Aftertaste - Meredith Mileti [133]
Because I suspected she’d try to talk me out of going to New York, I’d cancelled my last appointment with Dr. D-P. “No, it really isn’t that big a deal,” I lie. “I’m just going for the weekend. I’ll hear what they have to say, take a few notes, and tell them I’ll get back to them.”
“You really need to do some research first. Promise me you won’t sign anything, okay?”
“I promise,” I tell the yawning yellow snake, which appears to have eaten Ruth and Carlos.
I can hear Ruth slowly inching her way down the slide. She emerges with Carlos behind her, his arms wrapped around her middle, his face buried in her back. When they get to the bottom, she pulls him onto her lap and kisses the top of his head. In the last few weeks, Carlos has grown noticeably calmer, his cries less shrill, his giggles a little easier to coax. Ruth and I exchange a smile.
“So,” she asks, “how was it hearing his voice? Was it weird?”
Ruth’s question startles me, despite the fact that I’d been able to think of little else since Jake’s phone call three days ago.
“A little, I guess.”
Ruth studies me carefully. “Hmm. More than a little, I’m guessing,” she tells me.
I look away, uncomfortable with the scrutiny. The truth is that after all these months of not hearing his voice or seeing him or hearing about him—or living in the city where I have to face remnants of our life together at every turn—I’ve gotten to the point where there are things I actually relish about no longer being with Jake. Like, going out to breakfast—which Jake hated and I loved—or being able to fold back the pages of the newspaper willy-nilly, instead of in an origami-style trifold, without inciting some exasperated comment from Jake. Small things to be sure, but still, I notice them.
And then there is Ben, who makes me laugh, who likes to eat. Who likes me.
But all of it, months of work, hundreds of therapy dollars, had seemed to evaporate at the pull of Jake’s voice on the telephone.
I’ve arranged to meet Michael and Renata for dinner Friday night at a new Belgian bistro in Tribeca called Moulin Bruges. I arrive in New York in the late afternoon and, since I’m not due at the restaurant for a couple of hours, I drop my bags at the hotel and head downtown.
I don’t know what I’m expecting, but Il Vinaio is a small and insignificant space, sandwiched between a grocery store and an Indian restaurant on Fulton Street near Dutch. From the outside at least, it seems like a poor stepsibling to the hipper, more artfully designed Grappa. There’s only one small sign above the industrial-looking front door, with the name il vinaio in lowercase letters written in a font meant to imitate a small, neat, handwritten script. I peer inside. The place is already crowded. When a pack of brittle, stressed-out-looking financial-types rounds the corner, I allow myself to be jostled inside with them. After all, I’m considering becoming an investor. Isn’t it due diligence to check it out? Also, I promised Ruth I’d do some research.
I keep my head down and my sunglasses on, thinking how much I don’t want to run into Nicola—who could be here somewhere—or, for that matter, Jake, who’s probably in the kitchen. I scan the room, but there’s no sign of either of them. There are a couple of seats left at the bar—a glitzy brass and glass affair, an upscale, over-amped version of what you would find in a typical Italian enoteca—but I can’t bring myself to sit down.
I pull the collar of my blazer up over my neck and turn to make my way back out the door. I’m not sure why, but I’d expected visiting Il Vinaio would be easier, less emotionally costly, than visiting Grappa. After all, I have no real connection to this place, which is much too glitzy on the inside for my taste anyway; it’s hard, in fact, to see Jake’s hand in here at all. But there’s a sickening knot in my stomach. Why did I assume that wandering into Jake and Nicola’s new life would be easy?
The outside air hits me in the face, a warm, heavy blast that makes me gag. I’m relieved to have escaped undetected, but my relief is short-lived