The Cookbook Club

by Beth Harbison

  Perhaps that was a lesson she needed to learn, or perhaps life was as random as some said it was. There was no real telling if there was fate or not. She was inclined to think not these days.

  So there it was. She had feelings for her friend. He didn’t appear to reciprocate.

  And now he was famous, a big star, though it was hard to connect with that part of reality, even though the proof was right there in the number of followers she’d gotten since their video had gone viral. It was close to fifty thousand now. And probably every one of those people would have thought she was a foolish rube to even hope he’d want to come over.

  Still, her heart persisted.

  She tracked the shipment of wood they’d ordered for the kitchen floor, trying to think of a reasonable way she could help with the work. She was useless with tools, but she could use stain and a rag, and she could wrangle a paintbrush without too much mess.

  It had been more than a week since she’d seen him, and though they’d texted some about the house, he seemed to be getting along quite well without her. He’d come here hoping for privacy, so it wasn’t surprising, and she definitely didn’t want to intrude on him. It was just disappointing.

  Meanwhile, Calvin’s lawyer had been in contact with hers no fewer than six times with an ever-increasing list of things that Calvin wanted from the house that he had not been allowed to take while she was present. Things outside the settlement.

  Most of them were his belongings, not assets of any real value. She had no problem with him taking the remainder of his clothes, and the overpriced office furniture he’d purchased to impress the clients he never met at home, but when he demanded the Baz Allende painting they’d gotten as a wedding present from her godfather—who was once Calvin’s boss—she drew the line. Sure, he’d been fond enough of Calvin, he was happy for the couple, but the gift had been because of his relationship with her, not with him.

  Unfortunately, every minute his lawyer spent talking with her lawyer was a billable minute, and though it was reaching a point where it would have been cheaper and easier to just let him have it, she shuddered to think what he would claim next if she did.

  So she spent the morning and the better part of the afternoon collecting everything portable that she was willing to give up to him then took a picture of it all and emailed it to him, cc’ing her lawyer, and told him to hire someone to get it at a time they could agree upon, maybe when he came back to the home office. She had no idea how often that was, but it seemed like a reasonable offer for her to make.

  If they’d had kids—and thank God they didn’t—there would have been a necessity for him to keep her apprised of his plans, but since they didn’t, their parting was disconcertingly fast and complete. Years of marriage were severed as easily as a high school romance.

  But then again, she didn’t want it to be otherwise. There was nothing left to say to him, definitely nothing she wanted to hear from him, and the call to start over was clear. But sometimes, when circumstances and mood collided in just the right way, she missed the security she used to feel. The hope for simpler things, like love and family. She’d thought she’d had that. There had been days where just the sunshine, or a seventy-two-degree temperature, or brunch at Normandie Farms in Potomac, was enough to look forward and be happy with.

  Now there were days, like today, where she worried she was doomed to spend the rest of her life alone. The eternal third or fifth wheel at events, the party guest everyone feels sorry for, the lone traveler on a tour bus through Paris.

  Okay, yes, she was still pretty young, but given how fast the last five years or so had flown by, it wasn’t hard to see herself slamming hard into forty, then fifty, then sixty, and so on.

  So she decided to bake bread. She could use it for stuffing if she couldn’t finish it.

  Baking was always therapeutic. She couldn’t anticipate the next fifty years of life, but if she started proofing yeast, she knew in three hours or so she’d have a piping hot loaf of delicate cheese bread.

  Twenty minutes later, she was kneading the bread on a flour-dusted granite countertop and trying to work her agitation and uncertainty out. She could have used the KitchenAid, and, in fact, usually did these days on the rare occasion she baked bread, but there was something therapeutic about doing it all by hand, and she put herself into the task wholeheartedly.

  She had just plopped the dough into a greased bowl to rise when Calvin walked in and scared the hell out of her.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked sharply, her heart pounding. She’d never felt fear at his arrival before but it was so unexpected, and so inappropriate, that he might as well have been a seven-foot buffalo in a ski mask. “I thought you were in California!”

  “I had a meeting here, and need to talk to you,” he said, pulling one of the barstools out and sitting down. “What are you making?”

  “You can’t just come in here like this.”

  “The house is still half in my name. Until you sign the paperwork.”

  She tried to take a deep breath to calm herself but it wavered, as if she’d been crying. She’d agreed to the settlement, how long did she have to wait for bureaucracy? “We have a separation agreement that says you’re signing a quit claim over to me.”

  He gave a relaxed shrug. “Look, I don’t see why we can’t just talk like civilized people without paying lawyers to interfere.”

  “Mediate,” Margo corrected. “They mediate. Sadly, that seems necessary so things like”—she gestured at him—“this don’t happen.”

  “This?”

  “You barging in.” She put plastic wrap over the bowl and set it by the stove. “You can’t be here, Calvin. Please go.”

  “We need to talk about the painting.”

  “We don’t, though. I told you I’m keeping it. It was from my godfather, for me. If he were still around, I’m sure he would tell you himself.” She edged over by the refrigerator, where her phone was on its charger, and pocketed it.

  “You’re not being reasonable. I’m giving you the house and the farm.”

  She gave a sharp spike of laughter. “The house still has ten years of mortgage on it, which you’re also giving me, and the farm, as you know, is a wreck.” She hoped he hadn’t heard it was being renovated. “It’s probably worth less than the taxes owed.”

  “Bullshit.” He rolled his eyes, but in a way that told her he felt he’d been caught. “It’s fifteen acres in Loudon County.”

  The last thing she wanted now was for him to take it back. “Twenty all-but-undeveloped acres,” she corrected. “It’s primarily land, and wooded land at that. The house needs hundreds of thousands of dollars’ worth of work, which is why you didn’t keep it.”

  He gave a semi-concessionary nod. “You always liked it.”

  She had so many responses, but none of them were appropriate, given that he was trespassing. “Calvin, leave. Now. I mean it. If you don’t, I’m going to call the police.”

  He chuckled. “Like I said, my name is on the house.”

  “Like I said, we have an agreement, and you’re not allowed to be here.”

  He pushed back and got off the stool. “All right, I’m just going to go upstairs and pick up a few things.”

  “No.”

  He looked at her with pity. “I am.”

  She took the phone out of her pocket. Her heart was pounding and felt like it was squeezing up into her throat. “Please don’t make me do this.” She made a mental note to call a locksmith. Or, really, just to lock the doors from now on.

  He shook his head and went into the hall, and while she hoped he’d go out the front door, he turned and headed up the stairs.

  So she did it. She called 911.

  “Nine-one-one, this line is being recorded, what’s your emergency?”

  Margo swallowed her hesitation. “I have . . . an intruder.” She should have followed through on that restraining order she’d threatened him with. “My ex-husband is here and he’s not
allowed to be.”

  “What’s the address?”

  She gave it to the dispatcher, growing more anxious with every second. “Can you just send someone?”

  “Can you give me a description of the suspect, ma’am?”

  “He’s not a suspect, he’s my ex-husband and I’ve asked him to leave but he won’t.”

  “Description, please?”

  Margo took a quick, steadying breath. If she killed him, which she’d like to do, they’d magically be here within seconds. “Six feet tall, a hundred and ninety pounds, dark brown hair, wearing a dark blue three-piece suit with a red and blue tie. And dark leather Johnston and Murphy shoes I gave him, size eleven. Now can you send someone?”

  There was a skip in the connection and the dispatcher said, “How did he arrive?”

  “Please send someone!” She hoped he couldn’t hear her, but he probably could, so he knew he had time to take what he wanted and get out. Then possession would be on his side.

  “Ma’am, a car has been dispatched. Now can you tell me how he arrived?”

  Frustration threatened to consume her. “I don’t know, probably in his car, a mahogany Lincoln Navigator.”

  “Year?”

  “I’m not sure.” She was close to tears. “What if there was a murderous stranger in the house, would you still be playing twenty questions with me?”

  “A car is on the way,” the dispatcher said again, without apparent regard to Margo’s panic. They must get this kind of response all the time.

  Margo hung up angrily and went to the foot of the stairs. “The police are on the way,” she announced to Calvin. She almost added that a locksmith was too, but decided it was probably best not to warn him she was going to change the locks, lest he find a way to leave an opening for himself to return, whether it was by unlocking a window or doing something else that would be harder to find or think of.

  He came down the stairs carrying a large Louis Vuitton suitcase. She noted, with relief, that it wasn’t large enough to contain the Allende painting, even if he’d taken it out of the frame and wedged it in there. “You’re really nuts, you know that?”

  She wasn’t nuts. She knew that. He had created this entire situation, this entire atmosphere of mistrust. “There’s a reason we have lawyers, Calvin,” she said. “And there’s a reason you have to go through yours and not take matters into your own hands.”

  There was a strong knock at the door then and she hurried to get it. Two uniformed police officers stood on the step. No backup, she noticed, only one car in the driveway, but at least they had come.

  She ushered them in and stood back so Calvin was the only thing in their sights. “This is my ex-husband,” she said. “He’s not allowed to be here, per a separation agreement we have. And he’s not allowed to help himself to whatever he has in that suitcase.”

  “It’s my stuff!” Calvin objected.

  The police exchanged a look and moved forward. “Sorry, sir, we’re going to have to escort you out.”

  “Leave the suitcase,” Margo said.

  Calvin looked at the police in question.

  “Does the agreement involve him being allowed to take his possessions out?” one of the cops asked her.

  “There’s a list, yes. But I wanted him to send someone to get them.”

  “What if he showed you what he has right now while we’re here? Would that be all right with you?”

  She thought about it. “Why not? Go ahead.” She gave Calvin a look of disgust. “You always have to make things harder, don’t you?”

  “Fuck it,” he said, dropping the suitcase and pushing out of the house. “You’ll hear from my lawyer,” he threw over his shoulder.

  She watched him go, gradually becoming aware that she was shaking. The adrenaline had been going so strong that she hadn’t even realized it.

  “Do you need anything else, ma’am?”

  She shook her head. “Thank you.”

  They exchanged a look and followed Calvin out the door. Fortunately he was gone in an instant, so she didn’t have to watch another confrontation in the driveway.

  As soon as all was clear, she went to the kitchen and poured a glass of wine. Her hands trembled so much she sloshed some onto the counter, but she didn’t care. Most of it went in the glass and she downed it in one long gulp. All those days of beer bongs had come in handy. She poured another glass and took it with her to the table and took out her phone.

  She googled locksmiths and clicked on the first one, AAA Locks. She got an answering machine, so she tried the second one, A-Plus. This time there was an answer but they weren’t available to come out until the next day. This was the case with everyone straight through to Mike’s Locksmith and Security. He sounded nice, and the picture next to his business on Yelp was of him holding a puppy, so she went ahead and made an appointment with him for the next morning.

  Just as she hung up, she got a text from Trista. It was a link to the video that Louis had finished editing. She sent the link to Max. She hoped for a response so as to open up conversation and maybe invite him over, or vice versa. This time it wasn’t just because she wanted to see him but also because until the locks were changed, she was going to be ill at ease in the house.

  But there was no quick response. It was Trista she heard from first.

  Well? Isn’t it awesome?

  Fantastic! Louis is really talented!

  The text bubble appeared and then Trista said, He’s not the world’s greatest barback or busboy . . . or cook . . . but I agree, he did a damn good job with this! His stepbrother told me he was really excited to do it. You must thank Max for me, again and again.

  I sent it to him, Margo typed, resisting the urge to whine that she hadn’t gotten a response. I’m sure he’ll be impressed.

  Then Louis will probably quit and pursue his filmmaker dreams. I’m not sure that would be a bad thing. :/

  Why’d you hire him if he’s terrible?

  Long story.

  I’ve got time. Want to meet for a drink? Margo hesitated, then went ahead and added, My ex came by and I had to call the police. The locksmith can’t come change the locks until tomorrow so I wouldn’t mind getting out.

  Trista’s response was immediate. Girl, pack a bag and get over here! Slumber party! You pick up some wine and I’ll make some snacks and we can watch a terrible movie. Deal?

  Margo had never been so grateful for an invitation in her life. Deal!

  * * *

  MEETING 6—NOVEMBER

  Deep Run Roats

  SPOONBREAD WITH SAUSAGE RAGOUT—Seasonal for fall.

  SAGE HONEY-GLAZED PORK TENDERLOIN WITH BACON-ROASTED RUTABAGAS—Insane, October/November special.

  BEET SALAD—Buttermilk! Honey! Blue cheese! Winner!

  Time to advertise for more group members? Will announce December meeting at the restaurant and let people sample the wares. Hopefully there will be a good crowd.

  * * *

  December

  Chapter Nineteen

  Aja

  The nausea hit hard.

  One minute Aja was making a pan of buttery slow-scrambled eggs that she’d just read about in the food section of the newspaper, and the next minute the whole kitchen smelled like a wet dog and she barely made it to the sink in time.

  It had been months since she’d had morning sickness. In fact, she’d been feeling pretty good. Despite being almost eight months pregnant, she could get away with looking a little chunky with a flowy top. Everything was going so well.

  She did not want to start puking again.

  She stood there, bracing her hands on the counter, breathless and shocked by the suddenness of the attack, and suddenly it was gone. The eggs smelled good, her stomach growled, and it was as if she hadn’t gotten sick at all.

  She looked around, as if to commiserate with someone, but she was alone. Dreadfully, painfully alone. She opened the cupboard and took out a glass and filled it with tepid tap water, then drank half of it in
one gulp to get the taste out of her mouth and her airway.

  Then she went to the pan and halfheartedly pushed the eggs with the silicone spatula that was still there. They looked good, but she was afraid to try them for fear it would hit her again. Then again, she hated to waste them.

  This was what she got for giving eggs another try. She wasn’t ready.

  She contemplated the pan for a few minutes then decided that if she was going to puke, she was going to puke, and it was better to have something come up than nothing, so she scooped them onto a plate and sat down at the tiny bistro table she’d fit into the corner of her non-eat-in kitchen. The Christmas lights she’d strung over the window in an attempt at holiday cheer winked at her sarcastically.

  It took a while for her to try a bite. At first she just sat there with the plate in front of her, unable to move, the blinking lights throwing colors onto the plate. She was hungry and full all at the same time. Bored and agitated.

  And more than anything, she was lonely.

  She took a forkful of eggs and made an effort to chew before deciding there was no point and swallowing with a gulp of water. It wasn’t just nausea that had come over her suddenly, it was sadness. Fear. Confusion.

  What was she doing? She looked around at her small studio apartment, the string lights and the little rosemary tree she’d put a few tiny ornaments on, and wondered where she was going to put the baby. At first it would be fine to share the space, but they couldn’t do that forever. What was she thinking? How was she going to pull this off?

  She thought about Lucinda Carter’s words: I will not allow my grandchild to be raised without family. Not under any circumstances. If that child is a Carter, he will be treated as such.

  She thought about texting Michael, just letting him know the whole truth right now. Assuming Lucinda hadn’t already. But she knew she hadn’t. She knew Michael well enough to know he couldn’t have ignored that information, if only because he’d be afraid of her showing up with a lawyer and a bunch of demands. He thought they’d had a normal relationship and a normal breakup, nothing more than that. She hadn’t heard from him so much as once since they’d ended it.