Blooming All Over (22 page)

She had to get a
Bloom’s Bulletin
written and e-mailed to Julia by tomorrow morning, and she was hurting for inspiration. Right now, the only thing she felt inspired to do was toss her laptop out the window. And maybe toss Linus out after it. The motel where they’d taken a room, just outside Boston in the blue-collar seaside town of Revere, was a giant step better than the place they’d stayed at in Maine—and a giant step more expensive, too—but judging by the conversations she’d eavesdropped on in the lobby, she concluded that the majority of the motel’s guests were far more interested in betting on the greyhound races at Wonderland Park or the horse races at Suffolk Downs than hiking the Freedom Trail through downtown Boston. If they saw a six-foot-tall plastic lobster in the parking lot, they probably wouldn’t think anything of it.

Linus wasn’t the cause of her woes, and she shouldn’t scapegoat him. She glanced away from her laptop monitor to find the lobster propped up in a corner of the tiny room, staring at her. Actually, she didn’t think lobsters had eyes, so maybe he wasn’t staring. His crooked antennae were angled toward her, though, and one claw pointed accusingly at her.

She and Rick had checked into the motel after filming a scene with her and Linus on the beach. She’d stood barefoot in the sand, trying to ignore all the strangers gawking at her and Rick as though they were hotshot Hollywood celebrities, and she talked about
food. Linus had lain at her feet in the hot sand. Despite Rick’s pleas, she’d refused to hold him upright next to her as if he were her personal escort.

Once they’d finished filming and settled into their room, Rick had left to scout sites in Boston—or so he claimed. He’d promised to return with a take-out dinner. It was now nearly seven o’clock and her stomach was rumbling like a rock slide. She hoped he’d get back soon—not only because she wanted to eat but because she wanted an excuse to procrastinate writing the bulletin.

She couldn’t procrastinate. She had to get it done. She’d promised Julia she’d supply the bulletins on time. It was her job.

Responsibility sucked.

Julia had e-mailed her all the data she needed for the newsletter: what would be on sale, what guest speakers would be making presentations, what special events the store would be hosting over the next week. Susie kept a file of Grandma Ida’s sayings on her computer’s hard drive, and the motel offered an Internet connection in the room if she had to do any research.

But instead of putting the damn bulletin together, she stared at the blank screen and struggled to come up with a rhyme for stroganoff. As if she really gave a whoop.

She leaned back into the pillows and stretched her legs. The laptop rocked on her thighs and she set it aside. Closing her eyes against the yellow glare of the bedside lamp and the paint-by-numbers rendering of a greyhound at full gallop on the wall opposite her, she let her mind drift.

To her great exasperation, it drifted to Casey.

Lying down was a mistake, especially on a bed. Her legs shifted again, her hips flexing as her body tensed with a memory of how fantastic sex with Casey had
been. Good girls weren’t supposed to admit that sex was everything—they were supposed to act as though a man’s kindness and sense of humor were far more important than what he could do with his penis. But Susie had never considered herself a good girl, and while she certainly appreciated Casey’s kindness and his sense of humor and all his other fine attributes, right now she was sprawled out on a motel bed, all alone, and sex rose to the top of her priorities list.

Was sex worth tying herself down? Of course not. How about really, really good sex? Still no, but without the of course. How about really, really,
really
good sex with a guy who also happened to be kind and have a sense of humor?

Don’t even think about it
.

Her purse rested on the floor by the bed, and she reached over the side and dug around in it until she located her cell phone. “Don’t do this,” she warned herself, her voice echoing against the ugly sea-green wallpaper, but she ignored her own wise counsel and punched the speed-dial for Casey’s number.

He answered, out of breath, on the third ring. “Yeah?”

“Casey?”

A long silence, then, “Susie?”

He was panting. She closed her eyes again and pictured him, naked and sweaty, in the arms of Halle Berry. “Sorry,” she said. “Forget it.”

“Forget what?” His voice sounded a little stronger as he regained control of his respiration. Had he and Halle just been getting started, or were they winding down? Susie’s stomach lurched again, not from hunger but from anguish. If Rick walked into the room at that moment carrying a bag of Chinese takeout, she might just vomit.

“Anna told me she ran into you on Avenue A the other day.”

“Yeah.”

He clearly wasn’t going to volunteer information about the woman he’d been with when Anna had encountered him. And Susie was a wuss, because she couldn’t find the courage to ask him about his gorgeous female companion, let alone what he was doing with said companion in Susie’s neighborhood. “I shouldn’t have called,” she muttered. “It’s obvious I interrupted something—”

“I was playing pickup,” he told her. “It’s getting dark so we had to quit, anyway.”

Then she hadn’t caught him in the act. Good. Maybe he was as horny as she was, and was taking the edge off by shooting hoops. Maybe she ought to take up basketball, too.

Just because she hadn’t interrupted something X-rated didn’t mean his life without her was a Disney family flick, though. He still could be porking Halle Berry. He might shoot hoops not to take the edge off but to build stamina and get his blood pumping.

Don’t even think about it.

“Look, Susie—did you phone me for a reason?”

I was lonely
, she almost said.
I’m all alone in a motel room near Boston, and I’m homesick for New York, and this movie Rick’s making is stupid, and Linus is upstaging me in all his scenes, and I don’t want to miss you, but I do
. “I need a rhyme for
stroganoff
,” she told him.

“What?”

“I’ve got to write a limerick for the next
Bloom’s Bulletin
. I need a rhyme for
stroganoff
.”

He said nothing for a minute, then: “Jog enough.”

“What?”

“Jog enough. ‘If I eat beef stroganoff, I’ll be able to jog enough.’ Something like that.”

God help her, she was in love. How could she not love a man who created a rhyme like that?

Tears filled her eyes—an all-too-frequent occurrence these days. She batted them, and the painting of the greyhound racer across the room seemed to waver through the layer of moisture. She loved Casey truly, madly and deeply. Why couldn’t she love him on her own terms? Why wasn’t her love enough to satisfy him?

Those were questions she couldn’t ask him. They were questions she wasn’t sure she could ask herself. “Thanks,” she said, hoping he wouldn’t hear the muffled sob in her voice. “Jog enough. It’s perfect, Casey.”

“Yeah,” he said, not a trace of emotion in his tone. She was falling apart, and he was undoubtedly thinking she was a selfish bitch, phoning him all the way from Revere, Massachusetts, to get a rhyme out of him. Or maybe he was thinking about his play during the pickup game, rehashing a block or a rebound in his mind. He didn’t care whether Susie missed him. He’d be spending the evening with Halle, after all.

“Well, thanks,” Susie said again. Saying goodbye would hurt too much, so she signed off with, “I’d better get back to work.”

“Okay,” Casey said, then disconnected the call. Maybe he, too, couldn’t bear to say goodbye. Maybe he was hurting as badly as she was, hurting so much that when she came home he’d ease up on the pressure and tell her he’d be happy just to get back to where they’d been before he started this whole moving-in-together crap.

Not likely, but one thing Susie was always pretty good at was dreaming.

Bloom’s Bulletin
Written and edited by
Susie Bloom

A dieter looking for dinner

Found in Bloom’s a delectable winner

“If I work out and jog enough,

I can eat the beef stroganoff,

And the fruit salad might make me thinner!”

Welcome to the June 17 edition of the
Bloom’s Bulletin
. Summer is just around the corner, and hot weather means bare legs, bare arms and frequently bare midsections. It also means Bloom’s! Although Bloom’s is known as a paradise for food lovers, folks counting calories need not stay away. Bloom’s offers many low-fat, low-calorie delights. Fresh, delicious salads are available, including two amazing new fruit salads (citrus, and berries-and-melon) guaranteed to satisfy your taste without expanding your waist. Bloom’s also has a full array of low-fat cheeses, low-fat yogurts, extra-lean meats and sugar-free cookies. Bloom’s doesn’t sell low-fat bagels—but that’s because our bagels are NO-fat! So show off your svelte summer bodies and indulge your palates.

Food for thought:

As always, Bloom’s wants to nourish your mind, as well as your body. In addition to the workshops and presentations we’ve already announced (a complete schedule appears on page four), we’ll be exploring the mind-body connection with Noreen Kastigian, a dietician and meditation coach, who will discuss “Sanity
Strategy,” her philosophy of food as a form of mental sustenance and thought as a dietary supplement. You won’t want to miss this special talk, which Noreen will repeat on three consecutive Thursday evenings. Another edifying lecture we’ve added to the schedule is Harry Sullivan-Goldberg’s “Nosh or Nap,” in which he will explain what foods give the most effective energy boosts during those low-energy times of the day. Mark your calendars!

Summertime, and the livin’ is easy…

Bloom’s wants to make your summertime easier. Check out our specials in the Heat’n’Eat department. Poached salmon, marinated asparagus tips and stuffed tomatoes are all on sale. Even though they’re sold as Heat’n’Eat dishes, you don’t have to heat them to eat them! All Heat’n’Eat dishes are fully cooked. A chilled poached salmon entrée, with a side of cold asparagus and stuffed tomatoes, would make a delicious light meal on a hot day. And it would be so low in calories, you could top it off with a slice of Bloom’s melt-in-your-mouth amaretto cheesecake. Explore the tempting contents of our dairy pastry case for more (literally) cool desserts.

Did you know…

The word
amaretto
is often confused with
amoretto. Amoretto
is a diminutive of the Italian
amore
(or the Latin
amor
), which means “love.”
Amaretto
derives from the Italian
amaro
(or the Latin
amarus
), which means “bitter.”
Amaretto
is the almond liqueur—a vital ingredient in Bloom’s
amaretto
cheesecake, as well
as many other recipes.
Amoretto
is the name of a pale pink-orange breed of rose, a gourmet chocolate-truffle candy, and a flavored cigar. A filly named Ambro Amoretto won the Breeder’s Cup a few years ago. Bloom’s does not use horses in any of its recipes.

Employee Profile:

How to describe Dierdre Morrissey? Her official title at Bloom’s is general manager, and in a way that sums up what she means to the company. As the executive assistant to Bloom’s president, Dierdre manages everything like a five-star general.

Dierdre originally came to Bloom’s as a secretary for the late Ben Bloom. Before long, she proved herself indispensable in so many areas of the business that she quickly rose to her current position, with her office right next door to the president’s. Need a rabbi to bless the cheese delivery? Dierdre will find one for you. Problems with a coffee importer? Dierdre has the numbers of four other coffee importers in her precious Rolodex. Plumbing disaster in the staff bathroom? If Dierdre can’t find a plumber in five minutes, she’ll do the repair herself. She monitors the inventory, double-checks the billings and oversees all correspondence. Around Bloom’s third-floor offices, the word is that Dierdre can do anything.

A tall redhead with legs like a fashion model’s and a passion for stiletto-heeled shoes, Dierdre is single. “Once I started working at Bloom’s,” she says, “the store became my passion. I grew up Irish. I never tasted a matzo ball before I came to Bloom’s. But this place stole my heart.” What are her favorite Bloom’s foods? “I like everything,” she says diplomatically. However,
she is partial to the many herbal teas Bloom’s sells, and nearly always has a steaming cup of tea at her elbow. She’s also been known to nibble on the mandelbrod or sneak a chunk of halvah into her office between meals.

“Dierdre’s pretty quiet,” one of her co-workers recently said of her. “She keeps to herself. But I’ll tell you this—Bloom’s couldn’t survive without her.”

Wise Words from Bloom’s founder, Ida Bloom:
“If you can’t stand the heat, don’t move to Miami.”

On sale this week:
Salads, salads, salads! Also low-fat Muenster, low-fat Jarlsburg and low-fat sliced turkey breast, plain, smoked or Cajun-style. Look for on-the-spot specials in the store—they change daily! Turn the page for details.

J
ulia wasn’t crazy about the horse joke. And rhyming
stroganoff
with
jog enough
seemed like a stretch. But at least Susie had gotten the damn newsletter done on time.

She gave one more perusal of the copy Susie had e-mailed her, then highlighted the horse joke and deleted it. She had never changed a word in one of Susie’s newsletters before, but if the line stayed in, Julia imagined that half the city’s animal rights activists would be picketing Bloom’s within minutes of reading the
Bloom’s Bulletin
. The block of Broadway outside the store would be jammed with protesters throwing water balloons filled with fake blood at the showcase windows and carrying signs declaring, “Bloom’s
claims
it doesn’t use horses in its recipes. Do you believe that claim?” Julia had a law school degree. She knew how people could imply a slander without actually coming right out and committing one.

Susie would probably never notice that Julia had removed a few of her precious words. If she did, screw it. Julia was an executive, which every now and then required her to make an executive decision. Besides, Susie was already vying for a place on Julia’s shit list, having spent a week roaming the less-exclusive neighborhoods of New England with Rick and a camera,
supposedly making an infomercial about Bloom’s. Julia was suffering severe misgivings about having funded their excellent adventure. Bloom’s was a New York City institution. Why did Rick and Susie have to go to New England to make a movie? Why couldn’t they make it here in the city? Were they budgeting wisely? Would they produce something she could actually use to promote the store? Was Susie recovering from the emotional upheaval of ending her relationship with Casey Gordon? Was Rick really the person she ought to have at her side during such a recovery?

Why did being the president of Bloom’s mean most of Julia’s thoughts ended in question marks?

Dierdre sauntered through the open office door, carrying a stack of papers that were no doubt extremely important and boring. Along with making executive decisions, Julia had learned that being an executive involved reading reams of important, boring papers. Granted, they weren’t as tedious as the legal documents she used to have to review when she’d worked at the law firm, and they were by and large written in English instead of jargon. No parties of the first part suing parties of the second part over court-reduced alimony payments. No “hereinafters” and “aforementioneds.” The papers Dierdre brought Julia each morning usually included whiny letters from pickle vendors announcing that a cucumber blight in South Carolina had necessitated an increase in price for the half-sours, and
kvetchy
missives from people claiming that their son stuck a pit from an olive purchased at Bloom’s up the nostril of his sister and therefore the store should reimburse them for the bill of the pediatrician, who’d had to use special tweezers to extract the pit from little Katie’s nostril, plus the cost of the olives. After receiving a note that
made that very demand, Julia had contemplated banning unpitted olives from Bloom’s inventory, but she’d come to her senses and instead written back to the woman that rather than blame the store, she might consider blaming her son for his nasal assault on little Katie. So what if Julia’s letter cost Bloom’s a customer? She wasn’t going to let some woman who didn’t know how to discipline her own children dictate what went on the shelves of the store.

Dierdre was such a genial woman that Julia smiled and pretended she was thrilled to be receiving today’s stack of
kvetches
and whines. “Susie did a great write-up on you for the
Bulletin
,” she said.

Dierdre shrugged diffidently. “I didn’t give her much to work with.”

“Whatever you gave her, she made the most of it. She’s very creative.”

Dierdre nodded and set the stack of papers on Julia’s desk. She loomed above Julia, the three-inch heels of her mules augmenting her already towering height. “I hear your mother is dating again,” she said.

Julia blinked up at her. Dierdre generally avoided personal discussions of the Bloom family. Julia had learned a year ago that Dierdre and her father had been lovers—or, as Susie had so tactfully phrased it in her employee profile, the “store” had become Dierdre’s passion. Julia had never confronted Dierdre with her discovery, nor had she mentioned it to her mother. Why stir up trouble and open old wounds? Her father was dead. Whatever might have existed between him and his right-hand woman had been buried with him.

But still, Julia wasn’t sure she wanted to discuss her mother’s love life with her late father’s mistress. She wasn’t that modern.

Dierdre was waiting for her to say something, though. “Where did you hear that?” she asked, her smile growing numb and stiff, as if her mouth had been shot full of Novocaine.

“From your mother.”

“Really?” The imaginary Novocaine began to wear off, weaving threads of pain through her jaw and lips. She was definitely not modern enough for this conversation.

“I think it’s good for your mother,” Dierdre added. “Dating, I mean.”

Julia peered up at the tall, thin woman. Dierdre’s hair was a dull red, with strands of brown and gray mixed in, and she had a profound overbite. When Julia had figured out that her father’s relationship with Dierdre had extended beyond the purely professional, she’d acknowledged that his attraction to his assistant hadn’t been based on her alluring beauty. Sondra Bloom was prettier—and she probably would have been prettier even if her parents hadn’t given her a nose job for her sweet-sixteen birthday present.

What Ben Bloom had fallen for was Dierdre’s competence and dedication, and her downright sensibility. Now here she was, sensibly discussing Julia’s mother’s love life. “You think dating is good for her?” Julia asked.

“He’s been dead two years,” Dierdre said, not having to identify whom she was referring to. “Your mother needs a life.” Dierdre had lost her man just as Sondra had, but apparently she didn’t need a life. Her life was Bloom’s. Julia’s mother tried to pretend her life was Bloom’s, but her life really was her children. Julia and Susie were all in favor of their mother getting
a life, just so they wouldn’t have to be her life anymore. Julia was sure that if she raised the subject with Adam, he’d feel the same way.

So it was good for Sondra to be dating. The only problem was
whom
she was dating. “What exactly did my mother tell you?”

“He took her to Tavern on the Green last Saturday, and when she said she didn’t want any dessert he forced her to order the dark-chocolate cake.”

“He
forced
her?” That didn’t sound too good to Julia. No man should force anything on a woman, even if it was dark-chocolate cake.

“Her words. I suspect he didn’t have to push too hard.” Dierdre sounded just the slightest bit catty. “He told her she looked terrific and women shouldn’t be so hung up about the size of their rear ends. So she ordered the cake.”

“She told you all this?” Julia wasn’t sure what shocked her more, Ron’s father lavishing cake on her mother and commenting on her rear end or her mother confiding in Dierdre. And to think that just minutes ago, her greatest concern was ridding the
Bloom’s Bulletin
of Susie’s joke about recipes for horse meat.

“We’re friends, your mother and I,” Dierdre said with a toothy smile before she pivoted on one stiltlike heel and sauntered out of the office.

Julia’s jaw continued to ache, and she realized her mouth was hanging open. She snapped it shut and stared at the empty doorway through which Dierdre had vanished.
Friends?
She frowned. Did their friendship include gossip about her father? Or only gossip about her future father-in-law?

She reached for her phone and punched the speed-
dial for Ron’s office. After two rings, he answered: “Joffe.”

“It’s me. Your father discussed my mother’s rear end with her.”

“What?”

“During their date last Saturday. She told Dierdre and Dierdre told me.”

Ron hesitated before responding. “Don’t you have a deli to run?”

“How can I run it when your father has been intimate with my mother?”

“Intimate?” At last, he seemed to understand the gravity of the situation. “How do you know they’ve been intimate? Did Dierdre tell you that, too?”

“I don’t mean intimate
intimate
. But discussing my mother’s rear end—”

“Forgive me, but your mother’s rear end is hard to overlook.” Before Julia could chew him out for insulting her mother, he continued. “Listen, sweetheart. Unlike you, I am not my own boss. I’ve got a dragon-lady editor and for some reason she wants me to get my column written and submitted by deadline. So can you maybe throw a fit about your mother’s rear end later?”

Asshole. “Sorry to bother you,” Julia snapped, then slammed down the phone in time to see Uncle Jay lurking in her open doorway. Clad in crisp slacks and a polo shirt in a shade of green that existed only in the wardrobes of golfers, he gave her an unnervingly charming smile. He was probably on his way out to the private club on Long Island where he golfed. The morning was bright and sunny, and Uncle Jay would never let something as trivial as his job come between him and a perfect day for golf. “Just wanted to let you
know I got a call from Ricky last night,” he informed her. “He says this movie is going to be a masterpiece.”

“It’s supposed to be an infomercial,” Julia pointed out.

“Think big, Julia. Expect the unexpected. That boy’s got more talent in his whole body than you’ve got in your little pinkie.”

That didn’t sound right, but Julia let it go because her uncle was already swaggering down the hall, whistling some tune that was probably a secret jingle for golfers.

She swiveled away from the open door, and her gaze settled on the stack of papers Dierdre had left for her. Squaring her shoulders, she lifted the top whine from the pile. Before she could read past the letterhead, her brother, Adam, materialized in her door. “Hey, you got a minute?” he asked.

She watched him stride into the office. He didn’t look like a math geek these days. His complexion was summer tan, his floppy hair brushed back from his face and the veins and muscles in his forearms bulged slightly, presumably a result of all the lifting and carrying his job entailed. He had on a standard-issue Bloom’s apron over his T-shirt and jeans, and the steel-toed shoes she’d made him buy when she’d hired him so he wouldn’t break his toes if he dropped a crate of canned sardines on his foot. His hesitant smile was the only feature that reminded her of the old Adam, her tentative kid brother, who liked to escape from the world by spinning some funky music, firing up a joint and fantasizing about number theory.

He was a welcome sight, at least compared with Dierdre and her neat pile of important, boring papers or Uncle Jay and his golf togs. He was definitely more welcome than her chocolate-cake-devouring mother or
nomadic sister would have been. “What’s up?” she asked.

He lowered himself onto the old leather couch. A lock of dark hair slid forward onto his brow and he pushed it back. He’d turned out pretty damn handsome, she realized, experiencing a burst of pride that was almost maternal. Slight in build—like all the Blooms—but definitely handsome, with eyes the color of black coffee, nicely contoured cheeks and a distinguished nose, the nose their mother might have wound up with if a plastic surgeon hadn’t intervened. On a woman, Julia supposed, that nose might overpower her face. But on Adam it looked terrific.

“I was wondering if I could ask a favor.” His smile, still shy, grew ingratiating.

“You can ask,” she said. “I can always say no if I don’t like it.”

“Can I use your apartment?”

That was a pretty big favor. “I’m not married yet,” she noted. “I still consider that apartment my home.”

“I didn’t mean to use it forever, like to take over your lease or anything.” Adam shifted on the soft leather cushion. Julia realized he was nervous. “I just want to borrow it. Like for a couple of hours, some evening when you’re at Joffe’s or something. You know, like the Grateful Dead song, only I don’t need a château.”

She had no idea which Grateful Dead song he was referring to, and decided that was just as well, especially since her apartment resembled a château the way a bruised grape resembled a case of vintage Bordeaux. “What do you want to borrow it for?” she asked.

“Well…” He shifted again, his nerves seeming to bubble over. “See, there’s this ballet dancer.”

“Elyse,” Julia recalled. Adam had dragged the girl through Julia’s god-awful dinner party a few weeks ago.

“Right. Elyse.”

That was all he said. His gaze darted around the office. He jiggled one foot, his knee bouncing. In the silence, Julia was able to fill in the blanks. “You want to have sex with her?”

Avoiding her gaze, Adam nodded.

Okay. That didn’t seem particularly nefarious. It was actually rather healthy. And although she hadn’t even officially met Elyse, Julia was willing to bet the woman was an improvement over Tash.

“So, can I borrow your apartment?” he asked.

Julia couldn’t think of a good reason to turn him down. But that weird maternalism made her pause before saying yes. This was
Adam
, after all. Her baby brother. The kid who’d humiliated her in front of her friends when they’d been building a volcano out of papier-mâché for a school science project and he’d come into the kitchen, where they were constructing Krakatoa on the counter, and used a drinking straw to spit chocolate milk at them. This was the kid who, a few years later, had brought a group of his friends home and they’d spent the entire afternoon experimenting with a whoopee cushion, testing its entire repertory of flatulation noises and critiquing each variation. This was the kid who had just graduated from Cornell University with honors.

Julia supposed he wasn’t a kid anymore. “Will you be careful?” she asked.

“I won’t break anything.”

“That’s not what I’m asking.” Her maternalism was
in overdrive now. “I mean, you have to use birth control.”