A Second Bite at the Apple (23 page)

What is wrong with Charles?

That isn't a rhetorical question. I'm seriously asking: What is wrong with him? Is he demented? On drugs? Because otherwise I honestly don't understand what just happened. What kind of person takes credit for a story that isn't his? And what kind of person, when I make it abundantly clear I do not want to discuss said story, proceeds to blather on about it?

And now Jeremy thinks I'm working on some juicy story. Which I guess I am, but he doesn't need to know that. Well, okay, he does need to know eventually, but not because Charles threw a hissy fit in the middle of the farmers' market. Jeremy deserves to hear the news from me, on my own terms. And he will. But not before I make sure the story is airtight.

Later that evening, I meet Jeremy outside his apartment before the two of us head to the Georgetown waterfront for a picnic. Both he and Charles quickly fled the scene earlier this morning, Rick's flaming nether regions a prospect too gruesome for either of them to contemplate. I don't blame them. I had to avert my eyes to prevent the image of Rick unbuttoning his pants from tattooing itself on my brain forever.

I stand on the corner of Twenty-fourth and M, grinding my flats into the pavement as a balmy breeze blows through the sleeves of my silky white tunic. May has ushered in a spell of warm weather, and the fresh spring air feels delicious against my pale skin. Jeremy bursts through his front door, carrying a large paper bag by its bottom and looking characteristically handsome in his dark jeans and gray-and-white plaid button-down. I take no pride in admitting I'd feel less guilty about this whole situation if he were ugly.

He pulls a small paper bag out from within the larger one and passes it to me. “Can you handle the beer?”

“Sure.” I glance inside and spot four bottles bearing the Brauer's Brew label. “Another Brauer creation?”

“A Brauer-
Strauss
creation.”

“This is the porter we brewed last month?”

He smiles. “Yep. I think you'll be happy with how it came out.”

He leads the way down M Street and over the Rock Creek Parkway, entering the bustle of Georgetown. As we cross Twenty-eighth Street, the air fills with the incongruous scents of Ethiopian berbere and Middle Eastern falafel, which emanate from two restaurants on the corner and are otherwise foreign to this decidedly preppy neighborhood. We cross the street and make our way south toward the waterfront, treading along the uneven brick sidewalk as we pass tall brick office buildings and squat Federalist town houses festooned with shiny black shutters.

When we hit the water, we follow the narrow wooden boardwalk until it dead ends and continue onto a paved pathway that runs along the edge of the river at a higher elevation. To the right of the path, a wide expanse of grass extends toward K Street, studded with curved granite benches, walkways, and beds of butterfly milkweed and tall grasses and reeds.

Jeremy guides me down the pathway until we find an empty spot on one of the granite benches beneath a large metal and glass trellis. When we sit down, he pulls out five Tupperware containers and arranges them on the bench beside him.

“Dude, no one with testicles should own that much Tupperware,” I say.

“Says who? The Tupperware police?”

“I'm just saying. That's a lot of plastic storage for one man.”

“What would you prefer? A crinkled wad of aluminum foil?”

“Maybe.”

“Do you try to be difficult, or does it come naturally?”

“It's a gift.”

“One that, unfortunately, didn't come with a return receipt.”

I nudge him. “Oh, come on, you love my quirks.”

“Yes, in what may be considered one of the great mysteries of our time.”

He pulls the lids off the five containers, revealing an assortment of provisions that includes, among other things, an enormous stack of fudgy brownies.

“Come to mama,” I say, reaching for a brownie.

Jeremy pushes my hand away. “Not so fast—those are for dessert.”

“Which is why I should eat them first. I'd rather spoil my appetite with brownies than with potato salad.”

“Fine.” He lifts the container toward me. “Salted fudge brownies. Enjoy.”

I sink my teeth into the thick, fudgy square, whose velvety crumbs coat my gums. The brownie is sweet and salty, with a slightly bitter edge from the dark chocolate and the texture of the silkiest fudge. It is, quite possibly, the best brownie I have ever eaten.

“Wow. You could give Rick the Prick a run for his money with these.” I lick a few crumbs from my fingers. “Seriously. Are you sure you're in the right line of work?”

“Somehow I don't think beer and brownies are the basis for a viable business plan.”

“You're kidding, right? Chocolate and alcohol? That sounds like the
best
business plan.”

He laughs. “Maybe you're right.”

“Not maybe. Definitely.”

I scoff down the rest of the brownie, savoring each chocolaty bite, and wonder if it would be too piggish to have a second now, before dinner.

“Have you ever thought of putting beer
in
the brownies?” I ask, after deciding, yes, a second now would be a bit too gluttonous.

“Beer in the brownies? Uh, no.”

“You should try it. I used to make these Guinness brownies in college with Zach, and they were off the charts.”

I don't realize I've mentioned Zach's name until I notice the blush in Jeremy's cheeks.

“They weren't as good as these,” I quickly add.

He smiles awkwardly. “It's okay if they were better. My feelings won't be hurt.”

“They weren't better. Just different.”

Jeremy's expression relaxes. “I'll have to try it some time. Maybe with my oatmeal stout.”

“Correction: your
award-winning
oatmeal stout.”

“Let's not get ahead of ourselves,” he says with a grin. “I won't find out if I made the finals for another week or two. In the meantime. . .” He reaches into the paper bag and pulls out two bottles. “Let's give this porter a whirl, shall we?”

He pops off the caps and hands me a beer, whose malty, almost coffee-like flavor catches me by surprise. “This is really good,” I say.

“You helped make it.”

I take another sip. “Obviously I am a brewing genius.”

“Obviously.”

The two of us begin assembling pulled pork sandwiches from the ingredients in the containers, layering the jalapeño-lime slaw on top of piles of chipotle pulled pork and capping it off with a fluffy white bun. The sandwiches are smoky and spicy, with a slight tang from the slaw, and we wash them down with hefty swigs of our full-bodied porter. Between bites, Jeremy hands me a fork and the container of Yukon gold and purple potato salad, which we pass back and forth until there is nothing left but a few scallions in a pool of mustard-laced vinaigrette. I'm tempted to compare the experience to the times Zach and I had picnics along the Schuylkill River or Lake Carnegie, but I decide comparing the two experiences is a futile exercise. Like the brownies, one experience isn't better than the other. They're just different. And if I don't stop comparing every guy I meet to Zach instead of judging him on his own merits, I'm going to drive myself crazy.

As we eat, we watch a series of eights row by on the river, the oars splayed like the legs of a bug, moving in sync as the boats glide through the water toward the Key Bridge. From this distance, the movement looks effortless, like a knife cutting through a stick of softened butter. The boats press onward, the bows cutting through the stillness of the water until they disappear beneath the bridge. I cannot see the effort involved in propelling them forward—the contorted faces, the blistered hands, the throbbing veins, and rivers of sweat. From this distance, all I can see is the illusion of grace.

Jeremy wipes his hands on a paper napkin and takes another sip of beer. “So tell me about this big story you're working on.”

His words cut through the peaceful tableau in front of me, and my throat tightens. Of course he would ask about the story. After this morning, who wouldn't?

“It's okay if you don't want to tell me,” he says.

“It's just . . . complicated.”

“I get it. Trust me. I used to be a journalist, remember?”

I let out a nervous laugh. “Yeah.”

“I guess I was a little surprised you hadn't mentioned it before. Charles made it sound like a big deal.”

“Charles is good at that. He once pitched a story on winterizing your pets as if it were worthy of a Pulitzer.”

Jeremy laughs. “Ah, so consider the source, huh?”

“Something like that.”

He picks at the Brauer's Brew label on his beer bottle and then takes another sip. “Well, like I said, we don't have to talk about it. I was just curious.”

The spicy slaw gnaws at the lining of my stomach. I should tell him. I know I should tell him. He has opened the door, giving me the perfect opportunity to come clean, and all I have to do is walk through it. But I can't. Every time I open my mouth to speak, the words get caught in my throat. I could pretend my hesitation stems from the sensitivity of the story or the fact that he could warn his bosses or Green Grocers. But the main reason I can't bring myself to tell him about the story is because he is the first guy with whom I've felt a real connection in five years, and I'm too afraid of losing him.

“I'll tell you all about it sometime,” I finally say. “Just not right now.”

“Okay.” He picks again at the label on his bottle. “I hope you feel like you can tell me things.”

“I do.”

“Yeah? Because . . . I don't know. You seem pretty private about stuff. This story, that guy Zach. I realize my Wikipedia entry probably doesn't make me sound like the most trustworthy guy, but you can trust me. I promise.”

I study his face as he stares at me, the pink light from the setting sun casting a warm glow on his angular cheekbones and narrow chin. “I do trust you,” I say. Then, before I can stop myself, I say, “You can trust me, too.”

Jeremy smiles. “Good. I'm glad.”

I tear my eyes from his and look out over the river, and as another boat disappears beneath the bridge, I wonder when I became such a good liar.

I am a horrible person. After everything Zach and I went through, after all the lies he told me, how can I lie to Jeremy and then look him in the eye and tell him he can trust me?

What I have to remind myself is that this story is bigger than Jeremy and me. It's bigger than a job at the
Chronicle
. It's about fraud and the public interest, the same issues behind the story I didn't cover six years ago and should have. And anyway, technically I'm not actually lying to Jeremy. I'm just holding back the truth for a little while.

That said, I don't want this story to screw him royally when someone connects the dots and realizes he must be the whistle-blower in question. Which is why, the Monday after my picnic with Jeremy, I call Stu and ask him to take my name off the story when it runs.

“Why would you want to do that?” he asks.

“Having my name on the story could get my source into a lot of trouble. People have seen us together. It wouldn't be all that difficult for his bosses to trace the story back from me to him. I don't want to expose him.”

“But if we remove your name, no one will know you were the one who broke it,” Stu says.

“You'll know. Your managing editor will know. Anyone who would hire me at the
Chronicle
would know. This isn't about getting the credit. It's about exposing a cover-up.”

Stu hesitates. “Okay. If you're sure.”

“I'm sure,” I say.

And I am. It's the only plan that makes sense. The public will know the truth, right will triumph over wrong, I will get credit from the editors at the
Chronicle,
and Jeremy's identity will remain a secret. Everyone wins.

Stu and I keep working on the story separately, looping back to crosscheck our findings and pull everything together. After some nudging, Pete Hamilton, Everly Foods' former IT guy, sends me a copy of DNA test results showing that, between March and July of last year, Green Grocers' frozen beef bourguignon, lasagna, and chili con carne all contained horsemeat. Apparently after his friend Katherine got fired, Pete did a little digging of his own and found that his brother-in-law worked at the lab responsible for Everly's DNA tests, giving him a way to wangle a copy. The whole situation feels very cloak-and-dagger, and though I'm sure some reporters would find this story exhilarating, I can't wait to get it off my plate. I'd much rather be writing about heirloom apples.

While I work with Pete, Stu finds out more about Everly's Chinese supplier, and though we can't get anyone from the Chinese processor to go on the record, we do find information related to other problems at their processing plants, which bolsters my story. By the last full week in May, all we need are statements from Louis Frieback and Bob Young, and we're ready to roll.

The Monday I plan to call Everly Foods, Stu and I run through the questions I'll ask Louis Frieback, assuming I actually get him to talk to me. We both know there's a good chance that won't happen, but I have to be ready, just in case.

My palms sweat as I give a final look over my questions, but as I prepare to dial Everly Foods, my phone rings. It's Libby. She has called no fewer than eight times in the last twenty-four hours, but between working at the farmers' market and preparing for these last two interviews, I have ignored her. I am about to ignore her this time, too, when her name pops up on my computer requesting a video chat. And, as if that cacophony of rings weren't enough, she pings me with an instant message:

I have no idea how she knows that, but then I have never been able to figure out how Libby knows what she knows or does what she does. She possesses an uncanny ability to pin people down and call their bluffs, and yet she has chosen to use this skill solely in a social setting and never in a professional one. I've long suspected she would make a better journalist than I'll ever be, but she has never shown any interest—not in journalism, not in law, not in anything that would involve a lot of studying or hard work. She has always seen her intelligence as a burden rather than a boon, a trait that would push men away instead of reeling them in. She prefers to trade on her good looks and athleticism rather than her cunning and wits, a choice I've never understood, probably because it's one I never had the luxury of making.

I consider ignoring all of her calls and pings, but then I realize she will only keep bugging me until I pick up, and the last thing I need is my little sister interrupting an interview with a major food distributor.

“Fine, you win,” I say as I answer the phone. “What do you want?”

“Ha! I knew you were there.”

“I'm here, and I'm busy.”

“Doing what? Selling blueberry scones?”

“Are you trying to get me to hang up on you? Because if you are, you're doing a great job.”

She groans. “You sound like Mom.”

“This coming from her clone.”

“I'm not her clone. Especially not lately. Did you know I found an application on her counter for a job at Sur La Table? I mean, what the hell? Why would she need a job at Sur La Table?”

“I don't know—maybe because you want to spend two thousand dollars on chairs for your wedding?”

“Again with the chairs! Why is everyone up my ass about those freaking chairs?”

“I'm not having this conversation again. Sorry.”

She lets out a sigh. “Whatever. That's not even why I'm calling.”

“Then why are you calling? Please: Enlighten me.”

“I'm worried Matt might be cheating on me.”

I sit up in my chair, my pen clasped tightly in my hand. “Oh my God. Why? What happened?”

She hesitates. “I found an earring.”

“Where?”

“On his nightstand.”

“And you're sure it isn't yours?”

She clicks her tongue. “Sydney, seriously . . .”

“Okay, well, let's think this through. Maybe there's another explanation.”

“Like what?”

I fiddle with my pen. I'm the last person to excuse infidelity, but given how much my parents have already spent on this wedding, I really hope Libby is mistaken.

“Like . . . maybe it belongs to one of the other lawyers at his firm,” I say, “and it fell off during a meeting and ended up in his briefcase.”

“Then why would it be on his nightstand?”

I try to come up with an answer, but I can't. “I don't know. It doesn't make sense. Have you confronted him about it?”

“Not yet. I'm not sure what to say.”

“Uh, how about, ‘Why the hell is there a random earring on your nightstand?' ”

“And what if he says he slept with someone else?”

“Well, for a start, you cancel the wedding.”

“I can't do that.”

“Seriously? You'd have Mom and Dad pay thousands of dollars for a wedding with a guy who's cheating on you?”

“People make mistakes. You said so yourself. Remember?”

I glance up at the ceiling. “If you've already decided you aren't going to do anything about this, then why are we having this conversation?”

“Because I'm confused. I need advice.”

“What do your other friends say?”

“You're the only one I've told.”

“Why? Because my ex-boyfriend cheated on me, too?”

“No. Because . . .” She takes a deep breath. “Because you're my big sister, and you know me better than anyone, and I respect your opinion more than anyone else's. Okay?”

I sit back in my chair, momentarily stunned by Libby's praise. “Okay,” I finally say.

She gives a long whimper. “So you really think I should confront him?”

“I do.”

She goes quiet for a few moments. “I don't think I realized how much the Zach thing must have hurt. It must've been pretty horrible.”

I stare down at the notepad in front of me. “It was.”

“I'm sorry if I wasn't there for you.”

“You were.”

“Not as much as I could have been. With Zach . . . I don't know. I guess I always resented him a little bit.”

“For what?”

“For stealing my big sister.”

I lay my pen next to my notepad, Libby's distrust and dislike of Zach finally coming into focus. It's not as if she and I were attached at the hip until Zach came along. But she was only eleven when he and I met, at which point I spent a lot more time at his house than I did at my own. Part of me assumed Libby didn't want me around—that I wasn't cool enough for her, that she wanted Mom to herself—but maybe I had it wrong. Maybe she clung to Mom because she couldn't cling to me.

A bout of silence hangs between us, and I pull the phone away from my ear to see if Libby is still there. “Lib? You still there?”

“I'm here. Listen, could you not tell Mom and Dad about this?”

“It's not my news to tell.”

“Great. Thanks.”

“But if he cheated on you . . . you need to address the issue somehow. It isn't fair to ask them to bankroll a marriage that's already headed for divorce.”

“I know. I just . . . I need a little time. But you promise you won't say anything?”

Her question dangles in the air, one in a long list of secrets I've been asked to keep over the past few months: my dad's job loss, my mom's job search, the Green Grocers pilot project, the horsemeat scandal. I hate secrets, the way they eat me up inside and cloud my judgment, the way they make me lie to people I care about. I hate that I can't unknow them, that I can't talk about them or get help in making sense of them. But Libby is my baby sister, and she trusts me, so I take a deep breath and say, “Yeah, I promise,” because at least that's something true.

 

Two days later, I decide: Tonight is the night. The night I will tell Jeremy the truth. The night I will tell him about the “big story” I've been working on. I've waited as long as I can—probably too long—but now that I've taken my name off the story, there is no reason to wait any longer. I have to tell him, and I have to do it tonight.

In the afternoon, before I head out for my weekly Wednesday shift at the Foggy Bottom farmers' market, I check my in-box to see if I have any updates from Jeremy on our plans for this evening. I don't. I do, however, have an e-mail from the Everly Foods' PR team. As predicted, the one-on-one interview with Louis Frieback will not happen. Instead, they send me the following formal statement:

I call Stu Abbott right away, and when I read him the full statement over the phone, he laughs. “So, in a nutshell: We told Green Grocers there was a problem; it's not our fault they didn't tell you.”

“Pretty much.”

“Let's get Green Grocers on the record, and after legal has given this a once-over, I think we're ready to roll. How does next Friday sound for a publication date?”

“Sounds perfect,” I say.

I hang up with Stu and immediately put in a call to Green Grocers, which—if I had to guess—incites total pandemonium behind the scenes. The call with the head of media relations is short and to the point, but her clipped, sharp tone confirms what I both hoped and feared: They are in deep doo-doo.

While I wait for someone at the company to respond, I set off for Foggy Bottom. The afternoon is busy but otherwise uneventful, and once I've helped Rick break down the tent and pack up the truck, I head to Marvin, a bistro three blocks from my apartment. That's where I've asked Jeremy to meet me, and where I will finally tell him about the horsemeat story. I'm nervous about how he might respond—okay, I'm borderline terrified—but now that his bosses won't be able to trace the story back to him, his reaction won't be
that
bad . . . right?

I am the first to arrive, so I slide into one of the plush leather banquettes and order a glass of Malbec, which I sip as I watch waiters shuttle back and forth from the kitchen to the bar. The décor is part pub, part bistro, with dark wood furniture and floors, butter-colored walls, and candlelit tables. The wall across from me displays a huge stylized portrait of Marvin Gaye, a former DC resident and the restaurant's namesake, and the air around me fills with the percussive sound of clanking silverware and the guttural
ooh
and
ahh
of James Brown, whose soulful voice hums through the restaurant's speakers.

I drink half my glass of wine before Jeremy arrives, and when he does, he pushes toward my table with a distressed look on his face, his tie askew and his hair in disarray.

“Sorry I'm late,” he says as he dumps his briefcase on the floor and tosses his phone on the table. “This day—don't get me started.”

“What happened?”

“I don't want to talk about it.” He waves down the waiter. “Double Maker's Mark.”

“Neat?”

“Neat.”

The waiter heads for the bar, and I bring my glass to my lips and take a sip. “That's a serious drink order.”

“After the day I've had? You're lucky I'm not ordering a triple.”

A moment later the waiter returns with Jeremy's drink, which Jeremy throws back in one swig.

“Are you okay?” I ask.

He places the glass on the table and runs his hands through his hair. “Not really.”