Geoducks Are for Lovers (34 page)

There is an email from her editor outlining a choice of travel assignments in September. Glancing at the calendar on the fridge, she reminds herself it is still August. The get-together has thrown off her sense of time and even what day of the week it is. Her typical life of singular company is unmoored after a few days spent with friends.

Her editor is offering her an assignment to cover a big farm-to-table dinner in Vancouver mid-month being hosted by one of the top chefs in British Columbia. The article will appear in one of the most prestigious print food magazines, now headed by her former editor. This could be the opportunity she’s been waiting for to get noticed for bigger national and international projects. Her blog name in her byline couldn’t hurt ad income either. Without checking her calendar, she immediately accepts the assignment. A chef’s dinner with a world renowned restauranteur and getting paid to eat is why she loves her job. 

“Who gets paid to eat amazing food?” Gesturing to herself with her thumbs, she says, “This girl right here.”

The big assignment eases the discomfort she’s been having over the past week. International travel, well, crossing the Canadian border in her car, but it does require her passport—she’ll have to find it—is not something spinster, shut-in recluses do. Nodding her agreement, she clicks through the rest of her work related emails, feeling pretty good about herself. Better at least. September is shaping up to be a busy month. The last final burst of late summer produce means lots of fodder for the local food movement blogs and farm-to-table restaurants. 

Her editor emails back a few minutes later, confirming the assignment. With a note saying hotel and the photographer information will follow, she gently reminds Maggie to put it on her calendar so there isn’t a conflict. Rolling her eyes, she sighs. Once, one time, she double booked two restaurants on the same evening. 

Oh, shit.

After flipping to her calendar for September, she sees ‘REUNION’ in bold letters across the weekend she agreed to go to Vancouver. 

“Fuck.”

“Crap.”

She paces around the house, doing a figure eight around the kitchen island, back to the dining table and then looping through the living room, before returning to the kitchen. Pinned to the bulletin board on the fridge is a copy of the summer ferry schedule, a calendar from the bank, and the reunion Save-the-Date postcard. How could she forget?
Fuck
.

She can’t back out on Vancouver because of a conflict. She’ll look like an idiot to her editor and flaky to her former boss. Chomping on the side of her thumb, she makes another lap around the open room. Biscuit sits up and watches from his bed.

“Shit.”

She never curses this much. Maybe she’s developed Tourette’s? Maybe she really is losing her mind. Was Miss Havisham crazy to begin with? Or, did all those years alone push her over the edge? 

“Great, now I’m Miss Havisham. I’m talking to myself.”

Of course, the dinner is on Saturday night. If it was Friday, she could do both the reunion and Vancouver. She fears the wrath of her friends, but she did spend a long weekend with them. They can’t be mad if she misses the weekend for work. Work, career, all that stuff is important. Especially to Ben. He’ll be supportive and take her side. Quinn and Selah will give her a hard time, but they’ll understand. She nods.

What about Gil? Fuck. She hasn’t responded to his email. Ugh.

“I am a terrible person. This is why I’m single.”

Her pacing slows and she realizes maybe this conflict is a good thing. It buys her time and delays seeing Gil again. Gives her more time to digest everything that happened between them and wrap her head around her emotions. Relief spreads through her. This is the universe stepping in and making the decision for her. She isn’t backing out because she is scared to move forward with Gil, she can’t go to the reunion, and it’s out of her hands. 

Relieved she justified everything in her head, she sits back down at her laptop to email Selah and the gang that she won’t be seeing them in Olympia after all. She’ll keep it light, no big deal. 

After she writes to everyone but Gil, she opens his email again. Studying the thumbnail of the two of them, her resolve falters slightly. She stares at the blank page of her reply, tapping her fingers on the keys, but not typing, and wonders what to say. She does miss him. Is it normal to miss someone so much you haven’t seen in five years, haven’t spent time with in twenty years, and saw for less than an hundred hours?

Thirty-one

Maggie hits send on her email to Gil. She bites the nail of her index finger knowing he won’t reply instantly, but still fretting over his reaction.

Glancing at the time, she realizes she hasn’t eaten lunch. The box of Captain Crunch calls to her from its place on the counter. It might make a fine lunch. In a bowl. With milk.

Emails answered, jobs booked, she feels productive thinking about the day so far. Time for a break.

After bringing her bowl of cereal and laptop into the den, she flops on the sofa. With the bowl carefully balanced on her stomach, she stretches her legs on the ottoman and flips on the TV to one of the food channels, which is on a commercial. As a food writer, she considers this research, which is part of work. Technically, she’s being productive. Checking the guide, she learns the program is a hybrid travel-food show where the host visits local restaurants and has the chef show off their signature dish. This episode appears to be about Philadelphia. When the show comes back on, she pauses… on the TV is the French Incident.

“Holy crap.” Her breath catches in her throat. 

She knows Julien is successful, but what is he doing on TV? And since when is he in Philadelphia? What happened to New York? It appears to be the second segment of the show, so there’s no mention of the restaurant name or what his signature dish is.

Not paying attention to the food prep, but the man on the screen, Maggie takes inventory. She’s resisted searching online for him over the years. He’s rounder and his hair is thinner, decidedly more gray than brown now. All salt, no pepper. His accent is overly thick. He’s flirting with the young, thin hostess of the show. The accent always thickens when he flirts. The woman on screen appears fascinated and keenly interested in whatever he is making. 

Maggie leans forward and puts her bowl on the ottoman. The soggy cereal is forgotten for the moment. After finishing a mirepoix, Julien continues with the layers of ingredients. He is making cassoulet—his mother’s recipe, which she could never stand. Maggie makes a face thinking about it.

A flash of gold on his left hand catches her eye. “He’s remarried. Of course he’s remarried.” 

She tries to remember the last time she spoke to Julien. After the divorce, but before she left New York. It was one of those odd NYC run-ins. After going for years without seeing him, they bumped into each other at a tiny wine bar a few weeks after Lizzy’s funeral. He was single then. She remembers being surprised he wasn’t remarried. He was, and apparently still is, one of those serial monogamy guys. He loved being married and the idea of a wife. 

Maggie makes a sour face. 

What surprises her most as she watches him is how little she feels for the stranger on the screen. His face is familiar and his voice sounds the same, but this is not the man who swept her off her feet at twenty. 

Gone is the special sparkle he would get in his eyes when he looked at her. Gone is the feeling in her chest when he whispered something dirty in French only she could hear. Gone is the loneliness of her marriage and the pain of ending their marriage.

She smiles, watching him present his finished dish and talk about his new restaurant. He is a stranger to her. Nothing more now than a box full of memories. She discovered her career thanks to him. Being married to an up-and-coming French chef opened some doors for her at food magazines. Her three years living with him in France perfected her French. Thankful for both those things, she wishes him well.

“Good luck, Julien.” Raising her cereal bowl, she toasts him. 

He would be horrified by her bowl of Captain Crunch for lunch. She eats a big bite and smiles. Soggy cereal is disgusting, so she brings the bowl to the kitchen to dump it in the garbage.

After finding her phone on the counter, she texts Selah about what happened and settles back on the sofa. She changes the channel to an old movie before any other ghosts pop up on the screen.

Her phone chirps with a message. 

  *Julien. Ugh. Glad you didn’t freak out. Is he fat?*

*Maybe. Married apparently.*

*Good luck to her.* 

Maggie chuckles. Selah knows exactly what to say to her.

Her ex-husband is remarried and she wonders if he has kids. Eyeing her computer, she decides to look him up online. 

The first page of results is all about his new restaurant. Given her career in food, she probably should know this already. Thankfully focusing on the local foodie culture keeps her away from the drama and egos of the East Coast restaurant scene.

She amends her search and adds ‘wedding.’ Aha. Success. Looks like he got remarried four years ago. New wife is in her late twenties, one kid. A son. Madam Armand must be thrilled. Good for them. She can’t find any information on what the wife does for a living. If Julien has had his way, she’s probably a housewife. Nothing wrong with that. Nothing at all, unless you are Maggie. She realizes she has never pined for her marriage or missed the traditional expectations of his family. Not once. Her current life makes her happier now than she was back then, especially with the return of Gil. Smiling with her new knowledge, and the reminder she is better off without Julien, Maggie closes the search window as her email pings.

After switching to her inbox, she sees the email is from Gil. Perfect timing. First, the Fine Young Cannibals and crazy people living in cabins, now Gil popping up after the ghost of husbands past. Maggie looks at the ceiling and winks before opening Gil’s email.

From: Gilliam Morrow

To: Maggie Marrion

RE: Weekend 

Sounds like I lost the pool. Damn. I’m out $20. Yes, Selah had a pool going about whether or not you’d make the reunion. The odds were 3 to 1 you’d skip. I had faith in you, let the record show.

Can’t say I’m not disappointed. Was looking forward to seeing you again.

We’ll have to find another time to get together. I’ll be busy with beginning of the year stuff for the next few weeks, but maybe October? We have a mid-semester break around Columbus Day. Let me lure you to Portland.

Glad you like the picture. I have no idea who took it either. Reminded me of college.

You’ll be missed in Olympia. 

What are your thoughts on the telephone? I hear you can use them for voice conversations, not only texting. Thought I’d put it out there. 

Take care of yourself, Maggie May.

They made bets? Damn them. They know her so well. She wishes she hadn’t sent the other email letting them all know she wasn’t going. 

She quickly types a response to him.

From: Maggie Marrion

To: Gilliam Morrow

RE: Weekend 

Damn. I’m sorry you are out the $20. I’ll pay you back. I can’t believe I’m missing the reunion. I agreed to Vancouver without checking my schedule. Completely spaced. Can I blame old age? ;)

Phone? What is this telephone talking thing you speak of? It sounds familiar, and very 20
^th
century.

You have my number. I think I remember something from the dark ages about boys calling girls being the proper way of doing the talking thing.

Take care, Dr. Morrow. Good luck with those students. 

X

Hitting send, she smiles. When thinking about Gil, she finds herself smiling a lot. Friends or whatever happens, she feels better for having him around again. Maybe she’ll take Sally’s advice and do a weekend trip to Portland. Check out the undead donuts and see Gil. Maybe even Selah, too.

* * *

Tuesday and Wednesday pass in a blur of writing, editing, and research, aka watching cooking shows. The rain gives way to long days of sunshine, so Maggie resumes her daily runs and walks on the tide flat with John. After their not-a-date movie and beer night on Sunday, things seem a little off between them, not strained but different. At least he still agrees to watch Biscuit when she goes to Vancouver.

Maggie works outside in the late afternoon sun on Thursday. Looking out on the beach from her spot at the table, Maggie watches John step out on his deck. He glances in her direction and she waves. He smiles and waves back, but doesn’t come over. A few minutes later, a woman with long dark hair joins him. She squints, trying to see the woman’s face, but the sun is behind them. Curious, she wonders if this is one of the old friends he ran into a few weekends ago. John didn’t mention a woman, but then again, he wouldn’t. She’ll have to ask him about it tomorrow when he comes over for coffee.