When in Doubt, Add Butter Read online

  “Don’t worry about it,” I said. “It’s really not a problem.”

  “Now, get back to your garlic extravaganza.”

  “The vampires are cowering in anticipation.”

  “Ah, yes, an added benefit.” He laughed. “I will repel vampires and women.”

  “You’re welcome!”

  We hung up and I went back to work but found myself smiling. He was a pain in the neck in a lot of ways—I mean, seriously, not so much garlic in the garlic chicken next time? He might as well have asked me to make it less “chickeny,” too. But then again, he was the most normal out of all the people I worked for, and there were many weeks where that fact alone saved my sanity. And even when he was being finicky, he was amusing.

  The butter was getting too brown, so I turned the burner down and went back to chopping the vegetables and putting the rest of the ingredients together. It was easy to get lost in the simplicity of this task. It was like the old Buddhist “chop wood and carry water” thing—and it had saved me from heartbreak, depression, and stress time and again.

  I assembled the meat loaf and put it in the oven, then started working on the glaze. Ketchup doesn’t usually excite me. I use it, I do put it on my burgers, and I like to dip my fries in ketchup and mayonnaise sometimes, but as an ingredient, it doesn’t normally make my heart sing. As an ingredient in the meat loaf glaze, however, it is operatic. I mixed together the ketchup, molasses, cider vinegar, and a few spices in a small saucepan, turned up the heat, and waited for it to start bubbling and reducing down to a thick confection.

  Slowly it morphed from orangey red to deep mahogany, and the smell—tangy and savory but with that hint of sweet—filled the kitchen. This was the real key to meat loaf—the almost candied glazing on the top. My ideal meal would be the semi-chewy top of a broiled glazed meat loaf; the crispy, buttery, cheesy top of macaroni and cheese; and the fragile, sweet, crumbly top of brownies.

  I also save the top of Hostess cupcakes for last because that’s the best part.

  I’m a topper, I guess.

  I tasted the glaze. It was perfect. Bliss. So I turned the burner off and looked around for something to do.

  It would still be an hour before the meat loaf was ready, and I would normally go out and get shopping and whatnot done in the neighborhood while I waited, but since he needed me to be here for the courier, I went into the living room to look for something to read.

  There were two large dark wooden bookcases full of books. Hemingway, Joseph Conrad, a few Kinky Friedman mystery novels, and a bunch of tomes on economics and investments.

  There was also a photo of an unbelievably hot guy standing in a tropical setting with his arm around a ridiculously thin, pretty blonde. Mr. Tuesday, I assumed, though I didn’t know who the woman was. I hadn’t seen any obvious signs of a feminine presence here, but that wasn’t to say she didn’t have a drawer in his bedroom and maybe a few inches of closet space.

  Even though much of my work involved having a key to my clients’ homes and going in when they weren’t there, I had firm rules about not snooping. For one thing, it’s wrong. Obviously. And for another, you never know when someone has the equivalent of a nanny cam hidden away, waiting for you to slip up. For all I knew, Mr. Tuesday’s edition of Heart of Darkness could have a pinhole camera in the spine, recording everything I did every Tuesday.

  Actually, it was a creepy thought, and I was pretty sure he wasn’t that interested in what I did.

  But standing here, looking at the picture, speculating … there was nothing wrong with that.

  It was impossible to tell how tall he was, but easy to tell that under the tropical print shirt and linen pants he wore in the photo, his body was pretty effing solid. His shoulders were broad and the fabric clung just enough to show that he had a muscular chest. His arms were also powerful looking, wide at the biceps but not flexed. I hate it when guys do that thing for pictures where they’re flexing but they think you don’t know it. For me, the masculinity lies in the guy’s self-confidence in knowing he’s got it, rather than the needy urge to prove it.

  Mr. Tuesday had it. His hair was dark and glossy, his jaw strong and square without being cartoonish. His smile was more beautiful than a movie star’s, and his eyes—I couldn’t tell the color—crinkled with laugh lines, which I’ve always found pretty hot.

  In short, he was one good-looking man.

  Obnoxious, though. Don’t get me wrong; I liked him a lot, but I could tell from our interaction that he’d be a pain in the neck to date.

  Not that the option was on the table. Like I said, I don’t date clients. Besides which, even if he didn’t still have the picture of this gorgeous girlfriend displayed—evidence that they were still together, surely—I’d never even met the guy. He was just interesting to try to figure out. A mystery man with a nice voice and plush material surroundings, but no physical body. That is, no physical body I’d ever seen.

  As I looked into the eyes of the smiling man, I remembered Mack. Not so technically good-looking as this guy, but man … there was just something about him.

  I moved away from the bookshelf and studied the pictures on the walls. Most of them were sort of obscure paintings done by people I’d never heard of. There was an unusual theme of tropical shapes done in dark, almost sinister, muted colors.

  The furniture was also dark, and almost everything was that thick, solid mission style. Most of my girlfriends would have found it too masculine for their own tastes, but I liked the clean lines.

  I was standing by a table, looking down at the items on it—knowing it was kind of snooping, yet following my personal rule not to touch anything and not to move anything—when the door buzzed, scaring the crap out of me.

  Funny how a guilty conscience will do that to you.

  Hand to my pounding heart, I went to the intercom and pressed TALK. “Yes?”

  “This is Barney with Crowly Couriers. I have a delivery for Mr. McMann?”

  “Okay, I’ll buzz you in.” I pushed the button for about ten seconds, assuming that was long enough.

  About a minute later, there was a knock at the door. I opened it up to find a pimply young guy with dark red hair and faint blue eyes standing there, holding a large envelope. “Is Mr. McMann here?” he asked, glancing behind me.

  “No, I’ll sign for it.”

  He looked hesitant and bit his lower lip. “But it’s addressed to Mr. McMann.”

  “Right. I’ll make sure he gets it.”

  He tucked the envelope under his arm and drew it back, as if I’d reached for it. “I don’t know—”

  “Look,” I said, “I’ve been waiting here for an hour and a half to get this parcel, so let me sign for it. He told me to wait. All you need is a signature. Not his signature. After all, you’re at his apartment, as you know. You made it up here yourself. Obviously, I’m not some sort of thief who broke into the apartment with the hopes that a delivery man would show up with something more interesting than all the stuff that’s in here.”

  He glanced behind me again, as if he had to see what was in there before he could agree with me.

  I sighed.

  “And what’s your name?” he asked, hesitating.

  “Gemma Craig.”

  “Like the diet lady?”

  It was incredible that I’d never realized this before and now, for the second time in a week, someone else was pointing it out to me.

  “Yes,” I said, figuring it was easier than trying to explain the difference between Jenny and Gemma. “Almost exactly.”

  He clenched his jaw. “Listen, ma’am, I really don’t think I should leave this with anyone but Mr. McMann. No offense, but I don’t want to lose my job.”

  “Look, Barney?”

  He nodded.

  “I totally understand your concern. So how about this—do you have a number for Mr. McMann there?”

  He looked at his log. “Yes.”

  I handed him my phone. “Okay, then. Why don’t y
ou dial it yourself, so you know there’s no funny business, and ask him if you can leave the papers with the woman at his address.”

  He looked doubtful, but took the phone and said, “All right.” It seemed to take twenty minutes for him to check the number and the phone and get it dialed.

  When he did, he handed it to me.

  “No, I meant, you should—,” I started, but then Paul answered the phone.

  His voice was hard and rushed, and it sounded like he was outside in the wind. “Lisa, we’ve got them down to manslaughter, but they’re still going for time, and I don’t think Schlesinger’s going to agree to it, because he’s convinced their evidence is inadmissible.”

  Suddenly I was in an episode of Law & Order or something. “I’m sorry … what?”

  “Wait, what?”

  “This is Gemma? Not Lisa?” I was, of course, certain of both those facts, but I’m not good when I’m confused. It makes me come off as stupid.

  “Gemma?” He sounded equally perplexed.

  “Yes … at your house?” Again, I knew I was at his place, but the very mention of anything even vaguely criminal apparently made me act guilty of something.

  “Oh. Gemma.” Understanding pinged in his tone. “What the hell are you doing on the phone?”

  “I called you.”

  He let out a breath. “Sorry, I didn’t mean— Never mind, my call forwarding is obviously fucked up. I thought you were my secretary. What do you need?”

  “The courier’s here, but he won’t hand over the package unless you tell him he can.”

  “What?”

  “I said, the courier’s here? With the papers you were expecting? But he won’t—”

  “Put him on the phone!”

  Wow, someone was sure impatient when he was busy.

  I handed the phone to Barney.

  He took a short breath. “Hello, this is Barney with Crowly Couriers, and I have a delivery for—”

  Even from my place across from Barney, I could hear Paul say, “Give her the fucking papers!”

  Barney cleared his throat. “The package is addressed to a Mr. Paul McMann. Is that you?”

  “Yes. Now, give her the damn papers.”

  “Okay.” He handed the phone back to me.

  “Sorry,” I said.

  “No, not your fault,” Paul said. He didn’t sound so irked anymore. “I’m sorry I snapped at you. I’m just distracted by work—innocent guy about to serve time.”

  “Don’t worry about me.”

  “I pay you to cook, not act as an ad hoc secretary and absorb my impatience.”

  I laughed. “Look, with that temper, I’m just glad I’m not your wife.” Immediately I worried if I’d gone too far.

  Fortunately, he gave a chuckle. “You’re not the first woman to express that exact sentiment.”

  I doubted that, but I said, “I’m sure. Now, where did you say you wanted me to leave the papers?”

  “Leave ’em on the study desk, please.”

  “Done.” I hung up the phone.

  Barney, a shade paler than when he’d first arrived, handed over the package and took out a small electronic box with a stylus. “Sign here, please, Mrs. McMann.”

  Really no point in correcting him on that one. Then we would have started a whole new cycle of doubts, and I didn’t think either Barney or I was up for that. I reached for the signature thing, but he held on tight, apparently thinking I was out to steal useless business-specific electronics as well as possibly helping myself to other people’s boring work papers.

  So I signed. It wasn’t neat and no one in a court of law would ever think it was my signature if comparing it to my usual signature, but at this point, I just wanted this kid to hand the thing over and leave so I could finish my job.

  And he did.

  I took the thick envelope and headed for the den, a room I’d been aware of but never actually entered. It was much the same as the rest of the apartment. Actually, Mr. Tuesday might have been a little bit on dark wood overload, because you could have knocked the wall out and the den would have fit seamlessly into the corner of the living room. It all looked the same to me.

  Well, I assumed it was, anyway. The bedroom door was closed. For some reason, the bedroom door was always closed. I don’t believe there was anything sinister back there—maybe he was just a slob who never made his bed or something.

  I was.

  Possibly he didn’t want anyone else to see that. So I walked past the closed door—yes, totally tempted to open it up and look—and dropped the envelope on the desk in the den.

  I went back into the kitchen and took the meat loaf out of the oven, then reheated the glaze and added a little Frank’s hot sauce. As soon as it was melty, I poured the mixture over the meat loaf, broiled the dish for two minutes, and—voilà!—it was done.

  I took it out of the oven and just beheld my masterpiece for a moment. This happens to me with making meat loaf: I always wish I’d set a tiny bit aside on another baking sheet so I could eat it myself. It was torture looking at this beautiful thing and knowing there was no way in the world I could cut into it without being obvious.

  So I put an aluminum foil tent over it, par-steamed some French-cut green beans and almonds, and poked a couple of potatoes with a fork before dropping them into a ziplock with instructions on heating in the microwave. (Basically, “Put in microwave and push ‘potato’ button twice,” since pushing that button once was never enough, not in any microwave I’d ever tried.)

  Once everything was done and ready to be reheated whenever he (and she?) got home, I put it all in Tupperware and into the fridge with clear directions for everything. I’d learned the importance of extra-clear instructions way back when one of my first clients heated a whole dish of chicken and biscuits with the plastic wrap still on. You could just never assume people had common sense.

  I started to leave, then hesitated and turned back. It was hard to resist messing with him. Honestly, if we’d met in a college civics class or something, we probably would have been best friends, I could just tell. Even when he exasperated me—which was much of the time—he made me laugh a lot, too.

  He was just that kind of guy.

  Of course, if he ever said something seriously obnoxious about my cooking, I probably wouldn’t feel so kindly toward him. But he never did. For the most part, he was really appreciative, often noticing even subtle additions and changes of spice or flavoring. He complimented me on my work frequently, and honestly, there’s almost nothing I like better than praise for my cooking.

  I’m not too proud to admit it.

  So I took a pen off the desk and went back into the kitchen. I’d tossed his note, but there was a plain lined pad with a magnetic back on the refrigerator. I took a sheet off that and wrote:

  P—

  This is the last of the garlic—don’t worry, I’ll pick up some more before next week. They sell pounds of it in a jar at Costco, already peeled. I already have plans for Chicken with Seventy-five Cloves of Garlic, and of course, garlic bread and a nice sharp pesto spread to go with it.

  I know this pleases you.

  —G

  I laid it on the counter and took a head of garlic from the vegetable bin and put it down as a paperweight. I wondered what his response would be.

  And with that, I was done with Mr. Tuesday for the week. But I wasn’t done thinking about him.

  Chapter 8

  Wednesday.

  “Hello, hello, hello!” Lex hurried into the kitchen, set his leather valise down on the granite-top desk, and came over to kiss my cheek. “I have been dying to see you and hear about the party in Georgetown—when—two weekends ago? Were the true wives there?”

  “They were there. I wasn’t.” I mixed an Algonquin, his favorite martini with rye, vermouth, and pineapple juice, into a sterling shaker and shook it with ice. I poured it into a martini glass and handed it to him, feeling—as I did every time—like a poor man’s Myrna Loy.

&n
bsp; He took a sip and closed his eyes in a moment of apparent ecstasy. “I don’t know how you do it, but this is better than Mother’s. Don’t tell her I said so!” He laughed.

  No danger of that. “Thanks.” I put three eggs in a pan of cold water and put it on the stove to simmer.

  He took another sip and set the glass down. “So why weren’t you there?”

  I told him about the peacock incident. At the end, he laughed and asked, “So do you think any of it made it onto the show?”

  “God, I hope not.” I explained the whole thing as I chopped lettuce, chicory, and watercress for his Cobb salad. “I never signed a release, so they can’t put me on, right?”

  “Well”—he gave a skeptical look—“I don’t know what the rules are about blurring faces and license plate numbers.”

  “Oh, no, I didn’t even think of that!”

  He tapped his finger on his temple. “Always have to use the noodle. And be paranoid.” He sipped his drink again. “And always look your best.” This was something he clearly took to heart. Not one of his silver hairs was ever out of place, he was always dressed immaculately, even when in his “workout clothes.” (These consisted of a velour tracksuit that would have looked perfect on any wealthy sitcom character you can think of—Mr. Drummond, from Diff’rent Strokes comes to mind.) Somehow everything Lex wore worked for him.

  I, on the other hand, had my mousy hair pulled back in a messy ponytail and was wearing green sweats I got from Target a million years ago along with a USMC T-shirt I’ve had since dating a marine a couple of years ago.

  In short, I was not camera ready.

  “Unless you plan on having a reality show, I don’t think I’m in a lot of danger of ending up on TV in the near future,” I said to him.

  He raised an eyebrow mischievously. “Not a bad idea. The goings-on behind the scenes of a department store.”

  I laughed and started dicing tomatoes. “Lex, you would hate having cameras follow you around every waking moment. Even you couldn’t control your close-ups all the time.”

  He frowned. “Good point.”