Aftertaste - Meredith Mileti [156]
“Here,” I tell her, handing her a pad of paper and a pen. “Write down what you need to see, and I’ll make the call.” Ruth scribbles some notes on the pad and hands it to me. I call Marcus and leave a list of the information Ruth needs with his secretary, along with Ruth’s address and phone number. Next, I call Jerry Fox, who has faxed over a copy of the addendum I’d outlined this morning. When I ask if he’s had a chance to look at the financials, he tells me they’ll be in touch as soon as Avi Steiner has a chance to review them.
“What’s for dinner?” Ruth calls from the balcony as soon as I hang up.
“Barbequed chicken with a Spanish peanut sauce.”
“Sounds fattening,” Ruth says.
“It is. It’s for work. You and Richard are the guinea pigs.”
“Hey, do you think you could do a column on spa food next?” she asks.
“Maybe. Sure, I guess.” I look over at Ruth, who is pinching a chunk of her thigh and frowning.
“Unless you don’t mind my camping out on your balcony for the rest of the summer, it might be a good idea.”
Richard asks me to give him a haircut, just a trim really, to neaten up the sides. He’s been on edge the last couple of days, anticipating tonight’s AA meeting. I think it’s a positive development that he seems interested in his appearance, which almost convinces me to overlook his poor judgment in having asked me to do it.
“You can’t use those!” he exclaims in horror as I advance upon him brandishing a pair of kitchen shears.
“Why not?” I tease. “I keep them sharp. Besides, these are not ordinary kitchen shears. They’re Wüsthofs and probably cost more than that antique coatrack in the corner, which, by the way, doesn’t belong to me.”
“I know, I know,” Richard says, reaching into his shaving kit for his pair of haircutting scissors and handing them to me. “But I couldn’t get to the shop while you were in New York, and I had deliveries that needed to be accepted. Besides, it’s only temporary,” he says, looking around at the crowded apartment, which is starting to look like an antiques warehouse. Richard has just accepted his first assignment in months, and in the last two days, he has had all sorts of things delivered here. Swatches, paint chips, and his drawing board cover the breakfast bar, and now, instead of being perpetually plugged into his beloved Steelers videos, Richard is almost constantly on his cell phone, barking orders to delivery people or soothing his nervous client in dulcet, patrician tones.
I set him up on a stool in the kitchen and wrap a dish towel around his neck. I’m gearing up to take my first snip when Fiona enters the apartment carrying a large, covered saucepan. She has agreed to come over and watch Chloe while I take Richard to his AA meeting.
“Fiona, you didn’t have to bring dinner with you. I already made—”
“I didn’t,” she says, depositing the pan on the counter with a bang. “I brought it over so you could tell me what is wrong with it.” She slumps into the stool next to Richard. “I found that barbeque sauce recipe of your mother’s you asked me to look for, and I’ve been practicing all day. Your father wants to have his new crop of advisees over for a welcome cookout this weekend, and I want it to be nice.” She presents me with the tattered recipe card, stained with the evidence of her recent efforts. “I know she was quite a cook and I—” Fiona stops short and stamps her small, sandaled foot on the kitchen floor in a display of thinly concealed angst. “I just want to get it right,” she finishes, frowning.
“Excuse me,” Richard grumbles. “I hate to interrupt this cooking lesson, but you were in the middle of cutting my hair, remember?”
“Sorry, Richard,” I tell him, but he has already picked up the scissors and handed them to Fiona. “Fiona can do it. I’m sorry, Mira, but every time you come near me with those scissors all I can think of is Sweeney Todd.” He shudders.
“Come on, Richard. Let’s go into the bathroom where I can do it right over the sink. It’ll take but a minute,” Fiona says, helping