Friendship Bread (8 page)

“I didn’t wait until the last minute,” she says, reading his mind. She straightens up looking mildly irritated herself. “I sent you three emails and a couple of voice-mail messages.”

He remembers now, but he didn’t know she needed a response before tomorrow.

“I’ve got to go,” he says, glancing at the clock. His fifteen minutes have just evaporated and he needs to head to the showers if he’s going to make his meeting on time. “We’ll have to talk about this later.”

“My day’s already pretty full,” she says. “And I’m sure yours is, too. What about discussing this over an early dinner? I’ve always wanted to try that new restaurant, Roux.”

Mark knows Roux, because it was written up as one of the hottest new French fusion restaurants to watch. He’s been wanting to go there himself to check out the architecture and decor, but Julia hates going out. Plus Roux is forty minutes away.

“It’s halfway between Rockford and Avalon,” she continues. “This way you’ll still have the rest of the evening to spend with Julia and Gracie.” The smile on Vivian’s face doesn’t waver. “We can meet at five and you’ll be home by seven.”

If he stands here any longer, he’s going to be late. “Fine,” he says. “Roux it is. Five o’clock.”

When Mark walks into Roux, an apologetic Vivian is waiting by the bar, drink already in hand.

“This is what small town life does to you,” she says mournfully.
She looks dazzling in a tailored wraparound dress and heels. It’s professional yet soft and feminine. “I forgot that most restaurants don’t start serving until five-thirty. They’ll seat us at the bar, though, until a table is ready.”

Mark is about to suggest that they just stay at the bar and get this over with, but at that moment a young man dressed in black walks over. Mark recognizes him as Bruno Lemelin, owner of Roux and two other award-winning restaurants in the state of Illinois.

“Mark Evarts,” Lemelin says, shaking his hand. They’ve never met, but Lemelin is all smiles, as if they’re old friends. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. When Vivian called and I heard the two of you were coming in, I couldn’t believe my good fortune. I saw the work you did on Bacchanali in Chicago. Nicely done.”

“Thank you.” They exchange cards.

“I’d love to talk with you about a couple of projects I have going on, maybe see if there’s a fit.” Lemelin claps him on the shoulder and gives Vivian a smile, his eyes flicking up and down the length of her body. “The hostess will seat you in a little bit, but I’ll send some apps to tide you over in the meantime. I’m going to have our chef pull together some of his favorite dishes for your dinner.”

Mark doesn’t know what to say. He’d heard rumors that Lemelin wanted to open another place, a high-concept restaurant that would combine stunning interiors with his signature dishes. He also knows Lemelin has a reputation for hiring and firing his architects at the drop of a hat, and it’s clear that he’s shopping now.

Lemelin gives Mark a wink. “I’ll tell the bartender to fix you up with our house martini. It was featured in
Food & Wine
last year. You’ll love it.” He turns and strides into the kitchen with a wave.

Mark is flattered to be getting the royal treatment. He’s forgotten this feeling, this thrill of being noticed, this cutting to the front of the line. Since Josh’s death he’s passed on travel and evening meetings, and he knows his business has suffered for it. His partner, Victor Gunther, has been socializing and hobnobbing on his behalf, but it’s not his forte. It’s Mark’s. He’s forgotten how much fun it can be, and how much he really misses it.

He excuses himself to step outside and call Julia. It’s a courtesy call because she probably won’t answer the phone. Sure enough, the answering machine comes on, his own voice asking him to leave a message. Suddenly Mark is tired of talking to himself. He disconnects the call before the beep and slips his phone into his pocket.

Back inside, Vivian holds up a martini and gives Mark a conspiratorial grin. “Cheers,” she says.

He picks up his glass from the table and holds the thin stem between his fingers. “Cheers.” They clink glasses and take a sip, their eyes meeting over the rims.

It’s a damn good martini, and Mark would ask for another if they weren’t here on business. “Tell me again how you pulled this off. How do you know Bruno Lemelin?”

Vivian shakes her head. “I don’t,” she says. “Just call me lucky. I called to make a reservation and he picked up. Said he was waiting for a call and the hostess was on break. I talked him up, of course, once I realized it was him.”

“Of course,” Mark says with a grin. Vivian only offers a nonchalant shrug in response, confirming what Mark already knows. However lucky Vivian may be, she knows how to spot an opportunity and is not the kind of girl to let it pass her by.

A waiter brings out a full tray of appetizers: foie-gras-and-onion soufflé with Armagnac-soaked prunes, ravioli stuffed with braised celery root and goat cheese, a marvelous crispy soft-shell-crab tempura. Mark orders a bottle of chardonnay. Vivian starts telling him about her suggestions for the Cherry Hill project, and Mark finds himself enthralled by her ideas, by her use of found objects coupled with new materials, the overall depth of her knowledge. She confesses she had been looking for opportunities in Chicago or New York when she stumbled across their website, saw Mark and Victor grinning at her from cyberspace, and thought, Why not?

“Why not?” Mark repeats as he watches her cut a sliver of ravioli and slip it into her mouth. He finds himself staring at her lips, still glossy with color, and he forces himself to think of other things. Bruno. Gracie. Architecture. The balding guy in the corner who’s obviously
on a blind date. “Because we probably don’t pay as well. And we don’t have any of the glitz or glamour.”

Vivian gives a gentle shake of the head. “Trust me—been there, done that. That’s not what I’m looking for.”

He wants to ask her more, ask her how it is that she’s been there and done that, whatever that means. What exactly is she looking for? He wants to know even though he knows he might regret it later. But before he can say anything Vivian changes the subject and he finds himself regaled by her tales of travel and misadventure, marveling at how tenacious and smart a woman she is.

When they’re brought to a table, the food starts coming out almost immediately: roast breast of duck with more foie gras, hazelnut risotto with sweetbreads, quail with a yellow-raisin sabayon and semolina gnocchi. It’s a far cry from takeout pizza and Chef Boyardee.

By the time they’re finished with dinner, Mark feels alive. He has just eaten one of the best meals of his entire life. And then Lemelin is there and they’re discussing a time to meet—will next Thursday work? They’ll meet here, at the restaurant. Mark can’t wait to come back.

“Wow,” says Vivian as they walk to the parking lot. “That was certainly productive. Business meeting, amazing meal, new client.”

“He’s not a client yet,” Mark corrects, laughing. The food and alcohol have made him giddy, but he’s also just happy.

“He will be,” Vivian says confidently. She reaches into her purse and pulls out a small key fob with the unmistakable Porsche insignia.

“You drive a Porsche?” Mark stares at the 911 coupe in front of them, cherry red with glossy black detailing and alloy wheels. How much are they paying her?

“I lease,” she says. She points the key fob at the car and the doors instantly unlock. Mark’s not sure if he’s filled with admiration or envy. “I trade up every five years. Everything seems to break down the minute the warranty expires, so I prefer to play it safe.” She dangles the keys in front of him. “You’re welcome to take it for a drive if you like.”

Part of his brain is telling him to get his ass home and the other part is figuring out how long it would take to circle the block. Just once. Maybe twice. It’s a Porsche, for God’s sake.

Instead he holds the door open and waits for Vivian to get in, choosing to change the subject. “Why don’t you enlighten me as to why you think Lemelin will be a client?”

Vivian slides into the driver’s seat and then pauses, one long leg remaining on the pavement.

“Because,” she says, her eyes locking on his. “Some things are just meant to be.”

She drives away, the most perfect exit in a beautiful piece of well-crafted German automobile machinery. The red glow of the taillights stare back at him, taunting him, daring him to follow.

The upstairs bedroom light is on, the door slightly ajar. Mark stands in the strip of light, briefcase still in hand. He sees Julia sitting on their bed, cross-legged, already dressed in pajamas. She’s reading a magazine. He edges the door open a little wider and clears his throat, worried that he’s interrupting her but wanting her to know that he’s there. “Hey.”

Julia looks up. Her hair is twisted up in a simple knot, a few loose tendrils framing her face. Her face looks shiny and clean, as if she just washed it. “Hi.”

“Sorry I’m late. I had an unexpected dinner meeting and it just got later and later …”

“That’s fine.” Julia looks back down at her magazine. She reaches for a pen, clicking it several times before circling something.

Mark loosens his tie but doesn’t step into the room. His room is down the hall, the room formerly known as the guest room. It wasn’t anything they planned. It came about because Julia was having so much difficulty sleeping after Josh’s death and Gracie’s birth. She couldn’t fall into a deep sleep and Mark’s tossing and turning would wake her up. And then there was his snoring. He tried everything—chin straps, nasal strips, spray, even hypnosis. Nothing helped. He
would find Julia sleeping on the floor of Gracie’s nursery or on the couch downstairs.

He puts down his briefcase, not ready to leave but unsure of what to say. He opts for something basic. “Did you and Gracie have dinner?”

She gives a small nod. “Leftover meatloaf. Did you eat?”

The question catches him by surprise. It’s been a long time since Julia asked about him or his day, about the business or anything other than Gracie. He decides to confess everything. “I did. I went to Roux, that new restaurant in the valley, with someone from work. The owner wants to talk next week, possibly about getting us involved in his next project.”

“That’s great.” Julia doesn’t look up.

“The food’s amazing,” he continues, encouraged. “Maybe we could go sometime.”

Julia doesn’t say anything, but gives a halfhearted shrug.

Mark wishes he thought to bring home a dessert for her. He used to do that all the time, take one more look at the dessert cart and order something to go. His clients were charmed by this gesture and his colleagues would chide him ceaselessly, but he didn’t care—he wasn’t doing it for them, he was doing it for Julia. It pains him that he didn’t remember to do that. How could he forget?

“That Amish Friendship Bread was really good,” he says instead, determined to keep the conversation going. Gracie and Julia made the bread yesterday and they had it for dessert and then again for breakfast this morning.

“Thanks.” She looks up and smiles.

It’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. He’s about to step into the room when she says, “It’s late. I should get some sleep.”

“Oh. Right.”

Julia puts her magazine and pen onto the nightstand and burrows under the covers. She pulls the comforter up to her shoulders and turns on her side, reaching up to turn off the light. “Good night.”

The room is suddenly bathed in darkness. “Good night,” he says. He steps back into the hallway, closing the door behind him.

“It’s what?” Clinton Becker frowns at the bag. He’s convinced it’s some kind of art or science project, but his daughter, Juniper, is insisting it’s bread.

“We can make it at home and share it,” she tells him from her car seat in the backseat. “I got it from Gracie Evarts at school. And I got instructions, too.”

Clinton keeps one hand on the wheel as he lifts the Ziploc bag for closer inspection. There’s a red light up ahead and he slows to a stop. It looks a bit like watery hummus. He tried hummus once and it wasn’t so bad. Clinton opens the bag and sticks his head in for a sniff, then makes a face. It’s definitely not hummus.

The car behind him lays on the horn and Clinton sees that the light has turned green. He tries to reseal the bag but can’t get the plastic ridges to line up. He carefully props up the bag in the passenger seat next to him. He’s not one for these crafty school projects. Juniper can do this with her mother, though he doubts Angie
can be bothered. She’s too busy with her new boyfriend, some stupid accountant.

“What’s for dinner?” Juniper wants to know.

“McDonald’s,” he says, and smiles when he hears a cheer from the backseat. He glances in the rearview mirror at his daughter who’s happily kicking her heels and humming some song he doesn’t know. Thank God he fought for joint custody. He’s made a lot of stupid mistakes in his time, but Juniper wasn’t one of them.

At the drive-thru, Clinton orders a hamburger Happy Meal with apple slices and chocolate milk for Juniper and a Big Mac meal for himself. When he pulls around to the window, he spots a familiar face.

“Hi, Clinton.” Debbie Reynolds gives him a shy smile. Debbie was a class behind him at Avalon High but had skipped a few grades, so she’s actually a few years younger. Debbie had gone on to some fancy college, then some fancy business school, and then came back to Avalon to care for her mom. He used to think it was a shame such a smart girl ended up flipping burgers in a fast-food joint, but then he read an article in the
Avalon Gazette
that said she and a couple business partners owned all the McDonald’s franchises in Avalon and a few of the neighboring towns, a total of five or six in all. There aren’t many girls like Debbie Reynolds, that’s for sure.

“Hey, Debbie. What’s cookin’?” Clinton gives her a grin.

She smiles. “That’ll be nine dollars and eleven cents.”

He hands her a ten-dollar bill and waits while she makes change. “So how come you’re always working if you own the place?” He knows it’s probably not nice to ask, but he also doesn’t think Debbie minds. Plus he’s curious.