Comfort Food (15 page)

“You thought you could get pregnant from eating kumquats?”

“Pretty much,” conceded Oliver. “I was a goofy kid.”

Gus gave Oliver an appraising look, trying to see a goofy kid within the tall, good-looking man in the jeans and leather jacket. He had warm brown eyes, she decided.

The two of them wandered around the farmer’s market until, as if by some plan, they stared at a selection of leeks and onions mounded high on a table.

“We could do a spaghetti sauce with ramps,” suggested Oliver. “Somethingearthy and simple.”

“A leek tart, a little vichyssoise,” Gus said, feeling more in the spirit. After all, they still had to cook something up that afternoon as part of Porter’s “getting to know you” plan.

“I tend to like traditional things,” she added, walking over to pick up a head of Bibb lettuce, weighing it in her hands.

“Oliver,” she asked sharply, remembering the beauty queen’s comment from earlier. “Why did Carmen say you’d know how forgetful she is?”

“We went to culinary school together,” he said flatly, seemingly fascinatedwith the lettuces as he avoided looking at Gus. No dummy, he knew a personal association would not be appreciated by his new boss. “But it’s not like we’re best friends or anything.”

“I wouldn’t have guessed you to be the same age,” she said.

“We’re not. I’m much younger,” he said, then winked to show he was kidding.“I’m a second careerist.”

“Well, so is she, technically. Beauty queen and all that.”

Oliver nodded. “I used to be on Wall Street. You know, an investment guy.”

“Didn’t like it?”

“I was good at it,” he admitted. “But it wasn’t for me.” The last thing he wanted to discuss was his background.

“So what’s your favorite food trend?” he asked.

“Oh, don’t tell me you’re one of those! I hate food trends,” replied Gus, albeit pleasantly. “Sunchokes, pomegranate, Meyer lemons, figs, foams— every year something new sweeps the foodies and it’s eaten passionately and then practically abandoned. It’s irresponsible to the palate.”

“I love Meyer lemons,” insisted Oliver.

“So do I,” asserted Gus. “But I refuse to be a slave to food fashion.”

“What’s your motto, then?”

“Fresh. It’s all about fresh,” said Gus, her eyes beginning to sparkle. She brought an artichoke up to eye level. “What could we do with this?”

“Hearts with fresh pasta, cream sauce, and a dash of nutmeg,” he said. “Or herbed in a tart with shavings of fontina.”

“Sounds delish. So here’s the real question: do you love food, Oliver, or do you love cooking?”

The tall man in the ball cap focused intensely on the slim woman in the soft blue sweater. He thought for a long time.

“That’s a serious question, Gus Simpson,” he said, drawing out his words.

“Indeed it is, Mr. Oliver Cooper.”

“I love food,” he said. “I do love cooking but my heart belongs to the food.”

“Well, if that’s the case, then you and I shall be good friends,” said Gus. “Though a certain someone else, I suspect, is devoted more to displaying her technique.”

“I would not deny that Carmen is a person who enjoys the spotlight,” conceded Oliver. “But I don’t think she’s merely a cooking show-off.”

“We shall agree to disagree, then,” Gus said amiably. “But I won’t hold your friendship with Carmen against you. Entirely.” She smiled. “Let’s talk about hothouse tomatoes: necessity or crime against flavor?”

“Both.”

“Right answer, I think,” Gus said, loading up her canvas bag and then, feeling the weight, distributing some of her goods to Oliver. “I could carry this but I do want you to feel useful.”

“Of course,” he said. “I’d like to be of use to you, Gus.”

It was One thing to Say you were available anytime, Carmen thought, and quite another to actually mean it. Alan, she was quickly learning, was very demanding.

Be careful what you wish for because you just might get it: that was the American saying, and it was so true. She’d called Oliver late last night to complain.

“You’ve got to protect me from Gus,” she had pleaded. “The woman hates me.”

Carmen had no problem with people wanting to look good but there was something so formal and aloof about Gus: she overdressed just to go shopping. It was as though she kept herself that little bit apart. That little bit different.

Being on television was not going as expected, that was for sure. Who wants to share a show? That had been Alan’s idea, and while he seemed quite pleased with himself, Carmen was trapped: she couldn’t dare refuse.

Why, she wondered, did everything have to be so unfair? She’d put her time in on the modeling circuit, sashaying about in bikinis. It had been difficult, when she was younger, before displaying her body became just a regularpart of work. It was a long climb to go from Carmen, daughter of Diego and Mercedes of Seville, to Carmen Vega, Miss Spain 1999. She knew how to turn on the charm—and the walk—when she had to. She knew how to act. She’d been well trained.

But her relationship with food was all about being Carmen of Seville. It was her truth, her statement to the world. And she didn’t care if she had to use her beauty queen smarts to get people to take a bite—because once they had a taste of her flavors, of the garlic and olive oil and pinches of smoked paprika,
pimentón
, they would know. Carmen Vega wasn’t just another pretty face. She was an artist.

11

Saturday afternoon stretched out before them, bright and sunny: if Gus had been home it would have been a perfect day to putter in her garden and tend to the delphinium. After all, there was no set time to be at the studio,and Gus was hardly certain that Carmen was going to show. Although she wouldn’t have minded calling it a day and taking the commuter train back to Westchester, Gus felt responsible as Oliver waited patiently, loaded down with veggies in the canvas bags.

“What’s next?” he asked pleasantly.

“You’re easygoing,” said Gus. “Aren’t you a bit annoyed at our state of limbo?”

“Oh, I had a life makeover a few years ago,” he said. “Worked out a lot of my annoyance issues. I’m a much nicer guy now, actually.”

“I’m sure you were always nice.”

“No, not really.” He was still smiling so Gus wasn’t sure if he was joking or not. “Back then I would have decided all the days’ moves long ago.”

“But now you sit back and let someone else take charge,” Gus said in a matter-of-fact tone.

He laughed. “Wrong again,” he said. “Now I know when I need to make a decision and when it’s time to let someone else have a turn. That’s a differentthing altogether.”

"So ...?”

“So I’m at your service.”

“I guess we could go to the studio and play.” Gus gestured to the produce.“Why don’t I call my daughters and convince them to come and eat lunch? ”

Oliver nodded. “At the very least we can try to teach them a few skills before the next episode.”

“I know!” Gus nodded vigorously. “Honestly, I don’t think I’ve had a more disorganized episode since my first day on TV. Those kids can’t tell a spoon from a spatula.”

“That’s part of the fun, I think,” said Oliver. “The mad scramble of a group who can’t cook their way out of a paper bag. Present company excepted,of course.”

“Right back at you,” said Gus. “It is rather disturbing, isn’t it, that I’ve managed to raise two girls who are not particularly adept in the kitchen?”

“I think the taller of the two, the one with the light brown hair, has more of a knack.”

“Do you? That’s Aimee. She pays attention even when you think she’s not looking.”

“She seems interesting.”

Gus turned to the man at her side and looked at him thoughtfully. He had a nice build, and friendly crinkles around his tickler eyes. And a thought began to form in her mind quite naturally.

“Aimee is interesting,” she told him, making a mental note to find out if Porter knew Oliver’s age. “She works for the UN as an economist.”

“I’m sure she and I could have fun talking numbers,” he said. “But you and I will have a better time cooking, that’s for sure.”

“Right,” Gus said, listening with half an ear. She dialed Aimee from her cell phone and invited her up to the studio.

“She’ll meet us there because she’s already uptown,” Gus told Oliver as they clambered into a taxi, tucking the bags of vegetables in between them.

After chopping three potatoes to Oliver’s ten spuds, Aimee decided she needed a break or she might cut her fingers off by accident. She didn’t typicallyspend her Saturday afternoons cooking: in fact, it was her routine to do her washing in the basement laundry of her building, interspersing trips up and down in the elevator with watching all the episodes of
Wheel of Fortune
she’d TiVoed from the week before. Game shows were Aimee’s secret obsessionand most guilty pleasure: she couldn’t decide if she’d rather imagine herself winning or would simply be content to watch program after program of smiling, successful contestants. Sitting amid her comforter and watchingthe television, her laundry basket on the end of the bed and the liquid detergent tucked back into its spot in the linen cupboard, Aimee gave herselfover to the enjoyment of watching: she experienced a deep satisfaction after every big win, a twist in her stomach when a participant landed on a “Bankrupt” on the colorful wheel and lost all potential money. The best moments, though, were when the contestants began to tear up after being awarded some large jackpot, their relief and desperation etched in every line of their face.

“Oh, they really needed the money,” she would say aloud to no one at all, her room empty except for her. “This is going to make a big difference for them.”

Sometimes she would tear up just as the participants were doing, crying along with them and feeling a warm happiness enveloping her. She’d hit “pause” and imagine all the wonderful things they could do with their prizes: the trips they would take, the table they would finally buy for an empty dining room, the teenage son or daughter who could finally go to college. Aimee saw all their dreams and cried for them. But that was most often only when someone won $100,000.

And then, at the end of watching hours of shows, as if to bring herself back to the real world and all its discomforts, she would warn the players through the screen: “Don’t forget you’ll be taxed on your winnings!”

Late at night, when she was trying to sleep, she often wondered why no one had started a game show magazine, with article after article giving updates on the winners of
Millionaire
and
Deal or No Deal
and
Wheel
. It was true she enjoyed the smarty-pants nature of
Jeopardy
but, when it came right down to it, what had a hold on her heart were the regular people just holdingtheir breath for an opportunity that day-to-day life could not deliver.

The game show obsession had started years ago, back in the summer after her father died, when she and Sabrina had their mornings free after swim lessons and nothing to do. Gus had kept them home most of the time while she dealt with papers, sitting with the door closed in the tiny room that had been their father’s office. There were a lot of papers, apparently.

She and Sabrina, still in elementary school then, had become diehard devotees of
The Price Is Right
, memorizing the price of Rice-A-Roni and Lysol disinfectant and planning a cross-country road trip when they turned eighteen and could finally become contestants on the show. They’d see Bob Barker and the Plinko board, and if they played it just right, they’d bid well enough to win both showcases. Sabrina wanted to win a car, a truck, and a Winnebago, but all Aimee wished to win was a new living room set. Somethingwith bright flowers that would cheer up Gus and make her want to come out of the office.

Aimee put down her knife and looked up to locate her mother. Gus had been spending much of the afternoon pretend-searching for items in the pantry, and Aimee, well acquainted with her mother’s penchant for match-making,was suspicious about what was really going on. She walked out of the kitchen studio a few steps and went to find Gus.

“Long time since you’ve been in the studio, Mom?” she asked. “You don’t seem to want to hang out with the rest of us.”

“Aimee, you startled me,” said Gus, who was looking at a can of tomatoes with studious concentration.

“Need tomatoes?”

“No, why?”

Aimee gestured toward her mother’s hand. Gus looked down.

"Oh, I was just ... reading the ingredient list,” she said. “It can be illuminating.”

“I’m sure, Mom,” said Aimee. “It contains tomatoes.”

“Are you having a nice time with Oliver?” asked Gus. “He’s very handsome.Funny, too.”

“So go date him, then,” said Aimee.

“There’s no need to be ridiculous,” said Gus. Her daughter well knew she had not gone out with anyone after Christopher died. It was always too soon, too busy, too scary. Too easy to avoid altogether. Even when she felt alone at times, Gus believed that remaining single was better for her girls. For herself.

“What’s the deal, Mom? Hoping for a double wedding?”

“If you mean with that Billy, then no.” Gus replaced the tomatoes on the shelf. “I did leave you a few messages last week that you didn’t return. I want to talk about this Billy thing.”

“News flash, Mom,” Aimee said. “Sabrina’s the one who is engaged. Not me.”

She’d spent an hour or so with Billy one evening as he waited—and waited and waited—while Sabrina changed outfits repeatedly. He’d seemed unaffected by her sister’s shenanigans entirely, had read the paper, chitchat-tedabout the midterm elections, and even offered to make a run for coffee, all the while praising every outfit Sabrina paraded around. It’s not as though he became Aimee’s best friend or anything, but he hadn’t seemed like such a bad guy at all.

“For one, I know that. For two, don’t speak to me in that tone,” said Gus. “You don’t have to be so prickly all the time.” She leaned close to Aimee and whispered, “Help me get Sabrina back with Troy.”