Recipe for Disaster (3 page)

“True. That is something. You ready to jump onto the Manning job?” He smirks.

“Please. Don’t remind me.” The Mannings, new-moneyed distant cousins to a storied Chicago scion, with all of the entitlement that implies, are my next primary clients. And the design for their new dream home, an up-from-the-ground build in Bucktown, looks like Carmela Soprano decided to buy a place in Connecticut and hire Dolly Parton and Ralph Lauren as her decorators. Waspy, but with weird spangly twists. Never thought I’d see design plans that included both a room upholstered in padded tartan-plaid silk with a gargantuan gold-plated chandelier dripping crystals, AND a custom-paneled library with leather-tile floors and a window seat covered in magenta ponyhide. The whole place smacks of Martha Stewart’s Acid Trip Dream House. The budget is pretty astronomical, but they still want to score a bargain wherever possible, and seem to always have a “contact” who can “get a better deal.” Warren Manning, who seems to have made his money in a strange combination of flatbed trucking and school buses, is a squat, sweaty man with a badly dyed comb-over and a permanent sneer. His wife, Susie, is a pinched little round woman, who crams herself into ill-fitting designer suits, which she pairs with cheap shoes and expensive handbags. They both like to bark orders and make grand pronouncements, and they name-drop like Perez Hilton has them on retainer. I hate them and their stupid house already.

Liam grins. “Yeah, have fun with that.”

Barbie Two peeks under his arm, platinum blonde extensions tipped in hot pink, because her colors are Blush and Bashful, and a skirt short enough to see her daddy issues. “Hey, um, Annamuk? Brian will see you now.”

Liam shakes his head and smirks. “Better not keep him waiting, um,
Annamuk
.”

S
eems like everything is in order,” Murph says.

I’ve long ago given up on getting actual praise from him for a job well-done. And I was really good on this one. No fights with subs, no complaints from clients, no reprimands at all.

“Keys handed off today.”

“You got the pictures for the portfolio?” Mac asks, always wanting to pad out the website content.

“Yes, and the testimonial sheet.” I preempt the next question.

“Good,” Murph says, turning his attention to his cell phone for something terribly important, like a “Which car would you be?” quiz or something.

“And you gave them their handbook?” Mac says, conveniently forgetting once again that the handbook was my idea, and is the only thing I brought with me to MacMurphy that they have adopted. Whenever I finish any build, I put together a three-ring binder for the owners. It contains manuals and warranties for all of the appliances, care instructions for fixtures or finishes, and a one-year calendar cheat sheet for upkeep schedules. Mac and Murph thought it was such a great idea they insisted all the project managers start to do it, and even printed up custom binders to contain the paperwork. I think they just like to slap their logo on anything that isn’t nailed down.

“Of course. They’re thrilled.”

“Good. That should pretty much clear your schedule for Manning?” Murph looks at the master calendar.

Shudder. “Yep. The closet project on Maplewood is pretty much in the hands of California Closets for installation; I’ll do a walk-through tomorrow to check up, and again when they’re done. The bathrooms at the new Rick Bayless restaurant are just waiting for the stall doors to come back from the refinisher, and the footings are in for the sunroom project up in Park Ridge, so I’ve handed it off to Clark; he says it should be about a month.”

“Sounds good, Anneke. Looks like everything is in order, then. Anything we need to know about Manning?” Mac asks.

“Not really. Plans are pretty much done; they are still tweaking some interior spaces, but not in a way that will impact structure, they’re just finalizing some decisions that really only affect the electrical plot in small ways, so we’ve got time. Permit application will go in this week; my best guess is that we’ll be good to go in about eight weeks. I’ve got plans out to the usual suspects for bids; we’ll see how they come in and what the scheduling looks like and see if we need to go wider.” This is my least favorite part of the job. It is very rare that a client will just trust me to hire the best guys, the ones I know will do the best job; they usually assume there are kickbacks and dirty politics involved, so you always have to get three to five bids from subcontractors for every aspect of the project. It’s time-consuming and annoying, and then you have to hope that the people you actually want to work with come in at a decent price AND are available when you need them. And my favorite guys aren’t always the guys Murph owes favors to, and since I don’t get final approval on my teams, it is all up in the air anyway.

“Okay, sounds like that is in order, keep us posted,” Murph says, by way of dismissal.

“You’re welcome, I think it turned out great too,” I mutter to myself under my breath as I head back to my office. On my way down the hall I see Liam talking to Oliver Jacobsen, one of Chicago’s top architects, and someone I respect and admire enormously. His projects are just spectacular, Frank Lloyd Wright meets Louis Sullivan with just a hint of whimsy that is all his own. I’d give my left ovary to work with him. Actually, I’d give them both; lord knows I don’t plan on using them. Murph and Mac come out and join them, with lots of back-patting and manly joking. It’s clear that there is a new project in the offing, and Liam is essentially pissing all over Oliver to stake out his territory. I can feel my heart sink, because with this one simple tableau, I can see that I will never be able to fully break into this stupid boys’ club, and my chances of working with Oliver Jacobsen are about as good as getting struck by lightning. Twice. In my living room. On a sunny day.

As I pass by the employee lounge, I notice that someone has left a box of doughnuts on the table. I wonder who got laid. It’s an old tradition, the camaraderie of the job site; if you get lucky, you bring doughnuts in for everyone. And of course Murph started doing it at the office too. Usually they just appear anonymously. But this box? Has a note on the lid.

Enjoy! Liam

Of course he did.

I grab a napkin and a chocolate frosted, and then I pause. What the hell. I add a vanilla crunch on top. I’m heading out with my bounty when I bump into the current third Murph’s Angel in the hallway. This one is a tiny little thing, shorter than me, except for the platform boots, and I’ve heard Liam and Murph refer to her as a spinner behind her back.

“Oh, hey, America!”

Seriously? I just give up. “Hi.”

“God, I’m so jealous!” she says, looking down at my plate. “I wish I didn’t care about my figure. You’re so lucky!” And she hobbles past me into the bathroom, completely unaware that she’s said anything offensive.

I go back into the lounge, debate putting both of the pastries back, think “Fuck it,” grab a raspberry glazed for a Neapolitan doughnut bonanza, and head back to my hovel to eat my feelings.

M
ost people would leave a long day of paperwork and phone calls and emails and go straight home, heading for a cocktail and something to eat, needing to get home and walk and feed the dog. And that was certainly my intention as well, when my phone rings.

“You on your way home?” my fiancé, Grant, asks.

“Just leaving.”

“I’m going to be stuck at the restaurant till close, but I stopped home and walked and fed the beast, so the night is yours. How was the day?”

“Up and down. Finished the Osborne house and they love it.”

“Congrats, baby, that is fantastic! I’ll bring home a bottle of bubbles. What about the down? Hack and Smurf being their usual charming selves?” I am always tickled at his nicknames for Mac and Murph.

“Yep. And it looks like Liam probably just snagged my dream project right out from under my nose.”

“I’m sorry. I hate that for you.”

“Oh, and apparently my name is now America.”

“Nipple Barbie or Pinky Tuscadero Barbie?”

“Spinner Barbie.”

“Wow. You have got to start thinking about an exit strategy, that place is a toilet bowl. I just hate that you even have to talk to those assholes, let alone work for them.”

“I know you do.” He hates it worse than I do, and I love him for that.

“I have some ideas about that; we’ll talk about it later. Gotta go. Love you!” I can hear him shouting something at someone about basil as his phone hangs up.

A normal person would look at this gift of a quiet evening alone as decadent relaxation just waiting to happen. You might think this would be a great time to cozy up to the DVR and indulge in some serious binge watching, to finally catch up on
Downton Abbey
and drool over the houses, but as tempting as that is, there is something even more tempting.

I press the button on the garage door and watch it open smoothly, the set of converted antique carriage-house doors, with their leaded glass windows and beautiful old wood with iron strapping, now a thoroughly contemporary convenience. I steer Lola inside to the left, giving wide berth to the old doors and windows and other salvage items that are stacked carefully in the middle of the expansive space, big enough for three SUVs plus storage. The door closes behind me, and I grab my big key ring out of the glove compartment, letting myself in the back door and dropping my coat and bag in the roughed-in mudroom. I breathe in the intoxicating scent of old house and new wood, make my way carefully through two dark rooms looming with odd shapes, and finally flip the lights. The place is a complete disaster. Plaster walls with gaping holes down to the lath, hardwood flooring covered with adhesive from badly applied carpeting, the world’s most hideous brass pineapple chandelier putting out a gloomy yellow light.

It’s the most beautiful sight in the world.

I head directly to the bathroom, inching sideways past the old claw-foot tub that’s sitting in the dining room, partially blocking the entrance of the wide hallway, and find my supplies right where I left them three days ago. Boxes of basket-weave-pattern white marble tiles with gray accents, sacks of thinset mix and pale gray grout powder. I grab a nearby bucket, dump thinset mix into it, and add water with the small hose that I’ve attached with duct tape to the wall faucet that used to feed the tub. Using a mixing paddle on my power drill, I watch as the mixture throws up a cloud of dust before coming together into a thick paste. I already installed the electric radiant heat floor system last week, and now I can carefully tile over it, thinking of how much someone is going to appreciate getting out of the shower onto a toasty floor on a day like today.

I can feel the stress of the afternoon leave my shoulders. It all disappears here. The Mannings and what that job will be for the next eighteen months. Mac and Murph, doling out minimal praise for the Osborne build, as if any monkey could have brought that job in three weeks early and nearly $15K under budget. Liam, throwing his arm around Oliver Jacobsen’s shoulders like they are old friends, blowing smoke up his ass about how he is going to bring the drawings off the page and into a perfect expression of his vision, or some such crap that will ensure that he will get that project, and I’ll probably have to do some quickie cheapo job for one of the cheesy flippers that Mac and Murph always seem to have in their back pocket waiting for me. Barbies at every turn mocking me with their perfect bodies and imperfect grasp of the English language.

This is my safe place. Everything else goes fuzzy, and my entire focus is on laying this tile. Getting it perfect. Every piece lined up. For three blissful hours my whole life is this floor, and when I lay the final little trim pieces just inside the doorway, I can feel my heart get bigger. I stand, stretch my back, aching from the meticulous work, and pull off my padded knee guards. I’ll come back this weekend to grout once the thinset has cured fully. I take one last look, and then shut down the lights, and head for home.

S
omeone isn’t happy with me.

“I know, I know, I’m sorry, I just got caught up at work,” I say, on the receiving end of a glare that can only be described as steely. “C’mon, don’t be like that.” I reach out my hand for a comforting caress.

And get it nipped. Not enough to break skin, but enough to send a message.

“Stupid dog, do you realize you have actually LITERALLY bitten the hand that feeds you?”

Schatzi looks at me with a withering stare, arching her bushy eyebrows haughtily, and then turns her back to me. I stick out my tongue at her back, and go to the kitchen to freshen her water bowl. Damnable creature requires fresh water a zillion times a day. God forbid a fleck of dust is dancing on the surface, or it has gone two degrees beyond cool, I get the laser look of death. Once there was a dead fly in it, and she looked in the bowl, crossed the room, looked me dead in the eye, and squatted and peed on my shoes. I usually call her Shitzi or Nazi. I suppose I’m lucky she deigns to drink tap water. Our bare tolerance of each other is mutual, and affection between us is nil. The haughty little hellbeast was my sole inheritance from my grandmother who passed away two years ago. A cold, exacting woman who raised me in my mother’s near-complete absence, Annelyn Stroudt insisted on my calling her Grand-mère, despite the fact that she put the manic in Germanic, ancestry-wise. But apparently when her grandparents schlepped her mother from Berlin to Chicago, they took a year in Paris first, and adopted many things
Française
. So Grand-mère it was.

Grand-mère Annelyn also insisted on dressing for dinner, formal manners in every situation, letterpress stationary, and physical affection saved for the endless string of purebred miniature schnauzers she bought one after the other, and never offered to the granddaughter who also lived under her roof. Her clear disappointment in me must have rubbed off on Schatzi, who, despite having lived with me since Grand-mère died neatly and quietly in her sleep at the respectable age of eighty-nine, has never seen me as anything but a source of food, and a firm hand at the end of the leash. She dotes on Grant, but he sneaks her nibbles when he cooks, and coos to her in flawless French. Sometimes I wonder if the spirit of Grand-mère transferred into the dog upon death, and if the chilly indifference to me is just a manifestation of my grandmother’s continued disapproval from beyond the grave.

Schatzi wanders over to her bowl, sniffs it, sneers at me one last time for good measure, shakes her head to ensure her ears are in place, like a society matron checking her coif, and settles down to drink. I jump in a hot shower to get the grit off me. I keep my thick, wavy dark auburn hair just above my shoulders, long enough to pull into a short ponytail or messy bun when I’m working, but short enough to not require too much fussing. I’m twisting it up into a towel turban when I hear joyful yipping.

“Hello, my darling. How are you, sweet girl?” I wander into the living room, where Grant is snuggling the dog, who is submitting to his attentions with clear delight.

Bitch.

Literally.

Grant stops petting the suddenly animated Schatzi to come kiss me, which he does gently on my forehead. “How was your day?” He smiles at me in a way that makes me know he had a good night.

“Long, annoying. You?”

“Same. Probably less annoying than yours. Have you eaten?”

“Not yet, just got home.”

“Pasta?”

“Perfect.” Grant and I have easy shorthand. I love that we don’t have to share every tiny detail of our day first shot out of the gate. We’re both busy, we’re both under pressure, there are a million pieces of minutia that we’ve dealt with since last we spoke, and neither of us feels the need to unburden it all. We’ll eat, and slowly let the days we’ve had trickle out, the important bits. My guess is that because we are both only children, both from broken homes with indifferent parenting, we’re self-sufficient by nature. He heads to the kitchen, and I follow, perching on a stool across the island from him. He grabs an apron, wraps the ties around his back over his nonexistent tush, and ties it in front on his round little belly. He runs his fingers through his fine sandy hair, and heads for the sink to wash them, almost like a surgeon. Then he pulls the large cutting board from underneath the counter and grabs his eight-inch chef’s knife. I love watching him cook. And I’m not the only one.

Grant was both the winner and the fan favorite of season three of
World’s Supreme Chef
, handily beating out fifteen other American hopefuls to compete in the international reality-TV competition, and narrowly edging out a win over the French cheftestant. His charming self-deprecating personality made him a darling of the talk show circuit for a few months, and helped garner him an investor partner to help him finally have his own restaurant, which has been packed to the gills since the moment he opened. His place, Nez De Cochon, is right across the street from Stephanie Izard’s Girl & the Goat, and they often joke with each other that they both wish the other were less successful so that they had a place to send the reservationless walk-in patrons they can never accommodate. He’s nearing completion on a second place, a more casual comfort food diner concept, and after being a judge for season six of
WSC
, has been approached by a major network to develop a prime-time cooking show.

The prize package he received, along with the endorsement deals and bestselling cookbook his presence on the show generated, allowed him to purchase this spacious condo in the West Loop, walking distance to his Randolph Street restaurant. It also allowed him to hire MacMurphy to do the design and build of the gut rehab he wanted, which was how we met. We worked closely together on the project, and I was thrilled with how much he relied on me, embraced and accepted my suggestions. He cooked for me. We became friends. Then one night, almost accidentally, lovers. I would have written it off as a one-nighter between friends, but the next morning he made me breakfast and asked if he could take me on a proper date. I figured it would be rude to decline the offer, in light of all the naked the night before, which is also how we ended up in bed the second time. And the third. We quickly became, for lack of a more romantic term, a habit. By the time I finished the apartment, he asked me to move into it, and I couldn’t think of a good reason to say no.

Grant is like no one I’ve ever dated. I always leaned toward big hulking boys with more muscles than brains. Simple boys, not so much emotionally unavailable as emotionally indifferent. I always liked things uncomplicated. I never really needed much more than a strong warm body, the occasional release of straightforward sex. I wasn’t really ever very good at romance or being a girlfriend; most of my relationships landed in the nebulous region between friend with benefits and better-than-nothing boyfriend. I liked men who didn’t need much from me, ones who let me be in charge. I’d never really been in grown-up love before Grant, and he is the absolute opposite of everyone who preceded him.

Grant is five foot eight to my five foot five, and we weigh the same, 180, allowing for my solid muscular Bavarian build and his soft, chefly poochiness. He’s sensitive and tender, a good listener, a thoughtful romantic. No one since Joe had ever made me feel so safe, safe enough to be really open and honest. To share my darkest thoughts, to vent my deepest hurts. And when he proposed last year, he eschewed the traditional ring and instead did it with a stunning pair of diamond stud earrings, two fiery carats each, in a platinum three-prong low-profile setting. The perfect way to spoil a girl who works with her hands and has to wear hardhats regularly.

I fill Grant in on my boring day of bids, the embarrassment of the staff meeting where Murph called me out for signing off on the Rick Bayless restaurant bathrooms without noticing that we installed the women’s room door on the men’s bathroom. “Apparently our little Anneke can pee in a urinal with no problem, so it didn’t occur to her that the other ladies might not have such great aim.” This was received with a roomful of laughter, and Liam jumped right in. “Well, she does have bigger balls than you, Murph.” It took five minutes before everyone stopped laughing and poking fun, and I sat there smiling and chuckling as if it didn’t matter. And then I said that my balls were perfectly delicate and ladylike, but my dick was definitely bigger than Murph’s, and the room went totally silent in that way where you can almost hear the needle scratching violently across the record, and he glared at me and curtly told me to get the hell over there and fix it and apologize to Rick for the error. Lucky for me, Rick Bayless is a very kind gent, and pals with Grant, so we laughed about it and he made a delicious torta that he has been experimenting with and we split it and talked about Grant’s new place, and he sent me off with a bag of warm churros, so the day was somewhat saved.

Grant shakes his head and mutters about how rude and unnecessary it is to humiliate people, while he slices an onion and chops a bagful of multicolor cherry tomatoes. He drops the veggies in a pan, adds a large sprig of fresh basil from the vase on the counter, smashes a garlic clove, and tosses it in. A hefty glug of olive oil, a sprinkle of red pepper flakes, more salt than you would imagine necessary, a fistful of dried linguine, some water, and the contents of a plastic tub of the gelatinous amber chicken stock that he always brings home from the restaurant. He turns the flame up, gives it a stir, and then reaches into the wine fridge underneath the counter and hands me a bottle of Barolo to open. He begins grating a snowy mound of Parmesan into a bowl, pausing periodically to give the contents of the pan, now at a rolling boil, a quick stir with his tongs. A latchkey kid whose mom worked long hours, he’s been cooking for himself since he was eight, and for others since he lied about his age and got an after-school job as a prep cook in a fast-food joint at fourteen. He skipped college in favor of culinary school, and the rest is history.

I pour the inky wine into two glasses, and we clink before taking a deep and satisfying sip. Cheese finished, he stirs the pasta again, and then takes more basil from the vase, picking the leaves carefully and reducing them to a pile of shreds in seconds. Grant has amazing knife skills. It’s mesmerizing to watch. He removes the basil sprig and garlic clove from the pan, tossing them in the garbage, stirs again, and pulls one long noodle to taste. Smiling, he pulls the pan from the heat, divides the contents between two shallow white stoneware bowls, and gives each serving a healthy twirl of olive oil, a fistful of cheese, a scattering of basil. He reaches behind him and grabs a half of a crusty baguette off the counter and places it between us.

It’s been maybe fifteen minutes. And I have heaven in a bowl. Grant might not be able to pick me up and whisk me to the bedroom, nor do either of us have much energy for that these days anyway. But he wants to know about my thoughts, and he makes me meals full of love, and I always feel so cared for with him. This is as close to home as I’ve had since Joe died, and it guts me that they never met. I think they would have gotten along famously, and I know that Joe always wanted me to have this, a good man who loves me, a place to live that is safe and stable. Grant and I eat right where we are, ravenously quiet, me sitting on the stool, and him standing behind the stove, pausing only to add more cheese, or drink more wine. As little time as it took to make, it takes less to devour—the perfect thing for a late supper after a long day. I marvel at his ability to do something that on the surface looks so simple, and yet is completely beyond me.

Because for all my massive appetite, I cannot cook to save my life. When Grant came to my old house for the first time, he became almost apoplectic at the contents of my fridge and cupboards. I ate like a deranged college frat boy midfinals. My fridge was full of packages of bologna and Buddig luncheon meats, plastic-wrapped processed cheese slices, and little tubs of pudding. My cabinets held such bounty as cases of chicken-flavored instant ramen noodles, ten kinds of sugary cereals, Kraft Macaroni & Cheese, and cheap canned tuna. My freezer was well stocked with frozen dinners, heavy on the Stouffer’s lasagna and bags of chicken tenders. My garbage can was a wasteland of take-out containers and pizza boxes. In my defense, there was also always really good beer and a couple of bottles of decent wine.

My eating habits have done a pretty solid turnaround since we moved in together three years ago. Grant always leaves me something set up for breakfast: a parfait of Greek yogurt and homemade granola with fresh berries, oatmeal that just needs a quick reheat and a drizzle of cinnamon honey butter, baked French toast lingering in a warm oven. He almost always brings me leftovers from the restaurant’s family meal for me to take for lunch the next day. I still indulge in greasy takeout when I’m on a job site, as much for the camaraderie with the guys as the food itself; doesn’t look good to be noshing on slow-roasted pork shoulder and caramelized root vegetables when everyone else is elbow-deep in a two-pound brick of Ricobene’s breaded steak sandwich dripping marinara.