Cook the Books (12 page)

Alison twirled a long spiral curl around her manicured finger and crossed her mile- long legs. She had changed her eye color this week and now flashed violet eyes in my direction. “Ms. Carter?”

“Yes, Alison?”

“I really think that I found the right guy, this time.” She smiled, clearly pleased with herself.

I nodded, waiting for her to go on. One of the lessons drilled into us social-work students was that it was sometimes best to say nothing, to wait and see what a client did with silence. Alison usually used these moments as opportunities to announce new affairs.

“Don’t you want to hear about him?” she asked eagerly.

“Do you want to tell me about him?” Another social-work strategy: answer a question with a question. If I’d been allowed to be honest, I’d have screamed that hell no, I didn’t want to hear about Alison’s latest unavailable interest and that I wished she’d just enjoy the normal, loving, college-age boyfriend she had. Then I’d have run screaming from the room. In other words, I desperately needed to work on my patience and to focus on the goal of helping this young woman straighten out her life. Not that I felt like a particularly good role model, having spent the past two days jumping every time the phone rang and daydreaming about fooling around with Josh in the condemned apartment. . . .

“Okay!” Alison sat up straight and clapped her hands. “His name is Keith, and he’s totally gorgeous. Older than me, obviously, because you know I have a thing for mature men. But he’s not, like, ancient or anything. I think he’s about forty-five. Totally suave and sexy. He was a guest lecturer in my friend’s college class, and he’s written books and makes awesome money.” She rubbed her fingers together and lifted an eyebrow. “I met him through my friend after he took a group of students out to dinner, and he invited me along because I was outside talking to her when he asked. I think she might be a little into him, but he obviously is much more attracted to me. I can tell we like each other, even though we haven’t said anything.”

I cleared my throat. This story was not screaming
appropriate
. A middle- aged man taking young college students out to dinner? Please. “You do already have a boyfriend, though. Tom. How is that relationship going for you? And do you think this new man, Keith, is the kind of man you could have a relationship with?”

She shrugged happily. “Keith is well traveled, smart, sexy. . . . Did I already say sexy? Well, he is. A real gentleman, too. He holds doors open for women, and he’s really nice to all of my friends. Tom is such a bore compared to him. I mean, there’s nothing wrong with him, but he’s not what I really want. I wish Keith would just whisk me away to some tropical paradise where we could lounge around and sip cocktails and get massages.”

I was hoping to guide Alison toward the realization that her choices in boyfriends usually led to disastrous results. Who knew if this older man was even interested in her? There was a strong possibility that she’d conjured up the romance. It was even possible that the man existed entirely in her head.

I spent another forty minutes questioning Alison about her attraction to this man and making notes as we talked.
A has expressed interest in older, suave gentleman K and is considering abandoning current relationship, claiming relationship is a “bore.” Impressed with K’s world experience and has fantasy that he reciprocates her attraction.

When my session with Alison was over, I grabbed a quick lunch and checked my voice mail on both my cell phone and my home phone. No calls from Josh, but one from Kyle confirming our night of recipe testing.

My next client, Danny, was someone I really liked. He was my age, twenty-six, and worked long hours in construction. His father owned the company and, according to Danny, was a real bastard, a demeaning, tyrannical man who subjected his son to one harsh criticism after another. Claiming that it was for his son’s own good, the father demanded that Danny work twice as hard as the other workers to prove himself to his father. In my opinion, Danny was no more than a slave to his father, yet Danny killed himself to live up to his father’s standards.

Today my client showed up with his entire left hand wrapped thickly with gauze. “Danny, what happened?” I asked.

Danny smiled and waved away my concern. “Ah, it’s nothin’. I just got hurt a few days ago.” He leaned back in his chair and wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. His curly black hair was damp with sweat, and his ruddy cheeks were flushed from working outside in the cold all morning. To get to our appointments, Danny told his father that he was taking a business class. He’d never have let his father know that he was going to therapy. “Therapy is for sissies,” the father had told Danny.

I eyed Danny’s hand. “That looks serious.”

“Nah. I cut myself with an electric saw. Just a nick really. My dad had me wrap it up, and I went to the ER after my shift.”

“What time did this happen?”

“First thing in the morning. Can you believe it? What a way to start of the day, huh?”

“And you usually work from six in the morning until four thirty in the afternoon?”

Danny nodded as he looked at his bandaged hand.

“So your father wouldn’t let you go to the emergency room for what? Eight hours?”

Danny nodded again. “I needed fourteen stitches.” He hung his head. “But I wanted him to know that I could tough it out. That I’m the son he always wanted. And it’s not like it didn’t stop bleeding or anything. I wrapped it myself and it was fine.” He laughed softly. “It’s nothing new, though. I get hurt all the time. You know, when I was a kid, there were two bullies who lived up the block from us. One time they beat the crap out of me. I was ten, and these kids just pummeled me. For no reason whatsoever. Just because they were assholes. And they thought I was a loser. I mean, I was a scrawny, funny- looking kid, but I never did anything to them. The older one broke my cheekbone, he hit me so hard.”

I never would have guessed that Danny had ever been less than the strapping, handsome man who sat in front of me. I wished that I could sic him on those bullies today. “What was your father’s response when you came home so injured?”

“He smacked me on the back of the head and told me it would make me a man.” Danny paused. “And he said I better not cry or he’d finish what the kids started.”

“Oh, Danny.”

“When my Dad went out later that afternoon, my mother took me to the hospital. But I didn’t cry once.” He forced a smile. “When I was healing and all black- and-blue, my dad would point out my bruises to his friends and act all proud of me. Like I was worthy of being his son because I’d been in a fight. Not that I’d done much fighting back, but he didn’t know that. Look, I’m making it sound worse than it was. My dad really wants the best for me. And he’s right that I need to be motivated. I can be really lazy, and I need to be pushed sometimes. He wants me to be big-time, you know? Take over his company one day.”

It took all of my willpower to control my breathing. I hated hearing stories like Danny’s, which were all too common. I wanted Danny to quit his job and move far away from the father he’d been stuck with, but it was important to help him start making decisions for himself and eventually to realize on his own that his father was abusive. My client’s pattern of driving himself to the ground to impress his father had to end. As Danny continued to talk, I took notes, in part to be able to review them later and in part to keep busy and distance myself as I listened to yet more examples of his father’s destructive behavior. To continue to do clinical work, I’d have to learn to tolerate hearing painful stories, but so far, I found the experience almost overwhelming.

By the time I got off work, I was drained and depressed. What’s more, I was ashamed. Listening to my clients had reminded me that there were much worse things in life than a broken heart. Unlike some of my clients, I had a wonderful, loving family and close friends. Still, I had to acknowledge that even with a healthy upbringing and a stable family system, I had a right to feel upset about Josh. The experts, including the professor who taught my class on attachment, would agree that I was mourning the loss of a relationship and needed to grieve.

It was pitch-black when I got back to my condo. I cursed November’s early sunsets. The dark seemed to exacerbate depression and make bad moods worse. I briefly considered investing in some sort of bright light to shine on my face; my breakup had probably given me a case of seasonal affective disorder. I let myself in the back door and dropped my notepad on the coffee table. I hadn’t yet typed up today’s client notes and was hoping to have time to complete the task after the recipe-testing dinner party. In fact, because of client confidentiality, I was probably supposed to have left the notes in my office, but I’d wanted to get home as quickly as possible to get ready for Kyle, Adrianna, and Owen. Cooking would be fun and, especially after the day I’d had, my spirits needed lifting

Danny’s situation was still hanging over me. When I’d talked to my supervisor about him, she’d reminded me that change happens slowly. Even though it was obvious to me that Danny needed to stand up to his father and make decisions for himself, it would take time before he was ready. She reminded me that some cases were inevitably more gut-wrenching than others: for every eye-rolling Alison, there would be a Danny. I was impatient, though, and the urge to rescue him was powerful.

I fed Gato and Inga, and gave them some cuddles before reviewing the dishes we’d be making tonight. I had two of Digger’s recipes, the one for stromboli and another for pork tenderloin with cranberry glaze, smoked bacon mashed potatoes, and celery root slaw. I’d also chosen a few other recipes from Kyle’s research: a pan-seared swordfish with butternut squash risotto, a ragout of Brussels sprouts and wild mushrooms, and a dessert called aloha fruit salad. I’d chosen the salad because Owen, whose cooking skills were more than limited, could help to prepare it without having the opportunity to burn anything. Adrianna and I were solid cooks, and Kyle could presumably hold his own in the kitchen. The combination of dishes was strange, but they wouldn’t all be grouped together in the cookbook as a suggested menu, which we’d have to keep in mind when tasting them.

I started the stromboli dough, which had to rise for at least an hour. Kyle arrived just as I was setting it in a bowl. He waved at me though the glass window on the back door, and I yelled for him to let himself in. When I smiled and held up my dough-covered hands, he smiled back. Good. Maybe things between us wouldn’t be horribly awkward. For all I knew, he’d even appreciated my enthusiastic, if clumsy, attempt at romance. Tonight could be a romantic evening for all of us. Two couples in the kitchen, whipping up delicious food, maybe sipping some wine. . . .

Contemplating the possibilities, I struggled to push the Josh situation to the back of my mind. Amazingly, I hadn’t told Adrianna about seeing Josh. Since Ade and I always told each other everything, usually as soon as possible and at great length, it was very unlike me not to have immediately called her up after the emotional reunion. On this occasion, however, I just hadn’t wanted to deal with my feelings about Josh, and a big two-hour talk with Ade about my turbulent emotions and the implications of seeing him would only have made the mess more real. The new Chloe was forging ahead!

“What are you making, Chloe?” Kyle was dressed casually tonight in a pale blue fitted shirt and jeans. I realized that it was the first time that I’d seen him in anything other than a suit. I wasn’t complaining either.

“Stromboli dough,” I said. “I thought I’d get it going early since we’ve got so much to do.”

Kyle followed me into the kitchen, where I showed him the recipes we were going to make.

“These all look really good,” he said. “I’m glad you were able to get hold of your friend Digger’s recipes, too. We’ll do a nice section on him. I’m sorry again about how my father behaved the morning of the fire. He’s just very focused on getting this book done right, and he wasn’t thinking about anything else.”

“I’m happy about the food, too. This stromboli is Digger’s, so I’m sure it’ll be good.”

“So Adrianna is helping us out tonight, too?” Kyle sat down at my small kitchen table, but I immediately grabbed his hand and lifted him up.

“Yes, help will be here shortly,” I promised. “You’re in charge of washing vegetables, so roll up your sleeves.”

“Aw, really? That’s not exciting. I was hoping to be in charge of searing and roasting and sautéing!” He feigned a pout and then smiled. “If you insist.”

I opened the refrigerator and began covering the counter-top with produce. The ingredients for all of tonight’s dishes had come with such a hefty price tag that I hoped Kyle wouldn’t faint when he saw the receipt. Kyle began scrubbing celery root while I located an assortment of mixing bowls, sauté pans, knives, and cutting boards. I’d acquired a lot of decent cooking equipment over the past year, mostly because I’d been embarrassed to have Josh try to cook in my house with lousy stuff.

At least the good knives hadn’t followed him to Hawaii.

I
heard the back door open when Ade and Owen let themselves in.

“We’re here and ready to follow orders,” Ade called as her high heels clicked across the floor.

She came into the kitchen, carrying Patrick close to her body in a Snugli. No one but Adrianna could manage heels that high and a baby, too. Patrick must have been sleeping well, I thought, because she looked rested. Her thick blonde hair was flawlessly styled, and she’d made up her eyes in smoky gray eyeliner and heavy black mascara. I had a strong suspicion that I wouldn’t look nearly so glamorous if I had a three-month-old. But that was Adrianna for you: she could survive a tornado and emerge sultry and sexy. If Adrianna had flaunted her looks, I might have been filled with envy, but she remained so oblivious to how attractive she was that I couldn’t hold her spectacular beauty against her.