Adventures with Max and Louise (37 page)

“We’re running fifteen minutes late. Michel held up the appetizers to wait for the squash blossoms, which were delivered late. He changed the menu at the last minute and stuffed them with sausage and mushrooms instead of the gorgonzola.”

“What?!” I’m not used to this kind of anarchy. “We’re keeping the barbecue, right? That’s a lot of meat!”

She rubs my arm like a mother. “The cheese was rotten.”

“It’s supposed to stink.”

She wrinkles her nose. “Not like that.”

“All right, all right . . . and the soup?”

“We’re serving it now with the zinfandel,” she says, nodding at a server carrying out the soup. “The appetizer is the second course now. It’ll work.”

“Garnish,” I yelp. The server does a U-turn back into the kitchen. Running to supervise, I swirl in pesto, tossing handfuls of garlic croutons into the soup bowls leaving the kitchen.

The rest of the night is a blur. Running from the kitchen to the street, I marvel that the clouds have somehow disappeared. A sprinkling of stars shines through the narrow slice of sky above our heads. It’s so mild we don’t bother with the heat lamps. Everyone is happy and relaxed. The staff runs their paces smoothly. It’s almost enough to take my mind off my feet, which I am sure are bleeding. Trina looks supremely comfortable in my sweats. As I rush past her with a tray of barbecue, she dreamily raises her glass and toasts me.

“Carbs,” she says. “I forgot how great they taste.”

Hami hands her the bread basket.

As the evening winds down, the waiters exceed my demands, even the sassy dude with a half dozen nose rings who knocks over a tray of wine glasses. Before I can drag him to back to make sure he’s sober, he manages to have everyone laughing as he swiftly cleans up the mess. I find a quiet place outside, away from the crowd. I steal a moment, sit down, and massage my troubled feet, looking up at the long row of imposing buildings.

My mind wanders to Wolf and his natural distaste of skyscrapers and cement. A world without trees, he called it, unbalanced. That is as far as my mind wanders.

Sasha rubs my shoulders. “Liebling, the ice cream is here. It’s time for dessert.”

T
HE CANDLES HAVE
long flickered out. The final spoonfuls of apple caramel torte have been scooped from everyone’s bowls. Sasha and I sit at a tiny table in the kitchen, sipping a much-needed glass of wine. The chef, Michel, smokes by the window, exhaling into the night air. Tonight is his triumph, so much so that he’s forgotten to glare at me, concentrating on his cigarette smoke drifting out the window. A couple of servers spoon ice cream into espresso cups, drinking it muddy and sweet, gossiping quietly. I enjoy the stillness after the storm, the tired, quiet satisfaction of a job well done.

Sasha chatters softly as the dishwashers send out steam clouds, opening the sanitizer. “The food critic from
Gourmet
introduced himself. I was so flustered I forgot his name. We’re going to be in the January ‘Hot Eats.’ Can you believe it! He’s going to call me about sending a photographer.”

“That’s great.” I am so tired. My feet ache. I want to crawl into bed and sleep all weekend. “You worked so hard. You deserve it.”

She lifts her glass. “I couldn’t have done it without your help. Prost.”

The kitchen door swings open. Her face lights up.

“Darling,” she sings, her face truly relaxed for the first time this evening.

Lionel, her husband, brandishes a bouquet of sunflowers. He offers them to her with a look of pure adoration. “Liebling, you’ve outdone yourself. What a splendid evening. We should do this every year. Next year, we’ll do a concert.”

I stand up. “I’m going to get going. Here, sit.”

“No, no, you stay.” He drags a stool over. “I’m fine.”

“Thank you, Lionel, but I have to go scrape my family off the sidewalk. Sasha gave them far too much good wine.”

He beams at her. “She does that sometimes.”

I’m out the swinging doors when Sasha calls my name. She waves my cell phone. “I almost forgot. Wolf dropped this off for you on his way to the airport.”

I stare at it for a moment before slipping it into my pocket. “Thanks.”

She squeezes my arm. “Don’t leave without saying goodnight,” she says before returning to her husband.

Walking through the restaurant, I pause to look outside through the long glass window framed in tiny red glass squares at the front of the restaurant. Wolf positioned the squares in a series of frames, creating an outdoor tableau. In the daytime, it showcases the busy urban sidewalk. Tonight it is my family and friends sitting at a long table. The white tablecloth is cleared except for wrinkled napkins and drooping flowers. Grace and Aman play soccer with a battered gourd on the sidewalk. The goals are fashioned from two pairs of men’s shoes.

The adults look tired and happy. Dad’s hand is slung over Gwen’s chair. She leans over to say something. He responds with a smile. Trina rests her head on Hami’s shoulder, who puffs contentedly on a cigar, something she normally doesn’t allow. From her flushed face I can tell she’s had more than a glass of wine. He bends to kiss her hair. She smiles drowsily.

Denise chats animatedly with Martin and his friend, who pours Martin the last few drops out of a wine bottle. Martin protests, and the man laughs and finds another bottle. This must be his new boyfriend. On a date, Martin is usually a bundle of nervous energy, trying to impress with his wit and sharp sense of humor. Tonight he’s more relaxed than I’ve ever seen him; taking a sip of his wine, he points at the stars. Angeli’s feet are on Dr. Hupta’s lap. Massaging her, he watches the scene with evident delight, saying something to Angeli, who smiles and pokes him. This intimacy speaks volumes about Angeli’s trust in the good doctor. She considers her feet to be the ugliest part of her body, too large and unsightly for sandals. They look like a happily married couple at a wedding banquet, watching the youngsters dance.

It is like watching a movie of my life without a major player: guilt. Every face, every relationship is suddenly new, and yet nothing has changed: I love these people. There is no longer a reason to jealously find a seat beside Dad, separating him from Gwen. No reason to zealously cook and clean, praying he’ll be happy. He’s fine without me. No reason to tell Trina to pay more attention to her husband and accept her wrinkles gracefully. No reason to save Denise from her latest kamikaze lover. No reason to be everyone’s agoraphobic basket case. I don’t need saving. I don’t need a damn thing.

“Well, that’s a start,” Louise says, her voice faint.

Even though her voice is quiet, she startles me. “What you mean? I have finally, finally figured out what you wanted me to know. I’m happy. I’m free. No guilt.” I don’t care who hears me, but there’s no one around. They’re all outside.

“So?”

“So . . . I’m going to chill out and work on myself and my career. And that’s it. If you don’t like it, leave.”

“What kind of messed up Dr. Phil bullshit is this? You been watching too much daytime TV. I mean, honestly, child, check out this scene: everyone is paired up, coupled up, doubled up. Except for Denise, and you know she’ll never be happy. She’ll be hopping all over men like carnival rides.”

But you, my dear, sweet girl, you’ve seen the rides, and you love the Ferris wheel. You know what it’s like to be way up high watching the world down below, feeling so happy and safe you don’t ever want to come down. There you are, looking down at all those people like ants, and it feels good, trusting someone so much that it hurts. It’s what you want. I know it, and so do you.”

There is a cough nearby. The nose ring waiter stands politely at my elbow. “Hey, um, Molly. Sorry to bother your, uh, conversation, but Sasha’s not around. This guy wants a glass of the ’97 Quinta do Noval port. It’s, like, eighty bucks a pop. I told him that we’re only serving wine, but he’s a regular and drops some serious bucks here. Should I serve it?”

“Yeah, I guess. I don’t know. Go ahead.”

The Ferris wheel? I’m too tired to speak in code. All I can think of is
Ferris Bueller’s Day Off,
my dad’s favorite movie. I’ll need a month off after today. I wonder what would have happened if Chas had been here tonight. I would have served everyone coffee because he was at the table, clearing their plates while he made jokes. He would have asked me to sit down several times; finally, I would. We would have laughed, had a good time, and driven home together discussing every detail: the couples, the food . . . But no, I’d decided it was a good idea to bring up major issues during sex.

“The only mistake you made, luvey, was not soapin’ ’is shower,” Max says and chuckles.

I groan. “I need a break from men.”

“Tell me about it,” says Louise. “But first things first: you need to eat. Take off Trina’s pointy old shoes and go get yourself a plate.”

“I’m not hungry.”

I sit down on the windowsill and lean my head against the cool glass. The stars are beautiful, peering down dimly from between the gray clouds. Wind sweeps through an open window, ruffling my hair.

My cell phone vibrates in my pocket. I take it out and check the screen: ten messages, no doubt all from Sasha. I’m about to slip it back into my pocket when I decide to erase them. I call my voice mail and listen to the first one.

“Hi, Molly, you left your phone in my van. Someone called you about nine hundred times, probably my mom. I just wanted to apologize for kissing you. It was the wrong thing to do, but after seeing you on the mountain and going through what we did, well, I sort of felt like I had to.” A nervous cough. “Besides, now that I’m on my way to the airport, I can tell you that Chas isn’t good enough for you. You can call it jealousy or whatever, but he’s an asshole. Okay, now I’m done. I hope you’re able to go on with your life and be a much happier, freer person. God knows you deserve it. You’re an amazing woman. Wish me luck on the mountain. Take care of yourself. Bye.”

I put down the phone, seeing Wolf’s laughing face in front of me. We are on the mountain as the sun slips behind the trees. He cocks his head toward mine, listening as if I am the only person in the world and—A blur of black flies into the restaurant on high heels, screeching.

“Where have you been? I have been to your house, your office, and called you a hundred times to tell you I got you on Leno! Leno! They are doing a celebrity cookbook thing, and I, being the genius that I am, got you on the fucking show without anyone figuring out that you are not a celebrity. Thank God Teri Hatcher has the flu!” Liz snatches a glass off a passing waiter’s tray, then sniffs it before quaffing it in one gulp. “Ahhhh!” She slams the empty glass on the tray.

The astonished nose-ring waiter stares at the quarter teaspoon of port remaining in the small wine glass. “Y-y-you just drank eighty bucks’ worth of 1997 Quinta do Noval port,” he stammers.

“So fucking what!?” Liz barks. He jumps back, eyeing her as if she’s a rabid dog.

She turns to me, furious. “Where
were
you?”

“What are you talking about? And lower your voice. I am at work.” I stand up and wave the waiter away. “It’s okay. I’ll pay for it.”

“Hello, earth to Molly. Did you listen to the fifteen dozen messages on your cell phone? I am talking about your career as a Food Network star, not a fucking job. Do you know how hard it is to get nonceleb authors on Leno?”

“Can we do this someplace else, please?” I am stalling.

“We’re headed for the airport now,” Liz breaks through my thoughts. I can’t concentrate on her, only on the image of Wolf.

While Liz rattles on, something about a United shuttle to LAX that we have to be on or we’ll miss tonight’s show, I see Wolf handing over his ticket, strolling down the boarding ramp with his backpack, the list of what he needs to buy in Anchorage tucked into his shirt pocket. He will have topography maps, a compass, probably even a radio. But he won’t have me.

With Wolf, I say to myself. That is where I fit. Looking at the table of family and friends outside, it’s obvious I belong here, but so does Wolf, beside me. Dad pours Gwen a glass of water. Martin and his date look at a movie schedule. Trina and Hami chase their children, trying to get them to put their shoes on to go home. Sanil won’t move because Angeli has fallen asleep on his shoulder. Denise bites her nails and listens to the nose ring waiter, who is drinking her wine. At that table (discounting the waiter) is every person in the world who loves me. Except Wolf.

“No!” I stare straight at Liz, seeing Wolf move away from me down that airport ramp. Rushing outside to my family, Liz follows on my heels, like a barking terrier.

“What in the hell are you talking about? Leno never does food. I mean, if Cameron Diaz wanted to make nachos, and Lucy Liu cooked dim sum, yeah, sure, maybe, but you? Don’t kid yourself where you are on the food chain. Subfucking zero. Do you know what this cost me? I will be doing favors for the shitty little bookers on the Leno show until I’m eighty.”

My whole family, except for Trina, gazes at Liz with the stunned amazement of people genetically incapable of rudeness. Trina eyes her clothes with professional jealousy.

“Denise, would you give me a ride to the airport?” This is insane, trying to chase down a plane that is leaving in a half hour. But I’ve managed to let the right man walk out of my life without asking for his cell phone number or telling him I’ll miss him. I’m going to try.

“Did you hear one word I said?” demands Liz.

“The airport? Um, okay. Why?” Denise asks, scribbling her number on a napkin for the nose ring waiter.

I spin around to face Liz, who is still yelling some nonsense about the LAX shuttle leaving in twenty-five minutes. “Shut up! Shut up and go work your PR magic for someone with a thick-enough skin to put up with your rudeness, your badgering, and your absolute awfulness!”

“What?” Liz speaks softly as though she genuinely can’t believe her ears.

“All right, you want me to speak your language? Fuck off!”

“Why, you shitty little, back-biting—after all I’ve done . . .”

I tap my chest. “I did it myself!” I scream. “It’s my name on the title page! Not yours!”