Opposites Attack: A Novel with Recipes Provencal (22 page)

“How about next time, honey? I’ve already had way more to drink than I should.”

“Tonight is special, baby.”

A familiar queasiness started to burble inside her.

The waiter approved of his choice of wine, but suggested a different dessert, something moderately sweet like
crème brûlée
, or non-sweet such as cheese and fruit.

Nelson ran his hand through his hair, something he did when he was ticked off or needed to prop up his confidence. “No, I still want what I ordered. Ally?”

She went with the
crème brûlée
and excused herself to go to the ladies’ room. She imagined Carmelita sitting on her fat ass watching bad TV all day while Nelson footed the bill.

She made it there just in time to throw herself over the toilet. That expensive meal! This was turning into a replay of her birthday. How was she going to make it in the wine business if she couldn’t hold her liquor?

She rinsed her mouth and saw a bowl filled with wrapped peppermints on a table with other toilette accessories. It offered everything but what she really needed: an antacid. She could still feel rumblings deep within.

She returned to their table and cautiously tried the
Eiswein.
It was too sweet but at what it cost, she acted like it was the best thing she’d ever sipped. He couldn’t eat his chocolate cake fast enough. She slowly ate her dessert.

“Everything okay, Ally?”

“
Hypothetically?
” She tried to bring a playful spark back. “What more could I ask for?”

He wiped his mouth with a soft white linen napkin. “That’s what I love about you. You’re a team player. Most women only think of themselves. As for what more could you ask for? How about this.”

He reached inside his blue blazer and took out a small red velvet jewelry box. When he flipped it open, she practically fell into the table to get a closer look.

“It’s
huge.
”

Very pleased, he responded, “Tiffany D flawless, set in platinum, five carats.”

“H-how many?” It was such an upscale restaurant she had to control herself—and the unpleasant feeling swirling in her gut.

“Only the best for my wife. C’mon, try it on.” She sat back. “You do accept, don’t you?”

She said nothing. She couldn’t. She was praying to God not to throw up. She nodded yes.

He slid it on her left ring finger. It felt lighter than she expected and was too loose.

“Did you lose weight? Don’t worry. That can easily be fixed.”

“Nelson, I’m afraid to wear it. Someone might kill me for it.”

“Honey, it’s a copy. Mother’s is, too. The real one’s in a safe deposit box.”

She blinked a few times. Huh?

“I wasn’t going to travel with a $50,000 ring!”

Fifty-thousand dollars?
That was more than she made in a year. Was she supposed to tell a mugger it wasn’t real and expect him to believe her? She’d rather wear a smaller real diamond than a monstrous fake one. To say that would spoil the moment she’d been waiting for all these years.

Instead, she spoiled it by tossing her dessert into her half empty water glass.

“Too much alcohol and rich food, darling.”

Nelson quickly took care of the tab.

They walked back to the hotel, not touching. She said meekly, while trying not to cry, “Please don’t take it personally. I just drank too much! And this is quite an emotional moment. Nelson, I’ve loved you since the moment we met.”

He stared ahead.

Alyce was certain he was going to ask for the ring back. Since it was too big she had put it on the silver necklace she was wearing. She touched it one last time.

He looked at her and broke into a wide grin. “I can’t keep a straight face any longer. What a proposal! Better stay away from the champagne at the wedding.”

She ran into his waiting arms. “That’s another thing I love about you, Nelson. Nothing bothers you for long.”

“Don’t worry, baby. We’re a team. Right?”

“Right!”

22

Siren Song

I was reading O. Henry’s
Gift of the Magi
when I came across a word I did not know. My frustratingly small five-year-old arms lifted my father’s heavy brown dictionary from its place on the bookshelf. I did not want to disturb him while he read his newspaper.

I looked up “mendicancy.”

Destitution.

I would soon know firsthand the word’s meaning.

We lived in a modest third-floor apartment outside Paris, redolent with lemon polish from my mother’s continuous dusting. Father, in a dark business suit, disappeared every weekday morning for work. I had no idea what he did other than “sales” and that it deeply upset my mother when he had to take business trips, which occurred often.

Today he was in casual pants and a sweater, signaling it was the weekend. If I was lucky, we would play pétanque in the courtyard. I waited for his cue while he sat in his favorite living room chair reading the newspaper. Birds flocked to the feeder he had attached to the kitchen window so Maman would have something to look at while she cooked.

He was tall, quiet, and so soft-spoken he sounded detached, as if he wasn’t quite there. My mother was loud, as though she were trying to make him hear her in his distracted state.

Even at my age, I knew my father was good-looking by the way women responded to him.

The telephone rang. Maman wasn’t there, having left to do some shopping. I assumed it was she who was calling because of the way my father spoke. His tone picked up ever so slightly. I ran to him.

“I would like to speak to Maman.”

His face grew dark. He whispered into the telephone, “Can’t speak. One hour.”

He returned to his newspaper as if nothing was wrong. I went back to reading
The Gift of the Magi
. Something did not feel right.

After a few minutes he rattled his paper. “How would you like a bath, Jean-Luc?”

Maman usually did that.

He stood up and smiled. “Come. I haven’t given you one in a long time. I need the practice.”

I hesitated but his enthusiasm persuaded me to go along with it.

Soon I was in the bathtub, smacking my hands into a blanket of soft foam, watching white bubbles float away. My father soaped up my back and washed my hair as he gently hummed.

Just the two of us. So close.

“Will you be okay for a few minutes? You’re a big boy, right?”

I nodded yes though I didn’t want him to leave.

I heard him in the bedroom doing something for several minutes. Just as I was getting bored and chilly, the front door closed.

I crawled out of the tub, foam in patches over my small body, water dripping on the floor. I looked out the living room window. My father appeared below by his car. He put a suitcase in the trunk.

I had never seen him leave for a business trip wearing anything but a suit.

“Papa!”

I banged on the glass. He looked up, surprised, and smiled like a clown smiles, not real. He waved in an equally exaggerated fashion. I tried to open the living room window. I did not have the strength.

I stood there, cold and wet, crying “Don’t leave! Don’t leave!” as he drove away.

I remember wiping the water off the floor so Maman would not be upset with me.

I never took a bath again. Only showers.

My mother put on a good front to the world. The tears came when I pretended to be asleep, when the strange men began showing up. She would put me in my room, close the door, tell me to stay there. I heard their voices. Some were polite, others made sounds like animals when they went in her bedroom. I thought it was a game they were playing. Once I went in to join them.

“Maman! I want to play, too!”

They were undressed.

She began beating the man, telling him to leave her and her child alone. He quickly fled, after shaking his fist at me. His angry face haunted me in nightmares for years.

I never saw the men again. I didn’t see much of Maman, either. She worked two jobs now: a waitress during the day and somewhere at night she wouldn’t talk about.

In the evening, when I was confined to the depressing cabbage-scented apartment of an elderly woman in our building, I drew pictures of bulls being stabbed, men being decapitated, buildings toppling. I wanted to

Jean-Luc ripped the yellow-lined pages off the pad and threw them in the trash can in Raymond’s office. He did not want to relive this. He did not want people to feel sorry for him.

Marlaison

She had called her parents right away and was pleased to find that Nelson had asked her father for her hand before he proposed.

“I raised the subject of his child and his relationship with the child’s mother,” her father said. “I thought it was commendable of him to be there for his son emotionally and financially—especially in this age of deadbeat dads. But I thought his financial responsibility to Carmelita should end when the child became an adult. He said that was a long way off and his situation was complicated. He would think about it.”

Her mother’s joyful reaction was, “Mrs. Nelson Mansfield sounds like a name right out of 1940s Hollywood! I’m so happy for you, Alyce. You’ve been dreaming of this for a long time.” Her tone changed. “
Don’t rush into getting pregnant.
With your sister expecting, I can imagine how you feel. You can be quite competitive with her. I still believe you should be married a year before becoming a parent. Especially given Nelson’s circumstances.”

Alyce did not tell her she had stopped using birth control.

“Have you set a date?”

“When I brought it up, he was evasive. Should I be upset?”

Her frosty response was, “From what you’ve told me about Glorianna, it may be entirely up to her. I do hope I have a say in this. I
am
your mother.”

“I’ll be sure you do.”

“And what about the other woman in Nelson’s life? Does she know?”

“Yes. Their son’s been a real handful. I think it’s bothering him the most.”

“As long as Nelson makes you feel like you come first, this might work.”

“No might, Mom. It
will
work.”

Alyce ladled Aurora sauce over fresh steamed mussels and handed Nelson the white bowl. “It’s like a Normandy white sauce with a little tomato paste added to turn it a coral pink.”

He gave her a dazed look.

She still could not believe they were engaged. She thought about sending a photo of her gigantic ring to her sister, but that would have been too
m’as tu vu
.

After their delicious lunch of mussels, Alyce parked herself by Jean-Luc’s still-covered pool to study while Nelson hooked up a Wi-Fi router in the office.

It didn’t take long before she heard him cursing.

She found him at Jean-Luc’s messy desk, trying to decipher the router instructions.

“I
have
to get online and I can’t get this thing going.”

“Aren’t you on vacation?”

“I’d rather spend an hour a day staying on top of emails than 20 when I get back.”

She handed him a cold glass of Kronenbourg, a French beer.

His gulp was followed with “That hits the spot.” He eyed her in her two-piece bathing suit. “So do you.”

“Let me at that thing.”

“You were just at it an hour ago.”

“I mean the router! Maybe it’s a translation issue.”

“Be my guest.”

As she grappled with the instructions, Nelson looked around Jean-Luc’s office. He peeked behind the office door. “Interesting.” He’d found a black cape, black pants, and a black leather mask dangling from the top of the hanger they were on. Black tape covered the eyeholes.

It was the mask Jean-Luc had used while giving her the herb lessons. What she’d thought was a sign of kinkiness was part of a costume. Or was it a costume he used in the bedroom?

“I think it’s a Zorro outfit,” he said. “That Jean-Luc is one weird dude.” He took a beat before saying, “But if it turns you on, I’ll wear it.”

He proceeded to don the cape and break into a flamenco/bullfighting dance, swooshing it around, clapping and stomping his feet, ending with “
Olé!
”

No doubt Jean-Luc actually knew how to flamenco dance
and
slay a bull. She did not share that with Nelson.

She enthusiastically applauded. “Bravo!”

“Hey, maybe your next challenge should be learning Spanish.”

“I’m still trying to learn French.”

Nelson turned his head. “What’s that noise?”

“The mailman,” she said. “He delivers it on his moped.”

He went downstairs after he left, still wearing the cape, and brought back a stack of letters.

“Look at this, Ally.” It was an envelope from a bank in Zurich. “He has a Swiss bank account. Could he have a fortune stashed away?”

She watched out of the corner of her eye to make sure he didn’t look too closely at Jean-Luc’s mail.

“With him, who knows? Hey, I got it!” With a click of the mouse she was online. “Yes!”