Aftertaste - Meredith Mileti [132]
The milk, which I’ve been simmering on the stove, erupts in a hissing, bubbling volcano, spraying scalding liquid all over my hand. I shut off the gas and run my hand under the water, but after a few seconds, I pull it away. I need to feel the throbbing. I need to know this conversation is real, not part of some alternate dream universe into which I’ve somehow fallen.
“Look,” Jake continues. “You’ve got the money from the buyout, and I thought maybe you’d be getting tired of not working and might be looking for something to do. This is a fantastic investment opportunity. You won’t believe the returns—”
“Why?”
“What do you mean why? I just told you it’s a great return—”
“No, why are you suddenly so willing to help me?”
“Mira, I don’t hate you. I never have. I have a lot of respect for you. You’re a talented chef and a good businesswoman, and I want Grappa to succeed. I just wasn’t ready to be . . .” Jake can’t continue. He clears his throat and takes another long drag on his cigarette. “What you wanted me to be,” he finishes quietly.
“You mean a father?”
Jake doesn’t answer me.
“Jake—are you offering to give me back Grappa?” I ask.
He hesitates. “No,” he finally says. “I’m offering to let you buy into the restaurant syndicate that will own Grappa and several other restaurants. We will all make far more money than just by owning Grappa alone. You and Tony, if you want, can move in and take over the management of Grappa. You’ll have the autonomy to run it however you want, although technically, you will report to the syndicate—of which you will be a member. How much you buy in will determine your voting share.”
“How much are we talking?” I ask.
“You have enough. Listen, these guys are in from Vegas this weekend and they’ll explain all the details to you. Lay out the specs on the deal. Come to New York; meet them. See for yourself. They want to fly you out—top-notch, all expenses paid.”
“Jake, it’s been six months. I’ve started to build a life here. I’ve got a job and an apartment. What makes you think I can just pick up—”
“I know about your job,” Jake says. “It’s a waste of your talent, in my opinion. Come on; you’ve missed it. I know you, Mira. I can’t believe you haven’t,” Jake croons, his voice low, teasing, taunting.
Enid had said the same thing the first time she met me. Why? Are chefs like ex-addicts who never stop craving the buzz—our need to cook advertised somehow in our faces, our bodies, like an addict’s wild-eyed desperation or trembling hands? I’d told Enid then that real cooks find ways to cook. But was cooking for my family and testing recipes for the culinary neophytes of Pittsburgh enough? Not long-term. Jake is offering me another chance at Grappa. I’d be a fool not to at least hear him out, wouldn’t I?
“Just promise me you won’t do anything rash,” Ruth says when I tell her my plan.
“Who, me?” I ask her, smiling sweetly and batting my eyelashes in her direction.
Ruth fixes me with a withering stare. “Very funny. I’m serious, Mira. Who are these investors? You don’t even know who these people are.”
“I promise I’ll be sure to get all the details when I meet with them on Saturday, okay?” I tell her.
Ruth and I have taken Carlos and Chloe to the Children’s Museum, which nobody except Chloe seems to be enjoying. Carlos has gotten himself stuck inside the yellow snake slide for easily the fifth time this morning. He gets about halfway down before he starts screaming and doesn’t stop until Ruth crawls into the snake’s gaping maw to retrieve him. When I suggest to Ruth that maybe we should move on to the puppet theater, she refuses.
“It’s important for me to try to follow Carlos’s lead,” she says, before climbing back into the round yellow tube. “He needs to know that I’ll respond when he needs me,” she says.
“What is it with Carlos and tubes?” I ask, remembering a similar experience at Gymboree.
“Our therapist says that Carlos is trying to recreate the birth process as a way of bonding with me. Hey, speaking of therapists, have you talked this trip over