Recipe for Disaster (9 page)

I
let Lola warm up a bit while my blood pressure slowly returns to normal. Suddenly starving, I pull out and head over to Half Italian Grocer on Milwaukee, and pick up a sandwich, a bag of chips, one of their decadent cannoli. I eat it all in the car, dripping Italian dressing and cannoli filling on myself, scattering bread crust flakes and chip crumbs all over. I’m flying high. Fuck Mac and Murph and Liam. Fuck the Mannings and their sensitive egos and their money and shitty taste. It’s like Hedy said, fuck the haters, fuck ’em all. I hope they start digging tomorrow and spend the rest of their natural lives in their horrible house where the basement floods during every big storm. I’m going to get up tomorrow and go to the Palmer Square house and start something big. Something that’s going to take all my concentration, and months of work, and will make all this other noise just a little annoying blip in my past, as I jump headlong into my future.

I’m suddenly filled with heart-swelling enormous love for Grant, for his generosity, for his wanting my happiness enough that he would encourage me to quit this job that never was what I really needed. For understanding me so completely and taking such good care of me. For being so patient and just waiting for me to come to this decision in my own time and my own way. He’s going to laugh his ass off when I tell him what I said to the Mannings, to Murph. Grant is a big believer of both grand entrances and dramatic exits. He thinks they make life worth living. At his first job, for a notoriously evil screamy chef, he ended up cutting the tip off his pinky finger when the asshair snuck up behind him to yell at him for something another chef had actually messed up. Grant walked over, seared the bloody finger on the flattop to cauterize the wound, and told the bastard that he would be out of business in three years if he didn’t stop selling counterfeit wines, putting half the profits up his nose, and cheating on his wife with the pastry chef. The restaurant closed in two years, concurrent with the chef’s divorce and stint in rehab, and the space is where Grant is now building his diner. Karma is a bitch.

I decide that we should celebrate, and head over to Howard’s Wine Cellar on Belmont to pick up a bottle of vintage Krug, Grant’s favorite bubbly, and a major splurge. I’m feeling amped-up, powerful, irresistible. I swing by Whole Foods and grab some wonderful stinky cheeses, sausages, a baguette, a bunch of grapes, a pint of pistachio gelato, a bar of dark chocolate. We are going to have a little living room picnic, and then I am going to seduce my fiancé.

When I come through the door, laden with goodies, Schatzi raises her head from her perch on the couch, and gives me a look I can only describe as smug. I toss her a treat anyway, and start putting the food away. I’ve got the champagne bottle in my hand when I hear the noise. Sort of a muffled mumbling coming from the bedroom. My heart stops. I look over at the dog, who has gone back to sleep. Figures. She’d want me to get killed by some meth-addled axe murderer. Then she’d have Grant all to herself. The champagne bottle automatically shifts in my hand, readying itself for a protective blow. I’m so amped it doesn’t occur to me to be scared, woe to the thief who entered my home today of all days. Today I am one powerful bitch.

I walk slowly toward the bedroom, where the door is ajar. I push it slightly, quietly, like I’ve seen done in a million cop shows, and see the bed, still unmade from my quick exit this morning, shocked at how rumpled and destroyed it looks. I can hear the shower going in the bathroom, and breathe a sigh of relief. No wonder the dog didn’t care; Grant must have gone to the new restaurant site today and gotten dirty and wanted to come home to clean up before heading to work. Even better. I’ll surprise him in the shower. I kick off my shoes, shimmy out of my jeans, pull off my shirt, and discard panties and bra. Then I pick up the bottle of bubbly, rip off the foil and cage, and gently remove the cork with a subtle pop. Naked, I tiptoe over to the bathroom and open the door, stepping inside the steamy room, heading for the large open shower, patting myself on the back for suggesting to Grant he build a decent-sized bench at one end and imagining what we might do to each other thereon.

“Hello, handsome,” I say, striking a seductive pose.

“AAAAAAAHHHHHH!!!!” yells Gregg, Grant’s new sous chef for the diner, standing under the rain shower I installed, with hot water running over his lanky body and his staggeringly impressive erection.

“Shit,” says Grant from behind Gregg, dropping the large soapy sponge he’s using to wash Gregg’s back.

“Fuck,” I say as the bottle slips from my grasp, hitting the cushy bathmat I picked out that rests on top of the slate tiles I sourced and installed, and sending an explosion of the five-hundred-dollar champagne straight up into the air and all over me.

P
almer Square: The Next Hot Neighborhood,” says the sidebar on the new issue of
Chicago
magazine. It’s the first thing that has made me feel good since my life exploded. I flip through the article, sitting in the front seat, reading the kind of neighborhood predictions that make my heart pitter-pat. Describing the area as a developing extension of the hotter-than-hot Logan Square area that it abuts, detailing the new surge of small businesses, restaurants, and coffeehouses that point toward an imminent quantum shift in everything from quality of schools to housing prices. It effectively confirms my belief that I got in on the Palmer house at just the right time, and should be able to find the right client willing to pay what it will be worth when I finish. After what I’ve been through, and where I’m going, I really needed this bit of validation. It’s like the universe saying that all will be what it should be.

I drop the magazine on the seat beside me, turn off the truck, and get out. It’s just seven o’clock; Murph and Mac asked me to come in before the office opens to sign my exit paperwork and pick up my final check. I would have preferred to do it all by mail, but they insisted.

I push open the door, and head through the eerily still office to the conference room, the scene of the crime.

“Anneke,” Murph says without getting up.

“Murph,” I reply as Mac walks over and gives me an awkward hug, which I accept, arms at my sides, wishing he would stop touching me.

“You doing okay?” he asks.

“Just peachy.”

“Okay, let’s get this organized,” Murph says, all business. There are forms to fill out that say that I quit and wasn’t fired, so that I can’t claim unemployment benefits. A nondisclosure agreement that says I can’t talk about any of their clients or their business. A noncompete agreement that says I cannot contact any of their current clients, and cannot accept work from any of their current clients for two years. Some insurance form that says that my projects while I worked for them will all continue to be covered under their policy, and that I am also still covered against liability for any work I oversaw while employed with them. COBRA forms that allow me to get my health insurance for the next year. My final check, including paying me out for nine years’ worth of vacation days and sick days never taken. I sign off on a letter that will go out to my current clients and the other employees saying that after a wonderful long run with them I have decided to move on to other opportunities and that MacMurphy wishes me all the best. It’s all very businesslike, and relatively painless.

“Hello, everyone. Anneke,” Liam says as he walks in the door. So much for painless.

“We wanted you to bring Liam up to speed on all of your in-progress work, since he will be overseeing everything until we find a replacement,” Murph says curtly, and then stands. “Good luck, Anneke, we wish you all the best,” he says, in a way that indicates that he means the exact opposite, and then he leaves.

Mac gestures for Liam to sit down, and the three of us spend the better part of an hour going over everything I had on my plate. To his credit, Liam is simply focused, listens to everything I say, takes copious notes. When we are finished, I shake Mac’s hand and gather up my copies of all of the legal crap.

“Do you know what you’ll do?” Mac asks.

“I’ve got a spec house I’ve been working on in my spare time for the last year or so; I’m going to work on it full-time.”

“That seems good. I hope it works well for you.” He nods, and heads out to his office.

“Where’s the place?” Liam asks.

“Palmer Square.”

“The new hot neighborhood on the horizon?” he says snarkily.

I’m not taking the bait. “Well, only if you believe
Chicago
magazine.”

“Urban pioneering, seems smart.”

“Just a project I believe in.”

“I think it’s great.” He shrugs. “Plus you are probably the only client you can stand.”

I’m not in the mood today. There is too much to do, too much to process; I’m still half-numb and refuse to engage. “I definitely piss me off much less than other people. See you around, Liam.”

“Good luck, for what it’s worth, I think you’ll be fine.”

This sudden bit of sincerity catches me off guard, and chips away at my icy exterior a bit. “Thanks. For what it’s worth, I’m sorry that my departure is dumping extra work and complications on you.”

“Nothing a good ass-kissing, brownnosing suck-up like me can’t handle.” He grins.

I can’t help but chuckle. “You make an excellent point.” And with that, I head back out through the office for the last time, relieved to have it over and done with, and try to steel myself to face the part of my day that will be even worse.

Y
ours or his?” Caroline says, pointing to the lamp on the end table next to the living room couch.

“His,” I say, continuing to put DVDs in a plastic tub.

“I got all the hanging clothes into the wardrobe box,” says Marie, coming out of the bedroom.

“And I got all the stuff out of the drawers into your suitcases,” Hedy says, following close on her heels.

“Thanks, guys.” I’m numb, and I’m pissed. It’s been the longest week of my life. I holed up at Caroline’s in her amazing guest suite, and moped while she plied me with baked goods, homemade ice cream, vats of mashed potatoes, almost all of which I weirdly resented. I frankly hated the fact I even had to stay with her, but I couldn’t be in that apartment, even though Grant offered to leave for me to have some time. I spent hours in her deep tub, drinking hot tea laced with bourbon and ginger syrup, emptying and refilling the tub when it cooled, waiting for the tears I knew should come but never did, and all the time wishing she would stop cooking and baking and placating and offering to buy me massages. People break up; I might be sad, but I’m not some broken doll that needs fixing.

“The truck is en route,” Caroline says, checking her phone. She has organized this move with the efficiency and precision of a military coup. She bought the tubs and boxes, hired the movers, rallied the troops, all before I could even tell her I’d rather she didn’t. “Last time, are you sure about this? You know you can stay with us as long as you like. Carl would love it, and so would I.”

“I love you, Caro, but I can’t just stay at your place. I have to move forward with my life, and right now, my life, whatever there is left of it, is at that house.” I’m moving into the Palmer Square house, since I own it and now it represents my only income opportunity. It’s a roof over my head, and I can work round the clock. It won’t be luxurious, or even terribly comfortable, but it will be a place to focus my thoughts and energies into something positive. And I’ll be able to get away from the smothering constant attention from Caroline.

“I don’t think you should make any big decisions right now, you’re very fragile.” Marie comes over and puts an arm around my shoulders, giving me a firm squeeze, which I can’t help but flinch away from. The last thing I need right now is a lot of petting, and Marie’s sad little puppy face is just annoying.

“Fuck that, she’s the least fragile person we know. Fucking look at her for chrissakes.” Hedy makes a face. “She’s a rock. And she’s going to finish that enormous monolith and sell it for a gazillion bucks and it’s going to launch her new business.”

“Thank you.” Hedy is the only one I don’t want to punch right now. “I’ll be fine.”

“Of course you’ll be fine. Better than fine. You’ll be great,” Marie says, giving me a “you can do it” smile.

I can’t stand it, and I can’t keep quiet. “Okay, no more cheerleading. Look, guys, this is shitty, but people break up all the time. It sucks, but I’m not dying, I’m just moving. And I appreciate all you are doing for me, but the best thing you can do if you really want to help is just get through today without too much pity, if that is at all possible.”

Caroline looks like I hit her. Marie does a weird little spasm, and Hedy gives me a look that says I may have a hall pass, but to watch myself. But she saves me anyway.

“No rest for the weary and no pity for the strong. Let’s get back to it, ladies.” And blissfully, we go back to packing with minimal discussion. The fact is, I’m far less depressed about losing Grant than I am about having quit my job.

I have just about 150K in savings, the balance of my inheritance from Joe and what little I’ve been able to sock away over the years. The check I got this morning from Mac and Murph will only last me for basic living expenses for six months or so, and that is on a total shoestring. I have at least 200K worth of work left to do on the house, more if unexpected problems arise, and that is with me doing at least 70 percent of the actual work myself. And now I have no other income. By living in the property while I work I’ll obviously save money on housing, but even on a total austerity budget, I’m going to have to get creative about a lot of things. I’ve been good about saving for retirement, but the idea of tapping into any of that to keep myself afloat is an ulcer waiting to happen. The conundrum is that if I were to take the time to get a job to get some more money coming in, I wouldn’t have time to do the work I need the money to fund. Plus it isn’t like I have good references available to me; I didn’t just burn my bridges, I napalmed them. So for now, all I can do is jump in with both feet and hope for a miracle.

There’s a knock on the door, and thankfully, before I have to endure any more pep talks about my suddenly shitty and uncertain future, the movers begin to take what little I own out of the place I thought was my home.

O
nce everything is loaded into the Palmer house, I head back to the condo alone to pick up Schatzi and leave the keys. Hedy offered to come with me, but I just want to be alone. I pull into a space in front, having already left my garage door opener behind in the apartment. I feel at once leaden and hollow. The hollowness is probably hunger. It’s nearly four and the sandwiches and soup Caroline brought with her for our lunch are long gone, and pretending to be grateful for all of their help and platitudes is hungry work.

I unlock the door. Grant is standing in the living room, looking ashen and ashamed.

“I’m sorry, I just, I couldn’t let you just . . .” His eyes fill with tears. “God, Anneke, I’m so sorry. Can we please . . . ? Can I . . . ?”

We haven’t spoken since the shower incident. Gregg left in a hurry, and I wiped the champagne off of me and got dressed, and Grant had something of a breakdown, blubbering and apologizing and assuring me that the whole thing was a very new development and that he was planning on telling me. I sat there in total shock and listened to him explain that he still loved me, still wanted us to make a life together, and did I think I could explore the idea of an open marriage?

And that is when I got up and walked out and went to Caroline’s.

“Grant, I don’t really know what there is to say. I feel like a weird cliché in some bad romantic comedy or chick lit book. My fiancé is gay. How terribly unoriginal of me.”

“Bi. Not gay.”

“Oh, Jesus, Grant, pick a fucking side.”

“I can’t. Anneke, I meant everything I ever said to you, ever did with you. I meant all of that, I really loved you, love you; it’s just confusing. You knew I had some experiences in my past . . .”