talk. I can’t do much beyond scrambling an egg, but, seriously, a real home-cooked meal, that would be awesome.”

Max is crowing. “That was so easy, it’s pathetic. Where’s your honor, man? You’re falling into her lap like warm pudding!”

“I know what you mean.” Eyeing the menu, I am thankful it is Bert’s original version. “There’s something so reassuring about eating food from someone who actually cares about you. It’s almost primeval.”
Primeval? Where the hell did I get that one? I sound like some TV shrink, for God’s sake.

Chas closes his menu. “Why don’t you order for both of us? You’re the expert here.”

Cocking an eyebrow, I relax. Food, I know. “What kind of time constraints do you have? Their rack of lamb with cilantro salsa is amazing. Falls off the bone.”

Bending down to retrieve his cell phone, he shuts it off. “None whatsoever,” he says and drops the phone back into his briefcase with a flourish. “I’m all yours.”

The next two hours fly by effortlessly. We cover high school territory. I tell him about Angeli and Martin.

“You still hang out with the old gang? That’s great.”

Max prompts me to ask about his friends. The only name I can recall is Phil Blakely, famous for getting stoned and losing tennis matches. “Are you in touch with Phil Blakely?”

“Stoner Phil? He’s working on his doctorate in philosophy at the University of Washington, running the local chapter of Hemp United. Probably still cruising the local midnight mart for munchies,” Chas says, carving his rack of lamb with surgical skill. “This is so amazingly good. You can order for me anytime.”

“Thank you. So, whatever happened to your old flame, Carol?”

“She married this dot-com dude in San Francisco worth something insane, like, thirty-three million. Last time I heard about her she was flying to London to pick out light fixtures for their mansion.”

“London? What’s wrong with Home Depot?”

He laughs. “Didn’t have the kind of lamp she wanted in stock, I guess.” He pours both of us some water. “How come you weren’t at our last class reunion? I hate to say this, but it was actually kind of fun.”

“Oh, I don’t know.”
Because until two weeks ago I was a hermit?

Max pipes up. “Out of town on business.”

“Oh, business travel.”

“Oh, yeah; where’d you go?”

Shit! Where’d I go?
Max isn’t sharing, so I pick the first place that comes to mind. “Tacoma.”

“Tacoma, huh? That’s a commute, not what I’d call out of town. Well, it’s too bad you missed it. They had a pretty good band too. Not like the old days. At least we ran into each other again today. That was lucky, wasn’t it?” He’s finished nearly everything on his plate.

My jaw is slack with surprise.
Chas Bowerman is sitting across from me feeling lucky
. Max snaps, “Shut yer trap, luv, or you’ll catch a fly!”

I snap shut my mouth. “Very,” I say quickly. I’m so glad I bailed my sis out of jail. Who says good deeds don’t pay off?

Chas wipes the sauce off his plate with a hunk of bread. “I can’t hardly wait to see what you’re going to order us for dessert.”

“Put yer hand on his!” Max orders, and when I do, it feels like the most natural thing in the world. “Are you one of those people who like chocolate, or are you the type who can’t live without it?”

He lifts my hand and holds it in his gently. “This feels like a loaded question.”

“Let me put it this way: if you had a last meal, what would you order for dessert?”

“Prison food?”

“Let’s say they ordered out. What would it be?”

“Apple pie from the Macrina Bakery.”

I am slightly crestfallen. One of the things I’d hoped to share with a man was an abiding passion for chocolate. No matter. “Then we’ll share the warm apple cake with bourbon vanilla sauce. Are you okay with sharing?”

He shakes his menu in front of my nose. “I’m fine with sharing, but there’s a cake here called death by chocolate.”

Our waitress arrives. “The fruit tart,” I tell her crisply. “Two forks.”

Chas shakes his head. “No, no, no, no. One fruit tart and one death by chocolate for the lady.” He picks up my other hand. “You don’t have to eat the whole thing, but you should always, always get what you want, even if it’s just a taste. Coffee?”

Chapter Twelve

C
HAS AND
I don’t kiss, although after the intimate lunch we’ve just shared, it seems inevitable. We stand on the sidewalk outside Sardi’s. The brisk fall wind blows us around like any other couple saying goodbye. Crisp rust leaves hit our ankles before continuing on their skittering way. I still don’t have a coat, but I’m impervious to the cold. We lean closer and closer into each other until our noses nearly touch. His eyes are dazzling up close. There’s a whole range of blue and purple streaks shooting out from his pupils. I wonder if I have a dopey look on my face. He sure does.

Chas rocks from side to side, his hands shoved into his jacket pockets. “You know, that was really fun. Sorry I ate almost the entire death by chocolate. You could probably turn a guy into a chocolate fan with that whole history of chocolate thing. I had no idea the Mayans were the first ones to cultivate it. That’s really interesting.” Something has happened. I can feel it in the way he drags his feet. He doesn’t want to leave.

“Yeah, the new thing now is premium chocolates with pepper and spices. Real hard-core chocolate fans think dark chocolate is the only way to go. I still love Hershey bars.” We’re babbling, not the slightest bit interested in what we’re saying. We’re avoiding one word: goodbye.

“Me too,” utters Chas, inches from my nose.

I’m about to launch into the medicinal qualities of my dense chocolate cake when Max pipes up. “Enough with the food facts, luv,” he cautions.

Chas pulls himself away from me, shaking his head as though to clear it. “So, do you ski?” he asks, reluctantly turning on his cell phone. It leaps to life like a small, angry beast.

“Um, no.” I can’t ski, drive, play tennis, or shop for a hobby. What do we have in common?

“Shoulda lied,” Max says.

“Well, I mean, not for a long, long time . . . I’m a little rusty.” Max makes a chortling noise. He’s impressed with my lying.

Chas shakes his cell phone as it rings again. “Whoops. Someone’s getting upset.”

“Okay, well, yeah, I’ve got a meeting too.” Stupid Food Fest. Why didn’t I tell him about Food Fest? It’s only two weeks away. I could invite him.

“Later,” Max says. “Blokes don’t like a bird makin’ all the first moves. Make ’im come to you.”

Chas lets the phone ring. “Well, I hate to ask you to cook for me without taking you somewhere first. How about skiing? This Friday after work?”

Three beautiful days away! My lips form the word
yes.
Max screams, “No!” I hear myself saying, “No?!” as if I can’t understand what I’m saying, a repeat of my earlier, crazy sidewalk self.

“You can’t, you ’ave other social obligations,” Max says calmly. I’ve learned in three short hours not to parrot everything he says. I clear my throat. “What I meant was, I’d love to, but I’m sorry, I have a shopping date with my sister.”

“Your sister?” He frowns slightly, thinking I am brushing him off.

“Yes, well, you know, Trina’s turning forty, and I’ve got to . . . be there sometimes, as a friend. It’s more than shopping, you know, it’s the companionship.” My own lies impress me.

“Moral support for the big four-oh? That’s nice, you two sticking together. Okay, then the next weekend?”

“Yes!” I exhale quickly before Max can mess me up. “Yes, yes, that would be wonderful.” Snow, romance, and delicious, steamy smells. My breath comes in quick, hard gulps: skiing with Chas.

“Slow down, luvey, you’re losin’ ground fallin’ all over ’im now,” Max warns.

“Awesome; it’s supposed to dump six inches,” Chas says. “My parents have a place at Crystal. We can stay there. Get in some night skiing.”

Falling back to earth, I blurt out, “I don’t have any ski equipment.” It’s a full second before I tack on, “Anymore.”
Or ski clothes or, apparently, common sense.

“I’ll get you some.” He speaks with the finality of a man used to buying expensive gifts.

“Do not under any circumstances accept!” Max screams.

“Thanks, that’s very sweet. I’ll borrow Trina’s.” I know damn well I can’t fit myself into any article of her ski clothes except maybe a scarf, nor can I afford any myself.

“Okay, then what’s your phone number?” Chas is poised, ready to enter my number into his cell phone.

He’s not only taking my number but programming it into his cell. With a sickening crash, I realize that this will never work. I still live at home. I don’t drive. I don’t ski. I hide. I am a crazy girl hearing voices, completely out of my mind. Instead of flirting with this ridiculously handsome man, I should be chatting with my health insurance company, finding coverage for in-patient mental health programs.