Aftertaste Page 11

  “We don’t just think it, we know it.”

  “I’m curious, just how did you arrive at that number? Did you just pull it ‘out of the air’ or was that based on a careful economic review of the financials?” Jerry leans forward and furrows his brow, apparently enjoying himself.

  “I can assure you that we did a thorough review of the financials, and that review confirms that this buyout price is more than fair. Quite generous, in fact,” Ethan says, picking up confidence as he hears himself talk.

  “Okay, great. Your word is good enough for me. In that case, my client will agree to the price. Only we will suggest just one change. Instead of Mr. Shaw buying Ms. Rinaldi out, Ms. Rinaldi will buy Mr. Shaw out—at this very generous price.”

  I cannot help feeling respect and admiration for Jerry’s skill as the trap is sprung. Ethan’s broad smile quickly changes to a surprised scowl as it visibly dawns on him that he has been hoisted on his own petard. Jake, who is slower on the uptake, just sits with his jaw hanging wide open.

  This is why I’m paying Jerry five hundred dollars an hour.

  Jerry finishes with a cavalier shake of his head and lifts his open palms as if to say, “Who knew?” Jake exhales forcibly, his mouth now set in a grim line. Despite what a “generous” offer it is, for some reason Ethan does not even have to consult with his client before responding: “No deal.”

  “What’s the matter? Don’t you like the number?” Jerry’s voice is light, teasing even, a look of feigned surprise slowly spreading across his well-trained face.

  I can detect a thin, almost imperceptible sheen of sweat on Jake’s furrowed brow. I can feel his eyes on me, too. Determined not to meet his gaze, I busy myself with removing stray traces of dried pasta dough from beneath my fingernails. Jake scribbles a note and passes it to Ethan. Ignoring Jerry’s challenge, Ethan uses the note as an excuse to regroup. “Please give me a moment to confer with my client,” he says.

  After a brief, whispered conference, Ethan turns to Jerry and says, a little too good-naturedly, “We are approaching year’s end, and my client feels that the financials we have to date may not anticipate the profits realized by the last quarter, and that, as you know, will impact the value of the buyout. Somehow, despite the economy, all signs indicate the biggest year for Grappa yet. So it seems that the number we have previously given you, while more than generous based on historical statistics, in fact”—Ethan pauses to clear his throat—“may not have adequately valued Grappa’s future potential.”

  “Okay, so give us a new number.” Jerry leans back into his swivel chair, removes his glasses, and carefully chews the plastic-coated earpiece.

  This time Ethan looks at Jake, who gives a slight shake of the head. “Before we get to throwing out numbers here, I think we need to clarify exactly whose offer is on the table. Who is buying out whom?”

  Without realizing it, I’ve been holding my breath, and as this last, thinly concealed challenge is tossed our way by Ethan Bowman, I exhale deeply, audibly. Jerry glances at me and flashes me a cautionary look.

  “Exactly,” says Jerry, who begins to rock gently in his swivel chair, letting the single word he has spoken hang like an odor, crisp and pungent, in the air. The only noise in the room is the squeak of the ball bearing in Jerry’s leather armchair. Jerry appears to be the only one not bothered by the silence. The rest of us shift uncomfortably in our seats.

  After a minute Ethan continues in an oily voice. “Well, my client feels that his work, in large measure, is responsible for Grappa’s success. Not only does he have an inspiring pedigree and an excellent reputation, he is the signature chef. He is the person whose food people come to eat. Without him, Grappa’s continued success is, I’m afraid, a very open question.”

  “What! Jake, how can you let him—” Jerry quickly cuts me off.

  “Mira, it’s okay. I’ll handle it,” Jerry says, his hand resting firmly on my forearm.

  Ethan Bowman, the beast, has the nerve to smile at me as he reaches across the table and plucks a cream-filled donut from the plate. It’s a smirk really, filled with bravura. Having lost round one to Jerry, Ethan apparently is now taking great delight in dangling an appendage dangerously close to the lion’s cage and emerging, thus far at least, covered only in powdered sugar. Jake, at whom I’m now glaring, has poured himself a cup of coffee and is now reading the Equal package like it was a best seller.

  “Ethan, as you and Mr. Shaw are undoubtedly aware, Ms. Rinaldi has been in charge of running the restaurant, managing the personnel, handling the lion’s share of contacts with outside purveyors, and overseeing the financial aspects of running a successful business. In fact, since the parties’ separation, Ms. Rinaldi has completely taken over the management of the restaurant, as well as continuing to run the kitchen during lunch five days a week, without much input or cooperation from your client. This, as you know, is a massive undertaking and one that my client has demonstrated considerable talent for. In addition to being an excellent cook, Ms. Rinaldi is also a shrewd businesswoman. One who, frankly, has some concerns about the continued good health of the restaurant should Mr. Shaw take over. There are no assurances that, absent her excellent management skills, Grappa will continue to prosper.”

  I permit myself another breath, satisfied that, at least for the time being, Jerry has managed to hold his own against Bowman’s spurious assertions.

  Ethan takes a bite out of the donut as he considers his next move. Wiping his mouth, and all traces of the smile, he turns to look from me to Jerry. “Of course, I’m by no means suggesting that in the past Ms. Rinaldi has made anything but a valuable contribution toward Grappa’s success. One must consider, however, that lately your client has been known to have some, ah, difficulty controlling her emotions, which has, regrettably, hampered productive communication between the parties.” Ethan pauses for effect, following the delivery of this last, fascinating tidbit, no doubt to allow his none-too-subtle dig at my anger-management sentence to fully register. “Her taking over the management of the restaurant, as you contend,” he continues, “is not the result of any failing on my client’s part. She has not assumed these responsibilities because my client has been derelict in his duties. Quite the contrary, in fact. She has bulldozed her way onto my client’s turf, making decisions, important decisions, without consulting him. Most recently, her inability to communicate resulted in a disastrous day for the restaurant, and more disastrous days like that could quickly lose the goodwill that Grappa has taken years to accumulate.”

  Unable to look at Ethan, I grip the armrests of the chair while keeping my gaze riveted on a crumb that has fallen from Ethan’s pathetic maw to the table in front of him, wishing all the while that I had paid more attention in anger-management class. I loathe him. Hate him for representing Jake, for believing Jake enough to spout these lies.

  I look up at Jake, who is in the process of adding a third packet of Equal to his coffee. It is clear to me that even Jake knows this isn’t true. It’s simply too much.

  “Jake, how can you sit there and let him say this. I tried to talk to you. . . .”

  Jerry’s hand is on my arm again, but I shrug it off. I will not be reined in this time.

  Ethan clears his throat uncomfortably as I continue, my eyes boring into Jake, my voice rising against my will, as I challenge Ethan’s ridiculous interpretation of the events and deliver my own unwavering version of the truth—that Nicola removed those orders in a direct move to sabotage the restaurant. However, it’s obvious that Jake isn’t going to acknowledge what even he must now suspect is true. He sinks into his chair, withdrawing into the too-big collar of his shirt. Jerry stands up and puts a hand on my shoulder. “May we have a minute, please?” he says to Ethan and Jake.

  Ethan picks up his donut as Jerry propels me out into the hallway. He closes the door and leans against it, facing me with his arms folded. “Jesus, Mira. Get a grip. I know this is hard, but use your head. This is posturing, pure and simple
. And you have just played into their hands. They make a comment about your emotional volatility and suddenly you turn into the Incredible Hulk.” Jerry takes off his glasses and begins massaging his temples. “How about we listen to their next move and see where it leads. Do you think you can just let me do the talking? I promise not to agree to anything without talking with you about it, okay?” Tight-lipped and abashed, I nod.

  Jerry gestures toward the door. “Are you ready, or do you want to take a couple more minutes?”

  “He’s a dreadful man, who is taking considerable pleasure in baiting me. I would like to ram that donut down his porcine throat.” I’m muttering, through clenched teeth, to no one in particular, and my breath is coming in quick gusts.

  Jerry puts his hand on my shoulder and gives me an incredulous look. “Ethan? Are you talking about Ethan? Mira, don’t be silly. Don’t let him get to you. He’s baiting you because he can. Don’t let him. I’ve seen him do much worse. Take a deep breath or something. Let it go.” Wish it were that simple.

  “And what about Nicola? She’s the one who screwed up. That whole thing was her fault, not mine. She’s the one who didn’t deliver those orders.” My voice is strained and rising to an uncomfortable pitch as I threaten Jerry with a pointed finger.

  He raises his arms in mock surrender. “Mira, my suggestion is that we stay away from Nicola altogether. It doesn’t matter whose fault it was, okay? Let it go. Do you think you can do that, at least for these negotiations?”

  “Fine,” I tell him. I will keep myself quiet and under control even if I have to superglue my lips shut.

  Ethan and Jake are in the midst of their own powwow, heads bent together, while Ethan scribbles furiously on the yellow legal pad between them. The table is covered in powdered sugar. When we enter the room, Ethan flips the page to display a blank one, and Jake slides a couple of inches back over to his side of the table.

  “Ready?” Ethan chirps innocently.

  We are barely ensconced on our side of the table when Ethan continues. “It appears we may have inadvertently hit a hot button. Of course, both Mr. Shaw and Ms. Rinaldi are responsible for Grappa’s success, and although it’s certainly regrettable that the parties can no longer remain married, the fact remains that the present arrangement is not the best possible one for Grappa, on which both parties rely for their livelihood. Income is a significant concern to both our clients. There is, after all, a child concerned.”

  “Precisely,” Jerry continues, his tone suddenly impatient. “Both parties apparently want the restaurant, and it’s clear that continuing on as they have been is not good for them or Grappa’s long-term financial health. Okay, one obvious option would be for Mr. Shaw and Ms. Rinaldi to both agree to sell the restaurant to an independent third party. Which does not,” Jerry pauses for a second, looking from Jake to me and noting our stiffened postures at the mere suggestion, “appear to be the preferred option. Therefore, after our own careful review of the financials we have come up with what we think is a fair and equitable compromise.”

  “We’re listening,” Ethan says, rubbing his jaw with his hand, leaving a thin sheen of powdered sugar across one of his chins.

  “No more quibbling about price. My client will set the present value of the restaurant and four-year payment terms. Mr. Shaw gets to decide whether he wants to buy her share or sell his share at half the total restaurant value. The purchasing party also assumes one hundred percent of the existing assets, mortgage, and other debt.”

  Jerry, who delivers this small missile with a “let’s go” attitude, picks up his pen and leans forward. His expectant gaze this time is fixed on Jake, who, I note with pleasure, looks totally flummoxed by Jerry’s suggestion. Jake swivels to look at Ethan, who ignores him. So focused is Ethan on Jerry that he slowly puts down his latest donut, which he had been about to take a bite of, and stares at Jerry with a furrowed brow. It takes him several seconds before the idea fully registers.

  “An interesting idea.” Ethan sounds genuinely surprised by Jerry’s offer and cannot quite manage to keep the admiration out of his voice. At least he recognizes a creative offer when he hears one. “Ms. Rinaldi sets the price and payout terms, and Mr. Shaw decides to buy out or sell?” Ethan says this speculatively, weighing each word, moving slowly so that Jake might take it in. Jake, who has now leaned in toward Ethan, is gesturing with the yellow legal pad, on which he’s scribbled something. Ethan turns toward Jake, and the two of them exchange a couple of words. “Okay, we’re in,” he says with a smile, before continuing. “And have you and Ms. Rinaldi, by chance, developed a price and a payout proposal we might consider?” It is clear from the way Ethan says this that he knows we have, and he now turns his gaze from Jerry to me. This time there’s no trace of condescension, only a speculative gleam in his eyes. It’s apparent in the attention with which he holds my gaze that he understands he has underestimated my resolve. I toss a small smile in his direction that I hope he finds unnerving.

  “As a matter of fact, gentlemen, she has. After careful consideration, the value of Grappa is set at $2.5 million.”

  chapter 11

  Whatever I would have expected to feel at this moment, excitement, sadness, anger, frustration, exhilaration, is suddenly obscured by a sudden and almost uncontrollable urge for a bowl of escarole soup. Rich chicken stock, bitter escarole, the freshly grated Parmigiano Reggiano. Lots of black pepper. Some crusty warm bread and a glass of red wine. A big one. I look over at Jake, wondering if this is a natural foodie reaction, but one look tells me that Jake isn’t thinking about food. Unless, perhaps it’s me, roasting on a spit. From across the table I can see the vein in his forehead pulsating, and he’s rubbing it like it hurts. Rubbing it with his burned, scarred, and calloused hands. Hands I loved.

  Following the dropping of this latest bomb, and Jerry’s explanation of the payment timing, the meeting is over quickly. Ethan promises to be in touch once they have had time to fully digest our proposal. The four of us stand, and Ethan and Jerry shake hands. Ethan offers me his hand, and I shake it as well, though I don’t want to. Jerry and Jake shake, leaving Jake and me to stand there, with our arms dangling awkwardly by our sides, looking like the emotionally stunted fools we undoubtedly are.

  Jerry detains me on the way out. “It couldn’t have gone better, Mira. We’ve got them squirming. Something tells me we’ll be hearing from them soon.” Jerry’s secretary waylays him on the way out of the conference room and hands him a sheaf of pink message slips. As Jerry flips through them, she calls over her shoulder, “You’re late for your eleven o’clock conference call.” Jerry says a hasty good-bye and hurries off, promising to call me as soon as he hears from Ethan.

  I glance at my watch. Lunch starts in less than an hour, barely enough time for me to make it back down to Lower Manhattan and change my clothes. I call Tony from my cell phone to tell him I’m on my way, asking before we hang up how much escarole we have in the walk-in. I’m in the mood to pamper myself, and today I’ve decided that the only thing that will satisfy me, apart, of course, from Jake’s instant capitulation, is the crisp, bitter flavor of that soup. Also, lunch will likely be the only opportunity I have to eat today, because right after lunch I have to attend another anger-management class.

  Because I don’t want to run the risk of having to ride down in the elevator with Jake and Ethan, I make a stop in the ladies’ room, hopefully allowing them time to vacate the building. I wash my hands, trying to avoid looking at myself in the mirror. I’m uncomfortable in this constricting power suit, a pre-pregnancy outfit I had unearthed in the wee hours of the morning, the jacket of which, unbuttoned, is tight across my back. As I bend over the sink, I can hear a small, ominous rip somewhere in the jacket’s recesses. My hair has come loose, and there are dark circles under my eyes, courtesy of the TV Land, wine and Valium cocktail I’d subjected myself to in preparation for this morning’s meeting.

  On my way out of the building, I see Jake, Ethan, and Nicola sta
nding smack in the middle of the path out of the revolving door. So, she had been here, lurking around somewhere. Even from this distance I can see Jake’s grim expression; he is talking animatedly, and his energetic gesticulations are causing people exiting the revolving door to have to duck to avoid being taken out by an errant swipe. Nicola has one arm linked through Jake’s, her other arm resting consolingly on his chest.

  Obviously, I can’t take the revolving door without running smack into them, so instead I walk around to the other door, meaning that, once out of the building, I’ll have to walk past them. Shit. I wish my jacket fit better and that I’d taken a minute to fix my hair, particularly since Nicola, as usual, is dressed to the nines. She’s wearing a long orange sweater and a faux Pucci scarf over black pants and boots with stiletto heels. On my way out of the building I reach into my bag, rummaging for a baseball cap or an umbrella, anything that might allow me to pass them unnoticed, but luckily the three of them are far too absorbed in their strategizing to notice me at all. On my way by, I can’t resist sneaking a look at her. Just as I’m about to pass them, Jake reaches across and gives Nicola’s stomach a gentle pat. It’s an intimate gesture and an unusual one. It takes a couple of seconds for my brain to fully register its implication; my body, as usual, is one step ahead. It begins as a chill at the base of my spine, quickly spreading its icy tentacles through my arms and legs. Luckily, the crowd passing in front of the building jostles me along; otherwise I might have stood frozen and rooted to the spot. Could it be?

  I make it to the corner of Fifty-fourth and Fifth before I stop to hail a taxi. I slump back into the lumpy vinyl seat. I haven’t seen Nicola in months, except for that day at the restaurant, and then she had been wearing baggy pants and a chef’s tunic. Perhaps no accident, but pregnant? That couldn’t be. It simply couldn’t be. Jake had made it absolutely clear, at least after the fact, that he didn’t want children, that he had no desire to be a father. Hadn’t he?