Love in Bloom's (3 page)

Entering Bloom’s, she acknowledged that if she lived uptown, she’d stock her fridge with gourmet cheeses. Bloom’s was a study in indulgence run amok. Only the sort of people who
needed four different kinds of cheese slicers would demand seven different kinds of extra-sharp cheddar, imported from upstate New York, Vermont, Wisconsin, England, Ireland, Canada and Australia. Australian cheddar cheese, she thought with a faint shudder. A big hand-printed sign announced that the Australian cheddar cheese was priced at a special discount. Susie wasn’t surprised.

She wandered farther into the store. The Sunday-afternoon crowd included lots of tourists—people from the outer boroughs and New Jersey for whom Bloom’s was worth a special trip to Manhattan. They carried canvas totes with “Bloom’s” stenciled onto the cloth, the word angled just like on the sign outside. People actually bought these totes and used them whenever they made the pilgrimage to Bloom’s, as if the tote marked them as cognoscenti.

Real
cognoscenti lugged their Bloom’s purchases home in free plastic bags.

The store might have changed, but its aromas were the same as she remembered from her childhood. The cheese section smelled dense and earthy. The coffee section smelled dark and rousing. The bread section smelled the best—rich and crusty.

She was nearing the bakery department when she spotted Julia’s bright-red pashmina scarf. Julia had spent way too much money on that thing. Susie had told her she knew a guy on Houston Street who sold pashmina scarves for less than half of what Bloomingdale’s charged, but Julia preferred to be ripped off by fancy department stores. “Who is this man on Houston Street?” she’d asked indignantly. “How do you know he’s not selling stolen merchandise?”

“I take his word for it,” Susie had said.

“And how do you know it’s really pashmina? It could be just regular cashmere.”

“If a person can’t tell the difference, why pay more for it?”

Julia had shaken her head, as if gravely dismayed by her sister’s lack of class.

The scarf
was
pretty, a vivid clutch of color underlining Julia’s
pale face. She was always pale, so Susie didn’t take her chalky complexion as a sign of disaster. And her hands didn’t seem to have any blood on them, so Grandma Ida was probably still alive.

Susie worked her way around a trio of overweight women braying to one another about the nuances of virgin olive oil and extra-virgin olive oil in heavy Bronx accents. She almost paused to listen. She’d always wondered how a thing could be
extra
virgin. Either it was virgin or it wasn’t, it seemed to her. Being extra virgin was like being a little pregnant.

But she continued on to her sister, who looked, if not apoplectic, deeply concerned. She was studying a rack of small olive oil bottles as if searching for the meaning of extra virgin. Susie sidled up to her and tapped her shoulder. “Hi.”

Julia flinched, spun around and relaxed. “Look at this.” She pointed to a slender bottle featuring a painfully tasteful label. “Fifty-nine dollars for this.”

“Fifty-nine dollars?” Susie squinted at the bottle. Olive oil. Six ounces. Extra virgin. “Why would anyone pay fifty-nine dollars for that? One salad and it’s gone.”

“I think you use it a teaspoon at a time.”

“For that price, it ought to be in a crystal bottle with a stopper, so you can dab it behind your ears. Lucky I found you here. I thought we were supposed to meet by the olives, not the olive oil.”

“It was even more crowded by the olives. It’s too crowded here, too. Let’s go to the stairs.”

“If this disaster isn’t the sort of thing you can discuss in a crowded place, maybe we ought to leave. Everywhere is crowded at Bloom’s.”

“That’s because Bloom’s is such a successful store,” Julia said, then winced.

Susie scowled. The fact that Bloom’s was a successful store shouldn’t fill her sister with angst. The success of the store enabled their mother—and Grandma Ida and Uncle Jay—to enjoy a very affluent lifestyle. This was a good thing.

“Let’s just go to the stairs,” Julia said in answer to Susie’s unvoiced question.

Susie turned in the direction of the stairway—and felt her heart seize.
Godiva
. That man behind the bagel counter was definitely Godiva—dark chocolate, maybe spiked with hazelnuts—or no, filled with marzipan. Deserving a wrapper of pure gold.

“Who’s that?” she whispered.

Julia followed her gaze and shrugged. “How the hell should I know?”

“He’s gorgeous.”

“He’s a bagel guy,” Julia remarked, sounding not condescending but simply matter-of-fact.

“I’m in love.”

“You’re insane.”

Susie was
not
insane. The fellow counting bagels into a bag for a woman in a sari was gourmet chocolate. He was tall, and lanky, with dark-blond hair pulled back into a neat ponytail, a long face, a forceful nose and chin, and green eyes so round his lids didn’t seem able to open all the way. They drooped slightly, giving him a deliciously sleepy look. His smile was sleepy, too. Lazy. Dangerous.

She wanted to eat him up.

“Come on, we’ve got to talk.” Julia clamped her hand around Susie’s elbow and tried to steer her away from the bagel counter, toward the stairs. Susie tossed a look over her shoulder, but he didn’t notice. He was busy with his bagels.

It occurred to Susie that, much as she wanted to eat him up, she wanted even more just to eat. Julia had sounded panicked enough on the phone that Susie hadn’t stopped to grab a bite before leaving Eddie’s apartment. She hadn’t consumed anything since that latte at around three o’clock that morning. She was famished.

“I never had any breakfast today,” she said.

“It’s too late for breakfast.”

“I never had any lunch, either. I’ve got to get something to
eat, and then we’ll talk.” At Julia’s impatient frown, Susie added, “I bet you’ve eaten breakfast
and
lunch.”

Julia looked sheepish. “Brunch at Grandma Ida’s. Lyndon made lox and eggs.”

Susie felt a stab of jealousy. Lyndon’s lox and eggs qualified as five-star cuisine. “You ate that, and you’re going to make me starve to death, and I’m supposed to help you with your disaster?”

Julia conceded with a sigh. “Fine. Go get something to eat, and then meet me at the stairs.”

Susie hurried over to the bagel counter. Godiva was busy wrapping a wire tie around a plastic bag filled with bagels and grinning at the lady in the sari.

Susie sidled up behind the woman. Another, older, clerk working the bagel counter was available to help her, but Susie could survive another few minutes without food for the opportunity to talk to Godiva. When the older one tried to catch her eye and beckon her over, she pretended to be fascinated with the marble ryes stacked on a shelf beside the bagel bins.

At last the sari-wrapped woman departed. Susie leaped forward and planted herself in front of the man. “Hi,” she said.

His smile was slow and effortless. “Hi.”

No “Can I help you?” No “What do you want?” Just a husky-voiced “Hi.”

Her stomach rumbled hollowly. “I’d like a bagel,” she said.

His smile didn’t change. His eyes were as much gray as green, she realized now that she was close to him. “Okay,” he drawled.

“What flavor do you recommend?” she asked, gesturing at the variety of bagels. Raisin. Whole wheat. Cranberry. Pumpernickel. Pesto? Who in their right mind would want to eat a pesto-flavored bagel?

Godiva gave her a thorough perusal, his gaze lingering at her mouth, at her unspectacular chest and lower, in the vicinity of her navel. “Egg.”

“Egg sounds great.” She watched as he plucked a square of wax paper from a box and used it to lift an egg bagel from the
bin. His fingers were long and thin, surprisingly graceful. As he handed it to her, his smile grew warmer. “Why did you pick egg?” she asked.

“Because you’ve got a nubile look about you.”

Nubile. What kind of bagel counter-man knew the word
nubile?

Definitely, she was in love. “I can’t remember the last time I ate a Bloom’s bagel,” she told him. “Are they any good?”

“They’re awful,” he whispered, his eyes glinting with the kind of mischief that made Susie giddy with lust. “People just pretend to like them. It’s the biggest scam in town. You want some cream cheese to go with that?”

“No, I’ll take it straight up.”

“Pay for it before you eat it,” he warned, as she lifted it to her mouth. He gestured toward the cashiers at their posts along the front window.

She sighed at his dismissal of her. He’d made his sale; he didn’t need to flirt anymore.

Okay. She’d go pay for her bagel and eat it and get some nourishment out of this encounter. Obviously, her nubility failed to leave him in a state of abject passion. Several customers had formed a line behind her—and he probably found one or two of them even more nubile.

“Thanks,” she mumbled, then spun away and stalked to the cashier.

She could have told the woman there that she was Susie Bloom, of
the
Blooms, and then she wouldn’t have to pay for the bagel. Assuming the cashier believed her. She’d probably ask for two forms of identification, and then she’d fuss and shout across the line of cashiers, “Look who’s here! It’s one of
the
Blooms!” And then Susie would have to smile and be charming, and she wasn’t in the mood to smile and be charming after Godiva had sent her packing.

And it wasn’t as if she couldn’t afford the eighty-five cents.

She paid, took a bite of her bagel and shook herself out of her Godiva fantasy. Christ, what was wrong with her? Not
much more than an hour ago, she’d been in Eddie’s bed. She must be some kind of slut, yearning for a total stranger with droopy eyelids.

No, she wasn’t really a slut. Just a chocoholic.

She found Julia waiting halfway up the stairs on the landing, perhaps the only place in the store that wasn’t full of chattering, browsing customers. Susie took another bite of her bagel and glanced around. They were surrounded by wall clocks in a variety of colors, offered at a variety of prices. To have so many clocks staring at her was like being trapped in a Salvador Dali painting.

“So, what’s this disaster?” she asked, feeling a little better now that she had some food inside her.

“Grandma Ida wants to name me president of Bloom’s.”

“She wants to name Mom president? That sounds about right to me.”

“Not Mom.
Me.”

“You?” Susie guffawed. Her sister could no more run Bloom’s than Bart Simpson could run the Vatican. And her sister wouldn’t
want
to run Bloom’s. She was a lawyer. Lawyers didn’t sell lox. Fifty-nine-dollar bottles of olive oil, maybe, but not lox and latkes and round slabs of stuffed derma. “Why the hell would Grandma Ida do something like that?”

“Because she’s Grandma Ida,” Julia explained, twirling a finger nervously through the fringe of her scarf. “Because she’s crazy. Because she’s pissed at Uncle Jay and she can’t bring herself to turn the place over to someone who isn’t a blood relation.”

“Why is she pissed at Uncle Jay?”

“Because he married The Bimbette and he spends too much time doing Internet stuff.”

“The Web site is pretty cool. It’s got all these great pictures of gift baskets overflowing with bread and phallic-looking salami and big green apples.” Every now and then, when she was Web surfing, she liked to visit the Bloom’s site, just to get in touch with her roots.

“Grandma Ida doesn’t understand the Internet, so as far as she’s concerned it’s useless.”

“And this president thing can only go to a blood relative?”

“That’s why she won’t give it to Mom.”

“That’s ridiculous.” Susie tore off a small chunk of bagel and popped it in her mouth. “Why you? How come she didn’t name
me
the president?”

“You’ve got a tattoo,” Julia told her.

Grandma Ida was clearly exercising great wisdom. Uncle Jay had married The Bimbette, so he was out. Susie had a little butterfly inked into her skin above her left anklebone, so she was out. Mom had spent thirty years married to Dad, but she carried no Bloom blood in her veins, so she was out. “It should have gone to Mom,” Susie said.

“I know. I feel sick about this. I don’t want it. Mom does want it. Grandma Ida has managed to screw us both.”

“So why don’t you kill her? I’ll be your character witness during the trial. I’ll testify you were driven to it. I’ll say you acted in self-defense.”

“Thanks,” Julia grumbled. “I knew I could count on you.”

“What does Mom have to say about all this?”

“She doesn’t know yet. Grandma Ida asked me to come for brunch, and then she laid this on me.”

“Yeah, but she laid lox and eggs on you, too,” Susie reminded her. There was a limit to how sorry she could feel for Julia, given the quality of Lyndon’s cooking.

“She said she’s going to talk to her lawyers next week. We’ve got to do something.”

“What can we do? She owns the damn company.”

“And if she wants it to stay solvent,” Julia said, “she’ll name Mom the president, because Mom ran the damn company with Dad for years, and she’s been practically running it all by herself since he died.”

“Well, you’d better tell Mom. She’s going to shit a brick.”

“What do you mean,
I’d
better tell Mom? We’re going to tell her together.”

“Why do I have to be there? You’re the president.”

“I can’t tell her alone. You see what I mean? I can’t become president of Bloom’s. A president would have to have the guts to give people bad news. I don’t.”

“You’re a lawyer. You give people bad news all the time, and charge them hundreds of dollars an hour for it.”

Julia ignored her remark. “What I thought was, if Mom is home now, we can go upstairs and tell her. The three of us can come up with a plan.”

“What if she’s not home?” Susie asked hopefully. She really didn’t want to have to go upstairs and deliver such lousy news to her mother. There would likely be a scene, and Susie hated scenes—at least, she hated scenes involving her family. Scenes involving strangers she found kind of fascinating.