Adventures with Max and Louise (22 page)

“You don’t have to prove anything to anyone. You do what you want,” Louise says. “Always.”

I glance back at the worried knot of people on stage. Chas is near the producer, clearly negotiating something. His eyes catch mine, and he raises his brows in concern. I give him a brief grin as I return to the main stage. “I’m gonna do it,” I announce.

“One more minute,” the director says, putting on his headset.

“I need some painkiller,” I say to no one in particular as I hurry back onto the set.

An assistant is dispatched to find some Tylenol, while a brisk young man bandages my hand. “You’ll need to ice this as soon as you’re off the air.”

Chas puts his arm around me protectively. “You sure you’re okay?” he asks, zeroing in on me as if he’d read my mind. “You don’t have to do this if you don’t want to. It won’t be the end of the world. There will be other chances to plug your book. Don’t do anything you’re uncomfortable with.”

Liz, tapping her nails anxiously on the kitchen counter, rolls her eyes.

“I’m okay.”

Wolf rummages through the cupboards. He finds a bottle of cooking sherry and pours a healthy slug into a mug. “Drink this.”

Chas puts his hand over the mug. “Not a good idea. She needs a painkiller, not booze.”

“She’s in shock. It’ll relax her a hell of a lot faster than Tylenol.”

“It’s eight o’clock in the morning, pal. She’ll do fine without it.”

Both men’s eyes turn toward me. Wolf’s eyes blaze, while Chas grimaces at Wolf’s stupidity. The glass sits in front of me on the counter. I am floating ten feet off the ground, woozily observing the scene: the two men, the glass of sherry, and me caught in the middle. Part of me really wants to please Chas, while the other half craves the numbing sedation of booze.

“Drink the bloody stuff,” Max counsels. “It’ll calm yer nerves.”

“Five seconds, clear the set! And four, three . . .” the director calls out.

Wolf and Chas are shooed off the set by a production assistant. I grab the glass and down it in one gulp. Its sickly sweetness catches in my throat. Gasping, I stash the glass under the counter, hoping Chas hasn’t seen.

As the cameras blink on, the audience cheers and hoots as if I have regained use of my legs after a long bout of paralysis.

“What a trouper this girl is!” Marianne lifts my hand to show off my bandage.

“With a mouth like a bleedin’ sailor,” Max cracks.

“Without any further ado, carefully now, show us what you’re cooking up!” Marianne throws her arms open wide as if this is Vegas.

The kind-faced women in the audience lean forward in their seats, their faces beaming goodwill. My stomach relaxes slowly as the sherry works its magic. Still tenuous, I move slowly. Every time I feel myself stumbling or holding back, a gentle nudge from Louise or a joke from Max pushes me over the barrier. I regain my momentum, and before I know it, all is well.

“Relax, luv, you can’t fluff it more than you already ’ave.” I hold back a snort of laughter.

“This,” I say, putting some muscle into shredding the cheese, “is what macaroni and cheese would be like if it grew up, went to college, and spent junior year abroad in northern Italy.”

Blending the cheeses together, I throw in facts about the quaint little Italian farms where the artisan cheeses are made and their melting points, feeling growing pride in my ability to rise above my first mishap. When I feel a quiver of panic, I find Dad’s beaming face in the audience. “You can make your own version of this by using different cheeses. My dad likes a smoked provolone in his; my friend Martin enjoys his with Gorgonzola, which gives it a strong, salty tang. Fresh basil makes all the difference no matter what kind of cheese you use.”

I try to forget that I shouted obscenities on my first televised appearance and hold onto the memory of two men fighting over me. It shouldn’t make me so happy, but it does. The more I talk, the easier it gets. My eyes turn toward the audience. I pick out kindly faces one by one. I realize I’m not talking to my intimates, I’m addressing an audience. Louise tells me it doesn’t make any difference, and if it does, then pretend each one of these ladies is my mother. A real Gallagher, Mom said, gets right back on that horse. Here I am, riding it.

According to Liz, I perform like a pro, charming the audience and joking so casually with Marianne that I put everyone, including the maternally worried audience, at ease. I don’t remember much of it. The most surreal moment is pulling the browned casserole from the oven minutes after I’d put it in. The audience oohs and aahs, clapping enthusiastically. Marianne takes a gooey bite and pronounces it “cheesy heaven.” She’s the Queen of Cheese, but I don’t, of course, mention it.

Marianne ends the show by asking the audience if they think I should come back this summer for a special on summer salads. Everyone cheers so wildly, I decide there must be some kind of uppers in the free coffee they serve before the show. As the credits roll, Marianne asks me to autograph her copy of the cookbook.

“A classic must-have for every cook’s library,” she pronounces.

“I hope so.” I sign my first published book with a little smiley face inside the
O,
in my best sixth-grade yearbook style.

As soon as a technician has unclipped the mike from the back of my shirt, I find Dad in the crowd and start toward him.

Liz intercepts me, grabbing my bandaged hand. “Okay, now here comes the fun part, sales.”

“Owwww!” I yelp. “My hand!”

“Oh, sorry,” she says, sounding anything but. She snatches my other hand and tugs me through the crowd to a desk. A towering stack of cookbooks await signing.

A deluge of women, with checkbooks in hand, form a queue down the aisle.

Liz’s eyes glow; like a fox eyeing baby chicks. “Here she is, ladies, Diner X, Molly Gallagher.” She shoves me into the waiting chair behind the table, whispering, “They spend hours on Facebook. This is your word of mouth, honey. Sell it!”

“Can I get some ice, please?” I say to Liz, but she’s already vanished into the crowd.

I begin what should be the delightful task of accepting congratulations and signing newly purchased cookbooks, but all I can think of is how much my hand hurts.

“Hey, how’s the hand?” a man’s voice asks. It’s Wolf, cookbook in hand, hazel eyes crinkled in amusement.

“Great, I’m gonna to start every morning with a slug of cooking sherry.”

He pushes the bag of sodden peas into my hand. “You owe me for putting me on the spot like that,” he whispers, then gently pushes Sasha toward me.

“Darling, I was just so proud of you. And after that horrible burn to come back like that; it was so brave.” Sasha kisses me on the cheek. Tears prick my eyes.

“How about an early lunch?” Wolf asks.

Surprised at how appealing this sounds, I mumble, “I would, but I’m going skiing with Chas. We’re leaving from here.”

“Oh, skiing. That sounds like . . . fun.” It’s hard to read his face.

Another woman shoves a book in front of me. “Can you sign this for my niece? Her name is Montana.”

“But you do owe me for that PR stunt,” Wolf insists.

“Oh, please, you’ll be swamped at the restaurant tonight. You loved it,” I say, knowing full well he didn’t. I finish signing the book for Montana and hand it back with a smile. “Hope she enjoys it.”

Wolf leans down until I can smell the clean flannel of his shirt. “Come climbing with me,” he says in a husky whisper. His doggedness reminds me of what irritated me about him in the first place: his unwillingness to fit in and go along.

I glance up. Out of the corner of my eye I see Chas making his way through the throng of women waiting to have their books signed.

“I thought you gave up all that,” I say nervously. I really don’t want to be talking to Wolf when Chas gets here. Wolf might be marginally attractive, but Chas is, well, Chas. I sign the next woman’s cookbook, trying to seem genuine and grateful, wishing Wolf would just go away.

“We won’t do Everest. I’ll start you out easy.”

“You know I’m dating Chas, right?” Chas excuses himself to the women in line as he pushes his way forward.

“I promise I’ll stay fully clothed. No nude climbing.” The woman whose book I am signing giggles. I glare at Wolf. He grins mischievously.

“Thank you for that. Now my first public appearance is complete.” The more nervous I get, the happier he appears. Is he deliberately baiting me?

Chas is a few feet away. I can hear him murmuring, “Excuse me, excuse me.” More than anything, I want Wolf away from here, now.

“All right,” I say quickly, realizing this is the only way to get rid of him.

“You’re gonna love it,” he says and ducks into the crowd. “I promise.”

Chapter Twenty-Two

O
N THE DRIVE
to the ski resort, Chas is quiet, fiddling with the car’s iPod, asking occasionally if I need to stop, if I want a latte. Content to relive my first television appearance, I spend most of the time gazing out the window at tiny logging towns and pines, reliving the morning, amazed that I actually appeared on television. And they liked me. They want me back. I even heard Liz say she’d do her best to get me back in the summer if I wasn’t out of town on book tour. I couldn’t believe they were actually talking about me.

Other than the burn and foul language, the show was a great success. I mentally pat myself on the back for my Gallagher-like toughness, enjoying the late afternoon darkness, the plump snow-heavy clouds atop the dark pines. As the car climbs farther and farther into the dark mountains, the pain in my hand subsides. The weight of my newfound success drifts away like the snowflakes falling on the car’s windshield.

As we leave Enumclaw, beginning our climb up Mount Rainier, I realize how exhausting it must be to live in the public eye. If Liz had her way, I would be a permanent resident. Already she’s talking about bigger venues, how the
Today Show
is in town shooting from the Pike Place Market. The last thing she said to me as we left the television studio was, “Make sure your cell phone is charged.” Gazing only at Chas, she’d simpered, “Have loads of fun.” As we drove away, I prayed she wouldn’t call.

Tucked away in my overnight bag is the new pale green bra and panties I’ve purchased for the trip. Closing my eyes, I envision myself in them, self-assured and sultry, miraculously ten pounds lighter, leaning over a delighted Chas. His cell phone rings, shattering my reverie.

“Yep, it’s okay, it’s no problem,” he starts, going into detail about building plans and where to find them on his computer.

Remembering that I haven’t told Dad how long I’ll be gone, I dig in my purse for my cell phone and dial his number. There is no answer, so I leave a message:

“Hey, Dad, it’s Molly. I’ll be gone for the weekend. If you need to reach me, I’ll keep my phone charged. Don’t forget to take out the trash tonight and buy more milk.”

When I hang up, Chas is done with his call. He glances over. I wonder how much of the call he’s heard.

“I must sound like a mother hen.”

“Well, yeah, kind of. He’s a grown man.” He keeps his eyes on the road.

“I know, but . . .” I bite my lip. How can I say this without sounding too involved in Dad’s life? “He forgets the most mundane things.”

“I bet you don’t even give him a chance. People are amazingly adaptive. You’ve fallen into this whole thing where you’re the parent.”

“I have not. I look out for him, that’s all. Since Mom died . . .”

He flips on the windshield wipers. “I can’t believe it’s been ten years since your mother died. I mean, in a weird way, it seems like yesterday, doesn’t it?”

“Sometimes. Yes.” I don’t tell him that it tore me apart, and the pieces still drift, searching for anchorage; that sometimes it happened yesterday, and at others it seems another lifetime.

Watching the snow swirl toward the windshield, I let it hypnotize me. It feels good to have him in charge. It reminds me of when I was a child, falling asleep in the backseat of our car; secure in the knowledge that Dad was at the wheel. I’m touched that Chas knows, without thinking, that it’s been ten years since my mother died. It’s comfortable, this silence. Chas, with his career demands, instinctively understands that after all the pressure and adrenaline of this morning, I need some time to decompress. This getaway is exactly what I need: no Liz, no Sasha, and no Dad. The only person I’m responsible for is me. I can hardly wait to curl up in front of a fire in Chas’s arms.

“Don’t you go getting that warm, fuzzy, stupid female feeling,” Louise snaps. My drowsiness flips into irritation. Louise needs an off button. “Here you are thinking the man’s got some kind of secret passageway into your soul. You wanna know what he’s thinking about right this second?”

But I already know. He’s thinking about how hard it’s been for me to live with a grieving, depressed father all these years, how I am brave and strong and patient. He’s thinking that I am a heroine straight out of a romance novel; that I’ve wasted all these years in a cavernous, lonely house with my stupid, feckless sisters (until they moved out, and then they were just as bad by phone), waiting for the right man to recognize my talents, see into my heart. He’s thinking that my career potential is unlimited, and we’ll be an amazing couple.

“Your boobs. He’s thinking about your boobs,” Louise says crossly.

I glance at Chas. He looks like a kid being handed a triple scoop of Jamoca Almond Fudge. I look down at my breasts, showcased by the too-tight turtleneck on loan from Trina. Chas gives me a silly grin, his eyes glancing ever so quickly five inches below my chin.

Louise is right. He’s looking at my breasts.

As we arrive at the ski resort and pull into the driveway, my jaw drops at what Chas casually referred to as a cabin. A cabin to me is a mildew-scented place decorated with threadbare, cat-clawed furniture deemed too scruffy for home, towels one step from the rag drawer, and utensils collected from yard sales. True, this place has a few rough-hewn logs here and there, but they are supported by miles of shining glass that jut skyward, interspersed with jagged gray stone walls. It’s all topped off with a shining copper roof. I remember my dad haggling with a plumber years ago about the cost of repairing our copper plumbing. I can’t imagine what he’d say about a copper roof. I count at least three stone chimneys before I step out of the car.