Julia's Child (9781101559741) (17 page)

I was just adding my special touch—a razor-thin layer of sliced apple, for crunch—between the turkey and the bread, when the phone rang.

Marta answered. Whenever she was exhausted, she slipped deeper into her accent, so the name of our company took on a Latin pronunciation. “Hoolia's Child,” she said into the receiver. “Marta speaking.” She listened attentively. “Yes, sir,” she said. More listening. Then she said, “That's fantastic,” but the look on her face told a different story. She looked like she might cry. “You can have them tomorrow, in our existing packaging.
Or
you can have them next week with the new design.” Her frown grew deeper. “Tomorrow, then. Excellent. Thanks so much.”

Then she hung up the phone and leaned back in her chair like a stricken woman.

“What is it?” I asked.

Without opening her eyes, she said, “It's Kai. He needs more stock. You've nearly sold out at the Time Warner Center and in Chelsea. And you're sold out at Union Square.”

I could hardly believe my ears, especially given Marta's lack of enthusiasm. “So it is true! What did he
say
? In spite of all the packaging snafus, people are actually buying them?”

She opened her eyes. “He was careful to say that it often goes like this with a new product. Lots of people try it. The second batch will be more telling. We'll either have repeat customers or we won't.”

“But that's not why you're depressed?”

“I'm depressed because we're going to have to ship him all the muffets we just baked for the trade show. And I thought we were almost done.”

I clapped my hands together joyfully. “Tell me what he said when you told him the muffets could be there tomorrow.”

Marta stood up and maneuvered around the desk to reach for her sandwich plate, which I handed over. “He did seem a little surprised, now that you mention it.”

“I just know he takes us for small-timers. I'll bet he thought we couldn't rise to the challenge.”

Marta looked at me, blearily, over her plate. “This is the corporate titan taking a bite of her turkey sandwich.”

“Marta, as soon as your coffee kicks in, you're going to agree with me that this is a good thing. We need the revenue from Kai to pay down our credit cards.”

Marta nodded. “Are you cruising the suburbs today?” Marta asked.

“Tomorrow,” I said, taking a bite. I'd been piloting my Subaru all over New Jersey, scoping out warehouses and food-production facilities—called copackers—searching for the right place to manufacture Julia's Child. This meant donning a hairnet to tour factory floors that seemed impossibly large and automated. And expensive. The search was not going well. As I watched cans or cartons twirl by on overhead conveyor belts, I had a hard time reconciling those impossibly industrial places with the company I wanted to run.

“It only takes one.” But Marta's voice wasn't as optimistic as her words. I wasn't sure which of us she was trying to buoy up. But then she seemed to gather herself and sit up a little straighter in her chair. “Hey, the apple tastes good in here. Nice touch.” Then the phone rang, and she set down her sandwich to answer. “Yes? Chris!” she said to her caller. “Of course I remember you.”

I worried the rim of my paper plate. The trick was, as in all things, timing. I couldn't afford to change manufacturers until we got another big order, either from Whole Foods or another big buyer. Then I'd need to
instantly
switch, somehow, to a new facility, simultaneously increasing production, staff, and marketing. If I got the timing wrong, the business would lose cash flow and die. It seemed as impossible as a trapeze artist's fingertip catch of a swing in midair.

Marta hung up the phone with a joyful clap of her hands. “I met someone at my son's school!”

“A guy?” I asked through a bite of sandwich.

“No,
chica
. I met a journalist. From the
New York Post
. Her name is Christine. I chatted her up, you know, hoping for free publicity. And guess what? It paid off.”

“Again, Marta! You have the touch. She wants to do a story? About Julia's Child?”

“Sort of,” Marta said coyly. “It's a story about me.”

“Oh!” I waited for her to explain.

“She wants to write about my life. Local girl goes from welfare mom to part owner of a fast-growing new children's company. Like that. Isn't it great?”

Her face was lit with excitement. But I didn't say anything right away. I hoped she'd think it over before she opened up to this journalist.

“What, Julia? You don't look happy for me.”

“I'm just thinking about it, that's all. The angle . . .” I didn't know how to say it. I wasn't sure if it was me, that I'd be comfortable with it.

“The angle?” Marta put her hands on her hips.

I took a deep breath. “I just hope they focus on your smarts, Marta. On you, as a businesswoman, and not a caricature of a welfare mom. Do you know what I mean? I hope the journalist is smart enough to make it . . . human.”

Marta's face creased in shock. Clearly, I had not made my point. She thought I was raining on her parade. “Never mind, Marta. You've met the journalist and I haven't. I'm sure she'll write really well about you. I shouldn't have worried.”

“Well, I
never
,” Marta spat, obviously upset. She stopped to swallow. “I never pegged you for the jealous sort.”

“Jealous!” God, I dreaded media attention. And Marta knew that. “I am
not
jealous. I just want you to be portrayed as a whole person, you know? I . . .” I was at a loss. Somehow I had offended the only other person who cared as much about my dream as I did. At that moment I would have done anything to take it all back.

“Hoolia, tell me something. Will this interview, even if it's done by a baboon, have a chance at increasing the value of my ten percent and your ninety percent of the company?”

I blinked. “I, uh, suppose any mention of the company in the newspaper is a very good thing.”

“Then what the hell are you worried about?”

I was speechless. The phone rang. Marta stared me down, making no move to answer it, so I grabbed it. “Julia's Child.”

“Hi, this is Pam from Shonen Brothers Food Packing.”

“Yes! Hi, Pam. This is Julia.”

“Julia, I know we had you scheduled to visit us tomorrow, but it would really be so much better if you could tour today. We're getting a large shipment of organic kiwi tomorrow, and it's going to be really crazy here with all the peeling.”

“No problem, Pam. I'd be happy to come today. It will take me about an hour and a half to get there, though.”

“Terrific! We'll see you around two o'clock, then!” She hung up.

I put the phone down and met Marta's gaze once again. “I'm sorry, Marta. I don't have the best instincts about media. I don't trust it. But I'm sure you know what you're doing.”

She crossed her arms. “We can't keep this up, you know.”

“Which part,” I whispered.

“This schedule. My nights away from my son. Neighbors watching him. His teacher calling me, telling me his homework isn't done. I haven't had more than one night's sleep in a row. And you—I'm worried you're going to crash that car in Jersey, you've got so much on your mind. We can't keep it up indefinitely.”

“I know, Marta. Nobody expects you to keep it up forever. The trade show is next week. Then we regroup.”

“We have to. Julia . . .” She hesitated. The look on her face was grim.

“Yes?” I was afraid of what she'd say next.

“Remember Lila? She makes the churros?”

“Of course I remember Lila.”

“She got picked up by Starbucks. Fifty locations in Queens and Manhattan.”

“Wow! Good for Lila.” Starbucks—I'd never even considered it as an outlet. An awful lot of toddlers get dragged into coffee shops every day. Their mothers buy them bagels. There was really no reason at all why muffets wouldn't be a great product too, between the low-fat coffee cake and the madeleines. I was just about to make this suggestion to Marta, when I noticed that her face still wore an expression like death. “Marta, what's wrong?”

“She wants me to work for her. Nine to five.”

“Oh.” I swallowed hard. In my overtaxed and overextended recent history, I hadn't given enough thought to Marta's concerns. Too late. I now realized that the world must be full of people who would appreciate her superpowers. “Is it . . . a much better offer? Are there . . . benefits?” I meant things like dental insurance. But as I said it, it was clear to me that the real benefit of working elsewhere would be the security of having an employer who was not on the brink of failure.

“No,” she sighed. “Lila isn't much further along than we are. I told her it wouldn't be right for me to leave Julia's Child in the lurch right now.”

I felt a swell of relief and gratitude. I opened my mouth to speak.

“But I did say that if she hadn't found anybody in a month, to check in with me again.”

I closed my mouth again and only nodded. “Marta, I . . . I know,” I squeaked. “This is no way to live. And now I've got to go to freaking Jersey again. To try to get us off the night shift. This copacker could be the one.”

She stared at me, unblinking. “We keep saying that, but then life gets harder instead of easier.”

I picked up my handbag and dusted the crumbs off of my desk. I'd run out of words of encouragement. I should have realized before that Marta was near the breaking point. And now, with Julia's Child on her résumé, she could certainly get a nice nine-to-five job in any number of less-dysfunctional workplaces. And I couldn't even spit out the real reason that it made me so sad. But I'd miss you!

“
Chica
,” she said in a low voice, “take the rest of that sandwich with you. And drive safe.”

Chapter 14

B
y 8:00 P.M. I had come to resemble the poem inscribed on the Statue of Liberty. I could have easily passed for one of the tired, poor, huddled masses. Though I'd been impressed by the small but tidy copacking plant I'd visited, the drive home from New Jersey was beset by horrible traffic. As I inched the car toward the George Washington Bridge, I tried to imagine making that commute several times a week. As I finally dragged myself toward my own golden door, I realized I had one more thing to do. I speed-dialed Marta.

“Hola, chica,” she answered. I heard the din of Zia's kitchen behind her.

“Hi, Marta,” I said gingerly, still wary from the fight we'd had. “I'm just calling to see if the pumpkins got to you on time. I was still begging the distributor at three thirty.”

“Sí.” Marta's answer was curt. “The first batch is out of the oven already. Theresa is pureeing it now for the Autumn Harvest.

“I'm so glad.”

“But, Hoolia, today I did some checking. We can buy organic pumpkin in one-gallon cans for just about the same price as fresh pumpkins.”

I bit my lip. It wasn't me who was about to stay up until two tonight steaming the flesh and scooping it from the shell. But I was not about to put canned
anything
in my muffets. “We'll take a look, Marta.” I was too cowardly even to say no.

“Okay,
chica
. Ciao.” Just before the call was disconnected, I heard her holler at her cousin. “Stop blending! You're stirring out the vitamins!”

Miserable, I exited the elevator and, while pocketing my phone, finally arrived at the door to my apartment. From behind the door, I could hear a strange sound. It was a soft keening, almost a whimper.

Concerned, I turned the knob and tiptoed into the darkened apartment. The shadowy living room was lit only by light reflected from the condo tower across the street. I searched for the sound. There in the darkness, I located two standing figures, their arms around one another.

I gasped, and they came apart. Bonnie and Luke, a nightmare unfolding before my eyes.

I held my breath, frozen like a scuba diver whose air hose had suddenly been cut. When I eventually remembered to inhale again, the rush of oxygen to my brain brought the picture into sharper focus. I began to notice details of the scene, and they altered my perception of what was going on. Luke wore his overcoat. His briefcase stood beside him on the rug, where he must have set it down only moments before.

Bonnie, on the other hand, was all dressed up. Instead of her usual skinny jeans, she wore a dress and heels. Tears were streaming down her face.

“Hi, sweetie.” Luke's quiet voice was reassuring. “You're late.”

I opened my mouth to answer, but no words came out. My brain was still busy catching up from its emotional roller-coaster ride. Eventually, his words penetrated, and I remembered that it was Thursday. I had been scheduled to make a rare dinnertime appearance, so that Luke could take a turn staying out later.

I put a hand over my mouth, still not trusting myself to speak.

Bonnie spoke instead, and the words were little chips of ice. “I had a
date
. At a nice restaurant. For my
birthday
. And you don't answer your
phone
.”

“Oh! Bonnie, I'm so sorry!” I took a couple of steps toward her, hoping to hug her too. But she brushed past me, swept her jacket off a chair where it lay, and strode out of the apartment in her heels.

The door closed with a thud.

I raised my eyes slowly to meet Luke's, feeling for all the world like a teenager who has just been busted for breaking curfew.