Aftertaste - Meredith Mileti [9]
How had Jake accomplished it, this reversal of feelings, this decision to stop loving me? When did the little things he knew about me, things he had once cherished, or at least, minimally tolerated, turn into insurmountable annoyances? And how had I failed to notice?
But, regardless of how Jake feels about me, Chloe is still his child, and he should know about his only child’s brush with death. Shouldn’t he? And because it is my duty as the mother of said child to tell him, I pick up the phone.
Of course, she answers, and of course I’ve woken her. It is, after all, only seven forty-five. Early for them. On nights they close the restaurant, which nowadays is most nights, they don’t get home until after two. Nicola’s voice is deep and sexy with sleep. I wince, squeezing my eyes tightly shut as if I could block out the picture of them in bed together. Fat chance.
“I need to talk to Jake,” I say with my eyes still clamped shut. Good. To the point, efficient.
I can feel her hesitate. I think there’s a good chance that she’ll hang up on me. We haven’t seen each other, or even spoken, since that night, and I suppose she still harbors some residual bad feelings, to which, in my opinion, she is totally unentitled. I imagine her hanging up, murmuring in response to Jake’s sleepy query that it had just been a wrong number, while quietly unplugging the phone, severing Jake’s connection to Chloe and me. But she doesn’t. Instead, stifling a yawn, she says, “He isn’t here, Mira.” Of course, a predictable lie.
“I need to talk to Jake. Could you put him on?” Note: I did not say please.
Again, she hesitates. “He’s not here.”
I stop dead. Not there? At seven forty-five in the morning? What did that mean? Was he not living there? Had he left her?
It isn’t until I have Jake and me back together in an emotional reunion at Chloe’s bedside that I realize Nicola is still speaking.
“. . . left a few minutes ago. He’s meeting Eddie.” Eddie is our fish man, who occasionally asks us to meet him at the pier, although usually not this early in the morning.
“He’s going in to the restaurant afterward to, ah, take care of some paperwork. You’ll probably see him at lunch.” Her voice is neutral. She could have been talking to anyone. The fact that she could treat me so evenly is perhaps the most horrible of all. Clearly, I’m no longer a threat. She’s secure enough in Jake’s love that she doesn’t need to fear me in the least.
I’m silent. It’s now my turn to speak, but the part of my brain governing the pragmatic functions of language is not working at the moment.
“Mira?” Her voice sounds strained, all vestiges of sleep now gone.
I don’t answer her. Instead, I hang up the phone.
Paperwork. Going in early. Something doesn’t sound right. First off, Jake doesn’t do paperwork. That’s my job. Jake and I usually shopped for fruits, vegetables, and fish, taking turns at the markets. Meat orders are phoned or faxed to our suppliers, and we are billed monthly by the various vendors we patronize. Spices, cheeses, olive oil, and condiments are ordered through Renata Brussani. Our bartender/sommelier handles the wine order, faithfully presenting his inventory and monthly statements to me for inspection. I take care of all the bill paying, as Jake considers such details mundane, and therefore beneath his notice. He fancies himself an artist and is perfectly content to leave all the details of running the business to me.
Lately, though, I’ve sensed Jake looking over my shoulder at the restaurant, trying to figure out what I’m doing. One day last week, I caught him in the office leafing through an inventory of our cookware. And Tuesday he had mentioned to me that we needed to replace the fire extinguishers in the back kitchen, a detail that typically would have totally escaped his notice.
I’ll try him at the restaurant. Among other things, he needs to know that I’m not going to make it in for lunch. I don’t want to