Delicious! (6 page)

“I used water. But I did add a bit of lemon juice to give it some zip.”

Trying to imagine how this bizarre amalgamation might have tasted, I suffered a complete failure of the imagination.

“It was vile,” she told me. “Simply vile. Will you stand behind your Guarantee?”

What was I supposed to do? “May I put you on hold?” I asked. “For a moment?”

“You must be new.” Her voice had grown suspicious. “That other girl never put me on hold.”

“Never?” Just how often had Mrs. Cloverly called? “It will be only a moment,” I said.

“Never mind.” Her voice filled with weary resignation. “I know what you’re going to say.” A bitter note crept in. “One more institution that lies to the public and refuses to honor its promises.”

She sounded so lonely, so filled with despair. “Send us your receipts, Mrs. Cloverly,” I blurted out. “We want everyone to be satisfied with the recipes in
Delicious!
”

“Really?” She sounded shocked. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, ma’am.” But as the words came out of my mouth, I suddenly saw the truth: Mrs. Cloverly was one of Jake’s decoys. I had fallen into another trap.

“Why, thank you very much, dear.” She sounded so triumphant that for a moment I almost believed she was for real. “It’s good to know there are still people who believe in honoring their promises. You have yourself a blessed day.”

“You too, Mrs. Cloverly.” She’d overdone it with the blessing bit.

“Cloverly?” Richard had come in to inspect the new flowers, and he
reached out an elegant index finger to pet a hydrangea. “Did I just hear you offer her a refund? Big mistake.”

“That’s what I figured,” I sighed. “I totally blew it, didn’t I? She’s another one of Jake’s tests.”

Richard looked puzzled.

“You know, like the Sal Test,” I prompted. “Another way to find out if I’m right for
Delicious!
”

Richard’s face cleared. “Not even Jake could dream up Mrs. Cloverly. What I meant was that now she’s going to call twice a day. And all I can say is, good luck to you.”

Jake appeared, leaning his long body against the doorframe. “Did I hear ‘Cloverly’?”

“Yes.” Richard was laughing. “Billie offered her a refund.”

“You did what?” Jake looked horrified.

“I didn’t know what else to do.” I repeated the conversation, and Jake laughed so hard that Richard had to pound him on the back.

“Oh, Billie,” he gasped when he could finally breathe again, “I’ll be eating out on that story for weeks! Worth every penny that we’ll pay her.”

“But we can’t refund everybody’s money!” I said.

“Why not? Do you have any idea how much cheaper this is than hiring a PR firm? And I told you, the Guarantee is all about public relations. But you’ve just encouraged our most incorrigible caller, and, believe me, you’re going to regret it. The woman is relentless.”

Nowhere was aptly named, which was a relief; when you’re by yourself, it’s a lot less embarrassing to walk into a small nondescript restaurant than a big glitzy one. I perched on a stool at the minuscule counter in the front, put the gift-wrapped beret down next to me, and hoped Diana wouldn’t be too long.

I tried pretending I was a restaurant critic, swiveling on my stool to scope out the small storefront. The owners hadn’t done much besides cram in some booths they must’ve found in an old fifties diner. I got the feeling they’d begrudged the white paint on the pressed-tin ceiling and the sander for the soft wood floors. I ordered a glass of white wine and picked up the menu.

Fried pig’s ears. Braised duck hearts with snails. Pork-snout terrine with pickles and toast. Grilled rabbit livers with bacon. Whole grilled mackerel. Lamb burgers. Breaded pig’s tails … “As you can see,” said a voice behind me, “my friend Tom’s a nose-to-tail guy.”

Diana was wearing a short plaid skirt with a tight black sweater and high black boots. I gestured apologetically at my worn khakis and frayed oatmeal sweater.

“You look fine. I’m overdressed.”

“I love your skirt.” I handed her the package before I lost my nerve. “This might go with it.” Giving people presents is such an intimate act; you’re basically telling them who you think they are, and if you’re wrong, it’s over.

But when Diana unwrapped the package, she went straight back to the ladies’ room. And when she returned, she was wearing the little velvet hat and a huge smile.

“God, it looks great on you,” I said.

“I know! How could you tell?”

“I don’t know. It just kind of reminded me of you.”

I’d surprised her—in a positive way, which is what happens when you get a gift right. It was going to be a good night. I picked up the menu and began to read it out loud. “Will people really order this stuff?”

Her eyes opened wide. “In this neighborhood? Sure—the weirder the better.”

“Nobody in Santa Barbara would eat pig’s tails or duck hearts—” I was starting to say when the chef came out carrying a platter, and my words spluttered to an apologetic halt.

Tom was short and wide, with tattoos everywhere, even across the back of his shaved head. “Try my pig’s ears.” He set the platter on the counter. I picked up one of the crisp disks and found it was as crunchy as a potato chip, with a wonderful chew. We munched our way through the entire pile while the bartender kept our glasses filled with the cool, easy-to-drink wine. I began to reconsider the decor; it was rather cozy.

“Bet you can’t guess the secret ingredient in my lamb burgers.” Tom handed us each a slider.

Diana took a bite. “Miso?” she guessed. Tom shook his head.

I bit in. “Fish sauce!” It was definitely fish sauce.

Tom looked at Diana. He rubbed his bald head. “Your friend’s a big improvement on your usual date.”

Diana swatted him. “Tom thinks my boyfriend’s a pill.”

“I don’t think Ned’s a pill,” Tom objected. “Ned
is
a pill.”

“Is he?” I asked when Tom had retreated to the kitchen.

“Nah.” Diana twisted the ring on her finger. “Ned’s an engineer, and you know how they are; they live on burgers and pizza. None of my food friends get what I’m doing with a guy who’s not into food. But I don’t see the point in being with someone who’s just like you.” She took a sip of her wine. “You seeing anyone?”

“Seriously? The only people I know here are the people at work. And you might have noticed that they’re all old, gay, or female.”

“Or Richard.”

“Or Richard. Who is definitely out of my league.”

She didn’t contradict me.

“Besides,” I continued, “with my hours, where would I find the time? You kitchen people work nine to five, but down in editorial we sometimes stay all night.”

“Crazy hours,” she admitted. “But I don’t understand why you don’t do a little something with yourself. You wear the dreariest clothes. And you could get cooler glasses—” She stopped and put her hand over her mouth, horrified. “I can’t believe I said that. Too much wine. Sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“No, it’s okay. You’re only saying what you think.”

“No. It was definitely not okay. But there are things I don’t get. You don’t
seem
conceited, but maybe you don’t care what people think of you?”

“That’s funny,” I told her. “I just wrote my sister that
you
don’t seem to care what people think of you. I envy that. With me it’s different. Genie’s so beautiful that nobody ever looked at me, and it never seemed worth trying. Now I wouldn’t even know where to start.”

“Older sister?” I nodded, and Diana gave me a look that was filled with sympathetic understanding. “I guess I got lucky. Four older brothers. They always made me feel like I was the most wonderful creature in all of New Jersey, like they were privileged to have me in the house. My
parents had a fit when I said I wanted to go to culinary school instead of college, and my brothers all stood up for me. My oldest brother, Michael, even offered to pay for it; he knew it was all I’d ever wanted to do.” She hesitated a moment and then said quickly, as if she was afraid she’d lose the courage, “So can I ask another rude question? How come someone with a palate like yours doesn’t cook?”

“I can cook.” The words came out in a whisper. “In fact, my sister and I had a bakery.”

“You had a bakery? No shit.”

“Yeah, Cake Sisters. We started it when we were really young.”

“You sold that gingerbread!” She was triumphant, like someone who’d just slid the missing piece of a jigsaw puzzle neatly into place. “That’s where the recipe came from! You said you did it when you were ten.”

I nodded. “That’s how it all started. We made the gingerbread cake for my dad’s birthday, and people began asking if they could buy one. The next thing we knew, we had a business. My sister decided we should branch out, and she invented the Giant Hostess Cupcake Cake. Then Aunt Melba had the idea of selling them in pairs, one a little smashed, like they always are in the supermarket.”

Diana rubbed her forehead. “Cake Sisters. Cake Sisters. Could I have read about this?”

I shrugged. “It’s possible. We got a lot of press:
Bon Appétit
, the
L.A. Times, The New York Times
. They liked taking pictures of my sister. She designed the cakes and I worked out the recipes. The first year we each created a signature cake. Genie’s was called the Goddess: really tall, all white on the outside, wrapped in mountains of coconut and whipped cream, with a passion-fruit heart.”

“And yours was called the Shrinking Violet. Unassuming on the outside but pretty special once you worked your way in.” She reached over and squeezed my wrist.

“Wish I’d thought of that. You’d understand if you knew my sister.” By now I was a little drunk. “One year Genie came up with Melting
Cakes. You know, like flourless chocolate, the kind that are melted in the middle? They were gorgeous neon colors, and I made the flavors intense—blood orange, blueberry, lime, hibiscus, and caramel. But it was our wedding cakes that really made us famous. All different, and nothing like anything else out there.”

“But you don’t have the bakery anymore. What happened? You sell it? Or did you poison someone and have to flee the state?”

“We started Cake Sisters when we were so young. And then …” I shrugged. “We grew up.”

“You should tell Maggie. Bet she’d lighten up.”

“No!” The word came out louder than I’d intended. “You can’t tell anyone. Promise me that.”

Diana looked at me strangely. She had to be wondering.… Maybe she’d Google us. Would that be so bad? “Okay, Gingerbread Girl”—she swiped her index finger across her heart—“your secret’s safe with me.” Just then Tom plunked down a plate of roasted pineapple, asking if he’d used too much rum.

We stayed late, drinking endless glasses of wine. We talked about the people at the magazine and about her boyfriend. She asked if I was sorry I’d dropped out of school. That was an easy answer.

“I’ve always liked to write, and I figured I should just do it. Get on-the-job training. Now all I have to do is figure out how I can get Jake to give me an assignment.”

Diana waved her hand. “No worries; make it through the trial period and he’ll start shoving assignments at you till you scream. He likes having his assistants write for the book.”

“I’d heard that; it’s why I took the job. Then I saw that the last one—Sarah?—never had a byline, and I began to worry that it wasn’t true.”

“Sarah was a disappointment; none of us liked her very much. Particularly Jake. But you’re different. Sal was right: You’re one of us.”

“Thanks.” I had another glass of wine, feeling more hopeful than I had in quite a while.