When in Doubt, Add Butter Page 8

  “Not a problem.”

  “We have an herb garden out back,” Reva said from across the room.

  “Of course,” Tom added.

  “As well as a very nice selection of lettuces, although I find they grow so slowly that it’s not really an economical choice in a back garden like ours.”

  I nodded. “But at least it’s organic.”

  “Oh, yes, we try to stick to all organic ingredients.” Reva set a steaming mug in front of me. “Not that I want you to knock yourself out if you’re finding it difficult to procure everything you need without going conventional. It must be difficult to act as a part-time wife in a household where personalities can be so divergent.”

  This was so refreshing, I could have cried.

  Under the best circumstances, my clients were like family to me. Really, in many ways, they replaced the family I had never had myself. So it was unbelievably lucky to find a perfect fit like Tom and Reva seemed to be. They were kind, sensible, realistic, and having lived here—and with each other—for thirty years, they were arguably creatures of habit, which meant a good shot at job security for me.

  Penny always joked that I was a wife-for-hire. She was going to love this story. “Yes,” I agreed. “You just can’t please everyone all the time.” I thought of Peter and Angela and their wildly different diet tastes. “Very often, one person ends up feeling left out and that can create a lot of tension. For all of us.”

  “I think you’ll find we’re pretty easygoing,” Tom said, and I believed him.

  “Speaking of not easygoing, we were at one of Marie Lemurra’s parties one time when you cooked,” Reva said, sitting down at the table next to me.

  I froze. Marie Lemurra. This had the possibility of turning very bad, very fast. “Were you?”

  “Oh, not the stupid True Wife one,” Reva said with a laugh that immediately put me at ease. “Don’t worry. She did kick up a storm about you for a couple of days after that, but everyone knew she was trying to save face.”

  “I hope that went okay for her,” I said, trying to sound sincere.

  “Went better for you,” Tom said.

  “She didn’t deserve you,” Reva went on. “Marie liked to take credit for the success of those parties, but everyone knew it was your delicious food that made everyone want to keep coming back.”

  My face flushed with pride. “Thank you,” I said, meaning it. “That is so kind of you to say.”

  “Kindness has nothing to do with it—it’s the truth. We wanted to steal you and bring you home the first time we saw you. But I bet you hear that all the time.”

  “Not really, but it’s very flattering.”

  “Tom’s tastes actually tend to run toward the more exotic usually, but…” She shrugged. “What can I say? You completely won him over.”

  “So what do you say?” Tom asked. “Are you interested?”

  I looked around the kitchen and just knew I had to be as wide-eyed as a kid on Christmas morning. “Very. I think we could be a really good fit.”

  They beamed at each other. “I told you she would be perfect,” Reva said.

  He chuckled indulgently. “You’re always right about these things.” Then he turned to me. “I suppose you’ll be wanting to see the rest of the package.”

  “Is there more?” What next? Their very own Whole Foods right in the basement? A full-time barista to serve me coffee and tea while I cooked?

  “Honey, there’s always more,” he said.

  Reva nodded. “He’s not kidding.”

  Tom began to work at the buckle of his pants. “Sorry, these are new and they’re a little stiff.”

  “Oh!” Reva clapped her hand to her mouth and laughed.

  “No pun intended,” he added, wrestling the button free and unzipping the zipper.

  What the hell was happening?

  I know you think in a situation like that, you’d just get up immediately and get out of there, but it was so surreal, so completely unexpected and inappropriate that my thought process couldn’t keep up with what my eyes were actually seeing.

  Until he actually stood up and dropped his trousers.

  “We do prefer you don’t stay overnight most of the time,” Reva was saying. “The bed is a king, but three makes for a tight fit when you’re trying to get some rest.”

  “I’m sorry.” With surprising calm, I picked up my purse and stood, backing carefully away from the table. “I don’t understand what you’re thinking I’m going to do for you, and I’m really not sure I want to, but—I—” There was just no room for misinterpretation, even though the logical part of my brain told me to search for one. I mean, they could have taken it into a hundred even weirder directions from here, but this—this—was clear enough.

  This was never going to happen.

  “I thought you understood we wanted you to take over as a part-time wife,” Reva said, looking genuinely confused. “You just said it yourself.”

  “Well. Yeah. I mean.” What had I said? Hadn’t I just agreed with their joke reference to my job as being a part-time wife? Yes, Tom had said it must be difficult sometimes. And I’d said … Oh, dear God. I’d said that it was hard to please everyone and that all too often one person ends up feeling left out.

  Oh, gross.

  “I think we’ve been at cross-purposes here tonight,” Tom said, very sensibly.

  “Yes.” I nodded spastically. “Yes, we have.”

  “Oh, dear, I am sorry,” Reva said. “So you don’t go from the kitchen to the bedroom? Professionally, I mean.”

  “No!” Jesus, is that what Marie had been saying about me? Where else could they have gotten that impression? I scanned my memory, trying to recall if there had ever been an event or party where my role as cook had been open to any sort of interpretation.

  “This is awkward,” Tom observed.

  “Yes.” I clutched my bag closer to me. “I’m going to go now.”

  “So sorry for the misunderstanding,” Reva said, walking me to the door, though I would have been so much happier if she’d just stayed in the kitchen and I could have run away and never looked back.

  “It’s…” What? Okay? No, it wasn’t. On top of everything else, they thought I would cook for them and have sex with them for what I had believed had been our agreed-upon price for cooking? Incredibly I managed to feel both shocked that they thought I’d do it at all and insulted that they didn’t think I was worth more. But they were nice people, and it had clearly been an honest mistake. “Don’t … don’t give it another thought.” I smiled pitifully. “I’m going.” I increased my stride and threw the door open.

  “Give it some thought, won’t you?” Reva called behind me as I raced down the wooden front steps and toward my car in the darkness. “We’d love to have you!”

  I said nothing and pushed the key fob, and my car lights flared to life. Unfortunately, they weren’t bright enough to light up the large divot in the gravel driveway, which I managed to turn my ankle in. No matter, I was like a racehorse, sprinting for the finish line, regardless of the pain of injury. I had to get out of there, and get out fast.

  * * *

  “That’s not how I meant it,” Penny said when she finally stopped laughing long enough to spit out a coherent sentence.

  This is the kind of mockery you can take only from family, huh?

  I shifted the bag of frozen peas I’d gotten from her freezer to put on my bruised ankle. “You probably caused this. You put wife-for-hire out into the universe and—boom!—suddenly that’s what people expect me to do.”

  “The most degrading part of all this is the money.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  She reached for her water on the coffee table, but her nine months of pregnancy blocked her way. I nudged it closer so she could reach. “Thanks. So do you think Marie Lemurra told everyone that’s what you do?”

  “I thought of that, but it doesn’t make her look so great, does it? Anyone who says they hire someone t
o come in and cook and sleep with her husband looks pretty sketchy.”

  “She didn’t want to sleep with you, too, huh?”

  “Ew, gah, I don’t know. Just—ew.” I shuddered. “Stop talking about it!”

  “Oh, honey, I don’t know how we can ever stop talking about this!”

  “Stop talking about what?” Her husband, Dell, walked into the room with two bottles, one of beer and one of ginger ale. He handed me the beer and handed her the ginger ale. “This sounds like something I want to be in on.”

  “Gem just went to interview with some people about cooking for them, and it turns out they thought the price included sex.”

  “But not sleeping over,” I added. “Don’t forget that part of it. They wanted to make really sure I wasn’t planning on staying over and cramping their style.”

  “Huh.” Dell nodded thoughtfully. “How much extra do you usually charge for the sex?”

  “Two hundred.”

  “That’s the package price, right?”

  “Of course.”

  He shrugged. “Seems reasonable to me.”

  “Oh, stop.” Penny playfully batted at him with a decorative pillow. “What if Charlotte overhears?” Charlotte was their seven-year-old daughter.

  “She is sound asleep,” he said, sinking down onto the sofa next to Penny and draping an arm around her. “Knocked out. That swim party did her in today.”

  Penny relaxed under his touch. “Thank goodness.”

  I watched them, thinking that, if marriage had seemed to me the way it looked like it felt to them, I would have been the happiest girl in the world. In fact, Penny kind of was the happiest girl in the world. Her relationship with Dell seemed easy, the companionship undeniable. I could only imagine what it was like to go to sleep with someone I adored so much every night and wake up with him in the morning.

  The babies were probably the icing on that cake for them. Butter cream, of course.

  They were lucky.

  “What’s the matter?” Penny asked, looking at me, concerned.

  “What do you mean? Nothing.”

  “You just looked upset. Dell didn’t offend you by joking around about your price, did he?”

  “No!” I said quickly, just as the idea seemed to take hold in him as well. “God no,” I assured him quickly. “I totally know you were joking. We both were. I was actually thinking about something else.”

  “What?” Penny wanted to know.

  How jealous I am of your happiness and how alone it sometimes makes me feel.

  How incredibly different my life would be if I’d turned left instead of right all those years ago.

  How I wonder if I’ll ever be sure I made the right decision.

  “I was thinking,” I said, “that this would be a really good time for you to hurry up and go into labor because of all the unexpected days off I have.”

  Penny sighed. “I have tried everything. Every single thing I could find that might send me into labor without killing me. Nothing works!”

  “Time, my love.” Dell touched his knuckle to her cheek. “Time will work.”

  She made a miserable face but snuggled in closer to him.

  Well, yes, it was always timing, wasn’t it?

  Everything in life comes down to timing. Stopping at a yellow light instead of accelerating sometimes makes the difference between life and death.

  Problem is, you never know whether you’re better off stopping or blasting through. Maybe I should have stopped a long time ago.

  And, for just a minute, I really did feel like maybe I’d waited too long, focused too much on my career, and had inadvertently let something important slip away.

  Chapter 7

  Ah … Mr. Tuesday’s apartment.

  Its cool darkness was a welcome relief after walking in from an unseasonably hot October afternoon. It always felt like leather and soap and masculinity in there, probably less because of the furniture than because of whatever the cleaning lady used. Still, it was a distinctly dignified, manly feel that I loved.

  I went to the kitchen area and turned on the overhead lights, bringing the room to life in filmworthy hues and textures. The black granite countertops gleamed, the brushed stainless steel appliances seemed to glow, the hardwood floors shone without a nick or scratch. Inside the fridge was sparkling clean, with a line of Sam Adams beers, the usual condiments on the door, milk, eggs, bacon, yogurt, fruit, and a jar of Wickles Pickles, coincidentally my favorite.

  Either he was the tidiest man on earth or his cleaning lady also came on Tuesdays, because the place looked like a showroom every time I came in. I’m pretty sure it was the latter, though I can’t say why I had that impression about someone I’d never met. Maybe it was the way the notes he left for me each week always seemed rushed and written in a messy scrawl.

  Today’s was no exception.

  G—

  Thanks for the roast chicken. It was awesome, as usual. But maybe next time you don’t need to put in quite as much garlic.

  I smelled like a buzzard all week.

  —P

  I smiled and shook my head. He didn’t want me to put so much garlic in the chicken that calls for forty cloves of garlic? Would thirty-nine have been better?

  I don’t trust people who don’t like garlic.

  Of course, he always seemed to have a little something to say about everything I left for him. They weren’t really complaints, exactly, just comments. I suspected he might have been goosing me sometimes, just to get a rise out of me. I mean, the buzzard thing was kind of funny, though arguably obnoxious.

  Slightly disgruntled, I took out the four frozen meals I’d prepared for him over the weekend and put them in the freezer, clipping the instruction sheet I’d typed to a magnet on the side of the fridge.

  Then I took out the ingredients I’d brought for tonight’s hot meat loaf dinner and laid everything on the counter.

  Look, I know everyone thinks their meat loaf is the best, but mine really is. For one thing, I use all beef—no veal, no pork. Why add complication or moral questionability if you don’t have to? I make a ketchup and molasses glaze that is to die for, and I don’t wrap it in bacon, because as great as bacon is for just about every reason, I don’t love it withered and stringy around a filet mignon or draped like a limp dick over a meat loaf.

  If your meat loaf depends on it, then forgive me. I’m sure it’s excellent.

  Mine’s just better.

  I heated some butter in a large Dutch oven on the stove and took out an onion and celery and my handy chef’s knife and started to dice. Unlike the lively voices at the Olekseis’ on Wednesdays, or the usually tense undertones of argument at the Van Houghtens’, and even the constant din of traffic outside the thin walls of my own condo, the entire place was completely silent except for the quiet, rhythmic chopping and the subtle crisp yielding of the onion to the blade.

  It was interrupted by my ringing phone. I set down the knife, wiped my hands on my apron, and took the phone out of my purse. It was him, Paul McMann, Mr. Tuesday himself.

  “Hello?”

  “Gemma.” He always sounded so stern when he said my name. It used to give me pause every time. Now I knew it was just his way. Probably the lawyer in him.

  I lowered my voice and imitated his tone. “Yes.”

  He laughed, obviously recognizing the fact that he was being mocked. “Are you at my place?”

  “Yup.”

  “What are you doing?”

  “Just rifling through the drawers and writing rude things on your underwear in Sharpie.” I don’t know what it was about him that made me so obnoxious, but we probably spoke at least every other week, and it always went like this. He was always walking through a noisy office, and half the time I couldn’t hear him.

  “Again?”

  “What can I say? I’m a one-trick pony.”

  “Just make sure you write on the outside this time. I really had to jump through hoops to show it to people last time
. I was nearly arrested.”

  “Ahh, good point.”

  “So what are you making this week?”

  “Garlic meat loaf. With a side of garlic mashed potatoes. Garlic green beans. Maybe some garlic gelato for dessert.”

  “Good, you got my note.”

  “Yes, I got your note.”

  “Hey, look, I hate to ask—but maybe you could take a few minutes to make garlic muffins for breakfast?”

  “Consider it done.”

  “All right. Well, here’s the reason I’m calling. I’m expecting some really important papers to be couriered over, and they were supposed to bring them to the office, but there was a snafu and the courier is on his way to the apartment instead. I’m on my way out now and will be home before I get back here, so there’s no point in having him rerouted. Would you mind waiting and signing for them? I’ll pay you for any extra time you have to spend there, obviously.”

  Like I said, I never minded spending time there. “No problem,” I said. “Don’t worry about paying extra for my time. I’m waiting for the meat loaf to cook, anyway.”

  “You’re a doll.”

  I had to smile. “Thanks. The ransom for the papers might be pretty steep, though.”

  “Will a hundred thousand in small, unmarked bills do?”

  This time I laughed. “For now. Where do you want me to leave them?”

  “The desk in the study?”

  “You got it.”

  “Great, thanks. I really do appreciate it. Maybe you could text me when they get there.”

  “Sure thing.”

  “You are the best.” He sounded seriously relieved. “It’s been a crazy week here, I’m glad there’s at least one damn thing I don’t have to worry about.”

  I smiled to myself. This was, after all, what I found most gratifying about this business. As clichéd as it was—and as big a setback for feminist values—I really liked taking care of people and making things easier and nicer for them. I’m not even sure you could call it generosity on my part, since I got such a charge out of being needed and indispensable in some small way now and then.

  To me, this was like having one of the more gratifying parts of a romantic relationship without all the hassle.