Aftertaste - Meredith Mileti [12]
It’s Renata, and I’ve neither showered nor changed, much less made any biscotti.
When I open the door I can see my filthy sweat suit and greasy hair mirrored in Renata’s shocked expression. I usually look much better than this, a fact that I’m counting on Renata remembering.
“You, cara mia, are a walking argument for birth control,” Renata says, in her slightly accented English, putting down her briefcase and the two brown paper bags she has brought. I can see a large ciabatta protruding from one. A very good sign.
“Jake called right after we hung up. I was going to shower and change, but I must have fallen asleep after he called.”
“I know he called you. I just talked to him.”
“You did? When? Did you call him or did he call you?” I ask, instantly suspicious.
“He called me.” Renata’s voice is calm and patient, as if she is speaking to an unruly child. I want to tell her why this bothers me so much. To share my feeling that Jake is trying to take over the reins. That I’m feeling very threatened. I follow her into the kitchen where she begins unloading the two brown paper bags onto the butcher-block island. I stand there watching as she pulls out a huge, freshly smoked mozzarella, which, by the way she handles it, I can tell is still warm. She sets it down on the cutting board along with the loaf of ciabatta. While I’m considering my next line of questioning, Renata explains, “Jake called to tell me he forgot to show you the postcard I sent out last week listing some new specialty vinegars I’m offering. He asked me to tell you he’s interested in sampling some of the blood orange.” I stand there looking puzzled, having been only momentarily distracted by the salad possibilities afforded by the aforementioned specialty vinegars. Perhaps a mild goat cheese, encrusted in herbs, baked and drizzled with a fruity olive oil and blood orange vinaigrette. What else was on that postcard? And why hadn’t I seen it?
“Mira?” Renata has stopped unloading the bag and is staring at me from across the kitchen table.
“What else do you have besides blood orange?” I ask. She answers by going over to her purse and pulling out a blue postcard. She hands me the card, tells me to go and take a shower, a nice hot one, and to change my clothes so that she doesn’t have to look at that disgusting stain, the origin of which she does not care to know.
I make the shower as hot as I can stand and mull over the possibilities—salad and otherwise. I decide it’s ridiculous to think Renata has been conspiring with Jake against me. In talking to her, Jake really hasn’t committed any horrible crime, although there is the possibility he’s been hiding mail from me, which might explain why I hadn’t seen the postcard. I resolve to go in on Sunday to totally reorganize the office and make a concerted effort to get on top of everything.
After dressing I go to check on Chloe. She’s not in her crib, but sitting at the kitchen table in Renata’s lap. Renata has covered her expensive blouse with a large cotton dish towel, and Chloe is looking up at her, fascinated by the large, gold teardrop earrings swinging from Renata’s ears. When Chloe sees me she smiles and reaches for me, and I scoop her up and kiss her forehead. Still warm.
“I heard her crying while you were in the shower. Poor baby,” Renata coos in a high squeaky voice, which surprises me. I hadn’t thought her the maternal sort.
I feed Chloe a bottle of the electrolyte solution the emergency room doctor gave us. She barely manages to finish it before she falls asleep again. I put her in her crib and, when I return, Renata has poured us each a glass of wine.
“Do you think it’s normal for her to be sleeping so much?” I ask, plopping down at the table and taking a sip of the wine, a delicious full-bodied Valpolicella.
“She’s sick, isn’t she? What do you do when you’re sick? You sleep, no?” Renata gives me a helpless shrug. “I don’t know much about babies, Mira. I