Georgia's Kitchen (14 page)

The wedding vendors were surprisingly understanding about her predicament. Apparently, canceled weddings were a lot more common than one would think. Besides, they retained their fat deposits, unless they were supercool, which they weren’t. Except for the caterer, who immediately told her how glad she was Georgia wouldn’t be walking the walk with Glenn. She knew it should have made her feel better, but it only made
her question herself, yet again. Why had she stayed with him for so long when even
the caterer
knew he wasn’t the right guy for her?

She sold her Monique Lhuillier wedding dress on eBay to a Beverly Hills bride on a budget. Brandie the bride cared not about the potentially bad karma and even e-mailed Georgia to ask if she was interested in selling her wedding band too “since it’s obvs you’ve got amaaazing taste.” Georgia didn’t bother responding. If she’d had a wedding ring, which she didn’t (the engagement ring had been bad enough), she’d pawn it. The biggest financial loss was the deposit on the space, a loft in Chelsea with a wraparound terrace and views of the Hudson. Glenn could eat that one.

The phone rang, and Georgia glanced at the caller ID. It was her parents, again. She’d broken the news of her broken engagement in a quick phone call, refusing to answer any but the most basic questions, and they’d incessantly been calling ever since. The machine picked up.

The landscape she’d bought the day she was fired hung on the wall behind the desk in the same tortoise frame that had, until a week earlier, held the program from Glenn’s college graduation. Mrs. Tavert was into commemorating life’s big events, especially when said event concerned her son and an Ivy. Every member of his family had a copy.

Georgia checked her watch and, noting another seven minutes had passed, crossed her fingers. “Please, Claudia,” she said under her breath. She stared at the picture, then closed her eyes, imagining herself walking through the field of Tuscan poppies, sort of like Judy Garland in
The Wizard of Oz,
only she didn’t fall asleep. Those TV gurus claimed visualizing yourself where you wanted to be was the key to getting what you wanted, and it was certainly worth a shot. Then, for good measure, and
because it seemed like the right thing to do, she whispered,
“Per favore. Per favore.”
She clicked. There it was, in her in-box. Sender:
Claudia Cavalli;
subject:
Georgia!
Double click.

Cara Georgia,

Sì! Sì! I am opening a trattoria in San Casciano and I need a cook. There are several rooms in the villa—you can have one! I need you at the end of May to prep for the open, and you will stay through the high season until the end of September.

Okay?

Baci!!

Claudia

Okay? If she were wearing a hat, Georgia would have tossed it into the air. Instead she leaped from her chair and promptly tripped over Sally, who had planted herself at Georgia’s feet. She grabbed Sally’s snout and gave her a huge kiss. “I can’t believe it, Sals. I’m really going to Italy!”

“You’re what?”

“I’m going to Italy,” Georgia repeated into her cell phone as she walked down Broadway to ABC Carpet, where she was meeting Clem and Lo. “Not on vacation, not to join an ashram or a cult, but for a job.” She’d vowed not to talk to her parents until she had an airtight, infallible plan in place, one in which even Dorothy, with her razor-sharp, unpolished nails, couldn’t poke a hole. Thanks to Claudia, Clem, and, much as she hated to say it, Glenn, she now had such a plan. “It’s just for the summer, Mom. I’ll be back in New York in the fall.”

“This is just terrible,” Dorothy said. Georgia could picture her pacing through her all-white kitchen, running her hand over the seamless Corian counters. “Losing the job you’ll get over. But Glenn? He’s so wonderful. I still can’t believe it. What happened?”

“Let’s see. I put up with him cheating on me once, and I even might have put up with his doing coke once in a while, but when he said he no longer wanted to marry me, I decided not to try to convince him otherwise. Okay?”

“She didn’t mean that, Georgia. She means that she’s sorry you’re going through this,” Hal said, having picked up the extension in the den.

Dorothy was silent. Sorry my foot, Georgia thought, sidestepping a large pile of poop, smack in the middle of the sidewalk. New York was more like Paris than people realized.

“Maybe the chef life isn’t for you,” Dorothy said. “Maybe it’s time for a career change. I never thought you were cut out to wear an apron and a silly hat.”

“It’s called a toque, Mom. And for the record, I don’t wear either.”

“Your mother has a point, Georgia. It’s not too late for grad school. You could get a great in-state rate and live with us back in your old bedroom.”

“Did I hear you correctly, Georgia? Did you say Glenn uses cocaine?” Dorothy interjected.

“Yes, you heard me correctly. Dad, thanks for the offer, but I already went to grad school and I told you, I’m going to Tuscany to work at a restaurant Claudia’s opening.”

“Who?” Dorothy asked, inhaling deeply.

“You’re
smoking
again, Mom?”

“Only when I’m upset.”

“Or drinking,” Hal reminded her.

“Anyway,” Georgia continued, “Claudia Cavalli is the woman I did my externship with in Florence. One of the greatest chefs in Italy. She’s been very important to me, to my career. I’m surprised you don’t recognize her name.”

“Oh,” Dorothy said. “
That
Claudia.”

By the time Georgia hung up, she had resolved not to call her parents again until she was safely in San Casciano. The farther away they were, the better.

She pulled open the glass doors and walked into ABC, which was like entering a souk, Manhattan-style. Glass chandeliers dripping with beaded fruit hung from the ceiling, jewel-colored satin pillows littered the ground, brass incense burners and candleholders shared space with fancy linen tablecloths. Georgia pried herself away from the expensive eye candy and headed to the fifth floor, where she found Clem and Lo sprawled across a leather sofa that looked like a NASA launchpad. Lo was exchanging the pair of gilded Louis XV love seats her father had gifted her (only after they failed to sell at the Christie’s home sale) for something more mod and had recruited Georgia and Clem as test sitters.

“Shove over,” Georgia said, flopping down next to Lo and almost bouncing off the seat. “This is your new sofa? I hope you don’t plan to actually sit on it.” She flipped over the price tag dangling above her shoulder. “Or eat for the rest of your life.”

“I can’t believe you’re really leaving us,” Lo said, ignoring Georgia’s comment. “Are you sure you have to go all the way to Italy to be happy?”

“Ugh. You sound like my mother. No, I don’t
have
to go to Italy. I
want
to go to Italy. It’s mecca for chefs. The food, the wine—”

“The men,” Clem pointed out.

“But what about us?” Lo said. “What are we going to do without you, George? We’re a trio. We’re—”

“Please don’t say it,” Clem said. “Please.”

“The three musketeers!” Lo said, shooting Clem a dirty look. “We are.”

“No,” Clem said. “We’re not. We are so not the three musketeers.”

The elevator dinged and a pert girl with shiny hair and knee-high boots got off, dragging a guy behind her. She skipped over to a George Nelson marshmallow sofa, above which arched an Arco lamp. The guy shuffled along behind her, his hands shoved in his pockets, his eyes glued to the floor. Most guys didn’t have the shopping gene. Despite all his faults, Glenn could shop.

“I’ll be back in a few months. You won’t even notice I’m gone,” Georgia said, turning back to her friends. “But between you guys and Sally—”

“I still can’t believe you’re letting Glenn take Sally,” Clem said.

“I didn’t hear you volunteering for the job, Clem, dog-sitter extraordinaire and alleged best friend.”

“If you were west of Third I might have considered it,” she said. “Seriously, if you hadn’t sublet your apartment to my brother, I would have. You know I would have.”

Before Georgia had to even contemplate a Craigslist posting for her sublet, Clem offered up her brother as the perfect candidate. He and his buddy had just graduated college and wanted to relocate their rockabilly band to the Big Apple, where they were sure they’d strike it big. After listening to their demo, Georgia was less sure, but they had jobs that would cover the rent, and that was all she cared about.

“I appreciate it, Clem. But Sally loves Glenn. And he loves her too. It’ll be fine.”

Glenn was due to pick up Sally first thing in the morning, just hours before a car service would whisk Georgia to JFK, final destination Amerigo Vespucci airport, Florence, Italy. She’d already planned not to be there when he arrived and would instead be enjoying a buttered bagel, a weak cup of coffee, and the
New York Times
at Silver Star diner, a few blocks from her apartment. There was no way she could watch him walk out that door again, especially with her best friend leashed to his side. Besides, she had already said everything she wanted to say to him; her brand-new ballistic-nylon suitcase was the only baggage she planned to bring with her to San Casciano.

“Italy is so far away,” Lo said. “What if you fall in love with an Italian count and never come back?”

“Or maybe she won’t fall in love at all,” Clem said. “Get a taste of how the single half live for a change.”

“All I’m doing is following your advice. I’m trying on the jeans.” Georgia rolled her eyes. “I can’t believe I just said that.”

“But why go all the way across the globe when everyone knows Barneys has the best selection in the world?” The earnest expression on Lo’s face almost made Georgia laugh.

“Because I’m looking for something a little different.” And though Georgia didn’t know exactly what it was, she thought that maybe, just maybe, she could find it in Italy.

S
cusi, signora. Vorrei un bicchiere di prosecco e tre tartufati per favore.”
Georgia sat at a small table at Procacci, a fashionable food store and café on via Tornabuoni, Florence’s equivalent of Madison Avenue.

The Lilliputian store’s two other tables were occupied by a chic mother-daughter duo and a handsome gray-haired couple in crisp button-downs, pressed jeans, and driving mocs, the unisex uniform of Florence’s moneyed set. Before Georgia could blink, the waitress placed a flute on a scalloped-edged coaster.

“Grazie,”
Georgia said, smiling broadly. She’d been smiling since her arrival in Italy a few days earlier, perma-grinning like a blissed-out hippie.

And why not? The sun was shining, the air was downright balmy. Even her hair looked good. She felt so cheerful it was almost spooky. If she were the paranoid sort, she’d be looking over her shoulder for Marco or Mercedes or her mother to pop out from behind some marble statue and ship her back to the half-fork, zero-ring reality she’d left behind in New York. Fortunately, she wasn’t. America and all of its lousy M-people were far, far
away. Maybe karma really was a boomerang, like that stupid bumper sticker said, and her happiness was simply payback for a really, really bad week.

Whatever it was, she’d take it, along with her third mouthwateringly delectable truffle-spread mini-brioche. The waitress placed an artfully arranged cheese plate before the mother and daughter next to her, and they gleefully rubbed their hands together before digging in to a runny Robiola. Tempted though Georgia was to order a few selections, she didn’t. She had too much money invested in her jean collection to start eating cheese plates for one on day two in Italy.

“Qualcos’altro?”
The waitress shifted her attention to Georgia.

“Sì, un caffè macchiato,”
Georgia said, tearing her eyes from the oozing cheese. A police car whizzed by, its two-note siren sounding just like the ones in the classic movie
Roman Holiday
. Italians seemed to have the uncanny sense to not fix what wasn’t broken.

The elementary school around the corner had let out for the afternoon, and young girls wearing pleated skirts and kneesocks charged down the street in groups of four and five. It was early enough in the tourist season that the streets still belonged to the Florentines. In a couple weeks the deluge would begin and the city’s bars, cafés, churches, museums, and restaurants would be clogged with camera-wielding Americans, Germans, and Japanese. But for now the city was at rest, contented. Shopkeepers smiled, street sweepers whistled, even the carabinieri joked with their partners, tipping their caps to the old ladies walking the streets in pairs, their arms linked.

The waitress placed the espresso and a silver tray holding the check on the table.
“Faccia con comodo.”

Georgia unsnapped her wallet and counted out several crisp euro bills. She’d taken out a couple hundred from the airport
ATM, figuring it was enough to get her through the first few days but not enough to indulge her inner shopper, who was dying for a go at the Florentine shops. If Lo were here, she’d be up to her eyebrows in black pants and anything else that suited her fancy. Georgia rested a moment longer, drinking in Procacci’s old-world elegance and watching the parade of smartly dressed Italians pass by. Then she placed the bills on the tray and walked outside to join them.