The Grown Ups (26 page)

“You know you could work here, right? I mean, Lori and Brian said they hire people all the time. There are never enough hands. Wouldn't that be amazing?”

Sam laughed at how simple she made everything sound. “Well, look who's planning my next step.”

“Oh, God, Sam.” She blushed and ducked her chin to her chest. “I was just saying I could see you here, you know, cooking, surrounded by all of this.” She swept her arm out to her side.

Sam nodded and looked beyond Bella to the fields. He heard the rumble of a tractor in the distance, most likely Ted and Zeke on their way back. “How's Ted liking the city?” he asked, wanting to steer the conversation away from him.

Bella stuck out her chin. “Fine,” she declared, as if Sam were crazy to ask.

Sam left it at that as Ted and Zeke reappeared. There was a certain swagger to Ted's step that made Sam want to punch him. Since they had been at the farm Ted had quoted Thoreau at least four times. Sam couldn't imagine Bella digging his act, but apparently she did.

Ruthie, Mindy, and
Celia were at the house with Suzie when they got back from Martha's Vineyard. The girls were on the beach below the deck, stretched out on their backs on brightly colored blankets, chins tilted to the sun. Frankie and Peter sat in low webbed chairs under a large umbrella with a cooler of beer between them. Bella hung over the railing calling out to the girls, while Ted hovered at her side, cupping her elbow in his hand, urging her away from her friends and upstairs for a nap before dinner. He had nuzzled her neck the entire ferry ride back, and Sam was beginning to take it personally.

Sam had brought bags of produce and meat from the farm, enough for several meals. He took the bags and went into the kitchen to unpack everything, cracking open a cold beer and cranking up the music. When the food was spread out on the counter he felt an anticipation and excitement he rarely felt for anything else in life. He decided to use the lamb chops for dinner, seared with a nice salted crust but still a little pale pink in the center, along with a vegetable strudel made of squash, onions, basil, tomatoes, eggplant, and goat cheese, a roasted
potato salad with a lemon, garlic, red pepper, and olive oil dressing, and a sausage and minestrone soup. Dessert would be warm berries and fresh cream. He whistled as he put the ingredients he wasn't going to use away and began to set up the chopping stations.

As Sam slid the pan of potatoes into the oven to roast, he heard a familiar voice behind him. “Can I help?”

Sam turned from the stove to see Bella on the far side of the kitchen. The bridge of her nose was sunburned. He must have looked startled, because she laughed. “Have you turned into one of those chefs who can't have anyone else in the kitchen?”

Sam laughed, thrilled to see her standing in front of him without Ted. “God, no.” He pointed to the onions. “Can you chop?”

She smiled. “Give me a knife.” She pointed to the magnetic strip where a line of German knives (easily the cost of one month's rent in Manhattan, Sam could not help but notice) was waiting. She selected a medium-sized knife and Sam slid a cutting board toward her. “Large or small pieces?”

“Small, please.”

She grinned and rubbed her face, the blade of the knife close to her cheek.

“Jesus, Bell, put the knife down first.”

She gave him a half smile. “Relax.”

“Blade down on the cutting board, and I will consider it.”

“You lied. You are so one of those chefs who doesn't want anyone else in the kitchen.”

Sam looked up from salting the cubes of eggplant. She was grinning at him. Where had this Bella come from?

“Seriously?” he asked, teasing her back. “Me?”

Bella rolled her shoulders forward and put her head down in earnest. She sliced the onion in half and then proceeded to make
hash marks lengthwise before she turned the onion and made them again in the opposite direction.

They chopped in assembly-line order. Sam slid vegetables in Bella's direction and she made neat piles along the granite counter. When she was done she put down her knife, grabbed two beers, and handed one to Sam while he prepped sauté pans and a stockpot just as everyone began filing in from the beach. More beers were opened, the girls, including Bella, went off to shower, and Frankie and Peter picked up their long-running chess game.

Sam set the table out back, fired up the grill for the lamb chops, and turned everything else to simmer while he sat on the deck to finish his beer. He heard the shower running through the open bathroom window and tried hard not to think about Bella's naked body under the spray.

From the far end of the table Frankie raised his beer. “To Sam: without you there is only cold cereal in my life.”

Peter banged on the table until dishes and glasses rattled and a bottle of beer tipped over into an empty dish. Mindy smacked him on the shoulder playfully and then leaned in to kiss his cheek. Just as her lips grazed his skin he turned to kiss her hard on the mouth.

Frankie whistled for attention. “But seriously, you guys, how is it that I'm still looking at your same damn faces after all these years? Why don't we have any other friends?” He paused and looked over at Ted. “No offense to you, Teddy.”

Ted had been hanging on Bella all through dinner. Right now he had an arm slung around her shoulders and their chairs pushed as close together as possible. “Is Ted our friend or Bella's
date?” Sam spat out involuntarily, and then tried to avoid looking directly at Bella.

Ted didn't take Sam's middle school bait. Instead he nodded his chin at Frankie and said, “None taken.”

Sam shifted in his seat and caught Suzie's eye. The expression on her face was blurry in the candlelight. He thought she smiled at him. Sam crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back in the chair.

“I love you guys,” Frankie crooned. “I love you.”

Celia pushed back her chair and stood up. “Who wants to go for a walk on the beach?”

Ruthie lifted her hand, which was still attached to Suzie's. They giggled as one stood and the other fell back down before they righted themselves.

Frankie pushed back his chair. “I think you ladies need an escort.” He offered his arms and Celia and Suzie grabbed ahold of the sloppy sleeves of his sweater. “We don't want you to get in some unfortunate Natalie Wood type accident.”

“We are not going out in a boat. And who says we need an escort?” Ruthie shook her head vigorously. Sam knew she was softer than she looked. Bella had confided in the kitchen earlier that Lucy had recently broken Ruthie's heart by sleeping with a man. Ruthie had sobbed to Bella that she had done everything Lucy had wanted, she had changed everything so Lucy would love her more, but she couldn't grow a dick. Sam realized that he had never changed for anyone; his answer was always to leave. What kind of person did that make him?

“Never mind the details,” Frankie called after the girls as he stumbled over his own feet to keep up as they moved ahead of him toward the stairs. “You don't need a boat to drown.”

Sam left the two couples at the table and went into the house
for another beer. Once he was inside he started to fill the dishwasher. He purposely made a lot of noise; he didn't want to know where Bella and Ted were, or if they had gone upstairs. After a while, Mindy came in carrying a stack of bowls. She set them down near the drainboard and reached for a berry from the strainer as she left again. Peter trailed after her, and soon Sam was alone in the kitchen as they disappeared upstairs. Sam kept at the task of cleaning up, getting lost in the repetitive motions until there was nothing left to do. Not yet feeling tired, he stretched out on the couch with the intention of watching a movie.

He was surprised, then, when he felt a pressure on his shoulder like someone's hand pressing him down into the cushions. Sam opened his eyes to the kind of dark, still quiet that happens only just before dawn. When had he fallen asleep? It took him a moment to figure out that Michael was sitting on the coffee table, leaning over him, whispering his name.

“What the fuck?” Sam said.

“Sammy, I'm sorry. Where's Suzie?”

“Asleep, I'm guessing.”

“I don't know which room.”

“Neither do I. Fuck, Michael, what are you doing here now?” Sam's eyes adjusted to the lack of light. He expected Michael to appear haggard after an on-call shift and driving all the way out to the Cape, but he didn't. In his dark polo shirt he looked like he did when they were kids. For a second, in Sam's sleep fog, he imagined Michael telling him he knew where their mother had hidden the Christmas presents.

“Can you help me?” Michael whispered.

“Can't it wait until the morning? Pick a couch.” Sam pointed to the opposite side of the room, where an empty couch was Michael's for the taking.

“I need to see her.” Michael shook his head. “I need to see her now, Sam.”

Sam sighed, and sat up and motioned for Michael to follow him upstairs. The hallway was an elongated L; the master bedroom, where Peter and Mindy were sleeping, faced the ocean. Sam pointed down the hall to the rest of the rooms. The first room on the left was where he had dumped his duffel bag the night they arrived. The door was ajar, his bed empty. He could hear Frankie snoring in the room next to his. Suzie was going to be in one of the other two rooms on the other side of the hall. The only problem was he didn't know which one, and he didn't want to open a door and find Bella and Ted.

He could feel Michael's breath on his shoulder as he hesitated in front of the room across from his. Impatient with Sam's indecision, Michael quickly reached around Sam and pushed open the door. Inside were two double beds, a mound of luggage between them. Ruthie and Celia were curled like parentheses in the bed on the far side of the room. Closer to the door were Suzie and Bella.

Michael darted into the room and collapsed onto his knees next to the bed. He gathered Suzie in his arms, and Sam watched Suzie startle awake and then start sobbing into Michael's shoulder. Sam heard the words
I'm sorry,
and
I love you,
but he thought they said them at the same time. Either way, it was hard to tell who was sorrier.

Sam didn't want to be standing in the doorway, but he couldn't move. His mind kept chewing over the fact that Bella was sleeping in here and not with Ted. He turned his gaze from Michael and Suzie to Bella, and found that Bella was looking right at him, her eyes wide and unblinking.

B
ella always felt like a little girl when she went to her father's
office, especially if she had to wait for him, like she did today, in the reception area. When he was done with his meeting he came rushing toward her, shoving his arms into his coat sleeves and offering apologies even though Bella didn't need one. He bent down to kiss her and Bella tossed the magazine she had been holding on her lap back onto the side table. She offered him her cheek and said, “Dad, you need better magazines.”

In the restaurant her father waited until Bella was seated before he sat down. She smiled at her father across the table, grateful for his manners. She wasn't hungry; her stomach had been twisted since she woke up. She hated asking for money. Hated that this many years out of college, even with a teaching job at a decent college, she wasn't making enough money to pay rent. That Ted was supposed to be carrying half but wasn't obviously was an issue, one that she most definitely didn't feel like bringing up. She opened the plastic-coated diner menu, sticky around the edges, and glanced over the top at her father. He was
making a show of looking even though she knew he would order the Reuben. He always ordered the Reuben.

They managed to get through most of their food by exchanging family information. They talked about Thanksgiving, four weeks away, and what Bella's brothers and their families were doing, the many grandchildren and the two more on the way.

Just last week Bella and Ted had been in the park on an unseasonably warm October day, the kind of day that felt like the last of its kind until April. Ted caught Bella watching a toddler trying hard to lick his ice cream without making it fall off the cone. The boy's father had offered a hand but the child had stubbornly refused, and moments later, on their way out of the park, Bella heard the high-pitched wail of disappointment that could mean only one thing. Ted had heard it too and he'd given Bella a sidelong glance. “Reason number nine hundred seventy-three that I will never be a father.”

Bella's inclination had been to dismiss Ted, to tell him that you never felt that way about your own child. But something about the way he said it made her hear what he was saying. That he wasn't waiting to be joked out of it by Bella. That he probably wouldn't change his mind. That he really didn't see himself being a father and Bella, if she was going to be with him, was going to have to accept it.

The crazy thing about all of it was that Bella wasn't so sure, like Suzie apparently was, that she was meant to be a mother. But still, she wanted to have the choice. Lately, being with Ted made her feel as if she had no choice about anything.

“So.” Her father leaned forward over his plate, the last bite of meat and bread in his fingers. “How's Ted?”

Bella poked the lump of cottage cheese on her plate. She always ordered the salad special, and she always forgot it came
with cottage cheese. She looked away from her food and smiled at her father. “Great.”

“How's the writing?”

“He might be almost done. His agent thinks so, anyway.”

Her father shook his head slowly from side to side. “Publishing is a mystery business, I guess. Not a lot of logic involved. Lots of delicate personalities.” Her father smiled, but it was tight and not at all sincere. Bella was pretty sure the “delicate personality” he was referring to was Ted.

“I know the payoff isn't supposed to be about fame, or money even, but Ted's book is so beautiful.” Bella believed in Ted, believed in what she was saying to her father, but she was also getting tired of defending him. If Ted were there he would tell her to knock it off, that he didn't need her sticking up for him, that he didn't give a shit what people thought about him and that Bella cared too much.

Her father frowned. “I hope so, Bella. I really do, for Ted's sake and for yours.” He took a deep, gulping breath. “What about you? Your writing?”

Bella was always surprised that anyone remembered she was a writer. Her father always did, and Suzie. The only writing Bella did lately was correcting her students' papers and editing Ted's work. She had not felt the pull of her own work in years, and she had never enjoyed it in the way she enjoyed teaching. But she didn't have the nerve to admit to that out loud. It still sounded like too much of a failure. “It's always there, but I don't get a lot of time.”

“It's hard,” he acknowledged. “You will make it happen.”

Bella nodded, afraid still to disappoint her father. The last time she had felt like writing she had been in love with Sam. She refused to believe that one had anything to do with the other.

Bella put down her fork. She was done mashing the cottage cheese. “Dad?” She twisted in her seat and looked across the room at a table where an elderly woman sat, her hair unnaturally red, her eyebrows dyed to match, a dish of cottage cheese in front of her untouched, a spoon held in a shaky hand over a cup of tea. Bella had to force herself to look away. “I'm sorry. I need some money.”

Her father nodded.

“I'm sorry,” Bella said again, wishing that Ted knew what this felt like. In all the years they had been together Bella had never met Ted's parents and had spoken to them only briefly on the phone, once, when they had called Ted for his birthday. Bella always had the feeling that Ted was mildly disappointed in the paths his parents' lives had taken: his father worked for the post office while his mother ran a dog-grooming business and kennel. Ted was an only child who as far as Bella could tell had never been denied a thing in his entire life, although he made a show of never taking anything from them as an adult. If Bella wasn't positive his parents existed, she would have thought he was an orphan.

Her father swallowed and wiped his mouth. “New York is expensive, Bella. Please don't apologize. I'm happy you are close to home.” He tapped the top of the table with his hand. “Don't apologize,” he said again.

“You make it too easy for me.”

Her father smiled. “You want it to be harder?”

Bella shook her head. She felt miserable about the state of her finances.

“Bella, listen to me. You are my daughter. I love you. I would do anything for you, that's my job.” He paused. “You don't believe me now, but everything will even out. You'll see.”

Bella nodded. The unqualified love was almost too much to bear. She looked back across the room at the old lady, who was now daintily eating her cottage cheese. She smiled slightly after each spoonful. Maybe she had it all right, Bella thought. Maybe she was concentrating too much on what was wrong all the time instead of what was right.

She watched her father get up from the table and pay the check, and make small talk with the waitress, who had stepped behind the register. They were speaking loudly enough that Bella had no problem hearing everything they said, even above the noise of the restaurant. The woman had a glittery pumpkin pinned in place of a nametag and Bella's father commented on it. The waitress explained that her son had made it for her when he was five and now he was in college. Bella smiled as her father pointed to her back at the table.

The weeks leading
up to Thanksgiving passed in a blur for Bella. She had a full course load and too many papers to grade. Every night she trudged to the subway feeling more and more like a hunchback, weighed down by her canvas totes and the voluminous winter coat and scarves. Snow had already stalled the city once in early November, leaving even the most hard-core winter romantic dreading the long months ahead. There was nothing wonderful about numb fingers and toes or frizzy hair from all the forced dry heat.

After that lunch with her father, and a loan that had paid November's and December's rents, Bella made a promise to herself that by the New Year she would be self-sufficient. That meant she and Ted had to have a real discussion about money, specifically about his intention to contribute. She had put it off night after
night, but now that November was hurtling to a close she was going to have to bring it up.

She smelled the stew as she trudged up the four flights of stairs to their top-floor walk-up. Inside, Bella released her baggage onto the bench by the door and sighed as she massaged her arms and kicked off her boots. The music was loud, an experimental jazz station that Ted favored. She closed her eyes and took several deep breaths before she walked down the hallway and into the main room.

Ted was at the desk by the windows that overlooked the air shaft, surrounded by teetering piles of moldy old paperbacks. When he saw her he looked up, put down his pen, and smiled as if she was the best thing he had seen all day. Bella noticed, as she took the few steps across the room, that he had set the coffee table with place mats, real napkins, candles, and wineglasses.

Ted circled her waist with his arm and brought her down onto his lap. Bella put her head on his shoulder and closed her eyes. They were heading to her father's house the day before Thanksgiving and she hadn't realized how much she was looking forward to the long weekend away until that very moment. She loved the noisy, chaotic domesticity that was unique to her brothers' families.

Ted kissed the side of Bella's neck. “You smell like snow.”

“Hmm,” Bella said, wondering if dinner could wait as Ted found his way under her sweater. He kneaded her spine, then reached around front, brushing the outside of her bra with his thumb. Bella tried to shift in his lap, but Ted held her hip firmly with his other hand. Then abruptly he removed his hand and his mouth.

“What?” Bella mumbled, her eyes blinking open.

Ted laughed. “The stew! Wine or beer?”

“Beer,” Bella answered reluctantly. “But can it wait?”

He shoved her gently off of his lap. “Go sit on the couch.”

“You don't want help?”

“Nope.”

Bella plopped down on the couch and reached behind her for the pile of mail from the sofa table. She turned on the light by the sofa, the better to read the mail by. Ted turned it off as he handed her a beer. “Ruins the mood,” he explained.

Bella pushed the mail between the couch cushions. She was willing to shift the mood to whatever Ted wanted if it ended up getting her laid. They could talk about the rent afterward, when he was in a relaxed state of mind. She took several deep swallows of the cold beer; it was nearly half done and she was feeling a little buzzed by the time Ted returned with two steaming bowls of stew. The chunks of carrot and potato were coated in a glistening brown glaze that smelled faintly of red wine and bay leaf. Bella first had Ted's stew at the cabin in Montana, made with venison from the deer Ted had killed, not beef from the Fairway Market. She speared a potato and chewed, searching already for a hunk of bread to mop up the soupy bits of meat and gravy. Reading her mind, Ted tore off the end of a crusty baguette and handed it to her as he sat down, the remainder of the loaf balanced on his lap in a dish towel. They ate in silence, breaking it only to murmur appreciation and, in Bella's case, to ask for seconds.

When she was satisfied, when her stomach was pressing against the waistband of her skirt, Bella relinquished her empty bowl to the coffee table and leaned back against the pillows, watching Ted. He chewed slowly, methodically, like a prisoner savoring his last meal. She teased him about this habit, but it was probably why he was naturally thin. He tasted his food, and didn't inhale like Bella did. Bella was always hungry for more before her body had even registered that she had eaten.

Ted finished his stew and pushed everything to the center of
the coffee table so he could put up his feet. Bella took this as a chance to extend her legs and put her feet in his lap. Ted massaged Bella's arches through her thick-cabled socks.

“Oh, that's nice,” Bella said. Ted looked at her, distracted but happy, as if he had a secret. “What's up? Good day of writing?”

“You could say that.”

“What?” Bella nudged his thigh with her big toe.

Ted took a deep breath. “I got an invitation to Essex.”

Bella struggled to sit up. “What? Wow! Seriously? When?”

“A few months ago.”

“Wait a sec—what are you talking about?” Bella shook her head. Ted was looking across the room instead of at her. “I don't understand.”

“Essex offered me a residency. Two months. A cabin in the woods. My meals delivered in a dinged-up metal lunch pail, walks on the grounds where Capote and Mailer and their fellow writers once frolicked, and stimulating conversation in the evening with other like-minded individuals.”

Bella was afraid to hear what came next. Essex was the residency most of the writers she knew aspired to. The application process was rigorous. She knew many talented people who had been turned down multiple times. She had no idea Ted had even applied. “When are you going?”

Ted finally turned to face her. “I turned them down.”

“Why?”

“Because I agreed to stay here with you.”

“So you're saying I kept you from Essex? I would never—” All of a sudden the stew that had sat so satisfyingly in her belly churned ominously.

“I'm saying that I have my own cabin. I certainly don't need Essex.”

“But it's so—”

“Prestigious?”

Bella nodded and Ted made a face at her, as if she knew better than to use that argument on him. He held up his thumb and forefinger. “I'm this close to finishing.”

“What's stopping you? You have all day every single day. You can have the nights too, if that's what it takes. I'm working. You have no pressures.” Bella almost said
you have no pressure to make money,
but she didn't. He needed to pay rent, and this seemed like a great time to remind him. “You haven't given me money for rent in months, and I let it slide because I thought you were really pushing through to the end.”