Aftertaste - Meredith Mileti [50]
“You keep saying that, Jerry. What exactly makes you think they’re in a hurry? What has Ethan told you?”
“Mira, Ethan didn’t tell me anything, except that, well,”—he hesitates—“Jake and Nicola want to get married. Apparently they’ve already set a date.”
“What? She’s pregnant, isn’t she?”
Jerry hesitates.
“Jerry? What do you know?” I demand.
“Nothing, I don’t know if she’s pregnant, but now that you mention it, I wouldn’t be surprised. It would explain some things.”
“Explain some things? Like what? I can’t for the life of me imagine what it would explain!” Suddenly I’m yelling at Jerry, who is, once again, the blameless recipient of my uncontrollable ire. What exactly is Jerry talking about? What hasn’t he told me? But I’m too wrapped up in venting to even give him a chance to answer.
“Jake has no interest in his daughter. I was the one who browbeat him into having a baby, which, it is clear from recent events, he didn’t want. And now she is pregnant, and there he is stroking her stomach in the middle of fucking Park Avenue like some proud father.” I let go of whatever control I’d been struggling to maintain, but when I open my mouth to speak, a choking sound, half sob, half growl, escapes me. It feels primal and guttural. The driver, who doesn’t speak much English, has turned around and is looking at me with alarm as he slides the Plexiglas divider between the front and back seats closed, no doubt to protect himself from the transforming alien she-beast now occupying the backseat of his cab.
Jerry doesn’t say anything. What can he say? The man is my lawyer, not my therapist. But when, after a moment, he speaks, his voice is gentle. “Mira, hold on here. You’re reacting emotionally. You don’t know that Nicola is preg—”
“What do you mean I’m reacting emotionally? How the hell else am I supposed to react? How can Jake do these things? How can he destroy everything, our marriage, Chloe’s chance for a father, Grappa? How can he sleep at night? The deal is off. I won’t settle. I won’t give him a divorce. Let them wait!” I’m crying in earnest now, and I can tell from the sound of his voice that Jerry has picked up the receiver, lest the sound of a sobbing, hysterical woman on his speakerphone intrude on the sanctity of his well-appointed law firm.
“Mira,” Jerry says quietly. “I know this is hard for you, but breaking off all negotiations is only going to make it harder in the long run. If you really want Grappa, let’s take advantage of the situation. Why don’t you take some time to calm down, and we can talk later when you’re feeling better.”
I nod mutely and mumble something about how we could all grow old waiting for that to happen and hang up without even saying good-bye. I sit there crying in the cab, which, it takes a minute for me to realize, is already stopped in front of the restaurant. The driver is looking at me expectantly from behind the Plexiglas screen.
“Ees this it, lady?”
As I pay the cabbie, I ask if he has any children and if he could ever imagine turning his back on them. What would make a man do such a thing, I ask? He considers my question, perhaps only pretending to have understood me. Then, after a moment, he says, “I dunnot know, lady. Maybe he is scared, or maybe he just don’t love the mother enay more.” Another sob escapes me, and he turns away to reset the meter. “But what do I know? I’m no Dr. Phil.” And with a shrug of his shoulders he is gone.
At Grappa the final preparations are under way for lunch; the kitchen is tidy and well prepped. A vat of chicken stock is simmering, the fresh pasta is already drying on the racks, and Tony, bless him, has the prep cooks washing and chopping mountains of escarole. Ellen gestures to the