Aftertaste - Meredith Mileti [117]
“Me?”
“Well, the way I see it is I’ve got two choices. One, I sign Campbell’s on as a corporate sponsor, so that someone, even if it is only some slob in their PR department, is reading the Food section; or two, I hire you to develop some new recipes. Something to wake up those tired Pittsburgh taste buds. People here are ready for something new, but they lack the knowledge about where to go or what to cook. The recipes in the P-G need to offer something quick and easy enough for the average cook to put together, but unique. What do you say?”
I’m stunned. “Are you offering me a job? I mean, a real one, a paying one?”
Enid smiles. “Damn, Mira, you’re quick. Well, are you interested?”
“Well—I—”
“It’ll just be part-time, of course. The Food section is only weekly, but occasionally there are some Sunday special recipes you’ll be asked to consult on. We don’t have a test kitchen, so you’ll have to work out of your home. How about ten hours per week, thirty bucks an hour, to start, all expenses paid?”
I certainly won’t get rich doing it, but this isn’t New York City, and part-time would leave me plenty of time for Chloe. But the best part is I’ll be cooking again.
“Let me think about it, and I’ll get back to you.”
Enid seems surprised that I haven’t immediately accepted the job. I will, of course; it’s just that, for the moment at least, I’m enjoying seeing her a little off-balance. But, shrewd newspaperwoman that she is, she quickly regains her composure. “So what’s for dinner?” she asks.
“Excuse me?”
“You said you were cooking for your family. Can I ask what a professional chef feeds her family, or is that some deep, dark secret?”
“Curried prawn chowder, black sea bass en papillote with baby artichokes and red pepper coulis, frisee salad with shaved Asiago,” I tell her, even though the only thing currently in our refrigerator is the other half of my Primanti’s sandwich.
“I love sea bass. What time is dinner?”
So, I’m being wooed by Enid Maxwell.
chapter 25
Richard is standing in the middle of the loft holding a tape measure and frowning at the white slipcovered sofa. “You don’t want that. The scale is wrong for the room, and it’s not a good white. It’s also totally impractical.”
“It’s washable, and, besides, I like it,” I tell him.
“No, you don’t. You just think you do, because it’s here and it’s easy and because you can’t imagine any other possibility.”
I know Richard means this literally, that he’s talking about sofas and not lifestyles, but because I’m not yet completely at home with the idea that I’ve bought this place, I snap at him.
“That’s ridiculous. I can imagine lots of possibilities!”
Richard tosses his tape measure onto the sofa and looks at me.
“Okay, tell me what you see,” he says calmly.
It is easier than I thought to tell Richard what I see, the apartment I’m envisioning, the furniture, the lamps, dimly lit, casting deep shadows on the brick walls, and the dishes, the only things I recognize as anything that I actually own, stacked neatly on open shelves in the kitchen. So why do I feel as if I’m on the outside, my nose pressed against the window of someone else’s life?
Richard listens carefully, occasionally nodding in response to a particular detail, and he smiles when I tell him I’ve always wanted to live in a yellow house.
When I finish, he says nothing, but studies me, the vestige of a smile clinging, despite itself, to his handsome face.
“I really don’t care about the sofa,” I tell him, picking up his tape measure and tossing it to him, not because it is true, but because I cannot bear to look at Richard a moment longer. In the couple of weeks since I’ve last seen him he’s changed, though someone unused to living with a drunk might easily miss the signs. His arms and legs look thin under his custom shirt and carefully tailored trousers. He smells heavily of peppermint, yet his breath has the slightly acidic twang of mouthwash and stale coffee, and he has the nervous shifty gaze of a man who wants only