Making Up for Lost Time

by Karin Kallmaker

  She hadn’t had to confront death like this before. She hardly knew what she thought of an afterlife or if Aunt Em could watch over her. Maybe Aunt Em now knew, from some distant, happy place, that Jamie had become who she was—chef, hiker, sailor, lesbian—because Aunt Em had been those things, and Jamie had always longed to be just like her. And she’d succeeded reasonably well, except for when Kathy had refused to be Jamie’s Liesel.

  Jamie pressed her hands to her eyes. Stop thinking about that, she told herself sternly. You’ve got to cope with today, and that’s enough.

  When she was able, she finished her aunt’s final letter. “I know you will forgive me for being so businesslike about my end. I’m sure it won’t really surprise you. Of course, I wish I’d known five years ago this was all the time I had for retirement. I’d have never sold the Waterview and could have left it to you. I know how you loved it. But getting some warning let me put my affairs in order. Liesel gets the house, of course, as the survivor on the deed. She has a very good pension from the army so I know she’s taken care of. I’ve saved a bit over the years and got a nice sum for the inn, and when you put everything together they make a tidy amount. I was rather surprised. I’m sure Kathy knew it down to the penny, but since she didn’t approve of her mother’s life I’ve decided not to give her the chance to disapprove of my money.”

  So Kathy hadn’t reconciled with her. Kathy was still—Kathy.

  “I want you to have it. I’ve always loved you as if you were my daughter, and you gave me such joy and love when you came into my life. Liesel loves you too. Kathy’s marrying a rich lawyer, and she just doesn’t need this. You do. I want you to buy a place where you can cook the way you want to. Make yourself happy. Above all, beloved Jamie, make yourself happy.—Aunt Emily.”

  Aunt Emily was dead.

  Kathy was getting married. To a man.

  An hour passed before Jamie could make herself open the manila envelope.

  She gasped, then went back to crying.

  She was stiff and cramped when she awoke in the chair. KatzinJam was biting her ankle. Her head and eyes throbbed, and her back refused to straighten completely as she hobbled to the kitchen. KatzinJam bit her two more times before Jamie managed to pour some dry food into his bowl.

  In a daze, she made herself a bowl of cereal and dumped a can of Katz’s favorite food into his bowl, once again empty. After she rinsed up she found herself mechanically setting out ingredients. She was opening the can of evaporated milk before she fully realized what she was doing. German chocolate cookies were her favorite, and they never failed to provide comfort.

  She halved the recipe in deference to the apartment’s tiny oven and even tinier cookie sheets. Even with four cookie sheets in rotation, it took over an hour to turn out two dozen cookies. She settled in the comfy chair again with several warm cookies and a large glass of milk, while KatzinJam angled for complete possession of the ottoman.

  The aroma and taste of the cookies took her back to the Waterview like no photograph ever could. They were probably her earliest memory of Aunt Em. She’d been so unhappy and frightened, abandoned to the care of a woman her mother had said was related to the half-sister of the man she thought might be Jamie’s father. In other words, a perfect stranger who hadn’t said no when Jamie’s mother had asked if she could leave Jamie there while she “pulled herself together.” Seven-year-old Jamie had been used to her mother’s habit of parking her with people, but it was usually someone she knew. She’d learned to call a lot of people “Aunt” and “Uncle.”

  Somehow, she’d known her mother wouldn’t be back that time. She’d heard the desperation in her mother’s voice, and internalized, if not actually understood, her mother’s last words to her: “I hear the schools are good and the other kids seem real nice. Be good.”

  She curled into the corner of the chair, chewing on caramel and coconut. Her nose dripped steadily—the sleeve of her robe was a mess, but she didn’t care.

  Her gaze fell on the manila envelope and she felt dizzy. Her aunt had wanted Jamie to buy a place where she could cook the way she wanted. She could quit Le Monde today and start looking, but that required initiative. It required making a plan. Not today. Maybe tomorrow.

  She couldn’t make any plans until she had answers to some of her questions. To her relief, Antoine answered the phone when she called the restaurant and he easily agreed to give Jamie a few days off as bereavement leave. Marcus would have a fit.

  She packed a small bag and left a note for Suzy. It was clear and breezy when she finally got into the Hyundai. KatzinJam scrambled into his accustomed place on the passenger seat. Highway 1 took longer, but she could stop to picnic at Seal Beach, just as she and Aunt Emily—and Liesel, when she’d been along—always had. She might as well start her journey with pleasant memories.

  Chapter 2

  “You must think you’re pretty good.”

  “No, just pretty capable.” Valkyrie Valentine kept her expression, always too eager to smile, as serious as possible. Her nose tickled. She hoped she didn’t sound nasal.

  “So tell me more about your concept.” The agent looked bored to Val, as if he’d already made up his mind that whatever she had to say wasn’t interesting, especially since she wasn’t wearing anything low cut.

  You’re not boring, she told herself. She let herself smile, finally, and launched into her spiel.

  “My concept is a one-hour program called A Month of Sundays. Instead of finding This Old House sorts of projects to fix up, we’ll concentrate on more ordinary houses and apartments, suburban and urban, and show what can be done if the viewer is willing to invest four Sundays—four shows and four weeks per project. Everything from home renovation, interior design, adding a room for a nursery—there’s a baby boom on you know—and the sort of undertaking that a typical homeowner will see as achievable.” Don’t babble, she reminded herself, even if his eyes were rolling back in his head. “The kind of project that can be done without a lathe, router or any of the other expensive equipment you’d find in The Yankee Workshop.”

  “Sort of like a women’s show. Like what’s her name, Lynette somebody.”

  Val gritted her teeth but kept her smile. “Somewhat like Lynette Jennings, yes, but Lynette stays almost exclusively inside the home and her projects are not covered in minute detail. We’ll do the occasional outdoor project, some gardening, and like I said, devote four hours over four weeks to a single home, not five minutes. And I want to emphasize that the projects can be done by working people. You won’t have to be unemployed to find the time to do my projects.”

  “You’re aiming for cable?”

  “Cable or PBS, yes.”

  “Hmm.”

  God, Val hated the “Hmm” moment. Her nose itched. All plastic surgeons should be shot.

  “Well, it’s an interesting idea.” He looked bored almost to sleep. “If I hear of any outfit looking for something like it I’ll get back to you, Ms. Val…ky…Val.”

  Val shook the agent’s limp hand and kept herself from wiping her hand on her slacks until she was out the door.

  He’d get back to her, would he? Right. Not an ounce of interest in taking the project to Viacom Corporate for The Learning Channel. Or even to any of the local PBS stations.

  She munched on an oversized cranberry-apple muffin from the bakery next to the Muni station and then shoved her way onto the N-Judah toward home. Her column was due at the end of the day and she needed to do one last proof.

  The streetcar clanked through tunnels and up some of San Francisco’s less challenging hills. All the while Val resisted the urge to rub her nose. It would just make it puffy. She opened her satchel then closed it again. Mr. Bored hadn’t wanted even to look at her collection of clippings from her column in Sunrise. Given his lack of interest in anything she said, why on earth had he agreed to meet with her after she’d cornered him at the Bay Area Cable Producers convention?

  She caught a glimpse of her refl
ection in the dirty window. Oh yeah. Sometimes she forgot. With her nose now suited to her face, men were certainly more eager to meet with her. Like Bored, however, they readily agreed to meetings but listened hardly at all once Val insisted they meet in an office, not a hotel bar.

  Maybe I should have kept the schnoz. She looked at her profile. No, she was better off without the Durante. Although unprepared for the dramatic change in her appearance without it, she was ready and more than capable of going in front of a camera, in addition to pounding a keyboard.

  She popped open a diet Coke when she got home and changed out of her “I’m serious, damn it” suit into jeans and a sweatshirt. A favorite sweatshirt, too. Deep purple with white lettering: That’s Ms. Muffdiver to You.

  She tripped over the laundry pile on her way from the bedroom to the living room, dropped into her chair at the crowded desk and snapped on the lamp. The light wavered, then steadied. She remembered she hadn’t picked up more fuses on her way by the hardware store and hoped that nothing blew just because she chose to turn on two lights and the computer. The precarious quality of the electrical supply was just one of the reasons the apartment rented at a minimum, which was still most of her budget. But she didn’t have to have a roommate—pesky things.

  She had just opened her document when the phone rang. Kim, her editor.

  “I need it before five, please, Val. It’ll keep me from killing myself.”

  “I’m just about done.”

  “Your food thing is really working too. We’ve added three new food advertisers.”

  “Thanks. I try.” No need to tell Kim just how much of her columns were imagination when it came to cooking. She had added some serving and menu ideas at Kim’s behest, but it required some serious research. Food that didn’t come out of a box first was a mystery to her. One ex-girlfriend had complained that Val could ruin Cheerios.

  She now had a stack of useful cooking references—Joy of Cooking for one. It helped, to a point. She’d read the entry on folding egg whites six times and still didn’t know what it meant, but she could use the word fold properly in a cooking sentence now.

  “Could you mention some brand names? Pick anything. We might be able to corner some more advertisers that way.”

  “By brand?” She hated the idea.

  “By brand, sweetie darling. And send it to me ASAP. I’ve just got to have it this afternoon or heads will roll.”

  “That explains why all the men have high voices.”

  Kim snarked—an indelicate snort of laughter that Val enjoyed getting out of her from time to time. Kim was far too ladylike. “You are so bad.”

  “And you are too stressed.”

  “It’s my job, sweetie darling. And yours.”

  Val muttered under her breath after Kim hung up. She understood that for most magazines ad revenue was tied to editorial content. If you wanted fast-food restaurants to advertise, you’d better have an article specifically mentioning that advertiser or at least french fries and burgers. It was even worse in so-called women’s magazines. Ads for lip liner were invariably placed near articles on how to use lip liner or on the qualities of good lip liner which just happened to be the same qualities described in the ad. Her inner journalist was too pragmatic to be overly appalled.

  She scrolled through her document one last time. She found a few places to add brand names. She used Sunrise’s own recommended best buys as a source. At least then she knew she wasn’t recommending junk.

  My guests are almost here and it’s lovely to greet them with a bank of beeswax candles in the foyer. It sets the mood for the evening and the light is wrinkle-friendly. Light, jazzy music drifts from the four speakers newly hidden in the living room. This project eliminated the speakers as boxy eyesores and the diagrams below will show you just how I did it.

  Val’s only stereo equipment was a boom box, but she had built the hidden speakers for someone else. Same thing. Sunrise had wanted Val to adopt Martha Stewart’s personal style and so she had. It was actually easier for Val than the impersonal how-to articles she’d started with. It seemed to her that a reader would be more interested in reading about how to do something if they had a reason why.

  Choose your speakers for their quality and size. They don’t have to be identical. In particular, choose them with an idea as to where you’re going to hide them. I chose a small Klipsch speaker because the diameter of the woofer was two inches less than the depth of the bookcase I was going to hide it in. My matching mahogany end tables hide a matched pair of Sonys. But don’t forget you need the means to balance the sound between speakers so a large speaker doesn’t drown out the others. An investment in a good quality receiver might be necessary to pull this project off. (See Aug ’97 p. 98 for Consumer Electronics Special Report for Best Buys tips on receivers). Infrared hookups, though expensive, can eliminate wiring worries completely.

  She wasn’t crazy about the brand name thing, but if she stayed with good quality and generally available merchandise she knew she wasn’t leading anyone astray. She mentally constructed the speaker hideaways as she proofed the article for the last time, then skimmed the closing paragraph.

  Music and a menu should complement each other. Jazz calls for light and sparkling fare. Simple ingredients handled with care can make a fine feast. Grapes rinsed with spring water and splashed with champagne for Louis Armstrong. Mashed sweet potatoes with honey as an artichoke dip for Chet Baker. Art Tatum? Chicken Marsala and giant sweet cheese ravioli with blanched sugar-snap peas. Dave Brubeck? That’s easy—Napa Valley Chardonnay shimmering in crystal. If food be the music of love, dine on.

  Shakespeare, the hack, would forgive her. She e-mailed the finished article, then settled into her well-worn comfy chair, avoiding the broken spring out of habit. She dug through the magazines stacked on the floor to find the Architectural Digest article on poured concrete flooring. She found it, eventually, behind the crate she used as an end table.

  She wondered for a few minutes about heading to happy hour where the girls were always aplenty. No, she needed an early night if she was going to look her best for the video shoot in the morning. Her nose was swelling slightly and sleep was the best way to help that. Any activity that required breathing through her nose for any length of time was right out. She hadn’t done any heavy breathing for over five months now. All plastic surgeons should be shot.

  VAL: The next step in this process is simple, but messy. Let’s see how Janice is coming along. (to door behind you)

  JAN: Well, Val, I’m just about ready to pour the grout solution on our tile counter.

  VAL: Nice duds.

  JAN: (laughs) I learned the hard way to wear a slicker and boots when working with liquid grout.

  VAL: (to camera) This solution is easy to mix and pour. It can even be tinted to shades more complementary to your tile color.

  (chit chat/pour/and out)

  VAL: (to camera) We’re going to leave this to set while we check on Stan’s progress with the bathroom flooring.

  “Cut!”

  Jan clapped her hands. “That wasn’t as hard as I thought it would be. I could get used to this TV stuff.”

  “The proof is in the tape.” Val worked her jaw back and forth and then grimaced. Her face muscles felt as if they couldn’t stop smiling. Her contacts stung, but her eyes were too dry to tear. She longed to take them out, but the contacts were the only way she could read the teleprompter. All the liquid in her body seemed to be in her nose. She sniffled.

  “Your face could get stuck in that position.” Mike cruised past her with his high-tech steady cam on his shoulder, leaving Val to lug the portable teleprompter.

  “I’m afraid I’m going to end up like Sue Ann Nivens.” Val trailed after Mike.

  “Is Sue Ann your latest barfly?”

  “Mike, you are so out of it. Sue Ann Nivens…the Happy Homemaker…the Mary Tyler Moore Show... television. Is any of this ringing a bell?”

  “Television. What a waste of tim
e.”

  Val rolled her eyes at Stan, who was setting up the bathroom shot. “This from a man who is supposed to help me get famous. I’m doomed.” Belatedly, she realized she should have argued with Mike’s innuendo that Val was over acquainted with barflies.

  Stan grunted as he whacked the underlayment down in one corner. “I’ve known that from the beginning.”

  “You never know,” Val began optimistically, but then she had to laugh. “I’m doomed.”

  But she hoped her shared investment in good equipment for Mike to do the filming would give her a professional quality demo tape. It was cheaper than hiring a pro, that was for sure. Pitching her own show would be easier with proof that she could perform in front of a camera. It hadn’t been hard to convince Mike to do the filming. He was practicing shooting outdoors and lighting and wanted some money for better equipment. He was good enough at it that Val hardly cared that he couldn’t name a single Brady.

  Not even Marcia. He’d also known friends working on a small construction project—Jan and Stan appeared to be getting a kick out of being filmed. The homeowner had agreed, too, even though it meant that the day’s work wasn’t as productive as usual, but it was only for one day.

  They worked steadily until the light began to fade, then Mike packed up. He promised them all professional dubs of the tape, then disappeared down the rutted track to the road.

  “I’m starved.”

  Val started. Jan’s voice in her ear had taken her by surprise. “So am I. Is that steakhouse in town any good?”

  “Don’t know. Feel up to an adventure?”

  Vibes. Val was getting good vibes from Jan. She had thought Jan and Stan Marsh were husband and wife. Now she realized they both had the same slightly bent nose and high forehead. Brother and sister. Well, alrighty then.