by Robin Kaye
“The only thing easier than that is spaghetti. A jar of Prego and a salad, and you’re good to go.”
“Shit, I’m Italian. I don’t eat sauce out of a jar. My mother would kill me right after she brought her sauce over, cooked me dinner, and watched me eat.”
“Well, there you go, then. Problem solved.”
Not quite, but Rich wasn’t going to say anything. “Yeah, thanks for your help.”
Jeff stood. “You want to get a beer or something after work sometime?”
Rich stood too. “Sure, that would be great. I hear you play hoops.”
“Whenever I can.”
Rich tossed him the basketball he kept on his shelf. “One on one?”
Jeff shot the ball back. “Anytime. Good luck tonight.”
“Yeah. Thanks, man.” He had a feeling he was going to need it.
Jeff went back to his office, and Rich still had no idea what the hell to do for dinner. He called Becca as he packed his briefcase.
“Hello?”
“Becca, it’s Rich.”
“Oh, hi.”
“Are you all right?”
She sniffled. “Yeah, I’m fine. Why?”
“You sound like you caught a cold.”
“No. I’m good. What’s up?”
“I’m leaving my office now. Why don’t I call you when I get off the train so you can meet me at the market, and we can grocery shop together.”
“Yeah, okay.”
“Becca, are you sure you’re all right? You sound a little weird.”
“I’m fine. I’ll see you later. Bye.”
Rich pushed his way out the door of his office and locked it behind him. He headed out of Shermerhorn Hall and wished he’d brought his umbrella. It looked like rain, but with the way the wind was whipping, it probably wouldn’t do much good. He took off for the subway at a brisk pace hoping to beat the rain.
After setting up her workspace and pounding on some clay, the only thing Becca wanted to do on this dreary, cold, rainy day, which sadly matched her mood, was to curl up in her new bed. She had paid an extra hundred and fifty dollars for same-day delivery, but it was worth it. She wanted to make a cocoon with her thick down duvet, drink hot chocolate, and lose herself in a good book. Instead, she ran through the wind-whipped rain down 7th Avenue so she could do the last thing she wanted to do—grocery shop with Rich. She found him standing under the market’s awning looking just as wonderful as he had that morning. Running her fingers through her short hair, she confirmed what she already knew—it was sticking up in all directions. “Hi”
He studied her until she wanted to squirm. “You are sick. I thought you sounded bad. You shouldn’t have come out in this weather.”
“I’m not sick. I’m fine. Come on, are you going to make me stand out in this cold, or are we going shopping?”
She must look worse than she thought since seeing her father had put her in the mood for a good cry. After she set up her workspace and took out her frustration on some poor defenseless clay, she popped her copy of PS I Love You into the DVD player and cried her way through the whole thing while eating popcorn and a dark chocolate candy bar with raspberry filling. The candy bar was better than sex. What she remembered of it, which probably wasn’t much. Now, not only were her eyes red and her skin blotchy from crying, she had after-a-popcorn-binge bloat and after inhaling the decadent chocolate bar, with her luck, tomorrow she’d have a zit the size of Tahiti on her nose. Rich opened the door, and Becca strode in.
Becca jerked on a mini-shopping cart that was pushed into the back of a line of them and met enough resistance to grab it with two hands and give it a double jerk. It didn’t move. “What do you want to make?”
“I don’t know. What do you feel like?”
Rich nudged her aside, wrenched the little cart out from inside the others with absolutely no problem, and gave her a superior look.
Becca forced herself not to roll her eyes. “I loosened it for you.”
Rich sat his briefcase in the kiddy seat and smiled. “Sure you did.”
She chose to ignore that. “Rich, it’s not going to help you to learn to make what I like. For all you know I might live on a diet of ToFurky hot dogs on spelt rolls.”
“To-what? You’re kidding, right?”
“Of course I’m kidding. But the point here is that you’re supposed to learn to cook what you want.”
“Who says I don’t want Foturkey or whatever the hell that stuff is? The only food I ever ate at home was Italian. In my house, a hamburger was a flat meatball. I asked my mom to make fried chicken, and I got chicken parmesan. When I wanted a casserole like the other kids, I got lasagna. Not that I’m complaining.”
Becca raised an eyebrow to that, but kept her mouth shut.
“I learned how lucky I was the first time I went to a friend’s house for dinner. His mom heated spaghetti out of a can.”
She made a face, because let’s face it—no one should eat spaghetti out of a can. That’s just too gross for words.
He must have thought she didn’t believe him. He stopped her and started talking with his hands. “No shit, the stuff was orange, and she plopped some Miracle Whip on some lettuce and called it salad. I feigned illness and ran all the way home.
“Okay, no canned spaghetti. How about meatloaf? That’s American.” Becca pushed the cart toward the produce section.
“Meatloaf is just a big meatball.”
“Not the way I make it. And it’s an easy recipe. I think even you might be able to manage it.”
“Okay, American meatloaf it is.”
“Actually, it’s German. Our cook used to make it.”
“You had a cook?”
She took a plastic bag and filled it with a few hearts of romaine. “Yeah, a cook, a housekeeper, a nanny, two groundskeepers, then there was the stable hand, a handyman, and a pool boy.” She tossed the lettuce in the cart and began examining the cucumbers. “The pool boy didn’t last long. Dad caught him fooling around with Mom in the pool house.” She handed two cucumbers to Rich who stood there looking confused. She wasn’t sure if it was the cucumber that confused him or the thought of her mother with the pool boy. “It’s for the salad. Put them in a bag.”
He nodded, stuck one under his arm, and then tried to rip a bag off the roll. Becca watched and finally took pity on him and pulled one off and opened it.
“Your mom was making it with the pool boy?” He dropped the cucumbers in the bag Becca held.
“Yes, it was embarrassingly cliché. We had the Main Line’s version of The Graduate. Nat was living in the pool house while on summer break from Penn. I still don’t know if my mom knew that Nat was seeing both of us, but it wouldn’t surprise me. Personally, I think he was hedging his bets. If it worked out with me he’d get my trust fund. If it didn’t, he’d get tips from Mommy Dearest.”
“Wow, and I thought my family was fucked up.”
“Yeah. Lucky me, I get a prize for having the world’s most fucked up family.”
“But even worse than that, I can’t believe you dated a guy named Nat. Is that spelled with the ‘G’ or without?”
Becca laughed. “Without, but now that I think about it, he was kind of a pest.” She caught herself smiling and shut it down. “Okay, we need to buy ground round, ground pork, plain breadcrumbs, onion, and applesauce.”
“Applesauce?”
“For the meatloaf.”
“You put applesauce in meatloaf?”
“Yes. Do you want to learn how to cook it, or should we move on?”
“No, I mean yes. I want to learn, but I never heard of applesauce in meatloaf.”
“You probably never heard of a lot of things, which is why you need a coach, right?”
“Right.”
“I know we have brown sugar, Dijon mustard, ketchup, and eggs at home.”
“We do?”
“Yes, those are called staples. It’s the food most kitchens have on hand. What kind of vegetable
do you want to make?”
“We need to make vegetables, too?”
“When was the last time you ate just meatloaf and nothing else for dinner?”
Rich shrugged.
He was such a guy. “Baked potatoes or mashed?”
“Which is easier?”
“Baked.”
“Fine.” Becca chose a bag of Yukon Gold potatoes and tossed it in the cart.
“What about a vegetable?”
“Isn’t a potato a vegetable?”
“No, it’s a starch. You need at least one veggie, preferably green.”
“Like escarole?”
“What?”
“You know, it’s kind of like spinach, but not. It’s definitely green though.”
“That’s a new one on me. Do you have a translation?”
“For what?”
“Escarole.”
“It’s escarole—what’s to translate?”
The grocer behind them cleared his throat. “It’s flat leaf endive, and we have some over there.” He pointed to something next to the lettuce.
Becca smiled at him and noticed that Rich stepped closer to her. Men. “Thanks for the help.” She stepped away. “How is it cooked?”
“Mama makes it with olive oil, lots of garlic, and some onion.” He took several handfuls and stuffed it in a bag. From the look of it, they’d be eating endive for a year.
“She sautés it?”
“How the hell do I know? She puts some oil in a pan with onion, then the garlic, and then the escarole, and stirs it until it gets droopy.”
“Oh yum. Droopy endive. I can hardly wait.”
“Hey, I didn’t make fun of your meatloaf with applesauce.”
“You’re right. I’m sorry.” Becca turned so Rich couldn’t see her smile and headed toward the butcher in the back for the meat. “Why don’t you go get the applesauce and breadcrumbs?”
“Okay.” Rich took off with the cart, and Becca watched as he walked away. So did the other three women waiting in line for meat.
The person next to Becca, a beautiful woman in her early thirties wearing a gorgeous suit and four-inch heels that made Becca cringe just looking at them, sighed. “He’s so helpful.”
The one in front of the line nodded. “Not to mention gorgeous.”
The one in the middle checked out Becca. “Did you just move in together?”
Becca nodded.
The middle woman cracked a smile. “Yeah, the only time men shop with you or take you to the airport is in the first three weeks of living together. It’s all downhill from there.”
Becca shook her head. “Oh no. We’re not living together living together. We’re just roommates.”
“Miss, what can I get you?” The butcher asked the woman in the front of the line.
She ignored him, drew in a quick breath, and stuck her chest out. “He’s single?”
Becca crossed her arms. “Technically, I guess he is. But I know he’s trying to get back together with his ex.”
“Miss?” The butcher asked again. She held up her hand to stop him.
She studied Becca and gave her a look that told her she was definitely lacking. Of course, it’s not as if Becca had dressed up to go grocery shopping. She wore her old comfortable sweats, which, after a three-block run through the rain, were soaking wet. What is it with these short, beautiful women? She gave Becca the same look her mother did every time she tsked about her being too tall, too skinny, or too flat-chested.
“Technically single is fine with me. I can change his mind about his old girlfriend.”
The woman next to Becca turned to her adversary. “I saw him first.”
The one in the middle moved in. “So what?”
Becca turned to the butcher. “May I please have a pound and a half of ground round and a half pound of ground pork?”
The butcher eyed the three women in line before her as they took off down the canned fruit aisle. “Sure, lady.”
Becca waited for the meat to be weighed and wrapped wondering what the three women on the Rich hunt were going to do to him and to each other.
She thanked her lucky stars she wasn’t with a guy like Rich. She had been before and knew it was way too much trouble. She once dated a man almost as good looking as Rich, and she dealt with women throwing themselves at him continuously. She knew what it was like to have to look perfect at all times. Of course, her mother loved him, but the only thing that Becca felt was trapped. She would never forget the first time he visited her studio. She had looked forward to sharing her work with him, but all he did was comment on the fact that she was covered with the clay she’d been working with and how much better she looked with makeup than without. He wasn’t pleased that she wasn’t prepared to change her clothes before getting into his new car. By that time, she knew there was no future with Mr. Persnickety and wished he’d have just left her there.
“You better not make that face for too long. It might stay that way.”
Becca blinked and saw Rich standing beside her. “That bad?”
He shrugged. “I just hope you weren’t thinking about me just then. I’d have to start sleeping with one eye open.”
She laughed. “You can rest easy. Believe it or not, my world does not revolve around you. There were a few women who’d be more than willing to take on that job.”
He looked confused.
“The women who took off after you when they found out you were single? Didn’t at least one of them hit on you?”
“There were three women helping me pick out the applesauce. I got the organic stuff.” He held it up to show her. “I couldn’t find the breadcrumbs though.”
“Oh?” Becca looked over his shoulder to see if the women had followed him. Sure enough, they were on their way back, and Becca did not want to be there when they arrived. “Okay, I think they might have it in the baking aisle.” She turned to leave.
“Becca?”
“What?”
Rich slid the meat off the top of the refrigerated case. “Forgetting something?”
“Oh right.” She turned and walked away.
Chapter 6
RICH WAITED FOR BECCA TO OPEN THE DOOR TO THE apartment. The handles of the plastic bags cut into his hands.
“How long does this take to cook?”
Becca turned the key in the deadbolt. “It has to bake about forty-five minutes.”
“I’m hungry now. I worked through lunch.”
“So, make a sandwich. I didn’t eat either.”
“I thought you had lunch at Annabelle and Mike’s with your parents.”
Becca kicked the door opened. “Yeah. I didn’t stay to actually eat anything.”
“How come?”
Becca tossed the bag she held onto the counter. “How do grilled cheese sandwiches sound?”
Her smile was a little too practiced. Something went down she didn’t want to talk about. “Good.”
She pulled out a cast iron frying pan and set it on the stove. “Great. Have at it. I like mine pretty toasty but not burnt.”
“Huh?”
She rummaged through the refrigerator and took out a few things.
“I don’t know how to make grilled cheese.”
Becca sighed, which put his back up. “Don’t you dare treat me as if I’m stupid. I have three post-secondary degrees. I know a thing or two.”
“Yeah, just not anything to do with the kitchen.”
“Thanks for the news flash. Aren’t you getting tired of pointing out my ineptitude?”
Becca smiled a real smile this time. “Not yet.” She didn’t bother to try stifling her laughter. “All you have to do is put a couple pieces of cheese in between a couple pieces of bread and butter both sides of the sandwich, fry it until it’s brown on the bottom, flip it over, and once the bottom is browned and the cheese is melted, it’s done. Cut it in half—I like triangles—and eat. It’s easy. I’m going to change out of these wet clothes while you cook.”
&n
bsp; “It doesn’t sound too difficult. Go on.”
Rich opened a package of cheese like he’d never seen before. It didn’t come from a deli. It was wrapped in plastic, and it said that it was made from milk. What the hell else do you make cheese out of?
Rich buttered four slices of bread, stuck a couple pieces of cheese in between, and placed them in the hot pan. They sizzled. There, that wasn’t so hard. He opened a few drawers looking for a flipper thing. He found one and stuck it under the corner of the first sandwich, peeked under and it, and it wasn’t browned yet. He had it under control.
He stuck his head in the refrigerator and grabbed a beer. He popped the top, took a pull, and waited a few minutes before he grabbed the frying pan. “Fuck!” He burned his hand on the metal handle. “Shit!” He ran cold water over his hand and caught Becca poking her head out of her bedroom door.
“Everything okay?”
“Of course.”
“It smells like something is burning.”
“Oh fuck.” Rich grabbed a towel, folded it a couple times, and held it in his burned hand. He gently held the handle and turned the now burned sandwiches. Shit. He was cursing under his breath when he noticed the smoke. He looked down and found that the towel was smoldering. Shit, shit, shit. He threw the burning towel into the sink and ran the water over the flames that erupted.
He remembered there were potholders somewhere. He began opening drawers looking for them. There was one hanging off the refrigerator. He grabbed it and checked the sandwiches; the one side was golden brown. Rich took two plates out of the cupboard and slid the sandwiches onto the plates, putting the burnt side down. Becca wanted it cut in triangles. Sheesh. Demanding much? Rich went to the silverware drawer, took out a knife, and cut them both in half. He took a bite of his—it was a little crunchy but not bad. Okay, so, it wasn’t good, but it was edible. Not that he would have eaten it if he were home alone. But Becca would be stepping out of her bedroom any second, and he’d be damned if he’d let her know he couldn’t stand his own cooking, such as it was. It was a little crunchy and chewy, but hey, it was only a little burnt, along with his hand, which throbbed with every beat of his heart.
Becca returned just as he stuffed the last piece of his sandwich in his mouth. Her hair was now dry, and she’d changed into yet another one of her old baggy sweats. He smiled. She was beautiful in a kind of girl-next-door way even though she wore some god-awful clothes.
