Out to Lunch (9 page)

“I know, how about do what you NEVER do with guys and just go for total honesty. No glossing over, no adjusting who you are to fit what you think they want you to be, just be all ‘take it or leave it this is who I am’ for a change.”

Why the hell not?

“Brian, I can’t really answer that. I like you, I do. I’ve never thought about you or us with any romantic potential, which doesn’t mean it isn’t there, but this is very unexpected. So I guess all I can say is that I’m here, and I’m having a nice time, and I hope that we can just be a little loose and let it be whatever it is going to be without thinking too much.”

“I get it. And I can do that.”

My shoulders relax. He raises his wineglass to me and I clink it with my own. And then I smile at him. “You can still spend the night tonight if you want.”

He grins with the perfect amount of sparkle in his eye.

“You betcha.”

8

T
he alarm goes off, and I smack it to make the ringing stop. But it doesn’t. I open one eye and look at the clock. 7:06. I haven’t set an alarm in ages, and today is no different. Volnay lifts her head from the pillow and begins a low growl. I realize the sound isn’t my alarm, it’s the doorbell. Ping-ponging insistently.

At seven o’fucking clock in the morning.

I jump up and grab my robe; a lovely featherlight knitted gray cashmere beauty Aimee gave me as my recovery present when we had our surgery. Aimee was a big believer in cashmere. Tying it at my waist, I slide into my slippers, and Volnay uses her little staircase to gingerly get down from the bed. I yell down the stairs.

“I’M. COMING.” This had better be good.

Volnay and I head down, and I peek through the window. Sweet mother of crap. Wayne.

“Deep breath, sleepyhead, if he’s here at this hour it is probably important. And lord knows you can take a nap when he leaves with your big day full of nothing planned.”

I really hate you right now, Aimee.

“I know. But you hate everyone at seven in the morning; I don’t take it personally.”

I open the door.

“Jenny! I brought you breakfast!” He holds out a bag from Dunkin’ Donuts and a large cup of something that smells like a Yankee Candle. “Donuts and a Pumpkin Spice Latte!”

I throw up a little in my mouth. I want coffee to taste of coffee. Maybe a little cream and sugar. I do not want coffee that tastes of potpourri or fruit or nuts or like licking the bottom of my spice drawer. And while I should not be eating donuts to begin with, I REALLY don’t want to waste precious donut-related calories on Dunkin’. If I want to be bad, I’ll head to the Doughnut Vault for a pistachio or coconut old fashioned, or maybe grab a Chocolate Bacon from Fritz Bakery for a real treat. Wayne thrusts the bag and cup at me, and I take them before I end up wearing them.

“Thanks, Wayne, that’s very sweet.” He follows me in, scooping up Volnay and whispering sweet nonsense at her in a guttural language. “Are you speaking to my dachshund in her native German?”

“Nope, Huttese,” Wayne says.

I look at him, too early for this to register.

“Like Jabba the Hutt,” he explains further.

“Don’t throw the shitty coffee at him.”

Sigh. “I don’t know that she speaks Huttese.”

Wayne laughs, a sort of girlish giggle that belies his bulk. “I know, it’s kinda stupid, but for some reason most dogs seem to like it.”

Volnay does seem to be happy as a clam, snuggling under Wayne’s chin.
“Maybe she speaks Huttese.”

Oh, you need to shut up right now.

“Sorry.”

“Come on.” I head for the kitchen, trying to think of a graceful way to dump the coffee.

Wayne follows me, and settles on the little love seat in the window that overlooks my backyard. I reach into the bag and grab the donut. Strawberry glazed. Not even going to get a chocolate fix today. I put it on a plate, and pick at it a bit. Sweet on sweet, slightly stale, and yet, weirdly comforting, everyone’s first donuts. I leave the offending latte on the counter, exuding a scent of burnt coffee and pumpkin pie and artificial cinnamon flavoring.

“So, Wayne, were you just in the neighborhood?” Haunting me?

“Nope, but I woke up early with the most amazing idea and I just couldn’t wait to tell you about it!”

Super. I take another piece of the donut. The glaze is gritty in my unbrushed teeth.

“What sort of idea?”

“New business.”

“Hear him out. Let him explain.”

You are so lucky you are dead.

“Yeah, a real lottery winner.”

“That is exciting, but I thought you were taking a break from working.”

“Well, I was, and it was good when Aimee was still with us, you know, I could manage the house and all the life maintenance stuff, be the house husband and the nurse, drive up to see Noah, but with Aimee gone . . .” He trails off, and despite the shitty pastry in my mouth, and the early hour, I feel for him.

Peerless has essentially asked nothing of me in my role as consultant for the last six months since Aimee took her turn for the finish line, and as there are only two annual meetings of the board, my “job” is essentially nonexistent. Andrea and the team have everything cranking along over at the Library, and while I’m better about stopping by, my days are sort of filled with futzing. Little projects I invent for myself. Puttering in the back garden. Organizing closets and drawers and cabinets. Polishing silver and entering piles of the old family recipes into the computer. Sharpening my knives by hand, which I frankly haven’t done since culinary school. Long walks with the dog. Dinners and sex with Brian once or twice a week, still casual and nice but undefined. He was semiserious about wanting to learn to cook, so we mostly stay in and make something simple together and then go to bed. I get the unmoored part. The dichotomy of a desire to have something to do to keep you busy and not thinking too much, and a total lack of energy to figure out what that should be. Except Wayne seems to have plenty of energy.

“So, you’re thinking about going back to work?” If he was making his own money he might not need to come see me as often; that could be good.

“Thinking about starting a business.”

This cannot be good.

“What sort of business?”

Wayne grins as if he is about to tell me his plans for the next Apple or Facebook. “Wax and Lube.”

“A car wash?”

“Better. A car wash, quick oil change, and spa.”

“Car spa?” Actually not a terrible idea if the neighborhood is right, Simon’s detailing place does pretty well in Lincoln Park, and there are a couple up-and-coming neighborhoods that might be ready for that.

“No, silly, girl spa.” Wayne drops Volnay on the floor, and she schlumps down on top of his foot. Et tu?

“Girl spa.”

“Yeah. See, my buddy Georgie was over last night playing Gran Turismo 6, and so we were talking about cars and stuff and how his business partner’s wife was always complaining because it takes so long to get an oil change and a car wash and you have to sit there. And you know, those are like the only thing that most women sort of have to do for the family cars while guys are at work and stuff.” Of course, here in 1954.

“You and I know plenty of stay-at-home moms and work-at-home women who end up taking on the bulk of that sort of stuff for the family.”

I’m not speaking to you right now.

“Fine, just hear him out.”

“Okay, so they are sort of time sucks, because you have to just sit there and wait for your car.” I’m really trying to get through the sleep haze to figure out his thought process.

Wayne lights up like a Christmas tree. “Exactly! So then I thought about all the stuff women would like to do, instead of just sitting and waiting, you know, and it came to me. Wax and Lube. A play on words. Come in for an oil change and get your personal waxing done at the same time. We could have all sorts of packages, you know? Car detailing with a lip and eyebrow wax. Full oil change with a Brazilian . . .”

“Okay, yeah, he’s lost the plot.”

You think?

“Um, Wayne, you are thinking that a woman would bring her car in for service and then get waxed while she waits?”

“EXACTLY! Isn’t that a great idea? I mean, wouldn’t you love to come out after your waxing and have a nice clean car?”

Sweet Mother McCreary. I put on my most impassive face, as if I am not being presented with the world’s most inane idea. “Wayne, spas and salons are very personal things. It can take a woman years to find the aesthetician she trusts. Those are not a walk-in-off-the-street impulse thing. And the whole point of a spa is that it is a relaxing, soothing environment. That doesn’t smell of motor oil.”

His face falls. “Oh. I just thought, two birds . . .” Poor guy, I do feel badly for him. And then I remember that he felt the need to wake me up at seven in the morning, and I feel more badly for me. A year of this is going to be a huge pain in the keester.

“Jesus, Jenna. He didn’t shit in your bed. He woke you up to share an idea that he thought was great. Because usually he would roll over and tell me and I would listen and we would talk about it and I would gently tell him it wasn’t such a great idea, and then make him feel better with a quickie.”

Seriously? Are you suggesting I give him a little morning delight on your behalf?

“I’m suggesting, Mrs. Snarky Pants, that he does not have his wife to tell his brilliant ideas to anymore, all he has is you.”

Okay. Dredge up supportive Jenna.

“Wayne, it isn’t that a twofer is a bad idea, actually, those kind of things can be great. I just think this is the wrong combo. But it’s exciting that you’re thinking about what you want to do; I think that’s terrific. Maybe you might not want to start as big as launching your own business, maybe just getting a regular job?” Which would be AWESOME. Forty hours a week of Wayne being someone else’s problem, and a steady income that wouldn’t require my oversight.

His whole face falls, and I can see that now I’ve actually hurt his feelings. “Could you go back to a normal job for someone else now, after where you have been?”

“Probably not, you’re right. I didn’t mean . . .” Great, now I’m a total asshole.

His smile returns, king of the bounceback. “I know you didn’t! No worries. I have a dozen ideas a week, eventually one of them will be the right one.” A hundred monkeys at typewriters. I give him points though, he does snap out of things quickly.

“Of course you will.” And I will have to hear every last ridonculous one of them. Whee.

“That’s the truth, Ruth! So, what’s on your agenda for the day?”

“Um, have to get dressed and take the dog for a walk, head over to the Library to check in, and do some prep for the stuff I’m bringing to Thanksgiving this week.”

“Cool. You need any help?”

ACK! I can just see him chopping off his fingertips on the mandolin, shattering my vintage Emile Henry roasting pans, and blowing us both sky-high with the gas stove. “I’m good, Wayne, thanks for the offer. I really appreciate that. Are you going to Indiana for Thursday?”

“Yep. Big bash over at the Brands’. Then I go pick Noah up Friday morning.”

“Tell everyone I send my love and that I will see them at Christmas.”

“Of course. Maybe I can bring Noah by Friday afternoon or something?”

“I’d love to see him. We’re decorating the Library that day, just bring him there, he can help with the tree. And thanks for the breakfast.”

“You betcha! I’ll talk to you later, Jenny.” He kisses me awkwardly on my temple, and I walk him to the door. Then I go back to the kitchen to dump the coffee and the rest of the donut, and head back upstairs to bed, hoping I can pretend it was just a bad dream.

Except I can’t fall back to sleep. I check the clock. 7:55. Hmmm. I reach for the phone.

“Good morning, beautiful.” I do have to say, I’m getting more comfortable with the fact that Brian genuinely likes me, despite being the type of guy who never paid the slightest bit of attention to me historically. Nancy keeps reminding me that he is actually an individual person and not personally representative of every classically handsome boy who ever ignored me in high school and college. And after.

“Good morning. What are you doing?”

“I’m just getting ready to go to work. What are you doing?”

“Up early, thought you might want to stop by on your way to the office. Breakfast meeting with a client?”

Brian chuckles. “I don’t have anything horribly pressing this morning. On my way.”

I leap back out of bed and jump into the shower for a quick rinse off, brush my teeth, brush my hair out, change out of the oversized men’s V-neck white T-shirt I usually sleep in, and into a cute bra and one of the endless sets of lounging pajamas Aimee was forever giving me.

“I love a lounging pajama.”

You also love a marabou mule slipper and a satin robe with a train.

“It is elegant.”

It is insane.

“It is sophisticated.”

Sure, if you’re Nora Charles. It isn’t 1940.

“Yeah, but look at yourself.”

I look in the mirror. The silk and cashmere blend fabric has just the right amount of drape to conceal the lumpier parts of me without clinging, but enough weight to seem more substantial than sleepwear. The color is somewhere halfway between cream and ballerina pink, a color I would never pick, but is a lovely counterpoint to my pale skin and dark hair. All in all, I look fairly adorable for this hour, certainly good enough to warrant a little morning attention.

“Told you so.”

Yeah, yeah.

“Didn’t I give you a matching robe for that?”

Don’t push it.

“I’m just saying.”

Fine. I grab the matching robe. It has a wide band of gathered elastic in the back that hits right above my tush, giving me shape, even though the robe isn’t tied. Made of the same fabric as the pajamas, it doesn’t add bulk the way most robes do, but instead almost serves as the same elegant look a long trench provides.