Comfort Food (34 page)

“Right.” She nodded. “That must be nice, out there with your family. Lucky.”

“Yeah,” he agreed. “It is. Okay, you, let’s switch seats so we can get out of here and get you home.”

There was no lurching or mid-intersection stalls as Troy drove, his helmetresting on the backseat, all of which irritated Hannah tremendously. She hated when she wasn’t very good at some sort of physical activity.

“Stop!” she shouted, as they made their way down the street.

“What the hell?” said Troy, who hit the brake, afraid he was about to run over a squirrel or something.

“Over there.” Hannah pointed to a public park across the road. “It’s a tennis court.”

“You brake for tennis?” Troy shook his head. “That’s not funny. We could have had an accident.”

“No, let’s go play,” she said. “You wanna?”

“You have a racket in here?”

“I tucked a couple in just in case,” she said. “You being the big tennis camp man and all that.”

“You may be on the show now but playing on a public court near Rye?” asked Troy. “If someone recognizes you... are you ready for that?”

“Let’s find out.” Hannah wasn’t entirely sure if she meant that, but she wanted to do something in which she was better than Troy.

He continued driving until the next light. “All right, you talked me into it,” he said, though she hadn’t said another word. Troy turned the car around and went back in the direction of the public courts.

“We won’t play a full match,” he said as he shut off the car. “Just a bit of volleying and that’s it. I gotta get back into the city—we’re close to landing a new investor.”

“Sure,” said Hannah. “But we’ll keep score, just a few points. Otherwise, why bother?”

“You know what?” said Troy. “I’ve always wanted to beat Hannah Joy Levine.”

“Not happening.” She pulled out a bag of rackets and slung it over her shoulder.

“Can you imagine the crowd if I did?”

“No crowd here.”

“What about them?” He pointed to a collection of what looked to be six or seven middle-school-aged kids loitering about on the court.

“You guys here to play?” Hannah shouted, practicing a few serves while Troy stood beside her.

The kids shrugged. They seemed to have only one wonky old wooden racket among the group of them.

“Come on over here,” she called.

“You really have been locked at home for fifteen years,” said Troy. “It’s not okay anymore to just speak to kids you don’t know.”

Thwack!
Hannah served another ball. Oh, the real thing was even betterthan she’d imagined.

“You’re fast, lady,” said one of the kids, coming nearer. “Just like Venus.”

“Yup,” said Hannah. “And I used to be even faster!”

“Whoa.” The kids were clearly impressed.

“This guy here is about to be beaten by me,” she said, gesturing to Troy.

“Ha!” Troy said, shaking his head at the kids. “It won’t happen.”

“You sure have a lot of rackets,” said the shortest child in the group. “Why did you bring so many?”

Hannah looked at the kids, and then at Troy, and then back at the kids.

“For sharing,” she said, unzipping the bag and handing out two rackets. “Just to borrow, and everyone gets a turn. Okay by you?” The last words she had addressed to Troy.

“I’m all good,” he said. “Let’s start volleying. Everybody put two feet on the line closest to the net!”

The kids scurried up, making more noise than he could have imagined possible. Like a little herd of elephants.

“Pull back and swing,” Hannah said, marching up and down behind them like a drill sergeant. She waved her arm over her head to gesture to Troy to go to the other side.

“Here,” she said, putting her hand on one young girl’s. “Grip the racket like this. And when the ball comes over the net, smack it like you mean it!”

The little girl giggled. “You’re funny, you know that?”

“And I’m also good at tennis,” said Hannah. “So who’s next? Get in line and hit ’em as they come over. Troy, serve!”

They played for a long time, until even Hannah, who thought she would never be able to get enough when she’d first stepped onto the court that day, owned up to being exhausted. The kids handed the rackets back to her reluctantly.

“Thanks, lady,” they said.

“Too tired for car shopping, then?” teased Troy.

“I’m not ready to trade in my Miata,” she said as she put the rackets back into her case. “I’m going to master that sucker with just a few more lessons, I know it. Same time next week?”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” said Troy. “I’ll bring my own racket this time.”

On the edge of the court, the “crowd” went wild with cheers.

Gus heard the toot of a horn in front of the house and raced outside, dragginga suitcase behind her. She was in a breezy blue dress and carried a light cotton wrap over her arm, though it had actually been challenging to figure out what to wear for the day’s events. She’d had to ask Sabrina for some input, and she advised avoiding green and opting for something comfortable.

“Though that’s just off the top of my head, Mom,” she said. “I’ve never heard of fashion for meeting the Feds.”

Indeed. The call had come in only a few days before: the FBI, intensely pursuing David Fazio, wanted her to come in to make a statement and offer whatever information she might have.

“But I don’t know anything,” she explained for the umpteenth time to the agent over the phone. Still, he persisted, setting up an appointment and requesting that she bring documents. Oliver had encouraged her to go, and Aimee had offered to meet her at Federal Plaza in downtown New York, where the interview was set to take place.

“It just makes it all feel even worse,” she told them. “Not only has my money gone missing but the government is going to walk me, step by step, through how I was so stupid.”

“Or they’ll catch him and maybe get some of it back,” Aimee pointed out. “Either way, you have to stand up for yourself, even if it hurts.”

She locked the door to the manor house behind her as Joe, the car servicedriver who’d taken her to the
Today
show, grabbed her rolling bag and placed it in the trunk of the car.

“That’s heavy,” he said. “What you got in there? Gold bricks?”

“Something like that,” she said. “A lot of papers.”

Joe held open the door as she climbed into the backseat and reached behind herself to put on her seat belt.

“Aha,” he said. “Good for you.”

Gus was nervous, no doubt about it. She hadn’t even made anything for Hannah to eat that morning.

“No chow?” Hannah had said, looking forlornly at the counter when she came over at seven-thirty. “People stop feeding stray cats when they don’t want them to come by.”

“It’s not that, Hannah,” Gus said, though she did feel a bit guilty because she’d been spending a lot of time with Oliver and not bringing dinner over to Hannah as often as she used to. “I’m just preoccupied.”

“You look nice,” said Hannah. “More relaxed than usual.”

“Thank you. Your tracksuit looks stellar, as always.”

“Yeah, about that,” said Hannah. “I was thinking maybe it’s time I invested in a new wardrobe. Nothing earth-shattering, maybe just somethingthat can’t double as workout clothes.”

“What about your gray jacket-dress?” Gus said absentmindedly as she rechecked her purse. “It’s what you’ve always worn before.”

“Do you have time to take me shopping?” asked Hannah. “I know you have all this stuff going on, but I was hoping.” She waited but Gus didn’t respond.

“I’ll drive,” offered Hannah.

Gus looked up. “Oh, definitely not that,” she teased. And then a thought came to her: what about Sabrina? She could probably do a much better job outfitting Hannah than Gus could.

She put two slices of bread in the toaster.

“Finally, some food,” cried Hannah.

“You could have done this yourself. You’re not the least bit helpless.”

Hannah pulled out a Reese’s peanut butter cup. “I love peanut butter on toast,” she said, biting into the candy bar while she waited. “Yum!”

“See there? You even had your own. Right there in your pocket.”

“I’ve been giving some thought to Priya.”

“Oh, goodness, I’ve been getting an earful from Carmen. The meetings at the CookingChannel have been very screechy.”

“No, not about her coming to the cookout show,” said Hannah. “Her health. I think I’ve figured it out.”

“Hannah,” Gus said, not hiding her irritation very well. “You’re always diagnosing, even characters on TV shows. You’re not actually a doctor.”

“I’m right this time,” Hannah said confidently. Indeed, something about Priya had lingered in her mind after the show, though she hadn’t been able to put a finger on what it was. “It was the eyebrows,” she explained now.

“Priya Patel is just a fortysomething mom with too much to do. It’s like that when you’ve got a young family.”

“Ouch.” Hannah made a face. “But that’s not her problem, I’m telling you.”

“You can’t go around barging in other people’s lives,” insisted Gus, who caught the expression on Hannah’s face very well. “No comment from the peanut butter cup gallery, thank you very much.”

“Okay there, Ms. I’ve-never-butted-in-anywhere,” said Hannah. “Look, she’s got a thyroid problem, Gus, and she doesn’t even know it.”

“I hope you’re not planning on ambushing Priya at the Fourth party?”

“Of course not,” Hannah said, as though Gus was being ridiculous. “I contacted Porter for her email address.”

Joe had arrived with the car then, and Gus left Hannah to her toast, pulling the rolling bag of bank statements behind her. She had felt a rising dread as they drove down FDR Drive, watching the UN, the NYU medical center, and the Williamsburg Bridge as they nudged their way down the road, just one of endless cars heading into Manhattan. Off to work, off to play, off to go talk to the FBI.

Aimee was standing on the sidewalk as the car pulled up close to Federal Plaza, waiting to walk with her inside. She’d taken the day off, for which Gus was very grateful, and had told her so.

A line of people stretched around the block.

“Oh no,” said Gus, “We’ll never make our appointment now.”

“That’s the immigration line, Mom,” Aimee said, grabbing the suitcase. “We go in over here.”

After a short line at the security area—it was just like the airport with its security screeners—they took an elevator upstairs.

“Hello,” said the brown-haired man who came into the waiting room. He was of medium build, a little bit shorter than six feet, wearing wireless glasses and a dark blue suit. His expression was solemn but he was younger than Gus had expected after hearing the deep voice on the phone.

“I’m Jeremy Brewer,” he said, shaking her hand firmly. “I spoke with you earlier, Mrs. Simpson.”

Gus nodded.

“No need to be nervous,” Agent Brewer said, handing both of them his card. “I’m a forensic accountant. My weapon of choice is a calculator.”

Aimee laughed. Gus did not.

They made their way to a small office, and Gus spent several hours drinkingcoffee and going over the faked statements she’d received, as the agent took detailed notes. Aimee, who was familiar with the papers from going through them in recent weeks, chimed in with an occasional comment or two.

“Let’s take a break.” Agent Brewer stood up. “Get some lunch and re-convene.”

“I didn’t think I’d have anything much to say,” said Gus.

“But you knew this guy for a decade, professionally and socially,” he said, moving to open the office door. “People often are aware of much more than they realize.”

“Knock knock,” said a voice belonging to a tall woman in a dark suit. “Saw that you were breaking and thought I’d take my chance to say hello to
the
Gus Simpson.” She whipped out a cookbook from behind her back. “And I was hoping . . .”

“Of course,” Gus said, accepting a pen and moving back into the office to sit down again. “Now who shall I make it out to?”

“She’ll be busy with that for a few minutes,” Aimee said, good-naturedly. “Probably made her feel a little better.”

“Great,” said Agent Brewer. “Though I have to confess I’ve never watched any of those food television shows.”

“You’ve never even seen my mom?”

“No offense intended.”

“And none taken.” She beamed from ear to ear.

“So tell me about this UN stuff,” said Agent Brewer. “Sounds like interestingwork.” He reached into his pocket to give her a card.

“You already gave me one,” said Aimee.

“Did I?” he said, feigning surprise. “Well, here’s another one. Just want to make sure you have my number.”

“Yeah?” said Aimee.

“Yes, ma’am.”

26

Every year since she started on the CookingChannel, Gus had hosted her entire cast and crew for a wonderful wrap party. But, with the future of the show still uncertain, she didn’t want to wait until everything was wrapped. She could imagine all sorts of downcast faces if she put off the celebrations until the end of the season and it turned out the program was not to be renewed. No, far better to use the occasion of the Fourth of July to thank everyone for their hard work and commitment, when spirits—and hopes—remained high.

Her theme was obvious: eat, drink, and be merry. The menu? Crab cake ciabatta rolls,
bollos preñados
—chorizo “hot dogs”—for a Spanish homage, tomato-watermelon cubes on toothpicks, and a chilled green papaya salad. It was different working with Oliver in the kitchen now but the two of them, although giddy and often caressing a cheek or enjoying a deep kiss in private,made a point to be professional and discreet in public.

Everyone’s families had been invited, including Priya Patel’s, and Gus gleefully anticipated having loads of kids running around her backyard. In preparation, she purchased a handful of remote control boats that could be raced in the pond and a box of sidewalk chalk for patio doodling, and she set out a series of rented picnic tables on the lawn so there would be lots of room for every guest to relax. It wasn’t as lavish as many occasions she’d thrown, but seemed appropriate given the uncertainty surrounding the show. Most of all, it was heartfelt. And that, Gus knew, was the most important ingredientof all.