Aftertaste - Meredith Mileti [29]
I slip my feet out of my clogs and pour myself another glass of wine. I’ve long missed Chloe’s bedtime, and Hope doesn’t expect me until at least one. Besides, I’m so tired I can barely move. Tony moves over to the spot Kristin has just vacated. He unties his apron and uses it to wipe his meticulously shaved head, which glistens with sweat that drips in ripples down his smooth brown face, before tossing it in the general direction of the laundry bin. Helping himself to some more of the pasta, Tony offers, “We had a good night, eh?”
“I think so. It felt like a good night. I don’t think I stopped moving—I must have plated over two hundred dinners. This makes lunch look like a breeze.”
“You worked both, remember?”
“As did you,” I tell him, raising my glass in salute.
“It felt good having you back for dinner. There’s a, I don’t know, a different feel to the kitchen.”
“That’s for sure,” I snort. “Just ask Kristin.”
“Who?” Tony asks with a puzzled look, apparently having already forgotten her name.
“The girl with the fish.”
He grimaces at me and waves his hand as if swatting a fly. I suspect he’s thinking I’ve gone soft. Maybe I have.
I want to ask him what he meant by his remark about the kitchen’s having a different feel, but I’m suddenly too tired, exhausted by the realization that I will have to be back here in a mere seven hours. And that Chloe will be up in about four hours.
“Mira, go home. We’re okay here for tonight. I’ll hang around and wait for the cleanup crew to finish, and then I’ll lock up.”
I don’t argue with him, and as I stand up I put my hand on his shoulder and give it a squeeze. “Thanks, Tony, are you sure?” He makes that fly-swatting gesture again, and I can tell my small suggestion of intimacy has embarrassed him.
The night is cold, but I walk home with my coat open. The heat in the kitchen was intense, and the cold air feels good on my flushed skin. For the first time today I have a moment to think about Jake’s not showing up tonight. Jake hasn’t missed a day at the restaurant since we opened, and I know he is not in bed with food poisoning or the flu or anything remotely medical. Something happened to him yesterday. I wasn’t exactly sure what, but it’s something Jake isn’t ready to let me see.
chapter 8
Last week, when I dropped Chloe off at day care, her teacher handed me a flyer announcing the Christopher Street Kids Annual Thanksgiving Luncheon. On the flyer there was a space in the middle of the page where someone had filled in Chloe’s name, followed by “has volunteered to bring,” and then another space, where she has handwritten three dozen corn muffins, individually wrapped! This morning when I arrive at the day care, I find a printed reminder about the party, along with the news written in very small type at the bottom of the flyer, which I’d missed the first time, that the center will be closing early tomorrow, directly following the luncheon.
Standing next to me at the row of cubbies where we stow our children’s things is Isaac’s mother, Laura, whose reminder flyer I glimpse just before she shoves it into her briefcase. Isaac, who stands by his mother’s side discreetly picking his nose while his mother unloads his backpack, has apparently volunteered to bring in two bags of miniature marshmallows, reminding me that it’s probably not too early to talk with Chloe about volunteering her mother for school activities, as Isaac’s mother clearly already has done.
I wonder how I’ll even be able to make it to the lunch, and whether, at eight months, Chloe is old enough to miss my being there. Everyone eats out the day before Thanksgiving, and we are booked solid for both lunch and dinner, so there’s no question I’ll have to work all