Sweet Love (26 page)

Since the prospect of having to face Michael filled me with dread since our last tense meeting, I’m surprised by how disappointed I am he’s not here. Or is it that I’m disappointed he
and Carol
aren’t here?

That’s not it, I think, washing my hands and quickly tying on the apron. Our lobster dinner was a perfect demonstration of why there can’t be anything between us. He’s looking for the “one true love” like a romantic teenager and I’m willing to settle for a house-trained dog like a practical, middle-aged woman. In the end, it all comes down to maturity.

D’Ours pulls out a stool and graciously hands me a glass of champagne. “I need to talk to you after class,” he whispers in my ear. “Big TV stuff.”

I get this sometimes. I suppose it’s like being a doctor at a party when strangers start showing you their moles and asking if a pain below the shoulder blade is lung cancer or gas. TV is such an omnipresent, yet mysterious, industry to most people outside the West Coast that I’m often approached by the starstruck who are eager for inside knowledge.

“Okay,” I say, and wink.

If the plate of discarded stems is any indication, I’ve missed chocolate-dipped strawberries and have arrived in the middle of the Grand Marnier chocolate mousse. Good timing!

“The mousse and the soufflé are much like cousins,” D’Our says as the long-suffering Angela, bangs still midnight blue, chops dark chocolate into fine pieces. “One is baked, one is not. So for summer, I recommend the mousse. It never fails to entertain the unworldly.”

“However,” he adds, stealing Angela’s chopped chocolate and whisking it into a bowl of heated milk, “when the temperature drops, there is no better way to welcome dinner guests than by greeting them into your house fragrant with the warm scent of baking chocolate. Can you smell it? Inhale. Drink in the perfume.”

D’Ours takes a deep breath and we imitate, lifting our noses and closing our eyes. He’s right. Deep, rich, comforting chocolate. Always reminds me of Monday nights when Mom would bake brownies straight out of the Duncan Hines box.

Emptying the chocolate mixture of eggs, sugar, and flour into a bowl, he slips it into the refrigerator, where it is to chill for two hours.

“In the meantime, let’s turn our attention to the mousse. It is simplicity itself. Cream, egg yolks, sugar, chocolate, and Grand Marnier. With the added advantage that you impress your guests who know no better, having never taken my class. Though soon I will be in everyone’s house!”

We laugh and Chris says to me, “He told us at the beginning of class he just got his own show on The Food Channel.”

Ahh, no wonder he’s in such an indulgent mood.

Whisking the yolks and sugar in a bowl, he slowly adds heated cream and then cooks the custard over low heat. Then he strains it through a fine-mesh sieve and adds a heavy splash of Grand Marnier before whisking in melted chocolate. Spooned into red wineglasses and refrigerated for at least six hours. Done.

The door slams and I whip my head around. A confused student scratches his head and backs out. Wrong class.

Too bad, no Michael. Not that I’m waiting for him or obsessing or anything. I’m only interested because I need to apologize for being so rude the other day. And to thank him for fixing Mom’s railing. Nothing more.

One of my bandages itches and I try to sneak a scratch. D’Ours catches me and raises an eyebrow.

“The difference with the soufflé is we take it out of the refrigerator after two hours.” He removes a pre-prepared bowl of soufflé. “Fold in the egg whites Angela is whipping.”

Angela minding the KitchenAid gives us a wave.

“And then bake.” From the oven he removes the soufflé boasting a perfect cracked top. I have to hold back Chris, who’s about ready to leap over the counter and attack it with her spoon. We all applaud as the soufflé remains erect. Another miracle.

“How about we take a quick break, wash our hands, and come back for a taste test after this cools, eh?”

I am barely halfway off my stool when D’Ours pounces. “Have you heard my big news?”

“I did and congratulations! How exciting to have your own show.”

“Still in the pilot stages. I am going to New York next week to do a couple of test runs and then we’ll see. I am thinking maybe some local publicity might help, no?”

That’s what he’s after. A segment on WBOS. “Why not? If you can build a fan base here, then they’ll be inclined to buy up more segments.”

“Exactement!”
He claps his hands and we exchange numbers and emails. Arnie’s going to kill me for this. His two most loathsome activities— cooking and the French—on his show. He’ll
plotz
.

We sample the mousse and soufflés before tackling the more heady
Torta Caprese
and profiteroles with dark chocolate Kahlúa sauce. These are the highlights of the cooking class, according to Chris.

“You want a chocolate orgasm,” she says. “You eat D’Ours’s
Torta Caprese
.”

It’s a little after 8:30 and still Michael’s not here. I’d been hanging on to the possibility, however faint, that he might have been held up with clients or at a dinner. But no. Clearly he’s avoiding me.

Well, too bad for him. He’s going to totally miss out on how to make
Torta Caprese
and should he ever want to make profiteroles, he’ll be out of luck. Not to mention his ineptitude should he attempt the dark chocolate sauce with Kahlúa.

Because we’ve been such excellent students and this is the last class, he’s going to let Chris and the nuns make the
Torta Caprese
.

First Chris pulses blanched almonds in a Cuisinart, adds sugar, and empties the paste into a bowl for later. In the same food processor, she adds chopped Valrhona chocolate and sugar until it, too, is ground fine, later mixing that with the almonds. Meanwhile one of the nuns, Sister Martha, beats egg yolks and sugar until the old yellow ribbons emerge. That’s added to the almonds and chocolate along with some almond extract and lemon peel.

As with the mousse and soufflés, beaten egg whites (courtesy of Angela) are folded in (by the nuns) and then poured into a springform pan. It takes all of ten minutes.

Chocolate + egg yolks + sugar + egg whites. I’m beginning to see a pattern here.

Despite the teamwork on the
Torta Caprese
we’re almost out of time, which means D’Ours has to rush through the profiteroles. “I need someone to help me with the chocolate Kahlúa sauce.” Ignoring all hands raised but mine, he says, “Julie, you’re the only one who hasn’t had a chance up here yet.”

Actually, it’s not that I don’t want to help. It’s that I’ve been daydreaming, picturing Carol and Michael hand in hand on a beach. Maybe my little lecture the other night pricked his conscience and he decided that sleeping with a woman he doesn’t love was both sleazy and wrong. Which means he could have a) broken up with her, or b) done the opposite: tried to find out if there was some love there, after all.

“Julie?” D’Ours says again.

“Oh, right.” I’ve totally missed what he wants. “Absolutely. Uh . . . what?”

Sister Martha rolls her eyes.

“Come, come,” he says, leading me to the stove. My one job, it seems, is to keep stirring what’s in the pot—a simple recipe of cream, chocolate, and Kahlúa—while D’Ours demonstrates how to make something called the
pâte au choux
, a fancy name for dough that’s heated, and Angela is whipping up
crème pâtissière
.

What the heck am I supposed to do here? I think, staring at the pot dumbly.

“Just whisk until melted. Surely you can do this by now,” Angela says as if I’m a child. “Here. I’ll turn on the flame.”

She turns on a teeny tiny flame and shoves a whisk into my hand with a strict order: “Stir.”

Stir, stir, stir. I’m getting nowhere with this sauce business. The chocolate’s not melting and the cream is still ice cold. Plus my wrist is getting sore, as is my elbow. Meanwhile, my classmates are over by D’Ours, laughing and refilling on champagne. This is so boring.

Checking the flame, I find it’s almost out. Well, no wonder this is taking forever. How in the hell am I supposed to melt chocolate over the equivalent of a lit match? When Angela’s not looking I bend down and turn up the flame full blast. See, here’s the problem with fancy cooks. They’re always taking forever,
simmering
instead of speeding things up with a boil.

“That’s too high,” Angela says.

“No, it’s not.” I block her so she can’t get to the controls. “Trust me.”

“Right, as if I would.” Nudging her boss, she says, “Problem in sector seven, Chef.”

“Please. Not while I’m putting out the
pâte au choux
,” he barks.

Not to worry. Things are cooking just fine on my end. Tiny white bubbles are rising up the sides, the ugly lumps of chocolate have disappeared and it smells wonderful—cream and chocolate and that intoxicating overlay of liquor. This whole culinary industry needs an efficiency makeover, I think as I stir happily. If I get fired for real, I might look into that as a new career.

“Sacre bleu!” All of a sudden D’Ours is next to me, throwing a fit. “That’s sugar and chocolate in there. It’ll burn. I’d have thought you’d know better.”

Behind him, Angela has her arms folded, victorious.

“It won’t burn,” I say. “It’ll just cook faster.”

The class laughs and D’Ours pauses, a funny expression coming over his face. “What did you just say?”

“I said it would cook faster.”

“Julie, you are a product of the microwave generation,” he says, removing the pot from my supervision. “Class, as amusing as our Julie is, I cannot stress enough the virtue of patience in coaxing flavor from the chocolate. You must treat it with care, with love, with respect. Much like how you treat a woman.”

Chris is swooning, but I’m stuck on that microwave idea. Why didn’t I think of that? Zip. One minute and you’re done.

Which is when I look up and see not only that it’s past nine and class is over, but that Michael has arrived, soaked by the rain outside, breathless, panting, and focusing straight at me and no one else.

All he says is, “Sorry I’m late.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

Michael takes me aside as everyone else lingers talking to D’Ours.

“Tell you what?” I say, snagging a filled profiterole for Mom.

“That you had a biopsy today.”

“Oh.” My cheeks grow hot and suddenly I’m self-conscious. “That.”

“No wonder you were in such a bad mood when I was at your house. I feel like such an ass for not being more aware.”

“Who told you?” I ask in a low voice, studying my pastry.

“Who do you think? Your mother. I stopped by on my way to the Cape to drop off a couple of books I promised her and she was at her wit’s end because she hadn’t heard from you and she thought I might have.”

Brain slap. I should have called and left a message. “She wasn’t home when I got home. And, anyway, there’s nothing to tell. I won’t know until Monday.” My throat is tight all of a sudden, as is my chest. “Can we go outside? I’m feeling a bit claustrophobic.”

Outside it’s raining hard and I can tell my profiterole is a goner. There’s no choice, I’ll just have to eat it. Sigh. The sacrifices I have to make.

“You have to wait until Monday, eh?” The rain has ruined his expensive haircut, bringing out dark curls where usually there are restrained waves. “Then come with me to the Cape.”

Half a profiterole is hanging out of my mouth and I have to—I know, gross—stuff in the rest of it and swallow it whole.

“Mum mid vou?” I mumble. “Mow?”

“Why not? It’s just a weekend. Betty says Em’s in Maine, so why not? Unless you have to work.”

Oh, no. I made sure I had this weekend free. “I can’t go with you. What about . . . Carol?”

His expression turns inward. “Don’t worry about Carol. Carol’s not in the picture, and I would really love it if you and I spent some time together. It’s a great house in Truro and it would be just the two of us. No FitzWilliams campaign. No dessert class. No Betty. No Paul. For once, you and me . . . as adults.”

It’s the adult part that cinches it. That and the biopsy. Nothing like a four-centimeter lesion to remind you life is short, and offers to spend a weekend in Truro with the childhood love you’ve never quite gotten over don’t land at your feet every day.

I tell him to pick me up in an hour.

Chapter Twenty-two

So we grow old together, Like to a double cherry. . . .
—A MIDSUMMER NIGHT’S DREAM, ACT III, SCENE 2

I wake the next morning with that disconcerting feeling of not knowing where I am. What is this airy room with its pale blue walls and bleached floorboards, the shells on the dresser opposite under a mirror that is too warped to reflect anything but light? And why does it smell like the sea?

Then I hear a chair scraping against the floor and I remember. I’m in Truro with Michael.

For a woman who never listed “wildly impulsive” on her résumé of attributes, going off with Michael—even if we spent the night in separate bedrooms—is a big step. And as I pull myself up on the cool white sheets, my left side registers a protest. Far sorer today than yesterday. I must have been insane to do this.

Oh, well.
C’est la vie
, I think, tugging up a pair of jeans and gingerly slipping into a sweatshirt. Face washed, teeth brushed, hair pulled into a ponytail, I pad downstairs to begin the rest of my life.

“Hey, you’re up.” Michael’s in a ragged red T-shirt and navy running shorts. I never noticed his legs before. A shame since they’re very nice, still muscular and taut. “I was going to wake you up and ask you if you want to go running, but I wasn’t sure if in your, uh, condition . . .”

Now, now. We’ll have none of that “in your condition” stuff. “Gee, that’s a shame. I would have loved to go for a run,” I gush, surveying the coffee situation.