Skinny Bitch Gets Hitched (28 page)

We tried to figure that out in bed, but all we did was argue. When I turned over because I was sick to death of talking about Dominiquezilla, he must have thought I'd fallen asleep because he tiptoed out of bed and went downstairs, Charlie at his heels. I heard the door to his office close.

What the hell was he doing in there? Sexting some coworker? I didn't believe that for a second. Zach was true-blue. So were things at work really that bad? Was the company about to fold? What, what, what?

Next thing I knew, sunlight was filtering in through the sheer curtains at the window overlooking the Pacific, and I turned over to spoon against Zach. But he wasn't there.

A note on his pillow read,
Went to work early. Love you. Call D, okay?

I flipped over on my back in utter frustration.

I had to cook. I needed to get my hands full of flour and root vegetables. And I needed help on my rustic potpie if I was going to wow the
New York Times
reporter.

I needed Alexander.

“Charlie, go fetch my phone,” I said to the beagle, staring at me from the side of the bed.

He stared at me blankly.

I got out of bed, threw on yoga pants and a tank top, and took Charlie for a long walk in the park, thinking about the situation with Dominique. I couldn't get the woman to see the light about not dousing my parents' small organic farm in bug spray to keep mosquitoes off guests' arms and legs at the wedding. But I was supposed to change her mind about her beloved stepdaughter?

And how had this morphed into my life? Wasn't I supposed to be running my restaurant and thrilling the taste buds of food critics and
New York Times
travel section reporters? Suddenly I was the mediator for a family I hadn't even married into yet?

I pulled out my phone and called Alexander, even though it was barely eight o'clock in the morning.

“Is this a good time to work on my potpie?”

“Always a good time for you, Clem,” he said in that gorgeous English accent.

Why the f-balls couldn't Zach say that just once?

On my way to Alexander's, I got a call from the
Times
reporter. “I just wanted you to know your competition has dropped to only one restaurant. It's between you and Fresh.”

What?
Alexander was my only competition? Getting Fresh in that piece would ensure his promotion to chef and
make
him.

But the piece would also make Clementine's.

Shizz.

“I
see the problem with the potpie,” Alexander said as we stood at the counter in his kitchen. He scanned my recipe, typed on white paper. “The shiitake mushrooms. They don't soften the right way. I'd leave those out—or use button mushrooms—and I'll bet it'll be perfect.”

Almost brought down by shiitake mushrooms? Zach loved those. Maybe that was why I used them in so many dishes.

I stared out the window, trying to focus on button mushrooms. White. Cremini. I couldn't even think straight. Fuck-burgers.

“Clem, you okay?”

I dropped down on a chair at his kitchen table. “No. Everything sucks. My potpie. My relationship with Zach is off-kilter.
His mother hates my guts and quit as our wedding planner and Zach wants me to fix things. My entire life is a mess right now.”

Alexander flashed me a smile, his dimple popping. “Everything's cool between us.”

“Actually, it's not. The
Times
reporter called. The competition for inclusion in the article is between my place and Fresh.”

“I know. Emil got the same call and screamed into my ear five minutes ago that I'd better ‘obliterate No Crap or else.' ”

Ass. “You still want to help me make my potpie irresistible?”

“You still my friend?”

“Of course.”

“Then yes.”

We spent the morning working on the potpie, peeling potatoes, dicing carrots, and springing peas from the pod, making the broth and adding marjoram, cumin, and basil to the sautéed onions and garlic. I made a simple crust of flour and water and olive oil, rolling out the top and bottom. Shredded, braised tofu went into the simmering pot, the broth thickening and the vegetables softening, the aromas so delicious and comforting. An hour later, one taste told me Alexander had been absolutely right about the shiitake mushrooms.

The potpie was orgasm-inducing. Best I'd ever made.

“I wish there was a way we could both make it in the article,” I told him, taking another bite of my masterpiece.

“Me too. Especially you, though. Clementine's No Crap Café is all yours. It's different when you own the place. You're an inspiration.”

He was always so supportive and generous. “Aww. You'll have your own restaurant. I know you will.” I hugged him, and he wrapped his arms around me, lingering a few seconds longer than he should have.

Thankfully, his dogs interrupted us at exactly that moment, begging for a bite of the potpie, so we gave them dog biscuits and took them out for a walk. Alexander told me hilarious stories about what was going on at Fresh these days: A trainee Emil had fired in a humiliating way had tried to get back at him by sneaking in before hours and replacing the soy milk in the refrigerator with cow's milk. Much the way my own saboteur, Rain Welch, had done to me last year. Another trainee with a sharp nose had sniffed out the grossness right away and alerted Alexander before anyone could use it.

When we got back to his house, he whipped us up some frozen pomegranate and strawberry smoothies, and we sat in his little backyard, his dogs playing fetch with the squeaky toy Alexander kept throwing.

“So you and Zach,” he said. “You're getting married and that's it? I need to forget you, right? Why can't I seem to do that?”

He was looking at me so intently, his incredible dark brown eyes drawing me closer, closer . . .

For a split second, I forgot everything—the mother-in-law from the black lagoon, Zach's disappearing acts and distance, my all-consuming thoughts about the restaurant and publicity and receipts and codes and bills.

I was inches away from his face, from his lips. From a kiss that would be wrong on a million levels. “I really love Zach. I'm madly, truly, deeply in love with him. We're going through a rough patch right now, but getting through those shitty periods is part of having a real relationship, right?” I had to remember that.

He nodded. “I'll work on getting over what might have been,” he said dramatically.

Once again, Alexander Orr had helped me in a big way. I knew, without a doubt, that I wanted to marry Zach. That I loved him. No matter what.

No matter what.

Back at my apartment, I tried to call Dominique twice, but she was clearly refusing my calls, since her cell phone rang five times before going to voice mail. Fine. Whatever. The longer I could put off dealing with her, the better. When my phone rang a few minutes after I'd hung up the last time, I thought it was her, but it was Jocelyn, my favorite aunt-to-be.

She was in my neighborhood and wondered if I was free for a walk around the Pier. Perfect. If anyone could help me with Dominique Huffington, it was Jocelyn.

A half hour later, we met by the Jo Mama Juice truck.

She wore white, flowing pants and a long tunic with a cool necklace, her white hair coiled in a bun. She was so elegant. She linked arms with me, and we walked, people watching and
stopping to watch a teenager play some serious violin. Jocelyn put a $10 bill in his open case.

“So how are you doing with the list?” she asked, stopping again to admire a pair of black pugs that were sniffing something by a tree.

“I feel like I can't get anywhere because Zach is putting so much distance between us. He keeps saying he's busy with work, that it's not you, blah, blah, blah. But something is bothering him. I know it. We're going away in a few days, just the two of us, but I want to make things right between us before we go.”

“Oh, that's easy. You go to his office, shut the door, and tell him you're not leaving until he's honest with you. If he still doesn't open up, you tell him it's over, that you can't live like this. Trust me, it'll work.”

“Been there, done that?”

She smiled. “Frederick finally told me he'd been acting so distant and making excuses about getting together because he was positive he had only months to live. Self-diagnosed hypochondriac! He thought he had five different kinds of cancer. Turns out he had a hernia.”

I smiled. “If you could go back to before you married Frederick, would you still have said yes?”

“Without a doubt. But it's better to know that up front than wonder about it later. That's why I sent you the list. Go talk to Zach. Remember—he balks, you tell him it's over. He'll spill it.”

I hugged her tight. “One more piece of advice? This time about Dominique?”

“Of course.”

“She's furious at me because she thinks I influenced Keira to appear on
Eat Me
. And now that Keira won, she's even more angry that Keira can now finance her own dream of culinary school. Dominique quit as my wedding planner.”

“You're not unhappy about that, are you?” Jocelyn asked with a devilish smile

“No. But Zach is. He wants harmony and peace. I'm supposed to smooth things over with Dominique.”

“Well, I'll tell you this: the way to do that is to go see her and make her feel important. That's all she really wants. To feel part of things. Keira's defection from Dominique's plan is about loss of control, not holding the reins of her life. She thinks of Keira as her baby, and it's time to let go.”

“Zach thinks if anyone can help her see that, it's me. But I feel like she hates my guts. Why would she listen to a word I say?”

“She doesn't hate you at all. She respects that you're your own woman. You'll see. Go pay her a visit—after your fiancé, that is.”

“I owe you so much.”

Jocelyn patted my hand. “Maybe I'll drag Frederick out to your restaurant one night. He'll kick and scream about ‘that crazy food,' but I'll bet he'll love what I order for him.”

“On the house,” I told her, then put her in her car and watched her drive away, thankful that I had someone so wise and wonderful in my life—and soon-to-be family.

Then I got in my own car and drove straight to Zach's office.

I didn't even have to deal with the sweater-wearing admin. When I got out of the elevator onto his floor, Zach was standing right there, a stack of files in his hands.

He looked surprised to see me. And not particularly glad.

He led the way into his office and closed the door behind him. “Clem, if you're here to rant about my mother, now isn't a—”

Sometimes I wanted to take my hands and wring his neck. I meant that nicely. “This has nothing do with her. And when
will
be a good time? I'm here because I want to know what's going on.”

He shifted the file in his hand. “I told you. I'm just crazed.”