Adventures with Max and Louise (29 page)

Liz rolls her eyes. “Like mold.”

W
HEN
I
FINALLY
get home, I slam the door behind me and collapse on the stairs. The only sound is the ticking of our grandfather clock in the hall, which makes the house seem hollow. I enjoy winding it every week, thinking of my mother holding me up when I was five, showing me the secret little drawer in the side of the clock where the key hides. Ignoring the flashing answering machine on the table, I take out the key and hold it, small and cold, in my fist, the key Mom once warmed with her hand.

Although I’m delighted with my performance on the
Today Show,
it’s a fleeting happiness. No matter how hard I try to convince myself that Mom is in my heart or in the palm of God’s hand nearby, it doesn’t quite work. She’s not here, and the empty space she occupied is a jagged hole that’s never smoothed over. I read an article once about puppies who were separated prematurely from their mothers. They were prone to anxiety and depression. Not only did I feel sad for the puppies, I empathized. Closing my eyes, I squeeze the key until it makes a light red indentation in my palm. I put it back in the clock drawer and press the button on the answering machine.

There are sixteen messages. Three are from colleagues at the newspaper, congratulating me, joking about my instant fame. Gwen thought I did a great job and got calls from two friends “who just loved it to death too.” Three girls I vaguely recall from high school said they didn’t know I was Diner X, and now that I’ve been on the
Today Show,
they want to get together and talk about old times. The nine after that are from an increasingly frantic Sasha. Food Fest is unraveling: the menus came back from the printers a mess; the butcher has gotten only half the order; the space heaters were promised to someone else; the outdoor liquor license permit, sent by courier, never arrived.

I make a list of all her complaints and set about tackling them, devising an alternate menu, ordering supplies. I call the butcher, the liquor board rep, the printers, and AA Party Rentals. I argue, cajole, and sweet talk every person who answers the phone until I get the details smoothed out. My last phone call is to Sasha herself, detailing my work and promising I will be there tonight to discuss last-minute menu changes.

“You promise?” She sounds weary.

“Absolutely. You need me, I’ll be there.”

Something isn’t right. She is used to managing a restaurant. Problems like this didn’t normally faze her. “Sasha, are you okay?” I ask gently.

“Yes,” she says. “I was just, oh, I don’t know. I thought maybe with the cookbook and the television show; you were going to forget about our little festival.”

“I’m not going to forget it. It’s going to be wonderful, and I’m really looking forward to it.”

“One week away,” she says, the excitement coming back into her voice. “There’s a writer from
Gourmet
coming.”

“Well, then, they’re in for a treat. I’ll see you tonight.”

I am halfway up the stairs, looking forward to rushing home after my meeting with Sasha to a long, hot bath and a quiet evening with my ankle up, reading a book, when Louise speaks up. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”

I pause on the stairs, reviewing the calls I’ve made. “No, unless you think I should order more heat lamps. It’s not cold right now, but in a week we could get a cold snap. Yeah, you’re right; I should order more.”

“You’ve got a date tonight with your skiing buddy.”

T
WO HOURS LATER,
showered, dressed, and exhausted, I hurry into Schubert’s. I literally run smack into Wolf in the entry. He’s still in his baggy khakis with a rumpled shirt and no tie. The place is packed with trendy young diners and business clientele. Wolf is out of place in his own restaurant.

“Whoa, slow down, lady, take a breath.” As I turn around, I notice the sharp intake of his breath. Instead of my normal ponytail yanked back off my head, I’ve left my hair down, curling it into soft waves that just hit my bare shoulders. I’ve taken enough time to apply my makeup as the makeup artist showed me: eyes lined, a shade of soft purple on the lid. I’ve taken so much time getting ready, changing purses and shoes until I felt everything worked perfectly, that Max and Louise were suspicious.

“Dream boat’s gettin’ the works tonight!” Max mocked.

“Awww, this ain’t for dumb ass,” Louise said in her too-wise voice. Instead of being annoyed, I found myself blushing at the suggestion.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” I’d snapped. “And stop calling Chas dumb ass.”

And yet here I was, thrilled that Wolf had noticed.

“I’m late to meet your mother.” I am out of breath, flushed from running down the block.

“She’s here. She’s not going anywhere. You want a drink?”

“I’m just . . .” I point behind me toward the street, but the words “on a date” don’t come out. Chas is parking the car. My business will take an hour, tops, I’ve told him. Then I will be his for the evening. He’d grumbled a bit about wanting to take me to a hot new restaurant in Belltown, Belize, to meet some of his friends, before agreeing that a cocktail and appetizers at Schubert’s wasn’t such a bad deal after all. We can meet his friends later. This way, he admitted, we’d be able to spend some time alone.

“All right, no drink. So, when are we going climbing?” Wolf asks with a sly grin.

“You’re not seriously going to hold me to that,” I say. “I was under duress when you asked me.”

He levels his hazel eyes at me. “I’m dead serious, lady.”

“Dead is not what I want to hear when we’re talking rock climbing.”

“Rocks, not mountains. There’s a great little spot up by Cle Elum. Let’s say next weekend?”

I watch the door nervously. Wolf follows my eyes. Chas appears in the window, waving when he spots me.

Wolf turns to me, suddenly somber. “Look, I know you’ve got . . .” He pauses with a sour look, then continues “something with Chas. But I won’t lie and say I’m not attracted to you. I am. Humor a dying man and come with me.”

My breath catches in my throat. “You’re not dying!” I hiss, annoyed at the way he’s put me on the spot again.

“Well, we’re all dying, aren’t we?”

“That’s not funny.”

“No, but it went over really well with the ladies when I was eight.” His voice drops. “Come with me.” The full force of his eyes hits me hard. I’ve never had a man stare at me like this. The hair on my arms rises, and my skin flushes. The effect is startling, although it’s hard to tell if it’s nerves or something more. I’m not completely sure how I feel.

Chas waves again as he fights his way through the crowded entry. Waving back at him, I nod to Wolf. I am angry at the way he’s forced an answer out of me and strangely excited at the prospect of being alone with him. What is wrong with me? He is unkempt, rude, pushy, and disrespectful; a slob.

“But he’s smart,” Louise says. “And he likes you.”

“Thursday.” Before I can answer, he turns away and slips back into the crowded bar, his broad form disappearing with surprising ease.

“Chas is plenty fond of her too. And ’e’s nice. And rich. It’s just as easy to love a rich man . . .” Max says.

“Rich, smitch, his mother’s a bitch. The man’s got mother issues bigger than the Goodyear blimp.”

“Your lad works in ’is mother’s restaurant. Won’t go flippin’ climbin’ ’cause it scares ’er! Cut the bloody umbilical cord, someone, it’s draggin’ on the floor!”

By the time Chas arrives, cranky and tired from his parking ordeal, I’ve flagged down a waiter and ordered us both double martinis.

A
QUICK DRINK
in the bar does wonders for us both. Soon Chas is chatting cozily with Sasha and me, helping us with the last-minute details, dredging his memory for surprisingly helpful touches. Charlotte held famous dinner parties, detailed in the society column, when his father’s company was reshaping the Seattle skyline in the 1990s.

“She was always very weird about the small stuff, like what was in the bathroom and how many vases and candles were on the bar. The food was always taken care of by the chef, but she really went nuts on the little things. One time she rented cages of doves, I forget why, but it’s all anyone talked about for weeks.”

Sasha, initially reserved, warms to Chas quickly. “She sounds like an accomplished hostess. I’ve read about her, of course, in the newspaper.”

“Yes, well . . .” Chas grins as he empties his cocktail. “She always made sure someone from the paper was invited. It wasn’t a party unless her photo was in the paper the next day.” He points to the empty glasses on the table. “Tell you what; I’ll go get us another drink and leave you ladies to your work.” He kisses me on the cheek and pushes his way back into the bar.

Sasha watches him go. Even at a distance, the cut of his suit and his athletic build set him apart. “So, he’s very nice,” she says in a reserved tone. “Impressive.” She glances at Wolf, who is fiddling with some wires by the kitchen doors, and turns back to me.

I feel defensive. Clearly, I’ve made a better choice than her son. “We went to high school together and ran into each other a few weeks ago. It was here, actually, the night I bumped my head.”

Sasha doodles for a moment on a pad of paper. She opens her mouth to say something but reconsiders and closes it again. She rips off the piece of paper, crumples it, and stuffs it in her pocket. “Do you think we need flowers and candles on the bar?” She tilts her head and watches Chas weave his way back from the bar balancing three glasses.

“No, I think we should keep it simple. Focus on the food.”

“Now,
that
sounds like you,” she says, accepting a glass of wine from Chas with thanks. I wonder what I’ve said that didn’t sound like me.

“You ladies make some progress?” Chas asks as he places my martini in front of me, slipping gracefully into his seat.

Sasha smiles warmly. “Yes, thank you. I think we’re done. I probably need to take my wine and visit some customers in the red room: fiftieth wedding anniversary.” She bows her head toward Chas. “Thank you for your suggestions. I hope we’ll see you at Food Fest.”

Chas lifts his martini glass. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

On the walk to Belize, the night air sobers us enough to make me self-conscious about holding his hand. But it feels good, and before I know it, we are swinging hands and skipping the last half of the block. I’m out of breath when Chas drops my hand and bends over, huffing. “I need to get back to the tennis court.”

I laugh. “I need to stop drinking double martinis.”

He stands up and kisses me. “No, you don’t. You’re hilarious. I haven’t skipped since, well, I guess I never really skipped. My sister was such a tomboy that if I ever did anything the slightest bit girly, she’d smack me.”

We saunter down the last block toward the restaurant. In the purple light of dusk an orange sign announcing Belize glows warmly. “I didn’t know you had a sister.”

He sighs. “Yes, it’s the best-kept secret in town. Even my best friends thought I was an only child until she moved back to Seattle three years ago.” He scratches his head. “She’s been a complete and total dyke since about kindergarten. Mom had her shipped off to boarding school by first grade, and the next thing we knew, she had a field hockey scholarship to Smith. She practices environmental law here. Never sees my mother.”

Our pace slows as we reach the restaurant. “Wow, that’s sad.”

“Oh, I don’t know. My mother would have made her miserable. At least at school she had people who loved her the way she was. Every time she came home for holidays, Mom went on this big campaign to get her hair cut, take her shopping. It was painful for both of them.”

“What about your father?”

Chas waves at a couple in the distance shivering outside the restaurant. “There’s Mark and Carrie.” He stops walking and takes my hand again. “There’s one thing you should know about my father: he does whatever it takes to get along. I’m a little bit like him. I guess I shouldn’t really tell you that, seeing as how you’re a rugged individualist, but that’s what’s great about you. You’re independent, and I love that.” He kisses me on the cheek. “I could learn from you.”

“Thanks.” He said “I love that.” I’ve never had a man say outright that he loves anything about me. Independent? I love hearing it. For the past ten years I’ve been anything but. Is it possible that Chas sees what Louise and Max have been telling me all along?

“Oh, for God’s sake, woman, don’t get your head turned around by four shots of gin,” Louise interjects. “Sober up.”

I hardly listen; I’m so busy trying to get a look at Chas’s eyes in the odd orange glow of the restaurant sign, but he’s facing forward, eagerly dragging me toward his friends. “Come on, I can’t wait for you to meet Mark and Carrie. They’re the only people I’d share you with right now. They’re awesome.”

His friends face the other way, so I pull us to a stop, ducking under a store awning. I take hold of both of Chas’s hands. “Hang on just a sec.”

His eyes are almost purple in the dusk. “Sure, what’s up?”

All of a sudden I’m awkward, but his open face makes it easier. “It’s just that I’m curious about what makes you think I’m so independent. To be honest, I feel like a wimp, living at home and hiding behind my byline, Diner X. It’s just, um . . .”

He grins, leans down, and kisses me. “It’s fantastic, that’s what it is. I mean, look at me. I went to the same college as my father, I work for him, and I never once stuck up for my own sister when my mother shipped her off. I never even insisted that they pay for my plane tickets to go see her. And you, you’ve taken care of everyone in your life like a mother, even after yours died. On top of that, you write a highly original, funny food column that people love, and you also found the time to write a completely original cookbook. If that’s not independent, then I don’t know what is.”

Listening to him recount my life, I wish I could transport this moment back in time and replay it for my anxious high school self.
See? Everything is going to work out. All this stuff really does happen, just not anytime soon. Hang on.
“Chas, I know Sasha already invited you, but would you like to go to Food Fest next week?”