The Secret Ingredient (12 page)

“No, you’re not getting rid of me that easily. There was something I needed to confirm after they left, and after a few phone calls I did. You are not going to believe this.”

Janice motions toward the other chair in her office, and I realize I’m still standing. I sit down slowly, half expecting the seat to explode.
What is going on?

“When you mentioned that name, something clicked in my head. I had heard it before but couldn’t place it. But
then it came to me, in the middle of the meeting. And I confirmed it after—”

“What is it, Janice? Do you know her?”

“You could say that, yes.”

I wonder why Janice doesn’t ask me who it is, but it looks like she has already guessed.

“Oh my God.” My fingers are trembling. I can feel my heart knocking on my rib cage. If she doesn’t tell me the details right now, I’m going to spontaneously combust.

“You know that I go to Laguna Beach occasionally, right?”

“Yes.”

“Well, there’s a restaurant there, a little place called Five Feet. It’s Jane’s place.”

I feel like I could scream. I open my mouth but nothing comes out except “Jane Armont?”

“Yes. She’s the chef and owner of the place. I remember talking to her a few times. Her name is French, but she’s American. She owned a place in Montreal before coming to Orange County.”

Janice can see that I am shaking. She walks over and puts her hands on my arms, trying to hold me together.

“She’s important to you?”

I nod. And then I can’t hold it in any longer. “She’s my mother.”

“I thought so.”

“Laguna is less than two hours from here,” I say.

Janice walks slowly back around to her chair, a smile slowly forming on her face. “She has your hair. And your
eyes. That’s how I knew, really, from the minute I placed the name. But to be sure, I got in touch with the hostess, who’s also the pastry chef. She told me Jane grew up right here, in Studio City.”

It’s a wonder my body is functioning, that I can even get air into my lungs. My mother is a chef in Laguna? Someone pinch me, please.

“Did she confirm that she gave a child up for adoption?”

“Well, I doubt Jane would give up something that personal, but trust me, Red, she’s the spitting image of you. It’s uncanny.”

“Oh my God.”

“I knew there was something familiar about you. Look what I have.” Janice holds up a photo. “It’s from my thirtieth birthday dinner, and you can’t really see her clearly, but …”

She hands me the photograph. It’s her and what looks like three young surfer guys. She’s blowing out a candle. In the background there’s the profile of a woman, kind of blurry, as if she was walking quickly through the frame. I can’t really make out much of her face, but you can see her reddish hair. The exact same shade as mine.

I finally lose control of my breath, and I start heaving a little. Then my eyes churn out tears, rolling down my face one after the other.

*  *  *

Lola picks me up to go for coffee after work, and I am still holding the photograph in my hand.

“You’re not going to believe this. Look.”

I show her the picture and point to the red-haired blur.

“That’s my mother. That’s Jane Armont.”

“What the bloody …”

“My boss knows her. She’s known her for years. Isn’t that crazy?”

“It’s heavy bananas! What are you going to do?”

“Well, she told me to just chill out right now and not get too worked up about it. Yeah, right.”

On the drive to the coffee shop Lola is unusually quiet. I know something is up, but I don’t want to pressure her. It isn’t until a few sips into our drinks that she starts talking.

“Livie, I’m afraid I have some news as well.”

I’m not sure how much more I can take today, but I’m her friend, so I have to listen. “What is it?”

“Do you remember when I was worried about my mum cheating on Dad?”

“Yes, and it turned out she was seeing the gay acupuncturist.”

“Right, well. She’s been seeing loads and loads of people.”

“What?”

“Because she’s sick. The whole thing about the juice cleanses and the hydrotherapy and all of it, it’s because she’s sick. Very sick. And she wanted to try and cure herself in a natural way.”

The word sits at the back of my throat, and somehow I say it out loud.

“Cancer?”

“Yes. I can’t believe it. The irony of it all. Miss Health Conscious. Miss Yoga Seven Times a Week and spirulina smoothies and colonics and …”

In the three years that we’ve been best friends, I’ve never seen Lola cry. Now, her face contorts in an almost grotesque way, and she makes a slight moaning sound. I move my chair over to her and hold her as best I can. After a minute or two, she pulls herself together and says, “It’s fine, I’m fine.”

I move my seat back to where it was. I’ve lost the taste for my chai. For a while, we just sit there as the world goes on around us. Lola sighs and wipes at her eyes with the little napkin that came with her mocha. She looks like someone who’s been clubbing all night, mascara running and hair a mess. I think about the fact that I could potentially be finding my mother while Lola is losing hers. Is this a law of the universe? Some sort of balancing out, where nothing is lost, just shuffled around?

We go to my house and I make Lola the Simple Sauce from Rose’s cookbook and serve it with some chicken and vegetables. I try to bring up some of our funny history to lighten the mood. Like the time I tried to pretend I was British too, in front of a couple of boys, and how my
accent was so bad but they fell for it. Or the time her taco fell apart and covered her sweater, right in front of Jin. It works for a little while, but then we start talking about what we’re avoiding: the prognosis, the chemo, and the fact that her father is a mess.

I make her help me with the vegetables, and it seems to soothe her. “They say it’s therapeutic, the repetitive motion of chopping,” I tell her. “Like a painter getting lost in the colors, or a singer getting lulled by a melody.”

“Well, I’ll take any therapy I can get.”

“Remember, every piece is a part of a whole.”

We eat the meal at the kitchen table, listening to the distant cars and the chirping of the cicadas.

“I wonder if this life, our life, here in Silver Lake, is just a phase. If there are bigger things ahead for us.”

“I do hope so,” Lola says. “What about your brother?”

“They haven’t gotten him out yet. I’m really angry at him for being so careless. It sounds harsh, but I think a few days in jail will be good for him.”

After we’re done, we share a cookie. No matter what crap is going on in life, a cookie will make it go away—just for a minute. The aroma encircles us in an invisible bubble of safety.

Lola and I say goodbye casually, knowing we will see each other tomorrow, but also knowing that nothing will ever be the same. We have no idea what will happen from now on. All we can do is try to get some sleep, and brace ourselves.

CHAPTER 16

My special tonight at FOOD is prosciutto-wrapped salmon. It’s a simple dish that was inspired by Rose. She made a somewhat similar one and wrote only the name Eloise in the margin. I put the cookbook, open to that page, on the counter for inspiration.

I start to brush the salmon fillets with olive oil. Sometimes cooking makes my mind just go blank, but today it allows me to imagine …

Rose, coming in from the cold to her friend sitting at the kitchen table, smoking. It’s 1968 and they don’t really know it’s bad for you, so it’s somehow more glamorous. Eloise is dark-skinned, with almond eyes and cropped black hair, and she’s wearing a cashmere
sweater and a pencil skirt. They’re only twenty. They’ve known each other all their lives, and now they both have husbands at war. The difference is, Eloise wasn’t in love with hers. He was just someone who was there, and that’s what you did in the sixties. So she married at eighteen, without ever exploring her true sexuality, which she is only understanding now.… In fact, she’s realizing she’s in love with Rose, and probably always has been
.

Rose puts the ingredients on the table and they exchange pleasantries, but there’s something different about Eloise. She’s smoking rather slowly, and holding her lips open a little longer after exhaling, watching keenly as Rose pulls the items from the bag.…

I sprinkle the fillets with fresh black pepper and wrap each one delicately with a piece of prosciutto.

By the time the meal is cooked and served, they’ve each had two martinis. They start to feel like they’re on a heightened plane, like all the sorrow that has crowded their world is disintegrating at the edges, leaving them giddy and light-headed. They laugh like they’re kids again. When Rose goes to the bathroom, she thinks …
Could it be? Why haven’t I thought of that before? The real reason Eloise’s marriage is a wreck? But Kurt, always there, an old friend, a warm body in the night, the love of my life. I could never betray him. Or could I?

One of the chefs comes up behind me and says, “Can’t go wrong. You could wrap a shoe in prosciutto and it would taste good.”

My special addition is a touch of Gorgonzola cheese sprinkled on top; by the time it gets to the table it’s slightly melted. This dish is easy to bake, because when the prosciutto is crispy, you know the salmon’s done. I place the three racks in the oven and start to clean up my station.

When Rose returns from the bathroom, there’s music on. She can’t remember the last time she played music in the house, and everything suddenly looks foreign to her, like she has walked into a movie about someone else’s life. Eloise dances elegantly in the corner, a record in her hand, facing the phonograph. Rose walks slowly toward her, and when Eloise turns around she is frightened for a moment, but then calmed by Rose’s smile. As if it was the most natural thing in the world, they kiss
.

When the fillets come out of the oven I taste one, and since I barely have to chew the fish, I know I’ve done my job. I pair it with butternut squash and some sautéed spinach. One thing about spinach a lot of people don’t know is if you salt the leaves before you sauté them, they become infused. There’s nothing worse than bland spinach.

At about eight-thirty, Bell tells me there’s a guest for me at table eight. I go out and see Theo, already eating my salmon. Sitting next to him is a boy who I assume is
Timothy. He looks like a plump version of Theo and has a scar above his left eye. He seems to be very contained at the moment, but he has an electric energy about him, as if his whole body is buzzing with nerves.

I sit down with them, and Theo compliments my dish by just pointing at it with his mouth full and rolling his eyes.

“Thanks.” I turn toward Timothy, who smiles wildly at me.

“I love your fish,” he says, his mouth also full.

“Thank you.”

Theo reaches over and dabs at Timothy’s mouth with his own napkin, and I melt inside. How lucky is Timothy to have Theo for a brother? I feel my face flush, and I excuse myself.

Later, from the kitchen window, I see Theo helping Timothy with his dessert, and again, the gesture is unbearably sweet. Bell comes up behind me and snaps me out of my trance.

“He’s a good guy.”

“Yes, he is. It’s weird, every time I see him I feel more and more like I’ve known him forever.”

Bell smiles at me. “That’s a great feeling to have.”

He’s right, and I am happy, but it’s not enough. I still need to find the missing piece, my secret ingredient. Is it my mother? I feel like finding my mom might solve everything, but I just can’t do it yet. Because what if it doesn’t? And as long as meeting her is in the future, like Theo said, anything is possible.

When I get home, I call Lola to check in. She sounds sad and frustrated, and we talk for an hour and a half, until we are pretty much asleep. I wonder if there’s such a thing as an easy life and complete happiness. If Lola doesn’t have it, I don’t think anyone does.

CHAPTER 17

I’m getting ready to go over to Theo’s place for the first time on Sunday morning when I hear a knock at the door, followed by a sneeze. I know it’s a stranger because the knock sounds very formal. And anyway, at our house, people usually just walk in. I go downstairs and open the door. Standing there are two men in suits, one of them sweating slightly.

“Hello. Is Mr. Reese here?” says the unsweaty one.

“No, but I’m his daughter. Can I help with something?”

The men give each other a look, and I immediately translate it as:
not an issue for children
.

“Could you just leave this card with him and tell him to call me by the end of the day tomorrow? It’s very important.”

Ever since things started happening this summer, I’ve felt more fearless, and I find myself talking before I even decide what to say. “How much does he owe? For the mortgage.”

“I’m afraid we can’t discuss that with you.”

“But that’s what it’s about, right?”

They don’t say anything, which I take as a yes. I thank them as politely as possible and go inside to call Bell. He’s not at the restaurant and doesn’t answer his cell. I return the safe-deposit box key to its place inside Bell’s desk, then go to his bedroom and put the man’s card on his nightstand.

As I leave for Theo’s, I feel pretty great, considering I may not even have a house to come home to soon. It’s like, whenever I think about Theo, the world looks brighter, and there’s a bounce in my step.

I find Theo’s place and walk up to it. It’s a small gray house off Sunset that could use a paint job. Theo answers the door, then leads me into his room, which is filled with cycling tools and posters from the Tour de France. I keep stealing looks at his legs—they’re shaved, which is weird but cool, and they’re definitely ripped. As he shows me his movie collection, his fish, and some old photos, I feel important, like not everyone gets let into Theo’s world. He looks at me with his green eyes shining, like I’m worthy, maybe even beautiful. He kisses me again, and it’s not like other boys’ kisses. He’s slow about it. It gives me this feeling of something growing out of me, like a flower opening toward the sun.