“Until you left the nest,” I said.
“He kicked me out.” Eric’s voice was easy. Amused. “Time to fly on my own, yeah? Cook my own food. Find my own voice.”
I turned my head. “You should write a cookbook.”
I knew he hadn’t. I would have bought it.
“What I have to say, I say with food.”
“I get that. But not everybody has the chance to eat at your restaurant. You could share your recipes, your food, your story with more people,” I said with building enthusiasm for the idea. “People who might never come to New York.”
He shook his head. “I am a cook, not a storyteller.”
“A cook with a James Beard Award,” I pointed out.
“Awards do not make me a writer.” He met my gaze and smiled. “Maybe you should write my cookbook.”
“I . . . You’re not serious.”
“You are a writer, yeah? Lifestyle journalist,” he corrected. “You wrote about restaurant openings, you said.”
Oh God. He remembered.
“I didn’t set out to be a food writer,” I said. “I just . . . I needed a job. A writing job. I wanted to stay in New York. And I love to eat. Writing for the Empire City Weekly . . . It was a way to explore the city. To try new foods. Knishes. Noodles. Everything sort of snowballed from there.”
He turned me in his arms. Boy, he smelled good. Like cherries and wine, like laundry soap and woodsmoke. “Jo, you don’t need to apologize for doing what you love. Not to me.”
But I did. I was already using him for inspiration. Without his knowledge. For him to suggest that I draw on his experience, his recipes, his passion in the kitchen, to write a book—his cookbook, with his name in big letters on the front . . .
“I don’t want to take advantage of you,” I said.
“Maybe I am taking advantage of you.”
“I don’t think so.” I had to tell him about the blog.
“No? Not when I do this?” His lips brushed my jaw. “Or this?” I felt the scrape of his beard as he kissed my neck. His body was hot and solid against mine. Oh, glory.
“You’re just after my pie,” I managed.
His smile curved against my throat. “I am after all of you.”
I put my hands on either side of his face, raising his head so I could look into his eyes. Clear, warm eyes that saw and promised so much.
“I’m not just using you for your recipes, you know,” I said.
“No?”
“Nope.” Rising on tiptoe, I whispered close to his ear, “I’m also attracted to your great . . . big . . . bed!”
Laughing, I whirled and ran. I heard his low laugh as he followed, chasing me down the hall.
We ate the pie in bed.
CHAPTER 14
Meg
Once I get all your customers set up, this program can generate invoices directly,” I told Carl on Thursday. “Plus, I can integrate the accounting system with your farming software so you can see all your orders, which will make it much easier to track your inventory.”
Carl winced slightly. “So, every time I make a sale, I have to enter it in the computer?”
“You can do everything from your phone.” I clicked a few keys. “Or you can leave the receipts in a basket to deal with later, the way you did when your mother was keeping the books.”
“This is incredible. Thanks for getting me organized.”
“You should see my Tupperware drawer.” Smiling, I pushed back from the desk in his farm office. “The initial setup will take a while, but eventually this system is going to save you a ton of time.”
He propped a hip against a corner of the battered desk. “You trying to talk yourself out of a job?”
My smile grew. “Not at all. But you probably won’t need me for more than five hours a week. Then once a month, I’ll balance your bank account, and you’ll be set.”
“Seriously, you’re amazing.”
He was such a nice guy. Why was he still running around available? Maybe I should fix him up with Beth. “You remember my sister, don’t you?”
“Jo? Sure.”
“Beth.”
Carl rubbed his beard with the back of his hand. “The blonde.”
“That’s Amy.” Everybody remembered Amy. “Beth is the older one. She was a year behind you in school.”
“I don’t . . .” He shrugged. “Maybe.”
Well. It was just an idea. I shouldered my giant mommy bag, preparing to go. I’d dressed for this meeting in cute boots and a new sweater, applied mascara, flat-ironed my hair, even shaved my legs. Totally wasted on Carl, of course, but the small rituals made me feel more confident. More like my old bank self.
“So I’ll see you Saturday,” Carl said. “At the farmers’ market.”
“Oh. Yes.”
I felt bad about asking John to take off work again so I could sell cheese. But it was only for one more week, I told myself as I left. And maybe I could find a way to make it up to him. The twins were in extended care today. Maybe I should stop by the dealership on my way to the preschool and tell him how the meeting went with Carl. We could celebrate. Go out to lunch.
Barbecue, I thought as I drove. I could pick up something on the way. We could eat in his office. Like a picnic. With the blinds closed, for privacy. No one to see, no babies to interrupt, just two consenting adults sharing lunch over a large, horizontal surface.
I’d told John I wanted him to be happy. Barbecue and sex should do the job.
I pictured myself walking into his office. Hello, you, I’d say. I have plans for you.
I’d lock the door to his office, and he’d smile at me, that slow, it’s-going-to-be-good-honey smile, and I’d grab his tie, tugging him closer, pulling him to stand between my shaved legs. He’d sweep the papers to the floor with one arm and lay me down and we’d do it on his desk, in his office, surrounded by windows. My blood surged.
Ssh, he’d whisper, while he touched me, his hands making me hot from the inside, and it would feel so right, so good I’d scream . . .
No screaming. Not at the dealership. Trey’s office was right down the hall. The receptionist, Kelly, would hear. John would be horrified.
Or maybe not. Maybe . . . My heart beat faster, thinking about it. I could hardly wait.
* * *
The holiday sales event was in full swing at the dealership. A big red bow decorated the shiny Ford truck at the showroom entrance. Clusters of red and green Mylar balloons floated over the receptionist’s kiosk.
“Merry Christmas, Kelly!” I called cheerfully. “Is John with a client?”
Kelly looked up from her monitor. “Hey, Meg. No, he’s—”
“Good. Don’t buzz him.” I smiled. “I want to surprise him.”
“He’s not here.”
“But I brought lunch,” I said stupidly. Like that made a difference. “When is he coming back?”
“Not until two. Sorry.” Her sympathy sounded genuine. “I’ll be sure to tell him you stopped by.”
“Meg!” Trey emerged from the glass-fronted offices behind her, looking like an Italian car ad in a slim, dark suit with a slim, dark shirt open at the neck. No tie. If you were the owner’s grandson, you didn’t need to follow the dress code. “What a nice surprise. Getting the car detailed today?”
“I came to see John.”
“He’s not here.”
“I told her,” Kelly said.
Trey’s gaze fell to the white barbecue bag in my grasp. “Is that from Hooper’s?”
His hopeful expression reminded me of the hungry boy who used to hang around Momma’s kitchen, looking for cookies and invitations to dinner. “It is.” I pulled myself together. “Want a pulled-pork sandwich, extra slaw?”
“That would be great. I’m starving. Come back to my office
and we’ll eat.”
“Well. If you’re sure I won’t be interrupting . . .” I still had an hour before I had to pick up the twins.
“I always have time for your family, you know that. Kelly, can you grab us some sodas?”
So I had my picnic after all. In Trey’s office. With the blinds open.
I swallowed. “Sorry about Saturday.”
“What are you talking about?”
“When I flashed you in Sallie’s bedroom. With Ned standing right there.”
“Oh, that,” Trey said easily. “I thought that was my Christmas present.”
I smiled, grateful despite my hot face.
“I always wanted a threesome with old Ned,” Trey added outrageously.
I threw my crumpled napkin at him. “Pervert.”
He caught it and tossed it back. “Tease.”
We grinned at each other.
His face sobered. “How’s Abby doing?”
I filled him in as we ate, telling him all about Momma’s lack of progress in therapy and the upcoming surgery on her spine. Not about the outstanding loan on the farm, though. Or the unsettling crack I’d glimpsed in my parents’ seemingly perfect marriage. Trey was like a brother to me. But some things you didn’t share.
Except with John. I could tell John.
Assuming we ever found time to talk.
I collected our lunch trash and stood to go. “Thanks for keeping me company.”
“Thanks for the barbecue. John will be sorry he missed you.”
“I should have called first.”
“How would you know? He usually goes later, after school. But they had an early practice today. Teacher workday or something.”
“I . . .” What?
“He felt bad about missing their tournament on Saturday,” Trey said. “But he’s making it up to the guys this week.”
There was a faint buzzing in my ears. “Their tournament.” “The guys.” The wrestling team? Through the static, I remembered John’s comment the night Trey came to dinner. “Your dad’s not the only one who has commitments on Saturday.”
“How did they do?” I heard myself ask.
Trey grinned. “They won. John didn’t tell you? He was pretty pumped. At least he’s not giving up all those lunch hours for nothing.”
“All those lunch hours . . .” And Saturdays, too. I felt numb. “There’s been a lot going on,” I said. “It must have slipped his mind.”
But I knew my husband hadn’t forgotten. He deliberately hadn’t told me he was volunteering to coach the wrestling team. All those Saturday mornings I thought he was at work, he was at the high school.
I felt so stupid. So blind. How had I failed to see what everybody knew?
* * *
When we girls were growing up, we always decorated the tree together, Beth humming carols while Amy flitted like a butterfly, arranging crocheted snowflakes to perfection, and Jo hung the funniest, ugliest ornaments at the top of the tree.
I wanted my babies to have what we had.
John had wrestled the tree into the stand and kept the twins occupied while I strung the lights. Now Daisy lay on her back under the Christmas tree, staring at the decorations twinkling overhead. DJ toddled around her, loading all the red balls onto a single branch in the center of the tree.
I reached into the last box of ornaments, sifting through memories. A pottery heart—Our First Christmas—from John. A pair of baby rattles, pink and blue, Amy had made to mark the twins’ birth. The Popsicle stick reindeer they’d glued together in preschool. Older ornaments, too, from my childhood, one for every Christmas growing up, hidden away in the toe of my stocking. Momma had saved them all to give to me the year I got married.
I glanced at John, methodically stacking empty cartons to go back into the attic. He didn’t have a box from his mother. No ornaments, no traditions carefully preserved and passed on. He didn’t have the example of two parents sticking together for better or worse, in sickness and in health, through chores and children and deployment. The only father he’d ever known walked out on his family when John was a little boy, leaving him without a male role model.
Carefully, I hung an angel on the tree. “I stopped by the dealership today.”
“Yeah, Trey told me.” Was it my imagination or did John sound wary? “Sorry I missed you. How’d your meeting go with Carl?”
“Well. The new accounting system will save him a lot of time. And I think I’ll be able to do some of the work from home.”
The overloaded branch finally gave up its burden, sending red balls bouncing and rolling all over the living room rug. Daisy shrieked—in outrage? delight?—as DJ stooped to grab a ball and threw it again at the tree.
“Good arm,” John said.
“He must get his athletic ability from you.” I dropped to my knees, digging under the couch for a rolling ornament. “Daisy, honey, it’s all right.”
John hooked a finger in the back of DJ’s overalls, hauling him away from the tree. “That’s good. As long as you’re happy. You have enough on your plate right now dealing with your parents.”
“Actually, I wanted to talk to you about that.” I sat back on my heels. “Do you think you could stay home with the twins again this Saturday? It’s the last farmers’ market before Christmas.”
John picked up Daisy. “I can do that.”
“You can make more selling cars than I can selling cheese.”
He shot me a glance. “It’s not about the money, Meg.”
“No, it’s not.” I took a deep breath. “If there’s something else you have to do that day . . .”
His eyes flickered. “It doesn’t matter. You heard Trey. The dealership can manage without me for one more day.”
“And the wrestling team?” I asked in a steady voice. “Can they manage without you, too?”
John set our daughter carefully on her feet. “So you heard about that.”
“Trey said something. I sort of guessed the rest. How long has this been going on?” I asked. Like I’d caught him having an affair.
He looked away, at the tree. “At first it was just . . . I dropped in every once in a while. To see how the team was getting on. But this summer, the coach quit to take a teaching job in Virginia, and Ben—you know Ben Hardy in the math department—took over the program. He means well, but he doesn’t have any coaching experience. I’m just helping out until he learns the ropes.”
DJ hung another red ball on the tree.
“I wish you’d said something.”
He shrugged. “I didn’t want to worry you.”
“Not talking to me . . . That’s what worries me. It’s like my dad, keeping secrets from my mom. Or my mom, not telling my sisters about her surgery. You should have told me.”
“Honey, it wouldn’t have made any difference. It’s not like I’m going to quit my job.”
“Well, that’s a relief,” I joked.
He didn’t say anything.
“John?”
Daisy picked a red ball from the floor and hung it on the tree.
“Mine!” DJ grabbed the ornament. Daisy smacked him.
I leaped to separate them. “No, no. Are you okay?” I asked DJ.
He clutched the red ball to his chest. “Mine.”
“Sweetie, I know you like the red ones. But you have to share. And Daisy, no hitting. We don’t hit. We have to use our words, okay? Tell DJ you’re sorry.”
“I not sorry. DJ bad.”
“Nobody’s bad,” I said.
Daisy scowled. DJ’s little face was flushed, his lower lip jutting dangerously.
“All right, kids, hug it out. Come on,” John ordered when they dragged their feet. “Bring it in. Group hug.”
He swept them into his lap, hugging them, loving them, tickling them. Wrestling
with them until they giggled and squirmed.
“John.” I hesitated. Use your words. “Do you have a tournament this weekend?”
His jaw set. “Doesn’t matter. You’re going to the farmers’ market.”
“Could we at least please talk about it?”
He kissed the top of Daisy’s head. Set DJ on his feet. “Nothing to talk about.”
“I could take the twins with me,” I said.
“To the farmers’ market.”
I smiled. “Better than to a wrestling match.”
He didn’t laugh. “Why don’t you ask Hannah to watch them?”
“She’s in California, visiting James. Anyway, I can do it.”
Shouldn’t he be relieved? Why couldn’t he just say thank you? I was trying to be supportive here.
Oh. Oh. I covered my mouth with my hand. All those times he’d offered to help and I’d turned him down . . . I’d never realized how it felt from this side. His side. Not good. “Please, John,” I said. “Let me do this for you.”
He rubbed the back of his neck. “If that’s what you really want.”
“I want us to be . . .” Together. Connected. The way we used to be. “Partners,” I said.
“Then . . . Thanks.” He met my eyes. “Partner.”
CHAPTER 15
Jo
You know, if you feed it,” Frank said on Friday morning, “you’ll never get rid of it. You’re only encouraging it to stay.”
You and me both, cat.
I straightened from my crouch in the alley, scaring the skinny black cat into retreat under the shadow of the Dumpster. The midday sun barely penetrated between the buildings. A crust of salt caked the curb, and icy slush filled the potholes, but everything inside me was sunshine and rainbows. “Who says I want to get rid of it? Cats keep down the mice.”
“You’re such a hick,” Frank said.
“Please. Every bodega in the city has a cat. They chase the rats out of the snack aisles.”
Truth. But I would have fed the cat anyway. Spreading the joy, right? Sharing the love.
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