Month of Sundays (11 page)

Rachel came clean. “Griffin Sutton.”

Just saying Griffin’s name made her heart flutter. She pushed the pie away. She had eaten only two spoonfuls and she felt like she was about to explode. Her mother pulled the leftovers toward her.

“Is she anything like Isabel?” her father asked, his voice a protective growl.

“No. She’s unlike anyone I’ve ever met.”

But how much did she really know about her? Griffin had admitted to being a player. Did that admission brand her as a cheater as well?

“Griffin Sutton,” her mother said to herself as she finished the rest of the second slice of apple pie. “Why does that name sound so familiar?” She dropped her spoon on her saucer with a clatter. “Is she the one I see on the
Today
show from time to time? She is, isn’t she? You remember her, Gene. She’s the cute chef Aggie Anderson was drooling over the last time she dropped by. She was trying to make a spinach salad and Aggie couldn’t keep her hands off of her.”

“I must have missed that episode,” her father deadpanned. “Good catch, Rachel.”

“There’s no need to congratulate me. We’re just friends.”

“Tell me about her anyway.” Her mother propped her chin on her hand as if she were about to hear some juicy gossip.

Rachel told her parents about her first meeting with Griffin, their night at B&B, and Griffin’s plans to take her on a culinary trip around the world. She told them about Jane and Colleen’s party and the mind-blowing gift Colleen had given Jane.

Reliving the past few weeks put a smile on her face. A smile that matched the one forming in her heart. When she finished her tale, her parents shared a look. A familiar sight. Not for the first time, she wished she could decode their silent communication.

“Granted, I haven’t met her yet,” her mother said, “but Griffin sounds like a good egg.”

“No pun intended, right?”

“What?”

“She’s a chef and you called her a—never mind.” Rachel grinned. Her mother could be delightfully clueless sometimes.

Her father took a sip of his coffee and set the mug on the table with a thud, his usual indicator he had come to a decision about something.

“I want to meet her.”

“Wait a second.” Rachel nearly choked on her coffee. “You want to what?”

“Ooh, that’s a good idea, Gene,” her mother said. “I can make the tuna casserole you love so much. I may even have one in the freezer.”

Rachel felt the evening begin to spiral out of control. In the past, her parents hadn’t expressed an interest in someone she was seeing until after the third date. She and Griffin had been out a couple of times, but their trips to B&B and Avenue C had been spontaneous, not premeditated. They hadn’t been on an official date yet, and her father already wanted to meet her?

If having her father play Twenty Questions didn’t scare Griffin off, the menu certainly might. Her mother’s tuna casserole was the kind of dish professional chefs looked upon with disdain. What would Griffin do when she was presented with a plate piled high with tuna, mayonnaise, and egg noodles topped with crumbled potato chips? Would she force it down or push it around her plate until someone mercifully took it away?

Rachel held her head in her hands. “This can’t be good.”

“If I promise to save the baby pictures until after dessert, would that help?” her mother asked.

“And it gets worse. Mom, why do you insist on showing everyone who walks through the door pictures of me as an infant naked and grinning toothlessly on a bear skin rug?”

“Because they’re such cute pictures, dear. You look adorable in them.”

Rachel made a mental note to burn the embarrassing photo the first chance she got. Her mother could make all the promises she wanted, but Rachel knew she’d probably have the photo albums ready and waiting before the main course hit the table—if she didn’t convert the prints to digital files and create a multimedia presentation that played in the background during the course of the evening. Rachel cringed at the thought of images of her during her awkward adolescent years flashing across the TV screen while she, Griffin, and her parents broke bread.

“So it’s a date?” her mother asked hopefully.

“I’ll ask her and see what she says. If she says yes, we’ll have to do it on a Sunday. That’s her only day off.”

“Perfect. I’ll put you down for next week. That will give me a chance to get my hair done.” Her mother patted her graying roots.

Her father stared at his hands. “And I really need to do something about my nails.”

Rachel rolled her eyes. “I think I’m in the wrong house.”

*

Griffin placed a slice of roasted turkey and a scoop of apple walnut stuffing onto the thick paper plate held by the last diner in what had been a seemingly endless line.

“Merry Christmas,” she said to the bedraggled man wearing three layers of soiled clothes and a pair of mismatched shoes.

“God bless you.” He tipped his battered fedora before shuffling off to the nearest table, a small dog at his side.

Griffin had lost track of how many meals she had served. The only thing she could be sure of was she had never felt so tired yet so fulfilled. Or so homesick. When the man began to share part of his meal with his canine companion, she began to cry. She was embarrassed by the display. This wasn’t like her. She didn’t cry. She didn’t show weakness. Of all her siblings, she was the one with the hardest shell. The one least likely to puddle up over a sappy movie or get all googly-eyed over pictures of someone’s new pet. Showing her emotions was such a rarity, her brothers teased her about being the alpha male in the family.

She knuckled away her tears, but more began to fall.

Rachel put down the pan she was holding and rushed to her side. “What’s wrong?”

“Seeing all these families makes me miss mine even more. My parents, my brothers, my nieces. I can’t stop wondering what they’re doing right now. Are they opening their gifts? Are they gathered around the table? Are they missing me as much as I miss them?” She didn’t realize how badly she needed a hug until Rachel drew her into her arms, her full breasts pressing against her chest.

“Have dinner with me and my parents tonight,” Rachel said when she let go.

Griffin dried her eyes with the hem of her apron. “I wouldn’t want to impose.”

“You wouldn’t be imposing. You’d be doing us a favor. My mom always makes way too much food, and the three of us can’t possibly eat it all. Besides, my parents would love to meet you. They practically twisted my arm until I promised I’d ask you to come over for dinner sometime. I can already picture you turning my dad into a blushing schoolboy and my mom into a gushing fan. What do you say?”

“When do we eat?” She drew a deep, shaky breath as she tried to regain her composure. “Sorry for the meltdown.”

“What did you tell me a couple of days ago? Don’t apologize for being human. I’m not one of your critics. You don’t have to be perfect to impress me. In fact, I think I prefer you the way you are right now. With gravy on your sleeve, flour on your forehead, and tearstains on your cheeks. You’re not just beautiful on the outside, Griffin. You’re beautiful inside, too. Today has been magical in so many ways. Thank you for sharing it with me. I’ll never forget it. But I do have one question.”

“What?”

Rachel bit her lip. “What are your feelings about tuna casserole?”

Griffin laughed. “I think it’s the unsung hero of the food world.”

Rachel’s shoulders sagged in apparent relief. “In that case, my mother’s going to love you.”

Rachel squeezed her arm to make sure she was okay, then returned to her station. As they worked throughout the afternoon, Griffin felt their developing bond grow stronger. When she began filming
Cream of the Crop
, she would be contractually obligated not to tell anyone what she was up to during the three weeks she was away. Keeping the secret might earn her a chance to compete for the respect she craved, but it would put her connection with Rachel to the test. She hoped their bond would hold up under the strain.

Rachel felt like she was about to throw up. Dinner with her parents had gone better than she had hoped, despite the nosy neighbors who caught wind of Griffin’s presence and kept dropping by to gawk at the celebrity in their midst. Taking the extra attention in stride, Griffin had regaled the hordes with stories of her adventures both in and out of the kitchen. By the end of the night, Rachel’s parents were the most popular couple on the block and they had given Griffin two enthusiastic thumbs up.

Now it was Rachel’s turn to run the gauntlet. Would Griffin’s friends welcome her with open arms or give her the cold shoulder?

She wasn’t sure what time to make her appearance. The invitation said the party would start at ten, but the real festivities wouldn’t begin until midnight. She decided on eleven. Plenty of time to get her bearings and get comfortable before the countdown began.

She loved New Year’s Eve. Any holiday that came with the promise of a fresh start was all right by her. She and Isabel used to make an annual pilgrimage to Times Square on December 31, showing up early no matter what the weather to stake out a good spot to set up camp and watch the ball drop. But those days were over. Now it was time to establish a new tradition.

Griffin had said the party would be low-key, but Rachel didn’t want to show up looking too casual. She had dressed up her jeans and white Oxford shirt with a velvet blazer. The jacket looked black, but its official color was midnight blue, which, considering the occasion, seemed fitting. She had owned the jacket for years but had worn it only a handful of times. She usually felt like a bit of a dandy when she put it on, but tonight it felt right. Tonight, for the first time in a long time, she felt comfortable in her own skin.

She hadn’t checked the scales to see how much weight she had lost because the number didn’t matter. Her clothes fit better and she had more energy. When she looked in the mirror, she liked the person she saw staring back at her. That was what mattered.

Everyone at work had commented on the change in her demeanor. She had a bounce in her step. Her swagger was back. She would need it. Jane and Colleen had other plans for New Year’s Eve. Griffin would most likely be the only person with whom she was personally acquainted and they’d known each other for a grand total of sixteen days. The prospect made her understandably anxious but also, in a perverse way, excited. How long had it been since she had stood on her own? Since she had been judged on her own merits, not those of the woman at her side.

She climbed the stairs leading from the subway to the street and walked toward Griffin’s building. She headed to the elevator after the doorman let her inside. Then she punched the button for the penthouse level and took a deep breath as the doors closed.

It was considered bad form to arrive at a dinner party empty-handed so she had picked up some Bollinger Blanc de Noir on the way. Looking at the bottle in her hands, she began to second-guess her decision. The party wasn’t BYOB, so there should be more than enough alcohol. And buying such an expensive vintage could be seen as presumptuous. Or arrogant. She decided to go with presumptuous.

The elevator doors slid open.
I’ve come too far to back out now.
She stepped out of the elevator and located Griffin’s apartment. Channeling Stuart Smalley, the character Al Franken played so memorably on
Saturday Night Live
, she silently ran through a daily affirmation.
I’m good enough. I’m smart enough. And, doggone it, people like me.

“Here goes nothing.”

She rang the bell. A man she didn’t recognize opened the door. He had a closely trimmed beard, carefully styled hair, and a wardrobe inspired by
The Great Gatsby
(linen pants, a light blue poplin shirt, and spectator loafers). With a courtly bow, he ushered her inside. “Join the party. The more, the merrier.” She stepped across the threshold and he closed the door behind her. “I’m Tucker, Griffin’s personal assistant. And you are?”

“Rachel Bauer.”

Tucker added her name and e-mail address to the growing list on the tablet computer in his hands.

“Will I get a bill for this in a few days?” she asked only half-seriously.

“No,” he said with a charming smile as he tucked the computer’s stylus behind his ear. “An electronic thank-you card. Griffin sends one to each attendee each time she has an event.”

“And how often is that?”

“Two or three times a year. There’s always one on the Fourth of July—hamburgers, hot dogs, and the occasional block of tofu. The other events move around according to Griffin’s schedule and the availability of quality products.” He indicated the bottle of Bollinger. “Shall I take that for you?”

“I’d like to hang on to it, if you don’t mind.” She wanted to present it to Griffin herself. She didn’t want the credit. Well, maybe she did, but what she really wanted was to see the look on Griffin’s face when she read the label. And to be there when she poured the first glass.

Tucker flashed a knowing smirk. “She’s around here somewhere. When you see her, do me a favor and shove something in her mouth. She usually forgets to eat when she’s running around like a crazy person.”