Too Many Cooks (20 page)

CHAPTER 24

What am I saying? Hugh isn't the right man. He is the wrong man. He is, in fact, the very definition of “the wrong man.” He is married, he is a politician, and he is twelve years older than me. Wrong, wrong, wrong.

But if that's the case, then why can't I stop thinking about him?

I suppose Harry has been on my mind as well, but only in the sense of
Crap, I need to call Harry and cancel our date
or
Ugh, I still haven't called Harry; I really need to get on that
. It really isn't the same thing.

On Thursday evening, I manage to get Harry on the phone, bracing myself for the inevitable disappointment in his voice.

“This dinner came out of nowhere,” I say. “But she's my boss, so I kind of have to do it.”

“I understand,” he says, though, as expected, he doesn't sound thrilled. “Shall we try for a third attempt? Or is this your polite way of telling me you're not interested?”

“No—that isn't it at all. I promise. I'd still love to meet up.”

This is sort of true. I genuinely liked him when we met a few weeks back, and I feel like a huge jerk for constantly canceling on him. But ever since the incident on Tuesday night, Hugh has been pumping through my veins like a virus, an infection I can't seem to shake. Sometimes, in the middle of sautéing Brussels sprouts or chopping an onion, I'll flashback to his thumb grazing my inner thigh or his lips lingering on my neck, and my hands will start shaking, my skin so hot I need to open the refrigerator to cool down. But no matter how phony his marriage is, Hugh still isn't available, and Harry is, which means I should at least give him a shot.

“What about next weekend?” Harry suggests. “I'm free Saturday night.”

“Me too. You pick the place, and I'll be there.”

“Unless you cancel again,” he says.

“I won't cancel—I swear.”

“Famous last words . . .”

“I guess swearing is a little risky. For all I know, my boss will ask me to build a replica of Buckingham Palace out of macarons.”

“Is that even possible?”

“I have no idea. Which probably means she'll ask me to do it.”

“Well, if she does, I could always keep you company while you assemble the balcony. Or, you know, make a macaron stick figure of Prince Charles.”

“I'll hold you to that.”

“I hope so.”

My shoulders relax. “I'll call you next week, okay? We can discuss the details—whether they entail French cookies or not.”

“Sounds brilliant. I look forward to it. In the meantime, let's hope you don't come down with some terrible virus.”

“Let's hope not,” I say, wondering if he knows I already have.

 

The next day, I start drawing up a menu for Natasha's tapas party. Apparently the number is now up to fourteen, which wouldn't be a problem if she had requested something like a roast or a pasta dish, but for tapas, I now have to make a million little things, and I have one day to figure out what they will be. Everyone always assumes hors d'oeuvres or tapas parties are easier because you don't have to roast a massive slab of beef or braise a huge pot of pork, but really, making lots of little dishes involves infinitely more work, even more so when there are more than a dozen guests.

I decide to make a massive tortilla española, since that's something I can prepare in advance and serve warm or at room temperature. I add a Manchego and apple salad to the list, along with a watermelon and tomato salad and shrimp and squid
a la plancha
. For fourteen people, I will need a few more vegetable dishes—maybe some roasted red peppers stuffed with goat cheese and a green bean salad with apricots and
jamón Serrano
—along with a few more hot, meaty dishes, like ham
croquetas
and grilled hanger steak. Once I come up with a list Friday afternoon, I send it off to Natasha, who signs off with a perfunctory “Fine.”

Later that evening, I return to my messy flat. Laundry from two days ago still hangs on the drying rack, a disorganized stack of magazines covers the coffee table, and my bed is unmade. This would never be the case if I still lived with Sam. He never went to bed without making sure the counters were wiped down, the laundry was put away, and the day's papers were dumped in the recycling bin. Good old reliable Sam. I miss him. I don't miss us—who I was when I was with him, who we'd become as a couple—but I miss having him as a friend, the person I could always count on. I could use someone like that in my life right now. Meg said I shouldn't e-mail him, but it's been more than two months now. Maybe . . .

No. Meg is right. It isn't fair. I should talk to my brother instead. Actually, I should probably clean my apartment, but I've been meaning to call Stevie since Tuesday night, when everything with Hugh derailed my plans and, apparently, my life. Stevie picks up on the third ring, much to my surprise, given that speaking on the phone is his second least favorite way of communicating after e-mail. Frankly, the only way he really likes to communicate is in person, through mumbles and grunts, preferably while sitting in front of the TV.

“Stevie—hey, it's Kelly.” There is a long pause. “Your sister?” I add, trying to be helpful.

“Yeah, hey, how's it going?” He doesn't sound at all surprised to hear from me, as if I live down the street and am calling for our regular afternoon chat.

“It's going fine. A little hectic. A little crazy working for a movie star.”

“Oh, right, you're working for . . . what's her face . . .”

“Natasha Spencer.”

“Riiiiight.” He lets out a slow and sloppy laugh. “Man, she's hot.”

“Stevie, are you high?”

“What? No.” He clears his throat. “Barely a joint. It's cool.”

“What time is it?” I glance at my clock. “It's one thirty in Ypsilanti right now. What are you doing smoking a joint at one thirty in the afternoon?”

“It's Friday.” He titters. “Friiiday.”

“Stevie . . .”

“I told you—stop calling me Stevie. It's Steve.”

“Okay, Steve. Maybe you shouldn't be smoking joints at one thirty in the afternoon, Steve. Maybe you should be studying, Steve.”

“Studying for what?”

“What do you mean ‘for what'? For school.”

“Oh. Right. Nah, I'm taking some time off.”

“Time off? You mean you dropped out?”

“For now.”

“Why?”

“It wasn't working out. And I wanted to have the summer off.”

“Stevie—sorry, Steve. You're twenty-freaking-five. Why are you trying to draw this out as long as possible? Just get the degree and be done with it.”

“And then what?”

“Oh, I don't know—get a job?”

“But I already have a job.”

“Cleaning the deep-fryer at Abe's Coney Island.”

“I'm beyond that now, thank you very much. I run the entire deep-fry station.”

“That isn't the kind of job I'm talking about. I basically had that job when I was fourteen.”

“Well, excuse me for not being as brilliant and successful as you.”

“That's not what I'm saying. You're better than a job at the Coney Island. You're too smart for that.”

“I take it you haven't seen my college transcript. . . .”

“I'm not talking about grades. I'm talking about smarts.” I click my tongue. “You're just like Dad.”

“What did you just say?” His voice is suddenly sharp.

“I said you're just like Dad—never wanting to apply yourself, always settling for ‘honest' work, when really you're too afraid to do anything remotely challenging because you don't want to fail at it.”

“That isn't true.”

“It is, and you know it.”

He huffs. “So is this why you called? To check up on me? To harass me?”

I take a long, deep breath, thinking back to my mom's letter and her request for me to keep an eye on Stevie. That wasn't my initial reason for calling, but now that I've called, I'm glad I did. Somebody needs to look out for this kid, and it sure as hell isn't going to be my father.

“No,” I say. “I called because I wanted to talk to you about Irene O'Malley.”

He snickers. “What about her?”

“Did you know she's living with Dad?”

“What do you mean ‘living'?”

“Sleeping under the same roof. Cohabiting. Shacking up.”

He goes silent. “Wait. Hang on. Dad's banging Irene O'Malley?”

“I don't know that they're ‘banging,'” I say, trying to dismiss that foul image from my mind. “But she's sleeping in my old room. And every time I call the house, she's there. Has she not been there when you've visited?”

“I haven't really visited.”

I start. “Why not?”

“Because Dad has been so weird ever since Mom died. Seeing him like that . . . it just makes me sad. I don't need that.”

“Maybe he'd be less sad if you were around.”

“Because we were always so close . . .”

Dad and Stevie's relationship was a little like my mom's and mine, insofar as it was complicated and layered and somewhat fraught. Stevie was more like my mom—a partier, a social butterfly—whereas I was more like my dad, minus the cynicism and ennui. If Stevie had been the kind of kid who wanted to read
X-Men
or
The Avengers,
my dad would gladly have taken him under his wing. But Stevie just wanted to hang with his friends and smoke pot, and my dad had no idea what to do with him. I think Stevie always mistook my dad's incompetence for a lack of interest, so instead of extending an olive branch, Stevie withdrew from him further.

“Would you rather have Mom's nemesis sinking her claws into our father?” I ask.

“No. Irene is kind of the worst.”

“Exactly. So you and I need to find a way to get her out of that house. Any ideas?”

“Other than hiring another chick to stand in her place?”

“Yes, please, other than that.”

He hums into the phone. “I don't know. I'll think on it.”

“Great. I'll do the same. We can catch up some time next week and trade ideas.”

“Cool,” he says. “And I promise I won't be high next time.”

“Thank you.” I pull at a thread on the hem of my shirt. “I mean what I said, by the way. About your being smart.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah . . .”

“I'm serious. Don't settle because you think it'll prevent you from being disappointed in life. Trust me—disappointment finds all of us, one way or another. Better to have—”

“. . . loved and lost than never to have loved at all.”

Not exactly what I was going for, but okay. “Something like that,” I say.

“I got it. Message received.” He yawns. “Anyway, have fun in jolly old England. Oh, and do you think you could snag Natasha's autograph for me?”

“Probably.”

“Sweet. Tell her a shot from
The Devil's Kiss
used to be my screen saver. I used to jerk off to it all the time.”

“Stevie!”

“Steve.”

“Whatever! Ick! Gross!”

He lets out a lazy laugh. “I'm your little brother. Grossing you out is my job.”

I groan and concede that whatever failures Steve has experienced in his life, annoying me has been, and will always be, one of his great achievements.

 

Thirty minutes before Natasha's guests arrive Saturday night, she enters the kitchen, her sleeveless silk duster jacket fluttering behind her. The jacket is a rich cream, and beneath it she wears a plunging sleeveless black top and black cigarette pants. She tosses her long, dark waves over her shoulder as she marches toward me in her black stilettos.

“Where are you planning to put the stuffed dates?” she asks.

I freeze halfway through transferring the early makings of a ham croquette to a plate. “What stuffed dates?”

“The ones stuffed with almonds and blue cheese and wrapped in bacon.”

This was not one of the recipes we agreed to.

“There . . . are no stuffed dates. They weren't on the menu.”

“Are you on drugs? Of course they were. I've literally never had tapas where there weren't stuffed dates on the menu.”

I wipe my hands on my apron and pull out a copy of the menu I sent her yesterday afternoon.

 

Spanish olives

Boquerones

Apple and Manchego salad with toasted walnuts

Tomato and watermelon salad

Green bean salad with apricots and
jamón Serrano

Tortilla española

Squid and shrimp
a la plancha

Grilled hanger steak with salsa verde

Raw sheep's milk cheese with quince paste, chocolate-fig jam, & fruit-and-nut toasts

She grabs the paper from my hand. “What is this?”

“The menu you approved yesterday.”

She looks at the list, then up at me, her expression just shy of ferocious. “Are you challenging me?”

“No, I'm just. . . .”

“You're just what?”

Calling you insane
.

“I guess I misunderstood,” I finally say.

“Perfect. Perfect!” She lets out a dramatic cry as she looks at the clock. “What the hell am I supposed to do now? Everyone will be here in twenty minutes.”