Aftertaste - Meredith Mileti [14]
It will be Chloe’s first Christmas, and this should thrill me. But the thought of putting up a tree and wrapping Chloe’s gifts, which I would then have to open alone on Christmas morning, makes me ache. I’d briefly entertained the idea of going home to Pittsburgh for the holiday, but that plan was fraught with issues too exhausting to think about for very long. Besides, the holiday season is a busy one for restaurants, and it’s too hard to take the time off. In the meantime, I haven’t made any plans for Thanksgiving either, which might be even harder than Christmas this year. Jake and I always made a big deal about Thanksgiving, inviting several of our foodie friends over for a daylong cooking and eating extravaganza.
Renata calls to tell me we have a reservation at Le Bernadin for eight o’clock Saturday night. Prime time. She’s also taken the liberty of lining up a babysitter for Chloe. Gabriella, a friend of her stepdaughter, is only fourteen but has a certificate in infant CPR and charges fifteen dollars an hour.
Renata had the audacity to suspect I was lying when I told her that Hope, my regular sitter, was sick, suffering an infection from her most recent tattoo. “Mira, I don’t believe you. You just don’t want to go.”
She was right, of course. I was making this up, and we both knew it. I smile at the thought of Hope with a skull and crossbones emblazoned across one of her pudgy, middle-aged arms. “Well,” Renata says, “I’ve taken care of the babysitter for you. Now, do I have to come over to help you pick out an outfit, or are you capable of dressing yourself?”
I groan into the phone.
“Just promise me that you’ll wear something nice and try to plaster a smile on your face. Arthur has gone to a lot of trouble to get this reservation,” Renata says peevishly.
“Who is this Arthur anyway?” I’m becoming increasingly concerned that Arthur is an eighty-year-old man, the only guy Renata has been able to come up with as a plausible date for me. No one under fifty is named Arthur.
“He’s someone Michael knows. He’s writing a book on the history of culinary science that Michael’s editing. He writes for Chef’s Technique. You’ve probably read his stuff.”
“And your husband, Michael, a man whom I have never met, thinks he would be perfect for me why? Because we both know how to use a mezzaluna?”
“Look, Mira—”
“Wait a minute, is his name Arthur Cole?” I ask.
“Yes, it is. Do you know him?”
As a matter of fact, I do. I’m a regular reader of his column in Chef’s. He’s a detail freak, writing exhaustive treatises on his search for the quintessential recipe for tuna casserole, which involves trying about fifteen different versions.
“See, you do have something in common,” Renata says when I tell her. “Come on, this will be fun.”
“Renata, I don’t know. I’m not really ready—”
“Funny, Jake didn’t seem to wait too long. In fact, he didn’t wait at all.” I’m stunned into silence. “Mira, I had such high hopes for you. You started this divorce magnificently—just like an Italian woman. What has happened to you?”
I want to tell her that I don’t feel pretty, or interesting, and that loving and hating Jake has taken up all of my available time and energy. When I don’t answer her, Renata tells me what I need to hear, but don’t for a minute believe.
“Mira, Jake is a consummate shit, and you are a beautiful woman in the prime of your life. Come on; buy yourself something pretty to wear. And let your hair down. Men like long hair. It’s sexy.”
I groan. “What Arthur Cole would find sexy is a really good recipe for short ribs.”
Renata laughs. “Okay, so what’s the worst thing that could happen? We have a sublime dinner, some fabulous wine, he’s boring, and you go home. Right? Then we go to Plan B.”
“Plan B?”
“Eddie Macarelli.”
“Eddie the fish guy? Eddie Macarelli is Plan B?” I’m horrified. Eddie, while an excellent fish supplier