When in Doubt, Add Butter (11 page)

She made a miserable face but snuggled in closer to him.

Well, yes, it was always timing, wasn’t it?

Everything in life comes down to timing. Stopping at a yellow light instead of accelerating sometimes makes the difference between life and death.

Problem is, you never know whether you’re better off stopping or blasting through. Maybe I should have stopped a long time ago.

And, for just a minute, I really did feel like maybe I’d waited too long, focused too much on my career, and had inadvertently let something important slip away.

Chapter 7

Ah … Mr. Tuesday’s apartment.

Its cool darkness was a welcome relief after walking in from an unseasonably hot October afternoon. It always felt like leather and soap and masculinity in there, probably less because of the furniture than because of whatever the cleaning lady used. Still, it was a distinctly dignified, manly feel that I loved.

I went to the kitchen area and turned on the overhead lights, bringing the room to life in filmworthy hues and textures. The black granite countertops gleamed, the brushed stainless steel appliances seemed to glow, the hardwood floors shone without a nick or scratch. Inside the fridge was sparkling clean, with a line of Sam Adams beers, the usual condiments on the door, milk, eggs, bacon, yogurt, fruit, and a jar of Wickles Pickles, coincidentally my favorite.

Either he was the tidiest man on earth or his cleaning lady also came on Tuesdays, because the place looked like a showroom every time I came in. I’m pretty sure it was the latter, though I can’t say why I had that impression about someone I’d never met. Maybe it was the way the notes he left for me each week always seemed rushed and written in a messy scrawl.

Today’s was no exception.

G—

Thanks for the roast chicken. It was awesome, as usual. But maybe next time you don’t need to put in quite as much garlic.

I smelled like a buzzard all week.

—P

I smiled and shook my head. He didn’t want me to put so much garlic in the chicken that calls for forty cloves of garlic? Would thirty-nine have been better?

I don’t trust people who don’t like garlic.

Of course, he always seemed to have a little something to say about everything I left for him. They weren’t really
complaints,
exactly, just comments. I suspected he might have been goosing me sometimes, just to get a rise out of me. I mean, the buzzard thing
was
kind of funny, though arguably obnoxious.

Slightly disgruntled, I took out the four frozen meals I’d prepared for him over the weekend and put them in the freezer, clipping the instruction sheet I’d typed to a magnet on the side of the fridge.

Then I took out the ingredients I’d brought for tonight’s hot meat loaf dinner and laid everything on the counter.

Look, I know everyone thinks their meat loaf is the best, but mine really is. For one thing, I use all beef—no veal, no pork. Why add complication or moral questionability if you don’t have to? I make a ketchup and molasses glaze that is to die for, and I don’t wrap it in bacon, because as great as bacon is for just about every reason, I don’t love it withered and stringy around a filet mignon or draped like a limp dick over a meat loaf.

If your meat loaf depends on it, then forgive me. I’m sure it’s excellent.

Mine’s just better.

I heated some butter in a large Dutch oven on the stove and took out an onion and celery and my handy chef’s knife and started to dice. Unlike the lively voices at the Olekseis’ on Wednesdays, or the usually tense undertones of argument at the Van Houghtens’, and even the constant din of traffic outside the thin walls of my own condo, the entire place was completely silent except for the quiet, rhythmic chopping and the subtle crisp yielding of the onion to the blade.

It was interrupted by my ringing phone. I set down the knife, wiped my hands on my apron, and took the phone out of my purse. It was him, Paul McMann, Mr. Tuesday himself.

“Hello?”

“Gemma.” He always sounded so stern when he said my name. It used to give me pause every time. Now I knew it was just his way. Probably the lawyer in him.

I lowered my voice and imitated his tone. “Yes.”

He laughed, obviously recognizing the fact that he was being mocked. “Are you at my place?”

“Yup.”

“What are you doing?”

“Just rifling through the drawers and writing rude things on your underwear in Sharpie.” I don’t know what it was about him that made me so obnoxious, but we probably spoke at least every other week, and it always went like this. He was always walking through a noisy office, and half the time I couldn’t hear him.

“Again?”

“What can I say? I’m a one-trick pony.”

“Just make sure you write on the outside this time. I really had to jump through hoops to show it to people last time. I was nearly arrested.”

“Ahh, good point.”

“So what are you making this week?”

“Garlic meat loaf. With a side of garlic mashed potatoes. Garlic green beans. Maybe some garlic gelato for dessert.”

“Good, you got my note.”

“Yes, I got your note.”

“Hey, look, I hate to ask—but maybe you could take a few minutes to make garlic muffins for breakfast?”

“Consider it done.”

“All right. Well, here’s the reason I’m calling. I’m expecting some really important papers to be couriered over, and they were supposed to bring them to the office, but there was a snafu and the courier is on his way to the apartment instead. I’m on my way out now and will be home before I get back here, so there’s no point in having him rerouted. Would you mind waiting and signing for them? I’ll pay you for any extra time you have to spend there, obviously.”

Like I said, I never minded spending time there. “No problem,” I said. “Don’t worry about paying extra for my time. I’m waiting for the meat loaf to cook, anyway.”

“You’re a doll.”

I had to smile. “Thanks. The ransom for the papers might be pretty steep, though.”

“Will a hundred thousand in small, unmarked bills do?”

This time I laughed. “For now. Where do you want me to leave them?”

“The desk in the study?”

“You got it.”

“Great, thanks. I really do appreciate it. Maybe you could text me when they get there.”

“Sure thing.”

“You are the best.” He sounded seriously relieved. “It’s been a crazy week here, I’m glad there’s at least one damn thing I don’t have to worry about.”

I smiled to myself. This was, after all, what I found most gratifying about this business. As clichéd as it was—and as big a setback for feminist values—I really liked taking care of people and making things easier and nicer for them. I’m not even sure you could call it generosity on my part, since I got such a charge out of being needed and indispensable in some small way now and then.

To me, this was like having one of the more gratifying parts of a romantic relationship without all the hassle.

“Don’t worry about it,” I said. “It’s really not a problem.”

“Now, get back to your garlic extravaganza.”

“The vampires are cowering in anticipation.”

“Ah, yes, an added benefit.” He laughed. “I will repel vampires
and
women.”

“You’re welcome!”

We hung up and I went back to work but found myself smiling. He was a pain in the neck in a lot of ways—I mean, seriously, not so much garlic in the garlic chicken next time? He might as well have asked me to make it less “chickeny,” too. But then again, he was the most
normal
out of all the people I worked for, and there were many weeks where that fact alone saved my sanity. And even when he was being finicky, he was amusing.

The butter was getting too brown, so I turned the burner down and went back to chopping the vegetables and putting the rest of the ingredients together. It was easy to get lost in the simplicity of this task. It was like the old Buddhist “chop wood and carry water” thing—and it had saved me from heartbreak, depression, and stress time and again.

I assembled the meat loaf and put it in the oven, then started working on the glaze. Ketchup doesn’t usually excite me. I
use
it, I do put it on my burgers, and I like to dip my fries in ketchup and mayonnaise sometimes, but as an ingredient, it doesn’t normally make my heart sing. As an ingredient in the meat loaf glaze, however, it is operatic. I mixed together the ketchup, molasses, cider vinegar, and a few spices in a small saucepan, turned up the heat, and waited for it to start bubbling and reducing down to a thick confection.

Slowly it morphed from orangey red to deep mahogany, and the smell—tangy and savory but with that hint of sweet—filled the kitchen. This was the real key to meat loaf—the almost candied glazing on the top. My ideal meal would be the semi-chewy top of a broiled glazed meat loaf; the crispy, buttery, cheesy top of macaroni and cheese; and the fragile, sweet, crumbly top of brownies.

I also save the top of Hostess cupcakes for last because that’s the best part.

I’m a topper, I guess.

I tasted the glaze. It was perfect. Bliss. So I turned the burner off and looked around for something to do.

It would still be an hour before the meat loaf was ready, and I would normally go out and get shopping and whatnot done in the neighborhood while I waited, but since he needed me to be here for the courier, I went into the living room to look for something to read.

There were two large dark wooden bookcases full of books. Hemingway, Joseph Conrad, a few Kinky Friedman mystery novels, and a bunch of tomes on economics and investments.

There was also a photo of an unbelievably hot guy standing in a tropical setting with his arm around a ridiculously thin, pretty blonde. Mr. Tuesday, I assumed, though I didn’t know who the woman was. I hadn’t seen any obvious signs of a feminine presence here, but that wasn’t to say she didn’t have a drawer in his bedroom and maybe a few inches of closet space.

Even though much of my work involved having a key to my clients’ homes and going in when they weren’t there, I had firm rules about not snooping. For one thing, it’s wrong. Obviously. And for another, you never know when someone has the equivalent of a nanny cam hidden away, waiting for you to slip up. For all I knew, Mr. Tuesday’s edition of
Heart of Darkness
could have a pinhole camera in the spine, recording everything I did every Tuesday.

Actually, it was a creepy thought, and I was pretty sure he wasn’t that interested in what I did.

But standing here, looking at the picture, speculating … there was nothing wrong with
that.

It was impossible to tell how tall he was, but easy to tell that under the tropical print shirt and linen pants he wore in the photo, his body was pretty effing solid. His shoulders were broad and the fabric clung just enough to show that he had a muscular chest. His arms were also powerful looking, wide at the biceps but not flexed. I hate it when guys do that thing for pictures where they’re flexing but they think you don’t know it. For me, the masculinity lies in the guy’s self-confidence in knowing he’s got it, rather than the needy urge to prove it.

Mr. Tuesday had it. His hair was dark and glossy, his jaw strong and square without being cartoonish. His smile was more beautiful than a movie star’s, and his eyes—I couldn’t tell the color—crinkled with laugh lines, which I’ve always found pretty hot.

In short, he was one good-looking man.

Obnoxious, though. Don’t get me wrong; I liked him a lot, but I could tell from our interaction that he’d be a pain in the neck to date.

Not that the option was on the table. Like I said, I don’t date clients. Besides which, even if he didn’t still have the picture of this gorgeous girlfriend displayed—evidence that they were still together, surely—I’d never even met the guy. He was just interesting to try to figure out. A mystery man with a nice voice and plush material surroundings, but no physical body. That is, no physical body I’d ever seen.

As I looked into the eyes of the smiling man, I remembered Mack. Not so technically good-looking as this guy, but man … there was just something about him.

I moved away from the bookshelf and studied the pictures on the walls. Most of them were sort of obscure paintings done by people I’d never heard of. There was an unusual theme of tropical shapes done in dark, almost sinister, muted colors.

The furniture was also dark, and almost everything was that thick, solid mission style. Most of my girlfriends would have found it too masculine for their own tastes, but I liked the clean lines.

I was standing by a table, looking down at the items on it—knowing it was
kind of
snooping, yet following my personal rule not to
touch
anything and not to move anything—when the door buzzed, scaring the crap out of me.

Funny how a guilty conscience will do that to you.

Hand to my pounding heart, I went to the intercom and pressed
TALK.
“Yes?”

“This is Barney with Crowly Couriers. I have a delivery for Mr. McMann?”

“Okay, I’ll buzz you in.” I pushed the button for about ten seconds, assuming that was long enough.

About a minute later, there was a knock at the door. I opened it up to find a pimply young guy with dark red hair and faint blue eyes standing there, holding a large envelope. “Is Mr. McMann here?” he asked, glancing behind me.

“No, I’ll sign for it.”

He looked hesitant and bit his lower lip. “But it’s addressed to Mr. McMann.”

“Right. I’ll make sure he gets it.”

He tucked the envelope under his arm and drew it back, as if I’d reached for it. “I don’t know—”

“Look,” I said, “I’ve been waiting here for an hour and a half to get this parcel, so let me sign for it. He told me to wait. All you need is a signature. Not
his
signature. After all, you’re at
his
apartment, as you know. You made it up here yourself. Obviously, I’m not some sort of thief who broke into the apartment with the hopes that a delivery man would show up with something more interesting than all the stuff that’s in here.”