Aftertaste - Meredith Mileti [82]
Why hadn’t I thought of it before? The hours would be great, and I could do the writing at home. An added bonus would be that, as a reviewer, I’d have the potential to influence the trends in Pittsburgh, a heady prospect. By the time I climb the stairs to bed, I’ve convinced myself I’m poised to become Pittsburgh’s own Frank Bruni.
I peek in on Chloe and then tackle the boxes under the eaves, tiptoeing around so as not to wake her. I finally hunt down what I’m looking for: Tastes of the Caribbean. It’s been a long day, and the cool sheets feel good against my skin. I open the book and leaf through it. I can’t remember ever having read this particular book or having prepared any of the dishes in it. It probably had been Jake’s. The author seems to know her stuff, displaying an academic interest in the food and the culture of the islands, while writing vividly, capturing the nuances of sight, smell, and taste. In the middle of the book there is a large color spread of photographs depicting some of the more ambitious dishes. I find myself looking at pictures of rich and beautiful food, sensually displayed against the lush and verdant backdrop of an island paradise. If nothing else, I’m hoping to dream of conch fritters and deep blue seas.
I need someone to watch Chloe during my weekly therapist appointment, and Ruth is also desperate for time alone—some relief from Carlos. Time, she says, where she can go and sip coffee or get her nails done, all the while wallowing in guilt about the craven need she has to escape her own child. And so, we have made a deal. One day each week, we will watch each other’s children.
It’s her turn on Tuesday so, after dropping Chloe at Ruth’s, I’m able to spend the entire morning at the Squirrel Hill Library preparing for my life coach appointment at noon. First, I do some research on the Pittsburgh food scene (which takes about five minutes), then I spend the rest of the time updating my résumé and drafting a cover letter to the food editor, whose name is Enid Maxwell.
Dr. D-P is pleased with my progress and doles out another set of tasks for next week, mostly having to do with résumés and mass mailings.
On the way home I decide to stop and visit Richard, whom I haven’t seen or spoken to since last week. He’d deliberately hurt me with his comments about my mother, which I now have to admit, may have been helpful. He’s probably avoiding me, thinking I’m still angry.
Richard’s shop is on Ellsworth Avenue, occupying the first floor of an old turn of the century row house, sandwiched in between an elegant ladies resale shop called Plan B and a used CD and record exchange called Astro and the Jetsons. The shop is empty, but I can see Richard look up in his office as the bell on the door gives a metallic tinkle. He’s on the phone, which he places in the crook of his neck, as he beckons me back into his office. He reaches over his desk and removes a stack of fabric samples from the guest chair. He tries not to show that he is either surprised or pleased to see me, but I can tell by the flash of his eyes that he’s glad, maybe even relieved, that I’ve come. I can also tell by the way he is doggedly biting the inside of his mouth that he is probably dealing with a difficult client, one who is refusing to bend to Richard’s rather implacable decorating will.
“Okay, okay, we’ll just cancel it and reorder the Parsons chairs. It will take an additional six weeks, but if you are in no hurry . . . Yes. Okay. Fine.” I can tell by the way he says “fine” that it really isn’t, that it really is anything but.
He hangs up the phone. “Zebra-striped Parsons chairs. Sometimes you just can’t save people from themselves, no matter how hard you try.”
How true.
“I’m glad to see that you’re feeling better,” he continues, after a moment. His voice