Aftertaste - Meredith Mileti [57]
I spend Christmas Eve packing up the last remaining bits and pieces of my life into four large boxes, which I lug, one at a time, to the post office on Hudson Street, each time standing in a long line of procrastinating New Yorkers cheerfully waiting to mail their Christmas presents, none of which has any chance of arriving on time.
With the exception of my dining room set, which Hope has volunteered to keep for me, I’ve arranged to put most of my remaining furniture in storage. Hope has also enthusiastically agreed to sublet my apartment, and I can tell by her speculative gaze as she appraises the room that she’s anxious to move in. Her apartment is small, a one bedroom, which she, in turn, has sublet to a newly married couple she met in her romance writers group. This is good news, because I’d rather sublet my apartment to Hope, who has promised to give it back to me when I return.
Renata and Michael insist that Chloe and I stay with them over Christmas. On Christmas Eve, Renata prepares the traditional Italian Feast of the Seven Fishes. We dine on fresh lobster, crab, and shrimp, clams casino, calamari, baccalà, and mussels—none of which I have any appetite for, but, touched by her thoughtfulness, do my best to eat. Michael fills up an entire memory card with photos of Chloe opening her presents and of me reading her “The Night Before Christmas.”
The day after New Year’s, Renata and Michael arrive at my empty apartment to drive Chloe and me to the airport. As we fight to make room for the suitcases in the trunk of Michael’s Prius, Renata removes an insulated food carrier containing two freshly smoked mozzarella di buffalo and a small round of Pecorino Romano.
“A little comfort food,” she says, handing it to me. “To remind you of home.”
What is she thinking? That I’m going to the ends of the earth? Does she think I’m never coming back? When I remind her that some of the world’s best cheeses come from the United States, actually west of the Hudson, she snorts. I tell her she should give Arthur Cole a call. I feign annoyance because I don’t want Renata or Michael to see how touched I am that they will actually miss me. Michael holds Chloe while Renata and I reorganize the luggage.
“I give them six months, tops,” Renata says, referring to Jake and Nicola. I’m not sure if she means the relationship or the restaurant. “I’ve taken them off the list of preferred customers. No more advance notice on special imports.” It’s a nice gesture on Renata’s part, though I don’t really believe her.
Later, on the way to the airport, Michael tells me that Arthur Cole has finished his tome (at close to a thousand pages) on the history of culinary science and is already busy planning his next project on American regional cooking, an idea, Michael reminds me, that I inspired.
“You’re his editor, Michael. For God’s sake, don’t encourage him.” I’m imagining at least three hundred pages devoted to the evolution of the breakfast cereal.
“He must really like you. Arthur is the kind of guy who doesn’t change his mind very easily.”
“Tell him that if he’s ever in Pittsburgh, I’ll take him out for a Primanti sandwich.”
Michael laughs and shakes his head. “If only Arthur Cole had your sense of humor, Mira. A food writer needs a sense of humor. You, Mira, deserve someone with a sense of humor,” Michael says definitively, giving my arm a squeeze.
I want to cry.
Standing in front of the Jet Blue terminal at JFK, Renata and I both dab away our tears. “You’re going to be fine,” Renata says, holding me at arm’s length and giving me a searching look. “Yes,” Michael echoes, “you will.”
“Of course I will,” I tell them, my voice bright and filled with false bravado, as I pull them both close into a final embrace. “Thanks for everything,” I whisper in Renata’s ear, my voice husky with unshed tears. “Take good care of Grappa for me, please. You will, won’t you?” I know in my heart that Renata