Aftertaste - Meredith Mileti [13]
I fill her in on the details of our midnight dash to the ER while Renata finishes setting out our lunch. Roasted red and yellow peppers, long-stemmed baby artichokes marinated in olive oil and herbs, several different kinds of olives, marinated white beans, and a salad of cold broccoli rabe, heavy on the garlic and hot pepper. I know she’s been to Arthur Avenue in the Bronx to buy all of our favorite things, a true labor of love. I instantly regret every single paranoid thought I had about her being in cahoots with Jake.
“You know,” Renata says, “I’m now also a mama.” She smiles, enjoying my surprise. “Well, a stepmama anyway. Michael has a daughter.”
“I didn’t know. How old? Does she live with you?” It is hard to imagine a child living in Renata’s loft, which is pristinely neat and minimalist.
“Oh, no,” Renata says too quickly; the same thought has also apparently crossed her mind. “She’s thirteen. The worst possible age for a girl. She lives with her mother on the Upper West Side. She goes to Miss Porter’s.” She pauses, taking a hefty gulp of her wine. “Of course, she hates me.”
I’m about to say something comforting, how it takes a while in stepfamilies for everyone to settle in, but Renata holds up her hand to stop me.
“It’s okay. I’m planning to buy my way into her heart. One thing about thirteen-year-old girls,” she says, waving the heel of the ciabatta in my face, “is they all have their price. In Melissa’s case, the price is a Prada backpack. All she wants for Christmas, the little dear. Can you believe it? A Prada backpack! I didn’t have a Prada until I was thirty.”
We schmooze a while longer, long enough to finish off the wine, and almost all of the cheese. I wipe up the last of the broccoli rabe with the remaining crust of bread and tell Renata about the hazelnut biscotti, which would have been the perfect finale.
“Well, it’s a good thing you didn’t make them, because I don’t have time for coffee and I’ve eaten far too much anyway.” Renata unties the dishcloth from around her neck and pushes her chair away from the table. It’s almost one. She probably has six or seven other calls to make before the end of her day, and I feel guilty about having taken so much of her time.
“Thanks, Renata,” I tell her, handing her my order, to which I have added a case each of the blood orange and black cherry vinegars. “Thanks for everything. Lunch was great.” I want to say more, to tell her how much I’d needed this lunch, someone taking care of me, even in this small way. But I suspect that if I do, the conversation will quickly become maudlin and probably end in tears. Since neither of us is the mushy, sentimental type, I’m glad when she grabs me by the shoulders and gives me a shake.
“Mira,” she says slowly, looking me in the eye, “just because Jake is a shit, doesn’t mean you have to keep punishing yourself.”
“I know,” I say unconvincingly. Renata looks around the room, appraising the clutter, the busy box and ExerSaucer, Chloe’s empty bottles, the papers everywhere. “First thing you should do is get yourself a cleaning lady. You’re a working single mother. You can afford someone once or twice a week! Then, you’ve got to get out and be with people. When was the last time you went out to dinner, or lunch for that matter? When was the last time you had an adult conversation that didn’t involve work? Ha! Don’t answer that—I’m sure you can’t remember, anyway. Get yourself a babysitter for Saturday night because I’m making reservations for us somewhere fabulous. It’s about time you met Michael, and you ought to meet Arthur as well.”
Arthur? But before I can even ask, Renata swings her wool merino wrap over her suit, deposits a peck on my cheek, and disappears down the hall.
chapter 4
Everyone loves New York at Christmas time, which is why I always feel funny confessing that I find it incredibly depressing. People are too full of Christmas cheer to be believable, never seeming to weary of the Musak renditions of Christmas carols played incessantly in every store and on