Aftertaste - Meredith Mileti [26]
Later in the evening, I call him, intending to invite him for Thanksgiving, along with Richard. I’m startled to get his machine at nine thirty on a Sunday evening, when he is always at home watching PBS. Not only that, he has recorded a new message, one that actually lets the caller know he or she is talking to a person with a name and not just some phone number. “Hi, this is Joe. I’m not here, so leave a message at the beep, and I’ll get back to you.” His voice sounds peppy and cheerful. Usually his message is something like “Hello. You have reached six-zero-nine-four-five-zero-seven.” My father does not say “oh” for zero, this being one of his pet peeves—“oh,” he will tell you, “is not a number!”
“Dad? Hi, it’s Mira. Just calling to see how you are. Oh, and to invite you for Thanksgiving. I know it’s last minute, but Richard called and said he’s coming, and Chloe and I would love it if you can come too. Talk to you soon.” At the last second, my throat begins to close, and I’m suddenly overcome with missing my father, his comforting, calm, and logical approach to any of life’s conundrums. I whisper a throaty “Love you, Dad,” just as the machine beeps.
The next morning, after dropping Chloe off at day care, I stop at the Beanery for a cappuccino, something I almost never do. Usually, I prefer to get into work early and have coffee there, but this morning I’m avoiding the restaurant, not certain whether Jake will be there, and dreading the inevitable awkwardness of our next meeting. Just in case he is at the restaurant when I get there, I decide to make some notes about the seasonal menu changes. That way we will have something to discuss apart from what did and didn’t happen yesterday. I’m intrigued by Jake’s mention of the Castelli Farms pork. And anything made with wild boar. Perhaps a wild boar ragout with braised carrots and fennel. Sausages are a must, lamb and spicy pork, served with black pepper flecked polenta. Mussels steamed in sweet vermouth, a salad of chicory and fresh anchovies with a warm caper vinaigrette. Finally, armed with enough ideas to ensure that we need never mention yesterday, I’m ready to take on Jake.
Only when I arrive at Grappa, it’s not Jake who is waiting for me, but Nicola. I haven’t seen her in months—I figured she was staying out of my way. I’m so surprised to see her sitting on a stool at the pastry station that I stop dead in my tracks at the kitchen door. She’s wearing a pair of faded black, drawstring pants and an oversized chef’s tunic, probably Jake’s. She’s cut her hair short in a pixieish bob (probably to better hide the bald spot, I think with satisfaction), and if the look is slightly less sultry, she makes up for it by looking utterly, charmingly, the gamine.
She swivels on her stool at the sound of the door, tucks her short hair behind her ears, and flashes me a saccharine smile. Of all the things I could be thinking, I’m struck by the fact that I can’t ever recall seeing her in the strong morning light. When I was working full-time and she was maîtress, she typically didn’t come in until the dinner shift. She appears out of her element here, in the morning in her outsized clothes, making me think, as I so often have, that she is a woman suited to the night.
I’m tempted to hint darkly that I think her brave, or to wonder aloud if we are alone, when I hear Tony whistling in the walk-in where he’s probably hiding, so as to observe the fireworks from a place of relative safety.
“Relax, Mira, I won’t report you for violating the restraining order,” she says coolly. “Jake is sick. He has food poisoning. Hasn’t moved since he got back from your place