Aftertaste - Meredith Mileti [23]
“Hi.”
“Hey,” he says, gesturing sheepishly with the gorilla and looking around me into the apartment.
“Sorry, ah, come in. Chloe’s still sleeping. I tried to call you. Did you get my message?”
“Yeah, I did. You didn’t say what you were calling about, and I was in the neighborhood anyway, so I just came.” There’s an edge to his voice, as if he thinks I’m trying to get away with something. He takes off his windbreaker, which is slightly damp and smells of cigarette smoke. You wouldn’t think it, but quite a few chefs smoke. I’d quit years ago, long before I’d even met Jake, but he still occasionally smoked, usually when he’d had a few too many. Or when he was nervous.
For reasons I can’t fathom, Jake seems desperate to see Chloe. He was probably afraid that I was going to cancel on him, when actually nothing could have been farther from the truth. I want Jake to see Chloe.
He hangs his coat on the hook by the door. Like he still lives here. Then, he makes for the sofa, sits down in the spot I’ve just vacated, and begins flipping absently through the Times, the gorilla in his lap.
“Nice gorilla.” My voice is teasing and, if I’m not mistaken, a tad flirtatious.
I’ve gotten him to smile at least.
“She ought to be getting up any time now. It’s late for her to be sleeping,” I tell him, even though it isn’t. I don’t offer to wake her, which I’m sure Jake would prefer so as not to have to sit in awkward silence in a living room that used to be his. “Want some minestra? I think I got the last spollichini of the season.”
Jake follows me into the kitchen, lured presumably by the promise of the luscious legume, and grateful, I’m sure, for something to do. He lifts the lid and gives the soup a stir, closing his eyes and allowing the steam to waft up and moisten his face.
“Buono,” he says, giving it a taste. Standing beside him I’m filled with longing, a jolt so piercing that I have to grab the counter to keep from doubling over. I can’t believe he’s no longer mine to touch, to hold, that we can’t just take advantage of the fact that Chloe is napping and tumble into bed together. Jake looks up from the soup and meets my eye, a brief look, but I can tell he knows what I’m feeling.
“I’ll have some,” he says, looking quickly away.
I reach into the cupboard behind the stove for a bowl, which I hand to Jake without looking at him. He ladles himself some soup and picks up a bottle of wine on the counter.
“Okay?” he asks.
“Sure, it’s already open,” I say, handing him two glasses. While I get myself some soup, Jake pours the wine, and we eat in silence at the kitchen table where we have probably sat no less than a thousand times.
“Marvin’s family is producing some really great pork,” Jake says, out of nowhere, his mouth half full. Marvin Castelli is a farmer we know in Bucks County, whose family produces some of the best goat’s milk cheese in the country.
“Really?”
“Yeah. We were out there last weekend. He’s just back from San Daniele. Spent three months there studying their curing methods. His prosciutto is not quite there, but give him time. The pork was good, though. No, better than good. I’m thinking of placing an order.”
The “we,” I’m sure, includes Nicola.
Jake helps himself to more wine and reaches over to refill my glass. “At some point we should talk about making some seasonal changes to the menu. The holidays are almost here.”
“Sure,” I tell him, “maybe after our meeting.”
“Meeting?”
I’m tempted to remind him none too gently about the meeting we have scheduled with our lawyers the Thursday after Thanksgiving to dispose of the remaining marital assets. It was the thinly veiled reference to Nicola that made me want to remind him that all this companionable eating together really hasn’t changed the fact that we are about to be divorced.
“Oh, that meeting.” Jake takes another bite of soup and chews thoughtfully.