Cook the Books (2 page)

One job, however, leapt off the screen: assistant to a cookbook writer! The listing said the applicant would need solid writing skills in addition to an enthusiasm for food and recipes. The job was tailor-made for me! I immediately e-mailed my résumé and a quick letter of introduction that explained my unabashed love for everything that had anything to do with food. Then I crossed my fingers. This was the one and only job I’d applied for, mainly because it was the only one that interested me. Incidentally, it also happened to be the only job on Craigslist that I could possibly perform. Who knew what it would pay, though? Furthermore, if the job was so appealing to me, it might be equally so to others, meaning that I’d face serious competition.

I shut down the computer and headed down the short hall that led to my kitchen. As usual, the prospect of walking in felt like going into battle. The appliances, the food, and the utensils all seemed to be taunting me, reminding me of my chef. Truthfully, my whole condo reminded me of Josh, especially because we’d spent much more time at my place than at his. I loved my condo, and I wanted to feel the way I used to feel about it, but even my wall colors made me think of Josh. I’d gone through a serious phase of impulsively painting and repainting each room a different earthy color, and Josh had fueled my interest by giving me painting supplies as my Christmas gift last year. Maybe I’d have to repaint yet again. We’d spent hours snuggling on the couch in the tiny living room, and I’d watched him cook countless meals in my kitchen. And the bedroom? Well, there was the bedroom, too. One of my cats, Inga, brushed against my leg as I stood in the entryway to the kitchen. Josh had rescued Inga from a horrible owner who had threatened to toss her into the Charles River if no one took her. However unintentionally, Inga was a living reminder of my ex.

I was going to brave my fears and get over this! I was twenty-six, for God’s sake, and I was going to move on from this relationship with maturity. I sighed, stepped into the kitchen, and reached up to a high shelf to retrieve a few cookbooks. In case I got to interview for the job, I’d better be prepared. In the past, I’d leafed through cookbooks for recipes. Now, I looked at them as books. In particular, one thing that would be different about working on a cookbook from working on other written material would certainly be the formatting. Flipping through the pages of a Julia Child book, I saw that the number of servings was designated at the top and that the ingredients were listed in the order they were used. Abbreviations, I realized, all had to be consistent. I grabbed another book and then another and another. Some books had lovely forewords that informed the reader of the culinary delights that followed. Some books paired anecdotes with recipes, and some had glossy, mouthwatering photos. My stomach growled as I stared at a gorgeous crown roast of lamb, tied in a circle and filled with a creamy polenta and sausage stuffing. I slammed the book shut. I had nothing in my fridge except leftover pizza and flat seltzer water.

I took a shower, threw on a pair of sweatpants and an old T-shirt, and pulled my red hair into a ponytail. I understood all too well that my lack of a romantic life explained why I was putting no effort into doing my hair and makeup and picking out a cute outfit, but what did my appearance really matter today? It was Sunday, and I was just going to be lounging around my place doing homework. I dutifully gathered together my social work reading material and flopped down on the couch, determined to get through the seven dry chapters that lay ahead of me.

I read three chapters and then cringed at the title of the fourth: “Love and Attachment.” Great! Exactly what I did not feel like reading about. In fact, the bane of my studies this fall had been this damn Attachment class. I threw the book across the room, shut my eyes, and willed my pain to retreat for a few hours.

Minutes later, when the phone rang, I gleefully snatched it from its cradle. Maybe it was Adrianna calling, and I could blow off my homework and go snuggle with baby Patrick. I didn’t recognize the number on caller ID but picked up anyway. Even talking to the credit card company would be a welcome distraction.

“Hello?”

“Hi. I’m trying to reach Chloe Carter,” a friendly male voice said.

“Speaking,” I said with disappointment. A telemarketer? Those people were always so goddamn friendly when they asked for you.

“Ms. Carter, this is Kyle Boucher.” He pronounced his last name in the French manner: Boo-shay. “I put out the ad for a writing assistant.”

“Oh! Yes!” I couldn’t contain my excitement. “That was fast. I just sent my résumé a few hours ago. And please call me Chloe. Oh, have you already filled the position?” I knew I should have started job hunting sooner.

“Please call me Kyle. And, no, in fact, you’re the first person to respond. I guess the idea of being a cookbook assistant didn’t capture many people’s interest. I was thrilled to find your résumé in my inbox.”

“Really? That’s great. It sounds like a job that I’d love.”

“Excellent. Maybe we could set up an interview. In fact, why don’t we meet at a restaurant? Have you been to Oracle?” Kyle asked.

“No. That place opened about six months ago, right? I’ve heard good things about it.” I’d been dying to go there, actually. Josh and I had managed to get a reservation one night last summer, but he’d had to cancel at the last minute when his boss at his old restaurant, Simmer, had insisted that Josh needed to work.

“Any chance that you’re free to meet tomorrow night? Seven o’clock? I’m really behind on this project, and I’d love help as soon as possible.” The hint of desperation in Kyle’s voice raised my hopes for securing the job. “I’ve already made a reservation there for four, since I’d been hoping for a number of candidates to interview, but one enthusiastic response like yours is better than three wishy-washy ones.”

“Perfect. I’ll see you then. And thank you so much for calling.”

When I hung up, I realized that for the first time since Josh had left, I was feeling truly upbeat and optimistic. It felt good to have something to look forward to. The only thing nagging at me was the prospect of going out to dinner with a strange man. Not that Kyle had sounded particularly
strange
on the phone, but dining at a restaurant with a man brought up images of an actual date, something I was nowhere near ready for. Stupid of me, I thought. This was a job interview. I hadn’t met Kyle on a dating site, for Pete’s sake. Still, I was suddenly nervous. For all I knew, Kyle was a psycho ax murderer, and posting ads for cookbook writers was his way of finding victims. Unlikely, I admit, but I nonetheless did what any other sensible, modern woman would have done: I searched Google Images for Kyle Boucher. After skipping over photos of men who certainly weren’t my prospective employer—unless he was ninety-eight years old or a professional soccer player or a congressman—I located one shot of him. He looked normal enough, but in the picture he was in a group of people at a high school reunion, and I continued to feel wary. Sociopaths were always described as totally normal looking, and I wasn’t in a mood to take risks right now. I called Adrianna.

She picked up after a few rings. “Spit-up and poop central. How can I help you?”

“Stop answering the phone like that,” I complained. “It’s so gross. Patrick does more than spit up and poop.”

“True. He does occasionally sleep. Although not for more than four hours at a time. And he cries, too. It’s charming.”

Adrianna sounded beyond exhausted. Before Patrick’s birth, Ade’s knowledge of children in its entirety could have been handwritten in large print on a small index card. What’s more, she’d never been one of those women who spend their lives dreaming about becoming mothers. On the contrary, she’d always had a rather strong dislike of children. Consequently, she’d reacted to finding out that she was pregnant with horror followed by panic. Fortunately, by the time Patrick had entered the world, she’d mellowed out, and some sort of instinctual parenting impulse had kicked in. Ade was hardly the soft, soothing motherly type, but Patrick was bringing out the best in the previously underdeveloped side of her. Besides, Owen was a fabulous father, and his enthusiasm had been contagious.

“But you know,” she continued, “I wouldn’t trade this little guy for anything. He giggles a lot now, too. Have you seen that? I got the cutest picture of him smiling. I’ll send it to you later. So, what’s up, Chloe? Are you coming over later? We miss Auntie!”

“I’m totally bogged down with homework for the rest of the day, but I wanted to see if you could come out to dinner with me tomorrow. Will Owen be home to stay with Patrick?”

“Yeah, Owen will be here, but I
cannot
afford to go out, you know that. And neither can you!”

“Actually, it’s for a job interview.” I explained the ad and the call from Kyle. “I don’t think I should go alone.”

“Chloe, you can’t show up for a job interview with your best friend tagging along. It’s not quite as bad as bringing your mommy, but close.”

“Please! I’ll pay for you, and it’ll give you a good excuse to get out of the house for a few hours. We’ll come up with an explanation for why you’re there, and then I won’t worry about being kidnapped after dessert.”

Adrianna paused. The prospect of going out for a real meal had to be enticing. “Fine. But don’t blame me if you end up embarrassed that you brought me. Oooh, what am I going to wear? And I’ll get to do my hair and everything!”

“See? This’ll be fun. I’ll pick you up at six thirty tomorrow.”

I was starting a new chapter in my life: a Josh- free chapter. Good!

“
HURRY
up!” I pleaded with Adrianna. “You look as disgustingly gorgeous as you always do. I don’t want to be late.” Adrianna was in her bathroom touching up her eye makeup for the fiftieth time.

I stood in the doorway cradling Patrick in my arms. If I held this little bundle any longer, I might not want to leave. Ade had just nursed and burped him, changed his diaper, and dressed him in an adorable blue sleeper. I rubbed his peach fuzz with my finger and stared into his blue eyes. “Your mother is obsessing over perfection, isn’t she?”

“We’re not going to be late, Chloe. And this is practically the first time that I’ve gone out at night since I had the baby, and I want to look nice. There, this is as good as it’s going to get, I guess.” She spun around. As usual, I was taken aback by how beautiful my friend was. Her perfectly foiled blonde hair fell across her shoulders and down her back in soft curls, and even exhaustion couldn’t detract from her modelesque face. Her body was heavier than it had been prepregnancy, but the little bit of extra weight only made her more curvaceous and attractive than ever. Breastfeeding had kept her cleavage annoyingly full. God, sometimes I hated standing next to her.

“You look too nice. With you there, Kyle won’t be able to pay attention to any of my qualifications.”

“Shut up,” she said, waving her hand dismissively. “You look awesome.”

Oracle was a pretty high-end restaurant, so I’d put on a sleeveless black dress that fell just above the knee and paired it with simple black pumps. With hair as red as mine, there’s no need to add additional touches of color. I’d flat-ironed my curls until smoke had risen off my head, and then I’d slathered in defrizzing serum. It had taken me nearly thirty minutes to do my makeup because I’d been fussing over how much or how little made me look professional and competent.

“You ladies ready to go?” Owen called from the kitchen. “Or am I going to have to shove you out the door?”

We walked down the short hall, and I reluctantly passed Patrick over to his father. “Here you go. If this dinner wasn’t about securing a job, I’d hold this kid all night.”

“Go have fun. Although I still think it’s weird that you’re bringing a chaperone to an interview.” Owen lifted Patrick high in the air, eliciting a smile from the baby. He kissed Patrick’s belly and then continued nuzzling his face into the baby’s tummy. Patrick grabbed a fistful of Owen’s hair and pulled.

“Don’t let him do that,” Adrianna said. “He’ll lick his hands and get poisoning from your hair gel.”

Ade’s husband had taken to styling his black hair with gobs of gel. The result was alarming height and elaborate waves. Owen’s wild hair matched his outgoing and even eccentric personality. I thought that it suited him perfectly. He was just as gorgeous as his new bride. I found his dreamy Irish looks to be quite handsome.

“Get out of here, ladies. Go have fun. Patrick and I are going to grill burgers for dinner. It’s men’s night here.”

“Where are you going to grill?” I asked.

“Out on the fire escape.”

“You are not!” Adrianna shrieked. “That is an old wooden fire escape, and one little spark from your decrepit grill could ignite the entire building! That teeny little area out there is not a porch, Owen. It’s a safety feature. Or it was until you decided to make it hazardous.”

I crossed the room and looked through the window on the back door at Owen’s grilling area. There was barely room for two people to stand. “Yeah, I think it’s illegal to grill on a fire escape.”

“We’re on the top floor of this house, so we’re not blocking anyone’s path out,” Owen insisted. “Besides, it’s the back of the house, so no one driving by could see me out there. And I can’t imagine that our landlords downstairs would care. Anyhow, they’re away for two weeks.”

“Well, you better not grill after they get back,” Ade said sternly. “They’re looking for any excuse to kick us out, so please don’t hand deliver a reason for them to evict us.”

“Why would they kick you out?” I asked. “You guys just moved in here four months ago.”

Ade shrugged. “It seems that they just don’t want to rent the third floor anymore. They’ve been using the first two floors, and they’ve decided that they really want to convert the whole house back to its original design and use the entire building for themselves. It’s only the two of them, so I don’t see why they need all the space, but I guess they have the money to do it. Unfortunately for them, we signed a one-year lease, so they’re stuck with us until next July. Unless my husband gets us sent packing.”