Aftertaste - Meredith Mileti [55]
Perhaps I’ve already begun to anticipate the inevitable. If I’m fortunate enough to escape jail time, I’m prepared to flee, and Pittsburgh now has more to recommend it than it did a few short weeks ago. For starters, I have at least two people there who love me, two more than this city of six million can claim. And even if Jerry and Martin hadn’t convinced me to offer to exile myself, I couldn’t have stayed here, in this apartment, a mere three blocks from Grappa, and where I can no longer buy an espresso and a Times at my favorite coffee bar without danger of arrest.
Of course, there are other possibilities, other cities, other countries even. I could go back to Italy, where for years I’d been happy. While there’s something to be said for seeking anonymity, it, like embarrassment, might be a luxury I can no longer afford. There’s Chloe to think of.
A child needs family, and I doubt that, on my own, I’m strong enough or competent enough to give her all she needs. Sure, I can feed and nourish her body, because that’s what I know how to do, but what about nourishing her tiny soul? How can I do that when all reason, all capacity for self-control is seeping out of me, a slow and steady leak that began when Jake left? When will I stop leaking, and what will happen then, when there’s nothing left? Could love and betrayal really have transformed me into this rash, vengeful person?
With a sigh I fling back the coverlet in which I’ve cocooned myself, make my way to the kitchen, and put on some coffee. It’s another misty day, cold and overcast from the look of it. I sit at the table, sipping an espresso and looking out the window below me onto Perry Street. It’s only after I’ve been looking steadily, staring really, because I’ve been up for so long and am tired in a dazed kind of way, that I notice a person standing in the alleyway across the street. There’s a slight mist, and he, or she, is wearing a rain jacket with a hood, so I cannot see a face, but the drawstring chef’s pants are unmistakable.
Seconds later the phone rings, and I answer it with trembling hands. It’s Jake. Looking out the window I can see him holding the phone to his ear. He’s crossed the street and is standing on the bottom step of the brownstone, leaning against the railing. He looks up at the apartment window, and when he sees me watching him, he raises his hand in a kind of half wave. He doesn’t say anything for several seconds, and I think maybe he’s trying to spook me.
“I need to talk to you,” he finally says, his voice raspy and soft.
I don’t ask him why. In fact, I don’t say anything at all. I feel only a small shiver of apprehension as I cross the room and press the buzzer. I can hear his steps on the stairs, heavy and uneven. I open the door and watch his approach. I’m no longer afraid, not really anyway. Let him do his worst, whatever that may be.
“I didn’t mean for this—” Jake begins, standing in the doorway, dripping onto the carpet. He can’t seem to finish the sentence. I pull the door open wider and move aside. Even after everything that has happened between us, I’m unable to let Jake, the man who has cost me my beloved restaurant and everything I’ve struggled to build in the last decade of my life, stand there dripping on my front carpet. “Nicola doesn’t know I’m here,” he says, stepping into the apartment and taking off his raincoat. He runs his fingers through his damp hair, slicking it back against his head. “But this needs to be done, Mira.” He doesn’t look at me,