Aftertaste (37 page)

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Authors: Meredith Mileti

BOOK: Aftertaste
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We walk back toward the lofts in silence. I want to tell him I'm sorry, that I hadn't meant to hurt him, but I've never really been good at that sort of thing.
“Hey, have you tried Bruno's hazelnut cookies? Trust me, once you try these, there's no going back.” I open the bag and offer one to Ben.
He takes it, and even though it's only a little bigger than a quarter, bites off just a small piece. “Mmm. Good,” he says, popping the rest of the cookie in his mouth. “Got any more?”
“You can have one more, but that's it. They are for research purposes only. I'm experimenting with the recipe, and I need to study the rest.” I've already made a half dozen attempts at duplicating Bruno's recipe, but there's something about his version that conjures memories of Italy, of the
panetteria
off the square in Scanno, each morsel crumbly and sweet, the taste of the roasted hazelnuts thick and full on the tongue.
Ben chews his cookie slowly. “So, what do you think?” I ask him. “A hint of Frangelico? Or coffee, maybe?”
He shrugs. “Don't know. A dab of honey maybe, but not too much,” he says, looking pleased with himself.
“Hmm, right. Good catch,” I tell him, even though I'd already thought of it.
“You know, you could probably just ask Bruno for the recipe. I bet he'd give it to you,” he says.
“No!” I exclaim, horrified. “That would be like calling the tollfree number for the
Times
crossword puzzle hotline. The whole point is being able to do it myself. I'm usually pretty good at stuff like this, and besides, I'm nowhere near ready to admit defeat.”
Ben softens, smiling for the first time, a loopy, goofy grin, as if I've just said something incredibly silly.
“I'll get it in the end, or, who knows, maybe I'll come up with some version that I like even better,” I add, defensively.
“So,” he asks, “how's the newspaper biz? What's up next?”
“Barbeque Basics.”
“Oh,” he says, reaching into his bag for another fry.
Enid had e-mailed me the assignment while I was in New York, so I'm already a couple of days behind. This morning the FedEx package with the AEL financial statements is scheduled to arrive, and Ruth is coming over this afternoon to take a look at the documents, so I won't have much time today either. I've promised to cook her dinner, though; maybe while she is sorting through the documents I could whip up a batch of barbeque sauce, something with an interesting twist.
We're in front of the lofts, but Ben stops several steps before the front door. “Aren't you coming in? I thought you were working here.”
“I am, but I can't eat inside. I'm just the hired help,” he says. “I was going to eat by the river and watch the sunrise. Want to join me?”
“I'd like to,” I tell him, and I would, but I've already been gone longer than I anticipated, and I'm worried Chloe will be awake. “But I'd better not. Chloe—”
Ben nods and then raises his hand, the one with the Primanti's bag.
“Do you want to come up?” I ask, but Ben has already turned away and is walking toward the river.
“Nah, too messy. And you'd probably make me use a plate.” He turns around and walks backwards, squinting upward into the blue-gray dawn. “It's going to be a spectacular sunrise. It'll be over in ten minutes, max. Sure you won't change your mind?”
I shake my head. “I can't.”
“Suit yourself.” Ben shrugs.
 
Ruth is sunning herself on my balcony, which is so narrow that half of the resin lawn chair she has imported from her deck and dragged upstairs from the trunk of her Jeep is in my living room. Carlos and Chloe are playing on the rug in the dining area, and Richard is napping by the window, his sketchbook open on his lap.
“You know, if you really want to get some sun, we could just go to the Schenley Park pool,” I tell her, handing her the Diet Snapple iced tea she has requested.
“No, this is great,” Ruth says, getting up to reposition her chair. “And besides, I can't be seen in public without a cover-up yet. I'm taking this butt and abs class at the gym, but it hasn't started to kick in yet,” she says, angling her chair so mostly just her legs are in the sun. She drags my coffee table, on which she has spread out a whole year's worth of AEL's financial reports, closer to her and dons the bifocal sunglasses dangling from a chain around her neck.
“So, what do you think?” I ask.
“Well, so far, it looks pretty good. They've got a two-year projection of increasing returns, based on their business plan.”
“So it looks like a good investment, right?”
Ruth frowns. “Not sure yet,” she says, biting the inside of her cheek.
“What do you mean? I thought you just said—”
“Mira, if this were a car you were buying, what I've done so far is the equivalent of walking around the chassis and kicking the tires. I know it's shiny, the tires are full, and all the chrome is polished, but I've yet to open the hood.”
“So open the hood,” I tell her. “We don't have much time. The closing is a week from Thursday!”
Ruth takes off her glasses and rubs her eyes. “I can't,” she says.
“Why not?” I ask her.
“The documentation I need isn't here. I need to know where the capital was generated and what the investment hierarchy looks like. They've just given us the summary financials.”
“Here,” I tell her, handing her a pad of paper and a pen. “Write down what you need to see, and I'll make the call.” Ruth scribbles some notes on the pad and hands it to me. I call Marcus and leave a list of the information Ruth needs with his secretary, along with Ruth's address and phone number. Next, I call Jerry Fox, who has faxed over a copy of the addendum I'd outlined this morning. When I ask if he's had a chance to look at the financials, he tells me they'll be in touch as soon as Avi Steiner has a chance to review them.
“What's for dinner?” Ruth calls from the balcony as soon as I hang up.
“Barbequed chicken with a Spanish peanut sauce.”
“Sounds fattening,” Ruth says.
“It is. It's for work. You and Richard are the guinea pigs.”
“Hey, do you think you could do a column on spa food next?” she asks.
“Maybe. Sure, I guess.” I look over at Ruth, who is pinching a chunk of her thigh and frowning.
“Unless you don't mind my camping out on your balcony for the rest of the summer, it might be a good idea.”
 
Richard asks me to give him a haircut, just a trim really, to neaten up the sides. He's been on edge the last couple of days, anticipating tonight's AA meeting. I think it's a positive development that he seems interested in his appearance, which almost convinces me to overlook his poor judgment in having asked me to do it.
“You can't use those!” he exclaims in horror as I advance upon him brandishing a pair of kitchen shears.
“Why not?” I tease. “I keep them sharp. Besides, these are not ordinary kitchen shears. They're Wüsthofs and probably cost more than that antique coatrack in the corner, which, by the way, doesn't belong to me.”
“I know, I know,” Richard says, reaching into his shaving kit for his pair of haircutting scissors and handing them to me. “But I couldn't get to the shop while you were in New York, and I had deliveries that needed to be accepted. Besides, it's only temporary,” he says, looking around at the crowded apartment, which is starting to look like an antiques warehouse. Richard has just accepted his first assignment in months, and in the last two days, he has had all sorts of things delivered here. Swatches, paint chips, and his drawing board cover the breakfast bar, and now, instead of being perpetually plugged into his beloved Steelers videos, Richard is almost constantly on his cell phone, barking orders to delivery people or soothing his nervous client in dulcet, patrician tones.
I set him up on a stool in the kitchen and wrap a dish towel around his neck. I'm gearing up to take my first snip when Fiona enters the apartment carrying a large, covered saucepan. She has agreed to come over and watch Chloe while I take Richard to his AA meeting.
“Fiona, you didn't have to bring dinner with you. I already made—”
“I didn't,” she says, depositing the pan on the counter with a bang. “I brought it over so you could tell me what is wrong with it.” She slumps into the stool next to Richard. “I found that barbeque sauce recipe of your mother's you asked me to look for, and I've been practicing all day. Your father wants to have his new crop of advisees over for a welcome cookout this weekend, and I want it to be nice.” She presents me with the tattered recipe card, stained with the evidence of her recent efforts. “I know she was quite a cook and I—” Fiona stops short and stamps her small, sandaled foot on the kitchen floor in a display of thinly concealed angst. “I just want to get it
right
,” she finishes, frowning.
“Excuse me,” Richard grumbles. “I hate to interrupt this cooking lesson, but you were in the middle of cutting my hair, remember?”
“Sorry, Richard,” I tell him, but he has already picked up the scissors and handed them to Fiona. “Fiona can do it. I'm sorry, Mira, but every time you come near me with those scissors all I can think of is Sweeney Todd.” He shudders.
“Come on, Richard. Let's go into the bathroom where I can do it right over the sink. It'll take but a minute,” Fiona says, helping him up and handing him his cane. The two of them trail off toward the bathroom.
While they're gone, I taste Fiona's sauce and right away diagnose the problem—or one of them anyway. She has used poor quality vinegar, a distilled white vinegar by the taste of it. Checking my mother's recipe I note she didn't specify what kind of vinegar to use, so I pull down a bottle of aged apple cider vinegar from France from my pantry shelf. I pop the cork and give it a smell—fruity and intense with a hint of caramel. By the time Fiona comes out of the bathroom I've assembled most of the ingredients necessary for a new, and hopefully improved, batch of sauce.
“We can try making it when I get home,” I tell her.
She stops and clasps her hands together. “Thank you, thank you, Mira.” She looks like she is about to cry, and I have a sudden urge to put my arms around her.
“Nonsense,” I tell her. “It will help me out, too. The column is due tomorrow, and I have to make it anyway. Besides, you're the one doing me the favor. Thanks for watching Chloe tonight.”
“Don't be silly,” Fiona says. “I'm glad of the company. Your father is interviewing a candidate for visiting professor tonight, so it will be just us girls,” she says, stooping to pick Chloe up from the floor where she is playing. “What do you say, Chloe, how about we have a tea party?”
I watch as Fiona dances Chloe around the kitchen, completely unself-consciously, her bracelets tinkling, and her high-heeled sandals clicking merrily on the wood floor.
My mother, who never once danced with me, who was seldom silly, and whom I can't remember ever wearing bracelets, had been so different from Fiona. Watching Chloe giggling delightedly in her arms, I'm suddenly so thankful that Chloe has someone like Fiona, someone fun and silly and playful in her life. Fiona dances around the table toward me, and when she swoops Chloe in to kiss me, I envelop them both in a hug. “Thanks, Fiona. Thanks for everything,” I whisper in her ear.
“Why, Mira dear, you're welcome,” Fiona says. She looks at me, her eyes soft. “In case you haven't noticed, I love this little girl!”
 
At the last minute, Richard insists on walking to the car. I hand him his ebony-topped, curly maple walking stick, which he instantly rejects as being “too flashy,” choosing instead the four-pronged, stainless steel cane his physical therapist brought and keeps urging him to use. He's dressed in a pair of khakis, a blue plaid button-down shirt and a dark windbreaker. He looks like a high school gym teacher. I know he's taken pains to appear unobtrusive, something that normally doesn't come easily to him. There's a code of conduct at AA, one even I remember from my brief stint at Al-Anon twenty-odd years ago: no last names, no flashy possessions, and no snap judgments.
In fact, no judgments at all.
On the way over, Richard is quiet. I suspect I know what he's thinking—probably the same thing I'm thinking. Twenty-three years ago, when we first met, he was at AA at the urging of his then lover. Although he stopped drinking, the relationship hadn't lasted. That history appears to have repeated itself is an obvious fact that neither of us mentions.
I pull into a handicapped parking space across the street from Wightman School and turn off the engine. We're ten minutes early. Richard is staring straight ahead, his lips parted in a half smile. He reaches over and takes my hand in both of his. “Do you remember the first time I saw you? You were standing under that street lamp over there,” Richard says, pointing. “You were smoking a cigarette, and I could tell by the way you were holding it you hadn't been smoking long. Each puff looked like it hurt, but still you kept at it, sucking on that stupid cigarette, taking one long drag after another. I thought you were the angriest kid I'd ever seen.”

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