Aftertaste - Meredith Mileti [155]
“Hmm, right. Good catch,” I tell him, even though I’d already thought of it.
“You know, you could probably just ask Bruno for the recipe. I bet he’d give it to you,” he says.
“No!” I exclaim, horrified. “That would be like calling the tollfree number for the Times crossword puzzle hotline. The whole point is being able to do it myself. I’m usually pretty good at stuff like this, and besides, I’m nowhere near ready to admit defeat.”
Ben softens, smiling for the first time, a loopy, goofy grin, as if I’ve just said something incredibly silly.
“I’ll get it in the end, or, who knows, maybe I’ll come up with some version that I like even better,” I add, defensively.
“So,” he asks, “how’s the newspaper biz? What’s up next?”
“Barbeque Basics.”
“Oh,” he says, reaching into his bag for another fry.
Enid had e-mailed me the assignment while I was in New York, so I’m already a couple of days behind. This morning the FedEx package with the AEL financial statements is scheduled to arrive, and Ruth is coming over this afternoon to take a look at the documents, so I won’t have much time today either. I’ve promised to cook her dinner, though; maybe while she is sorting through the documents I could whip up a batch of barbeque sauce, something with an interesting twist.
We’re in front of the lofts, but Ben stops several steps before the front door. “Aren’t you coming in? I thought you were working here.”
“I am, but I can’t eat inside. I’m just the hired help,” he says. “I was going to eat by the river and watch the sunrise. Want to join me?”
“I’d like to,” I tell him, and I would, but I’ve already been gone longer than I anticipated, and I’m worried Chloe will be awake. “But I’d better not. Chloe—”
Ben nods and then raises his hand, the one with the Primanti’s bag.
“Do you want to come up?” I ask, but Ben has already turned away and is walking toward the river.
“Nah, too messy. And you’d probably make me use a plate.” He turns around and walks backwards, squinting upward into the blue-gray dawn. “It’s going to be a spectacular sunrise. It’ll be over in ten minutes, max. Sure you won’t change your mind?”
I shake my head. “I can’t.”
“Suit yourself.” Ben shrugs.
Ruth is sunning herself on my balcony, which is so narrow that half of the resin lawn chair she has imported from her deck and dragged upstairs from the trunk of her Jeep is in my living room. Carlos and Chloe are playing on the rug in the dining area, and Richard is napping by the window, his sketchbook open on his lap.
“You know, if you really want to get some sun, we could just go to the Schenley Park pool,” I tell her, handing her the Diet Snapple iced tea she has requested.
“No, this is great,” Ruth says, getting up to reposition her chair. “And besides, I can’t be seen in public without a cover-up yet. I’m taking this butt and abs class at the gym, but it hasn’t started to kick in yet,” she says, angling her chair so mostly just her legs are in the sun. She drags my coffee table, on which she has spread out a whole year’s worth of AEL’s financial reports, closer to her and dons the bifocal sunglasses dangling from a chain around her neck.
“So, what do you think?” I ask.
“Well, so far, it looks pretty good. They’ve got a two-year projection of increasing returns, based on their business plan.”
“So it looks like a good investment, right?”
Ruth frowns. “Not sure yet,” she says, biting the inside of her cheek.
“What do you mean? I thought you just said—”
“Mira, if this were a car you were buying, what I’ve done so far is the equivalent of walking around the chassis and kicking the tires. I know it’s shiny, the tires are full, and all the chrome is polished, but I’ve yet to open the hood.”
“So open the hood,” I tell her. “We don’t have much time. The closing is a week from Thursday!”
Ruth takes off her glasses and rubs her eyes. “I can’t,” she says.
“Why not?” I ask her.
“The documentation I need isn’t here. I need to know where the capital was generated and what