Julia's Child (9781101559741) (13 page)

I smiled. “The phone might be ringing off the hook! Orders rushing in.”

“You never know,
chica
. Besides, we have a website to figure out.”

Didn't I know it! Good thing I was married to a computer genius. “Pssst,” I said to my husband. “I need a website.”

He nodded. “Makes sense.”

“I mean, I need one by tomorrow. It's a long story, but I announced on live television that I would publish my recipes on the Web.”

“Tomorrow? I don't know many Web developers.”

Luke didn't seem to understand what I was asking of him. “Sweetie, I know you're not really a Web developer, but . . .”

Luke stared. “You don't mean
me
?” he hissed. “I'd be . . .” He trailed off. “Inappropriate for that position.”

“Are you saying it's like Mrs. Picasso asking her husband to paint a signpost?”

Luke chose his words carefully while allowing Wylie to yank on his necktie. “You had a big day, so you should think big. If you hire a proper Web developer, you'll get professional results.”

“Are you saying you won't do it? It would take you, like, fifteen minutes!”

“If that were true, I'd be happy to help. But you need someone who is familiar with all the latest fashions. My field is systems architecture, not page design. You'd be asking me to choose things like . . .” A look of distaste crept onto his face. “Typestyles,” he finished, as if I'd asked him to select a nail polish color.

Marta nudged me. “
Chica
, don't worry about it. We'll get Derrick's team.”

I wasn't quite ready to let Luke off the hook, but Marta's idea had merit. Our little Manhattan office at the Chelsea Sunshine Suites was part of a small-business ghetto. Most of its other, younger denizens worked for Internet start-ups. Derrick, a hip-looking dude with a pierced lip, sat out in the bull-pen area. Even if I'd never exchanged more than polite greetings with him, it was somewhere to start. “Great idea,” I agreed. “As long as he has time. They always look busy.”

“We'll offer him extra,” Marta said. “And if he still says no, I'll sleep with him.”

I feigned surprise, mindful of Wylie. This is the kind of situation where our
español
habit comes in handy. “¡Puta sucia!” I threw one of Marta's colorful phrases at her, one I heard whenever her computer acted up. The translation was “dirty whore.”

“Ladies,” Ricky warned over his shoulder, “even though the baby doesn't speak Spanish, everyone else in the courtroom can. Including the judge.”

“Me not a baby,” Wylie pouted.

“Docket 7-4-2-7, case 1-7-Z-43!” a court officer called out.

“Here we go,” said Ricky, standing. In four great strides he moved to the front of the room. A metal door on the left clanged open, and a young woman was led, head down, into the courtroom by two muscled bailiffs. I stared, unsure if it was really Bonnie up there. With her back to the room, and her sleep-flattened hair, the poor girl could have been any sad waif. The Bonnie I knew always held herself with a queen's bearing.

When her bailiff escorts stopped in front of the judge, she shrugged off their touch. She took a deep breath and improved her posture. That was the Bonnie I knew.

I wasn't the only one who saw her. “Bonnie!” Wylie shrieked from Luke's lap. As quick as a flash, he slipped off Luke's knees to duck under the railing. He slid in front of Marta and me, gunning for the center aisle. He clearly meant to rush the stage.

We dove at the same time, thrusting one arm each through the railing. I caught an arm, and Marta grasped his pants. Together we pulled him back toward our side of the courtroom.

“No take Bonnie!” He struggled.

Startled, the two bailiffs actually stood back, as if God himself had ordered them away.

I scooped Wylie back over the railing and held him up. “Shh,” I told him. “Bonnie will come out in a minute, okay? Shh.”

He stopped yelling, thankfully. But then he began to sob. “Want it Bonnie. Where Bonnie go?” I held him tight and whispered in his ear.

Bonnie turned around then, a look of terrible remorse on her face. The defiant posture disappeared again. She met my eyes only for a second and then turned back to face the judge, her chin drooping toward the floor.

Ricky craned his neck around toward us with a grin and a wink. Wylie's outburst pleased him. He put his arm around Bonnie, patting her back, although they hadn't even met properly. But it made for a nice tableau.

Meanwhile, an officer of the court read off the charges. “Disorderly conduct and resisting arrest,” he droned.

“Your Honor, may we approach the bench?” Ricky dropped his arm from Bonnie's shoulders and took a step forward.

The ruddy DA met him in front of the bench, and they held a whispered conference.

“I hope the bail isn't thousands of dollars,” Marta said under her breath.

Good Lord! I hadn't thought about bail. And I was about to spend probably several thousand dollars on a website.

The sounds of the conference drifted toward us. “With all due respect,” Ricky said, “the charges amount to a verbal argument between a sleepy au pair and a police officer on a subway train. We ask that the suspect be released to her host family. The Baileys, standing right behind us, are eager to have Bonnie back at home. She has no prior record and a good job with people who love her.”

The judge, the DA, Ricky, the court reporter, and the handful of other bystanders all turned to look at us. I had a moment of absolute self-consciousness, far worse than I'd experienced that morning on live TV. I smiled in what I hoped was a warm, friendly way, and Luke quickly put one arm around me and the other around Wylie.

The judge gave a slight cough and looked down at the DA.

The DA rolled his eyes for just a fraction of a second and then said, “The people are willing to consider adjournment in consideration of dismissal in this case.”

Quickly, before the DA could change his mind, Ricky said, “Your Honor, we've reached an agreement of ACD.”

“Granted,” the judge said, giving the gavel a quick tap on the bench. He handed paperwork down to the DA. “ACD. The defendant is ROR.”

“What?” I asked.

“Released on her own recognizance,” Marta said. “Don't you
watch
TV?”

It was over that quickly. Ricky led Bonnie toward another door, on the opposite side of the room, which a bailiff opened for them.

“Where Bonnie go?” Wylie sniffed.

“Outside, honey. We'll go get her,” I explained.

Marta bid us good-bye at the courtroom door. “I'm sure you're heading home with Bonnie. That girl needs a bath. I'm off to work.”

Marta was right. Even though I was anxious to figure out how to capitalize on my big appearance, I couldn't chuck Wylie into a cab with a shaken Bonnie and bid them adieu for the rest of the day.

“Of course,” I said. “I'll join you as soon as I can. The website . . .”

“I'll find Derrick. If he's on board, you can start talking about it from home.” With that, Marta turned on her heel and departed.

I carried Wylie toward the exit, wondering what the fallout from Bonnie's embarrassing escapade would be. This was going to be far worse than grapes in the community room.

Luke read my mind. He put an arm on my shoulder as we headed toward the sunlight. “Let's go with, ‘it could happen to anyone. Don't let it happen again.' ”

I laughed. “Okay. I'll staple my lips together on the way home.”

He kissed me on the cheek. “Good luck with that.”

Chapter 11

T
he day after my TV appearance, I sat at my desk, trying to choose the imagery for my new website. There were several distractions, including a very hyper Marta. She migrated repeatedly between the outer office, where Derrick, the pierced twenty-something Web developer, was attempting to bring our site to life, and our tiny cell. She would dash in, bump into my desk, and ask, “Did anyone call?” Marta was sure that our phone would be ringing off the hook with new orders for muffets.

“No, not since you asked me two minutes ago. Would you look at these?” There were pictures spread around my desk. I didn't have any idea which of them best conveyed the new face of organic baby food. “When the customer first lands on the site, what should they see?”

Marta shrugged. “A picture of our packaging and logo?”

“Of course they'll see that. But what else? A child? A vegetable? Perhaps a child
hugging
a vegetable?”

“That sounds good.” Marta turned on her heel and again headed out the door toward Derrick's desk.

“Maybe,” I said to the empty room. “I'm just afraid the cliché police might come and arrest me for that one.”

Marketing children's foods was, relatively speaking, a new problem. In 1927 a young mother grew tired of standing in the kitchen and straining peas for her infant. She implored her husband, who ran a food company, to make special food just for babies. The woman's name was Dorothy Gerber, and the rest—as they say—is history. The iconic Gerber baby face, with its tousled hair and apple cheeks, is one of the most recognized logos in the world. One woman's quiet request became a marketing department's dream.

Pandora's box was opened, and a new little consumer tumbled out. Babies became special customers—special enough to require their own brands of food and drink, in enough variety to fill their own aisle in the supermarket.

And the newest trend was food for toddlers, with their own distinct consumer tastes and whims. They required their crackers to be shaped like fish or bunnies and their ravioli to be no larger than a half-inch square.

And thank God. Because without consumers' willingness to go deep into their wallets for toddler-friendly food, Julia's Child would not exist. I was not completely comfortable with that. I was throwing fuel onto the fire of the very same kind of overmarketing that I hated.

Marta trotted back into the room.

“I am a parasite,” I said. I pushed my chair away from the desk with disgust. It promptly smacked into the brick wall immediately behind me. “Maybe I should put an amoeba on the home page.”

Marta rolled her eyes at me. “Will you just choose some pictures already? It's just like you to get all tangled up with the meaning of the universe. How hard can this be?” Then the phone rang, and Marta had to quit scolding me and dive for it.

I sifted again through the stack of shiny, glowing children's photos we'd pulled off of a stock photography website.

Marta plunked the telephone receiver back into the cradle with a little shriek, her hand resting triumphantly upon it. “An order! A big one!”

“Terrific!” I said, happy to be distracted with good news. “From whom?”

“From Entrefina, the big gourmet shop in Brooklyn Heights. You know it?”

I laughed. “That's so funny! I was
just
telling Mr. Pastucci that I hoped to get in there. They must watch
The Scene
! Terrific news, Marta.”

Marta gave a curious frown. “Actually, they didn't mention the show. But I assumed that's why they called.” The phone began to ring again. Marta shrugged and answered it. “Julia's Child.” Her dark eyebrows rose to form two peaks. “Julia is . . . taking an order at the moment, but she would love to speak to you. Just a minute, please.
Gracias
.” She placed the call on hold.