Aftertaste Page 3

  How had Jake accomplished it, this reversal of feelings, this decision to stop loving me? When did the little things he knew about me, things he had once cherished, or at least, minimally tolerated, turn into insurmountable annoyances? And how had I failed to notice?

  But, regardless of how Jake feels about me, Chloe is still his child, and he should know about his only child’s brush with death. Shouldn’t he? And because it is my duty as the mother of said child to tell him, I pick up the phone.

  Of course, she answers, and of course I’ve woken her. It is, after all, only seven forty-five. Early for them. On nights they close the restaurant, which nowadays is most nights, they don’t get home until after two. Nicola’s voice is deep and sexy with sleep. I wince, squeezing my eyes tightly shut as if I could block out the picture of them in bed together. Fat chance.

  “I need to talk to Jake,” I say with my eyes still clamped shut. Good. To the point, efficient.

  I can feel her hesitate. I think there’s a good chance that she’ll hang up on me. We haven’t seen each other, or even spoken, since that night, and I suppose she still harbors some residual bad feelings, to which, in my opinion, she is totally unentitled. I imagine her hanging up, murmuring in response to Jake’s sleepy query that it had just been a wrong number, while quietly unplugging the phone, severing Jake’s connection to Chloe and me. But she doesn’t. Instead, stifling a yawn, she says, “He isn’t here, Mira.” Of course, a predictable lie.

  “I need to talk to Jake. Could you put him on?” Note: I did not say please.

  Again, she hesitates. “He’s not here.”

  I stop dead. Not there? At seven forty-five in the morning? What did that mean? Was he not living there? Had he left her?

  It isn’t until I have Jake and me back together in an emotional reunion at Chloe’s bedside that I realize Nicola is still speaking.

  “. . . left a few minutes ago. He’s meeting Eddie.” Eddie is our fish man, who occasionally asks us to meet him at the pier, although usually not this early in the morning.

  “He’s going in to the restaurant afterward to, ah, take care of some paperwork. You’ll probably see him at lunch.” Her voice is neutral. She could have been talking to anyone. The fact that she could treat me so evenly is perhaps the most horrible of all. Clearly, I’m no longer a threat. She’s secure enough in Jake’s love that she doesn’t need to fear me in the least.

  I’m silent. It’s now my turn to speak, but the part of my brain governing the pragmatic functions of language is not working at the moment.

  “Mira?” Her voice sounds strained, all vestiges of sleep now gone.

  I don’t answer her. Instead, I hang up the phone.

  Paperwork. Going in early. Something doesn’t sound right. First off, Jake doesn’t do paperwork. That’s my job. Jake and I usually shopped for fruits, vegetables, and fish, taking turns at the markets. Meat orders are phoned or faxed to our suppliers, and we are billed monthly by the various vendors we patronize. Spices, cheeses, olive oil, and condiments are ordered through Renata Brussani. Our bartender/sommelier handles the wine order, faithfully presenting his inventory and monthly statements to me for inspection. I take care of all the bill paying, as Jake considers such details mundane, and therefore beneath his notice. He fancies himself an artist and is perfectly content to leave all the details of running the business to me.

  Lately, though, I’ve sensed Jake looking over my shoulder at the restaurant, trying to figure out what I’m doing. One day last week, I caught him in the office leafing through an inventory of our cookware. And Tuesday he had mentioned to me that we needed to replace the fire extinguishers in the back kitchen, a detail that typically would have totally escaped his notice.

  I’ll try him at the restaurant. Among other things, he needs to know that I’m not going to make it in for lunch. I don’t want to leave Chloe, and I’m exhausted from being up all night. The only other thing I have scheduled today is my meeting with Renata Brussani, the importer who sells us olive oil and cheese. Could it be that Jake wants to be in on my meeting with Renata? Part of his grand plan to take over the restaurant? Luckily, I brought the paperwork home with me, so Jake will have no idea what we need.

  I call Grappa and get our sous-chef, Tony. He tells me Jake isn’t there yet, but he’ll gladly supervise lunch. Tony seems surprised when I tell him that Jake is on his way in this early and promises to have him call me as soon as he gets there.

  My next call is to Renata. She begins her days early, meeting with her clients, most of whom are chefs and restaurateurs, during the early part of the day, before they begin lunch or dinner service. I’ll just ask her to meet me here, at the apartment, instead of at the restaurant.

  For the second time this morning I’m taken aback, when this time a sleepy sounding male voice answers Renata’s phone, and then I remember that she got married a few weeks ago. This must be her husband, whose name I have forgotten. They just got married in Vegas and then threw a huge party at Renata’s Tribeca loft, after the fact. Although I was invited, I didn’t go. I wasn’t ready to celebrate the union of two idealistic people, full of the self-congratulatory tones of those who have found love the second time around. Not while I was still licking the wounds of my own failed marriage.

  Renata picks up the extension. “Buon giorno, Mira, are we still on for ten thirty?” She sounds chipper, all business. She’s probably already dressed to the nines and in full makeup, even though it’s barely eight o’clock in the morning. Renata isn’t really beautiful in a classical sense, although every straight man I know, including Jake, thinks she is. She is sultry and full-figured with a dark, Mediterranean complexion and great, full lips: a young Isabella Rossellini. What most women notice about her is that she dresses impeccably: Italian suits and silk shirts (invariably open to reveal an impressive décolletage), and I can’t recall ever seeing her without a scarf and earrings. I look down with disgust at my purpletinted, vomit-stained sweat suit.

  “Sure, I’m all ready to go, but the thing is, Chloe’s sick and I can’t leave her. She was in the emergency room last night, actually. Would you mind coming to the apartment? I’ve got everything here, at home.”

  “Is she okay? Are you sure you don’t want to reschedule?” she asks.

  “No, no, we’re fine. I’d just as soon get the order in. We would have to close our doors if we ran out of Parmigiano-Reggiano. You know, Jake has a liberal hand.”

  “Yes, I do, God bless him.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t go that far.”

  She laughs. “Whoops, sorry, I forgot—the bastard.”

  Over the years Renata and I have developed a social relationship. She proved herself to be an invaluable advisor on a number of occasions throughout Grappa’s early stages, and we’ve become good friends over the last few years. I nursed her through a couple of bad breakups, including one marriage, and she has been supportive of me during this recent unpleasantness with Jake, at least insofar as someone as self-obsessed as Renata can be. But she’s also a shrewd businesswoman, and I suspect that if Jake ever did manage to wrest control of the restaurant from me, Renata would continue to make sure his needs, at least for oil and cheese, were spectacularly met. Nevertheless, it’s hard not to like Renata. Among other things, one has to admire her business acumen. She broke into an incredibly tight market in a male-dominated profession through sheer smarts, perseverance, and impeccable food sense. Yet, despite her closet full of Fendi handbags and Ferragamo shoes, Renata comes from a family of simple people who were sheep farmers in the foothills of Abruzzo for centuries. At heart, Renata is a simple girl who, when no one is looking, likes to roll up her sleeves, eat big bowls of pasta with sausage, and spit olive pits out the window of her chic Tribeca loft.

  I don’t ask her about married life, feeling sure that during our meeting she will treat me to all of the details I can stomach. Renata has a way with men. She was actually the first to warn me about Nicola. At one of our meetings, shortly af
ter I hired Nicola, I introduced Renata to our newest employee. They had greeted each other cordially, each appraising the other in the way that only women who know their own power can do.

  “Mira,” Renata had hissed when we were out of earshot, “are you out of your mind? What were you thinking?” I was seven months pregnant at the time and tired. Nicola was barely a whisper in my hormone-clouded head. In retrospect, I wonder if perhaps Renata had seen something in Jake, some evidence of his wandering eye. Attractive women always know when they have the attention of a man. At the time I considered what she said, but then dismissed it, so blind was I to the possibility that Jake could love anyone else.

  We push back the meeting to eleven thirty, which gives me a little extra time to get cleaned up and feed Chloe, if she awakens before Renata arrives. When Renata volunteers to bring lunch, I don’t refuse. I hang up feeling full of good intentions. After a shower I’ll feel more human, and then there is the prospect of a sumptuous lunch. I’ll even whip up a batch of hazelnut biscotti, which we can have with a little espresso for dessert.

  My train of thought is interrupted by the ringing phone. The cordless handset slipped in between the cushions of the sofa when I set it down, and as I fumble for it, the answering machine picks up. “Mira, it’s Jake. It’s almost nine. I don’t know if I’ll have another chance to talk before lunch—”

  I switch on the handset. “Hello, Jake,” I say, trying to sound calm and collected.

  “It’s Jake.”

  “I know, you said.” Neither of us says anything for a few seconds.

  “I got a couple of messages that you called. Tony said something about the baby being sick.”

  I want to tell him that she has a name and that it would be nice if occasionally he would use it. “Yeah, Chloe has some sort of virus. I took her to the hospital in the middle of the night when her fever hit a hundred and five.”

  “Jesus, is she okay?”

  I want to tell him that I was worried and scared, but I don’t do that either. “I think so. We’re home now. Her fever is down, and she’s sleeping. I think she’s going to be all right.”

  “Wow,” is all Jake can think to say.

  “Actually, I don’t think we could have made it to the ER any faster in an ambulance. Crazy Manhattan cabbies. Good thing, too, because she started convulsing on the way over. As soon as we got there they gave her an IV drip, you know, to rehydrate her.” Who is this person casually tossing around big medical terms?

  “Well, I’m here. Lunch is covered,” Jake says.

  I can’t think of anything else to say, but I don’t want to hang up yet. “What’s up with Eddie?”

  “Black bass,” he says, after a pause. “Beautiful stuff.”

  “What are you going to do with it?” I ask, and for a minute we slip into our old ways. Talking food. He’s animated as he tells me that he’s thinking of roasting it on a bed of caramelized fennel and leeks.

  “If there’s any left you might think about a cioppino for lunch tomorrow,” he finishes, embarrassed that he’s let himself go like that. I am, he has just remembered, the enemy.

  “Well, I have to see how Chloe’s doing. Tell Tony to be on call for lunch tomorrow, too, just in case,” I say coolly.

  “Yeah, okay.”

  It isn’t until after we hang up that I realize he didn’t ask me about my meeting with Renata. Our conversation had taken approximately eight minutes, and I start to replay it in my mind, rehashing and recasting the nuances: what was said, what was implied.

  Sustaining that calm and in-control tone I had adopted with Jake had been key in gaining the upper hand, but it sapped what little strength I had. I slump into the couch, maneuvering myself so that the loose spring isn’t directly in the small of my back. Just another minute or two on the couch before I’ll get up and get moving. Of course, I fall asleep.

  Some time later a ringing wakes me from my doze. I click the phone on. “Hello?” Just a dial tone. I hear the ringing again and realize it’s the doorbell.

  It’s Renata, and I’ve neither showered nor changed, much less made any biscotti.

  When I open the door I can see my filthy sweat suit and greasy hair mirrored in Renata’s shocked expression. I usually look much better than this, a fact that I’m counting on Renata remembering.

  “You, cara mia, are a walking argument for birth control,” Renata says, in her slightly accented English, putting down her briefcase and the two brown paper bags she has brought. I can see a large ciabatta protruding from one. A very good sign.

  “Jake called right after we hung up. I was going to shower and change, but I must have fallen asleep after he called.”

  “I know he called you. I just talked to him.”

  “You did? When? Did you call him or did he call you?” I ask, instantly suspicious.

  “He called me.” Renata’s voice is calm and patient, as if she is speaking to an unruly child. I want to tell her why this bothers me so much. To share my feeling that Jake is trying to take over the reins. That I’m feeling very threatened. I follow her into the kitchen where she begins unloading the two brown paper bags onto the butcher-block island. I stand there watching as she pulls out a huge, freshly smoked mozzarella, which, by the way she handles it, I can tell is still warm. She sets it down on the cutting board along with the loaf of ciabatta. While I’m considering my next line of questioning, Renata explains, “Jake called to tell me he forgot to show you the postcard I sent out last week listing some new specialty vinegars I’m offering. He asked me to tell you he’s interested in sampling some of the blood orange.” I stand there looking puzzled, having been only momentarily distracted by the salad possibilities afforded by the aforementioned specialty vinegars. Perhaps a mild goat cheese, encrusted in herbs, baked and drizzled with a fruity olive oil and blood orange vinaigrette. What else was on that postcard? And why hadn’t I seen it?

  “Mira?” Renata has stopped unloading the bag and is staring at me from across the kitchen table.

  “What else do you have besides blood orange?” I ask. She answers by going over to her purse and pulling out a blue postcard. She hands me the card, tells me to go and take a shower, a nice hot one, and to change my clothes so that she doesn’t have to look at that disgusting stain, the origin of which she does not care to know.

  I make the shower as hot as I can stand and mull over the possibilities—salad and otherwise. I decide it’s ridiculous to think Renata has been conspiring with Jake against me. In talking to her, Jake really hasn’t committed any horrible crime, although there is the possibility he’s been hiding mail from me, which might explain why I hadn’t seen the postcard. I resolve to go in on Sunday to totally reorganize the office and make a concerted effort to get on top of everything.

  After dressing I go to check on Chloe. She’s not in her crib, but sitting at the kitchen table in Renata’s lap. Renata has covered her expensive blouse with a large cotton dish towel, and Chloe is looking up at her, fascinated by the large, gold teardrop earrings swinging from Renata’s ears. When Chloe sees me she smiles and reaches for me, and I scoop her up and kiss her forehead. Still warm.

  “I heard her crying while you were in the shower. Poor baby,” Renata coos in a high squeaky voice, which surprises me. I hadn’t thought her the maternal sort.

  I feed Chloe a bottle of the electrolyte solution the emergency room doctor gave us. She barely manages to finish it before she falls asleep again. I put her in her crib and, when I return, Renata has poured us each a glass of wine.

  “Do you think it’s normal for her to be sleeping so much?” I ask, plopping down at the table and taking a sip of the wine, a delicious full-bodied Valpolicella.

  “She’s sick, isn’t she? What do you do when you’re sick? You sleep, no?” Renata gives me a helpless shrug. “I don’t know much about babies, Mira. I’m only guessing. What did the doctor say?”

  I fill her in on the details of our midnight dash to the ER while Renata finishes sett
ing out our lunch. Roasted red and yellow peppers, long-stemmed baby artichokes marinated in olive oil and herbs, several different kinds of olives, marinated white beans, and a salad of cold broccoli rabe, heavy on the garlic and hot pepper. I know she’s been to Arthur Avenue in the Bronx to buy all of our favorite things, a true labor of love. I instantly regret every single paranoid thought I had about her being in cahoots with Jake.

  “You know,” Renata says, “I’m now also a mama.” She smiles, enjoying my surprise. “Well, a stepmama anyway. Michael has a daughter.”

  “I didn’t know. How old? Does she live with you?” It is hard to imagine a child living in Renata’s loft, which is pristinely neat and minimalist.

  “Oh, no,” Renata says too quickly; the same thought has also apparently crossed her mind. “She’s thirteen. The worst possible age for a girl. She lives with her mother on the Upper West Side. She goes to Miss Porter’s.” She pauses, taking a hefty gulp of her wine. “Of course, she hates me.”

  I’m about to say something comforting, how it takes a while in stepfamilies for everyone to settle in, but Renata holds up her hand to stop me.

  “It’s okay. I’m planning to buy my way into her heart. One thing about thirteen-year-old girls,” she says, waving the heel of the ciabatta in my face, “is they all have their price. In Melissa’s case, the price is a Prada backpack. All she wants for Christmas, the little dear. Can you believe it? A Prada backpack! I didn’t have a Prada until I was thirty.”