Aftertaste - Meredith Mileti [61]
For as long as I could remember, the third floor had been my father’s haven, filled with all his books, his drafting table, and other assorted tools of his trade. I was touched to find he’d converted my old bedroom on the second floor into his new office and taken great pains to set up a little apartment for Chloe and me on the third. There are two rooms, one a little sitting area with an old couch he dragged up from the basement and a couple of bookshelves which he emptied for me. He put my old bedroom furniture in the adjacent bedroom. Nice Danish Modern stuff that I’d thought hopelessly faddish when I was growing up, but which now had taken on a kind of chic mid-century patina. He’d also borrowed a crib from somewhere—he was vague about it when I asked where it had come from—complete with (used, but clean) Winnie the Pooh quilt and bumpers.
“But you know I won’t really feel settled until I cook something. So,” I say, gesturing to the dough into which I have just again sunk my hands, “pizza rustica.”
“Mmm. Sounds great. I’m starving.”
“Well, you better have a little snack or something, because this won’t be ready for a while. Dad must have gone into the office. He left hours ago. I kind of thought he would enjoy helping me make it.”
“Since when does your father decorate?” Richard says, standing up and brushing away a line of flour from his trousers. “This I’ll have to see. And what does he think of his divine granddaughter?”
“He thinks she’s great. You know, he’s acting silly and talking to her in this cute little voice. And he bought her a ton of toys. She’s going to get spoiled.” I pause. I suddenly feel tired, and my eyes begin to sting. “Really, he’s been wonderful.”
Richard passes behind me and gives my arm a gentle squeeze. Then, he reaches around me and absently rattles the lid of the sugar bowl, trying to fit the cover back on. “What we really could use is something to nibble.” He gets up and begins randomly opening cupboards, in search of a distraction. “I can’t believe I’m sitting here with a chef so incredible that Gourmet has written about her and there’s nothing to dip in my coffee.” He opens the refrigerator door and turns to look at me with an expression of mock horror on his face. “Starvation rations in here! I don’t know that I’ve ever seen this refrigerator so empty,” he says, leaning in and pulling out one of the white, butcher-wrapped packages.
“Hey, go easy on that. It’s for the pizza,” I say, which earns me a scowl from Richard. “Take some biscotti from that bag on the counter. But while you’re in there, check out that red nail polish in the door of the fridge.”
“In the door, eh?” he repeats.
“Uh-huh. In the butter compartment.” Richard opens the compartment, takes out the polish, and, reaching into the breast pocket of his shirt, pulls out his half-moon glasses in order to inspect the bottle more closely.
“Christian Dior, Flame. Expensive stuff.” He unscrews the cap and pulls out the brush, holding it up to the light. “On the right person, a great color. Not for everyone, a red like this.” When I don’t say anything, he continues with his analysis. “She’s neat, too. The bottle is half-empty, but there’s no clumpy, dried gunk on the rim,” he says, showing me. Richard screws the cap back on and looks over his glasses at me.
“A scintillating analysis, Richard. If the antique business ever goes bust, I think you could make a go of it in the field of nail polish forensics.”
“This,” he says, as if taking my comment seriously, “this is the choice of a confident woman. And one who has lots of experience with makeup. Only the most sophisticated of cosmetics consumers know that you extend the life of your polish by keeping it in the fridge.” He sits down, takes off his glasses, and places the bottle on the table between us.
At that moment, as if on cue, we hear the front door open and seconds later voices in the front hall: my father’s deep baritone and another—softer, higher.