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Authors: Meredith Mileti

Aftertaste (12 page)

BOOK: Aftertaste
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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 standing 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?
I'm so busy pondering the fundamental truths of my life that I don't immediately realize that the cab driver is trying to get my attention. He's babbling in some language that I don't immediately recognize as English.
“What?” I snap.
“Ees that you fun?”
“What, what are you saying? My fun?”
“Reenging, your fun?” He holds up his cell phone so I can see it. Even then, it takes me a few seconds to realize that my cell phone is ringing in my purse. I fumble to find it. “Hello, Mira, Jerry Fox here.” My heart, which is already racing, seems suddenly to skip several beats, and I wonder, fleetingly, if this could be the beginning of cardiac arrest.
“What? Jerry, is that you?”
“Yep, listen Mira, I forgot to mention this to you, but Avi seemed to think we should start the ball rolling with financing the purchase of Grappa. It's a little premature, but the pre-approval is easy, and there's no downside to putting those wheels in motion. I just wanted to get your permission because I wouldn't be surprised if things start to move quickly. I've got a hunch they are in a hurry to get this done.”
“You keep saying that, Jerry. What exactly makes you think they're in a hurry? What has Ethan told you?”
“Mira, Ethan didn't tell me anything, except that, well,”—he hesitates—“Jake and Nicola want to get married. Apparently they've already set a date.”
“What? She's pregnant, isn't she?”
Jerry hesitates.
“Jerry? What do you know?” I demand.
“Nothing, I don't know if she's pregnant, but now that you mention it, I wouldn't be surprised. It would explain some things.”
“Explain some things? Like what? I can't for the life of me imagine what it would explain!” Suddenly I'm yelling at Jerry, who is, once again, the blameless recipient of my uncontrollable ire. What exactly is Jerry talking about? What hasn't he told me? But I'm too wrapped up in venting to even give him a chance to answer.
“Jake has no interest in his daughter.
I
was the one who browbeat him into having a baby, which, it is clear from recent events, he didn't want. And now
she
is pregnant, and there he is stroking her stomach in the middle of fucking Park Avenue like some proud father.” I let go of whatever control I'd been struggling to maintain, but when I open my mouth to speak, a choking sound, half sob, half growl, escapes me. It feels primal and guttural. The driver, who doesn't speak much English, has turned around and is looking at me with alarm as he slides the Plexiglas divider between the front and back seats closed, no doubt to protect himself from the transforming alien she-beast now occupying the backseat of his cab.
Jerry doesn't say anything. What can he say? The man is my lawyer, not my therapist. But when, after a moment, he speaks, his voice is gentle. “Mira, hold on here. You're reacting emotionally. You don't know that Nicola is preg—”
“What do you mean I'm reacting emotionally? How the hell else am I supposed to react? How can Jake do these things? How can he destroy everything, our marriage, Chloe's chance for a father, Grappa? How can he sleep at night? The deal is off. I won't settle. I won't give him a divorce. Let them wait!” I'm crying in earnest now, and I can tell from the sound of his voice that Jerry has picked up the receiver, lest the sound of a sobbing, hysterical woman on his speakerphone intrude on the sanctity of his well-appointed law firm.
“Mira,” Jerry says quietly. “I know this is hard for you, but breaking off all negotiations is only going to make it harder in the long run. If you really want Grappa, let's take advantage of the situation. Why don't you take some time to calm down, and we can talk later when you're feeling better.”
I nod mutely and mumble something about how we could all grow old waiting for that to happen and hang up without even saying good-bye. I sit there crying in the cab, which, it takes a minute for me to realize, is already stopped in front of the restaurant. The driver is looking at me expectantly from behind the Plexiglas screen.
“Ees this it, lady?”
As I pay the cabbie, I ask if he has any children and if he could ever imagine turning his back on them. What would make a man do such a thing, I ask? He considers my question, perhaps only pretending to have understood me. Then, after a moment, he says, “I dunnot know, lady. Maybe he is scared, or maybe he just don't love the mother enay more.” Another sob escapes me, and he turns away to reset the meter. “But what do I know? I'm no Dr. Phil.” And with a shrug of his shoulders he is gone.
At Grappa the final preparations are under way for lunch; the kitchen is tidy and well prepped. A vat of chicken stock is simmering, the fresh pasta is already drying on the racks, and Tony, bless him, has the prep cooks washing and chopping mountains of escarole. Ellen gestures to the bulletin board where she has pinned a couple of phone messages for me. There's just enough time before lunch orders start coming through to slip into the office and change. I studiously avoid looking at or sitting on the black leather couch, hideous talisman, the scene of the crime, as it were, the beginning of the end of life as I'd known it. As I lean against the desk, struggling to maintain my balance, trying to get both feet out of my pantyhose and into my pants, I feel the ire beginning to build. It is, by now, an uncomfortably familiar feeling, the seeds of which were planted here in this room, nurtured and sown on that very couch.
Suddenly, I'm straddling the couch cushion, a letter opener I've picked up off the desk poised dagger style in my hand. I plunge the opener in again and again, until the stuffing begins to fly and my chest is heaving. Finally, weakened and dizzy from the effort, I flip the cushion over and restuff and replace the pillows I've disturbed in my frenzy. I pull on my drawstring pants and tunic and wrap my apron, meticulously folding down the edge. I run my hand over it, appreciating its cool crispness against my flushed skin. Attacking the defenseless seat cushion was a childish, vindictive move, but it has given me a rush of satisfaction that only an act of pure and naked aggression can engender. Even Dr. Phil might understand.
 
Paolo, the guy who runs the security scanner at the Manhattan County Courthouse, and I have become sort of friends. Our friendship has evolved over the several weeks I've been attending anger-management classes, helped along by my chronic lateness and natural absentmindedness. The class meets at two thirty, which means that I have to leave Grappa before lunch is really over, often when things are most chaotic. In my haste, I invariably forget to remove from my knapsack or pockets items considered dangerous by the powers that be in Manhattan County. Things like a pepper mill, a whisk, assorted spoons, and once, an antique French fish-boning knife that I'd thrust into my belt during lunch and forgotten to remove. Okay, even I can see that the French boning knife, wonderful for filleting, represents a justifiable threat, but the pepper mill, at best, is questionable, and the only things at risk for being beaten senseless with the wire whisk are some unruly egg whites.
Usually confiscated items are not returned. Paolo, however, has been intrigued by my interesting and exotic contraband. It has been the subject of several conversations between us, usually as he summons the female matron to direct the hand search of my person. He knows and understands the attachment chefs have to the tools of our trade, having a brother who's a line cook at the Mesa Grill, who (you never know) might need a job someday. I'm sure Paolo sees our friendship as a potentially reciprocal one, which is fine with me. He's been gracious enough to hold my tools until class is over, sans the paperwork. Today, I've forgotten to remove my meat thermometer from my tunic pocket, a long, needle-like skewer with a sharp, pointed tip. He stows it in the top front pocket of his uniform and gives it a surreptitious little pat.
Class has already begun. The other five members are seated in a circle on the floor, eyes closed, practicing their breathing exercises. Mary Ann gives me a disapproving look as she gestures to a spot near her on the floor. I've learned from Mary Ann that my chronic lateness is a “passive-aggressive act,” and that, for my optimal growth and development, I should at least attempt to “master” this unhealthy impulse. She's probably right about my lateness being passive-aggressive, but I personally prefer to think of this move from active to passive aggression as progress in the right direction, something to be lauded, not criticized.
BOOK: Aftertaste
11.08Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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