Opposites Attack: A Novel with Recipes Provencal (21 page)

“Are you wearing sunscreen all the time, darling?” Glorianna asked as she perused the menu. “It’s so important to preserve your youth.”

“I thought a shot of Botox was all you needed these days.”

She leaned into Alyce. “Don’t ever go to one of those Botox parties. Only see a real doctor in a real office.”

Alyce stroked Nelson’s leg with her foot under the table. “I’d never put anything like that in my body, especially if I’m thinking about having children.”

Speaking to everyone at the table, Glorianna said, “Oh, fiddle. They tell you not to take an aspirin when you’re pregnant these days. When I was carrying Nelson, I’d get together with the other expectant mothers at the country club and we’d have a contest to see who could balance a martini on her stomach the longest.”

Luther lightened up after that anecdote. When he looked over the menu, though, his glowering returned. “How do they stay so thin here?”

Alyce contributed, “My theory is they walk or bike a lot, only eat quality food when they’re hungry, and consume just enough to fill themselves—which is about three bites.”

Even more cranky, he said, “Give me one of those yummy mushroom crêpes. And what’s taking so damn long for our mimosas?”

Despite the champagne in their drinks, breakfast was strained.

After their final
au revoirs
(and making sure Glorianna was out of sight), Nelson and Alyce ran to his convertible.

Revving the engine, he said, “Sweetie, let’s throw a few things in an overnight bag and drive to Paris this instant.”

She thrust her arms into the open air above her. “Wheeeee!”

“No,” he corrected her, “
Oui!
”

His cell rang. Carmelita caught Junior smoking cigarettes in his bedroom.

“What! Of course he’s acting out. He’s just going to have to accept the situation. Take him to a new therapist… I’m having a great time, finally. Mother just left… Yes… Yes, of course. Bye.”

He said to Alyce, “I didn’t expect this kind of trouble from him until his teens.”

Alyce was thinking the same thing. Junior was barely 10.

“Children have a hard time with change,” he said. “His mother isn’t taking it well, either. But I can’t stay in this holding pattern forever.”

Alyce had that hinky feeling again. Ah, screw it. They were heading to Paris. Nothing was going to bring her down.

21

Paris, Hypothetically

They hadn’t yet spied the
Tour Eiffel
and Alyce could already feel the energy and congestion of a major city mounting around them. Then there it was. Looming above the city as though it had been placed in the wrong diorama.

“Paris, Ally!” He clutched her hand.

“Paris with
you.
I’m in heaven!”

They checked into an ultra-fancy
chambre supérieur
at
Le Royal Monceau
and lustily attacked each other. As always since arriving in France, he insisted she speak French when they made love. It turned him on so much she didn’t mind, though she often recited grammar lessons.

Once they hit the streets, it was like the early days of their romance when they would stroll around Manhattan peering in shop windows; exploring new restaurants; seeing movies. All that mattered was passing the time together.

Her ability to understand a lot of what was being said to them, and even more of what was written, was a fantastic feeling.

When he suggested they visit the Eiffel Tower, she wondered what it would be like to see Paris with Jean-Luc. No doubt full of surprises in off-the-beaten-path places. If he owned a cell phone she would have called him for ideas. She wondered where he went. What was he doing? Who was he with, was more like it.

They walked by a large bookstore. Nelson said, “Let’s see if Jean-Luc’s books are here.” He wasn’t expecting to see an entire shelf devoted to him, nor was Alyce.

“See? He
is
a big name here.”

He was suddenly deep in thought. “You’re right.”

Nelson’s cell rang. Alyce braced herself for another Junior calamity. It was his dear mother. After a minute of him patiently listening to her, he interjected about Jean-Luc’s popularity, then handed the phone to Alyce.

They had a perfectly superficial conversation. “There’s a simply divine restaurant by the Louvre. Be sure to go to Hermès and buy a scarf. Don’t forget to take photos.
Au revoir!
”

They strolled on. A pretty summer dress in a window caught her eye. Nelson bought it for her on the spot, along with a beautiful black straw hat that sloped down just below her right eye.

“I’ll always cherish it, honey. It’s my Paris dress.”

He kissed her hand. “The first of many, my queen.”

After a lifetime of feeling inferior, she finally felt the opposite.

When he spied a store that sold luggage, he pulled her inside, quickly picked out a very expensive set to replace hers and had it sent to the hotel.

She could get used to this. Already was.

They checked out a store filled with fun gadgets. She thought it was sweet when Nelson tried out every electronic sound machine that helps you sleep. He wanted to see if one mimicked cooing doves—their new signal to each other when they wanted to make love. None did. He couldn’t find anything he wanted to buy. He already owned a personal groomer, portable pant press, automatic tie rack, electric shoe buffer, and turbo massage chair that cost over a grand.

She saw one like it and stretched out in the display model. When the hidden mechanical fists inside started rolling up and down her back, she said, “I bet Jean-Luc would love this. I mean, I think any writer would after sitting at a computer all day and night.”

“We should get him something for being our host,” he said. “What about this?”

Nelson brought over a shiatsu neck massager, about a foot wide. Two padded balls sprouted out of the middle and slowly gyrated. He turned off the chair Alyce was in and slid the massager behind her so the balls were on either side of her neck.

“Ohhh, that’s amazing. How much?”

“About a hundred bucks. I’ll get it.”

“That’s very generous, Nelson.”

“Generous is my middle name, baby.”

They walked out of the store holding hands. “Do you know how special you are?”

“No. But never stop telling me.” They easily fell into an embrace on the street. He said, “I feel
zo Franch.
Now tell me about Jean-Luc’s love life.”

“
Non!
Ze French wom
en
are nev-
eh
indiscreet.” She momentarily caught the last syllable of “indiscreet” on the roof of her mouth. It had taken a long time to get that nuance right.

He wasn’t so playful when he said, “I see how he looks at you. He’s in love with you, Al-
eeeees.
”

She pulled back. “With me? Hardly. A woman broke his heart and he never got over it. He’s in mourning.” She gave him a peck on the lips. “Besides, I love
you.
”

The moment they returned to their room she taught him the term
sieste crapuleuse
.

A few hours later, grumbling stomachs pulled them out of their lovemaking stupor. They went in search of a restaurant for dinner that the concierge assured them was elegant and romantic.

Their waiter was an older gentleman who didn’t speak English (or pretended he didn’t) and had made this his life’s calling. He had an air of effortless efficiency as he refilled a water glass or slipped in the proper knife without anyone realizing he had done it. He wouldn’t dare rush his patrons.

She caught a look on Nelson’s face that did not bode well. “What’s the matter, sweetie?”

“If I’m buying a place here, I better start learning French, too. I’ll check out the
Alliance Française
when I get back.”

“That’s a great idea.”

“Not to mention a tax write-off.”

“Let’s start now.” She picked up her fork. “
Fourchette.
”

He touched her hand. “How about we begin my first lesson in the
boudoir?
”

He returned to perusing the wine list that went on for pages. “Speaking of learning, did you know that restaurants typically jack up wine prices 300 to 500 percent? That’s where they make their money. Whatever you pay for a glass is probably what the entire bottle cost them. You know how you can tell if they’re gouging you? If the Beaujolais is more than 20 to 30 dollars.”

The waiter was placing fresh slices of bread on their bread plates. She gave him an apologetic glance just in case, behind his poker face, he understood what Nelson had said. She inwardly viewed it as shop talk.

Lightly putting her hand on his forearm, she said, “Jean-Luc once told me it’s best to try wines you’re not familiar with in a restaurant. They’re probably the best value and best tasting. Let’s order the Meursault. That’s one I don’t know.”

“An excellent choice, Madame,” piped in the waiter, in French. Either he picked up on the word Meursault or he knew exactly what she was saying. “It will stand up to the flavors of the escargot.”

She translated to Nelson. He snapped shut the wine list book and asked the waiter to bring them a Chablis.

“I’m sure it will be great,” Nelson said to her. “French Chablis is completely different from the American version. It’s considered to be the purest expression of the chardonnay grape with little or no oak used in the process.”

“I didn’t know that, honey. See how much you’re teaching me?”

When their server returned, Nelson tasted, gave his approval, and they went back to their goo-goo eyes state.

In a hushed voice, she said, “Wouldn’t it be romantic to cook together?”

He caressed her hand. “I’m terrible in the kitchen, but I’d love to watch. Especially if you’re wearing something sexy.”

They moaned over the garlicky escargot. She could have eaten fifty of those slimy slugs that would have disgusted her before this trip.

Next came her
Crêpes de Haricots Verts
(crêpes stuffed with a green bean purée and dusted with freshly grated nutmeg) while he savored
Potage aux cèpes
(creamy mushroom soup bolstered with a healthy shot of cognac).

Her entrée was bouillabaisse. She had ordered it to compare it to the one she and Jean-Luc had made. The velvety
Chambolle-Musigny
Burgundy took the experience to another level—though she liked Jean-Luc’s version of the stew with spinach better. It not only looked nicer with a little green floating in the bowl, it added a slight buffer to the pungent seafood. Nelson’s rack of lamb with a pignoli nut and sage crust was melt-in-your-mouth divine.

She had no idea what the meal was costing. Her menu was
sans
prices.

Silence followed as the wonderful tastes transported them. Then Nelson put on his earnest gaze she’d seen when he’d called on Bernadette to buy magazine ads from him.

She stopped eating.

“Ally, I’m tired of dating. It hit me hard the other day.” His department hired a guy seven years younger who was already married with a kid on the way. “I may have done it in reverse, kid first, but it doesn’t feel right anymore to not have a wife.”

Again she felt like the equivalent of a sofa being picked out to finish a living room.

Again she told herself to shut up.

He reached across the table for her hands. “Let’s talk hypothetically.”

She sat on the edge of her seat, spine straight as a broomstick, as he floated the idea that
if
they were to get married, how would she
really
feel about Carmelita and Junior? Was she pretending it didn’t bother her? Nothing was going to change. He would still see them regularly, he would still have to budget them into his expenses.

Junior was one thing. Surely he wouldn’t keep supporting
her
forever.

Think again.

He explained that, though his parents insisted early on that he put his financial obligations to Carmelita in writing, he didn’t.

“I was young, obstinate, idealistic. I didn’t want to be some rich asshole making it all about money. I thought if I treated her well, we’d be fine. I also thought she’d get a job.”

The only thing she knew how to do was tend bar, which kept her away from Junior at night and wasn’t the kind of thing he wanted the mother of his child doing. He sent her to cosmetology school. No salon that offered her a job was good enough for her and the good ones wouldn’t hire her. Now a precedent had been set. The line of scrimmage was clear. She could sue him if he cut back financially. He’d end up paying out as much as he was now, maybe more, plus a ton of money to lawyers.

Alyce was ill-prepared to respond to this news. Thankfully, the waiter asked them for dessert orders. Nelson ordered
Reine de Saba
, the Queen of Sheba cake—the French version of what Americans would call Death by Chocolate. He ordered the most expensive German ice wine as well.

He said to Alyce, “It’s made from grapes left on the vine to freeze. They not only have very little juice, they have to be handpicked in the freezing cold. Very small amounts are made and good
half
-bottles start at 50 bucks. I’m ordering the one that’s 300, figuring it’s really worth a hundred.”