Aftertaste - Meredith Mileti [138]
“This is some cut. On a regular person, this’d need a stitch,” he says solemnly, holding my hand carefully in both of his.
Boulie takes my cut hand and gently forces it upward. “Keep it up, stop the bleeding,” he says, standing to rummage in the first aid kit. “One of them butterfly bandages, that’s what I’m looking for.”
“What do you mean ‘a regular person’?” I ask.
“You a cook,” he says, opening the bandage and kneeling again at my feet. “Cooks is tough,” he says, leaning close to apply the bandage to my finger. “Look at these,” he says, reaching over to take both my hands in his. He turns them over and with one latex-sheathed finger traces a knife scar that runs between the thumb and forefinger of my left hand. And then, he edges the sleeve of my shirt an inch or so up my wrist, revealing the half dozen puffy red welts where I’d been spattered by the scalding milk a couple of days ago. Boulie takes off his gloves, tosses them into the wastebasket, and splays his fingers out in front of him, displaying his own large, scarred hands.
He stands and raises his apron to his face to wipe his brow. “Go on home. It’s close to midnight, and you shouldn’t get that finger damp. Give it a rest. Keep it up, know what I mean?” He gestures with his arm, raising it and patting the elbow.
“Thanks, Boulie,” I whisper, standing on my tiptoes to kiss his cheek. “I’ll see you again.”
“I’ll be here. As long as people keep eating, I’ll keep cooking.”
chapter 29
The meeting, scheduled for 10:00 a.m., is being held in a private residence at Trump Soho, just upstairs from where I’m staying. I wake early and force myself to be content with the in-room coffee service until at least seven thirty when I can reasonably call Hope. I’m hoping she will invite me over to my old apartment for coffee, but there is no answer when I call. I’m considering going out to the Beanery, or one of my other favorite breakfast haunts in the West Village, but then think better of it; I’m not sure I trust my resolve to stay away from Grappa, should I be that close, and after the pain of Il Vinaio last night, I’m not sure I’m ready. So, I order breakfast from room service and sit in bed flipping channels, munching croissants, and making crumbs all over the six hundred–thread count Frette sheets, until it’s time to change into my J. Crew pantsuit and venture upstairs.
When I get off the elevator on the eleventh floor, I am immediately met by a tall blond woman wearing an expensive-looking sheath and sandals with five-inch heels the width of toothpicks. She greets me by name and ushers me through a door into a large, well-appointed living/dining suite. A long table is set with an enormous, oiled olive wood bowl filled with dozens of perfect looking green apples. A few fanned AEL brochures grace each end of the table. The sideboard is laid with a series of domed chafing dishes, cut crystal flutes, carafes of juices, and buckets of champagne. Without asking me, she pours me a glass of champagne, and then, hand poised over the selection of juices, she turns her megawatt smile my way and asks, “Bellini or Mimosa?”
Just then, the door at the far end of the room opens, and three men enter. Two men I don’t know, and Jake. It hadn’t occurred to me to wonder if Jake would be here—or worse, Nicola—although I suppose it should have. For a second I look around frantically, fearing she may follow him through the open door, but she doesn’t. I reach for the flute. “Thanks, I’ll just have it straight up,” I tell her, taking the glass and downing a hefty sip as Jake and the two men advance upon me.
“Good to see you, Mira,” Jake says, extending his hand and not quite meeting my eye. As I reach for his hand, Jake pulls me toward him and kisses me perfunctorily, once on each cheek. His lips feel foreign, abrasive on my face. Gone is the instant familiarity. He looks older, tired, tight around the eyes. But the oddest thing about