She gasped. “Good Lord.”
“It’s pure food porn, this menu,” he said with a wink.
Bridget felt herself blush. Naturally, she was familiar with the expression, but hearing those words coming from his lips made a few impure thoughts bubble to the surface of her mind. She banished them, of course (a woman shouldn’t think of a friend that way!), but she couldn’t as easily dismiss the comparisons that were arising between Her Friend Luke and Her Husband Graham.
Like the fact that Graham never got excited about a dish written in a foreign language. When they were first dating, and during their early years of marriage, he was a little more exploratory. At least he’d tried a few unusual cuisines. These days, though, he would just wrinkle his nose at the weird pronunciation and ask her why the restaurant couldn’t just have “your basic hamburger, for chrissake.” She’d actually stopped trying to get him to go anywhere that didn’t serve buffalo wings or slabs of pizza because, really, it was no use.
But Luke. Wow. He wasn’t putting on some show for her just to be nice. He loved this stuff, too. He was as zealously focused on those dishes as she was. And she couldn’t help but wonder—fleetingly—what it would be like if she were with someone every day who shared her similar passion for specialty foods.
They went back and forth, with ever-rising ardency, for several minutes. The Insalata di Gamberi alla Sarda. No, wait. Look at the Lasagne di Magro. Ohhh, or what about the Bruschetta di Pomodori?
After their waiter had returned twice, Luke finally took the reins and just ordered for them. He chose the bruschetta appetizer and, also, a platter of stuffed portobello mushroom caps. He also ordered the truffle ravioli, a meaty polenta casserole (Polenta Pasticciata con Ragù di Carne), crisp salads with Kalamata olives and a raspberry vinaigrette dressing and two glasses of the Tuscan red wine. “It’s the house favorite,” he explained. “And no matter what you do, save room for dessert.”
She laughed. “You must be insane,” she said when their server brought a tray filled with just the appetizers and proceeded to load their table with the beautifully arranged platters. “There’s no way we’ll be able to eat these, our entrées and dessert, too.”
He leaned across the table until he was only about five inches away. “Trust me. We will find a way.”
She blinked, sent him a quick smile and glanced at a couple striding past their table. The man, dressed in a business suit, was oblivious to them, but the woman stared at Luke strangely and shot a scowl at Bridget that bordered on hostile. Luke noticed none of this. Instead, he engaged her in a conversation about salad dressings for twenty minutes and, slowly, she began to relax.
When the main courses arrived, Bridget studied her half-eaten salad. Delicious, but she was already getting full, and Luke was in the process of divvying up the polenta and the ravioli. He touched the back of her hand with his forefinger to get her attention, then offered a plateful to her. Her senses were momentarily overwhelmed by both the physical contact and by the gorgeous food display. “Take a bite,” he urged. “Tell me what you think.”
She began with a forkful of the polenta casserole, and Luke did the same. Both of them sampling it at the very same time. The flavors swirled around in her mouth, teasing her with their subtleties. The spices in the meat. The richness of the sauce. The multiple cheeses. She gave an involuntary groan and reached for her wine. It was the perfect accompaniment.
“I hope you know you’re ruining Franklin’s Diner for me,” she said. “I’ll never be able to order their Wednesday Night Italian Special again.”
He laughed, looking pleased with her reaction. “I’ve had the Chicken Vesuvio at Franklin’s. It’s not bad, but it sure as hell isn’t up to Buona Cucina standards.”
She remembered seeing the Buona Cucina version of Chicken Vesuvio on the menu when they arrived. It was a Chicago specialty, so she wasn’t surprised they had it. Having now tasted firsthand the unique combination of sides and sensational spices used in the Buona Cucina dishes, she could only imagine the way this restaurant would upgrade the Chicken Vesuvio to a gourmet level.
She fell into the reverie that sometimes happened when she envisioned a beautiful entrée, and she started detailing her thoughts to Luke. “I can almost taste the chicken, see it practically falling off the bone, the skin delectably crisp. The potato wedges are sautéed in extra-virgin olive oil, dotted with garlic and oregano, and white wine is added for a burst of flavor. A handful of green peas are tossed in at the end, accenting the otherwise earthy colors on the platter.” She broke out of her trance. “Right?”
He was staring at her, his mouth partway open, his warm brown eyes luminous. “That’s exactly right, Bridget. What else do you see?”
She shrugged but, with his encouragement, she soon found herself in another daze of food creation, telling him how she’d like to experiment with the polenta recipe—adding a dash of basil and several tablespoons of dried porcini mushrooms. “And wouldn’t it be interesting if we used veal instead of beef?”
They were working their way through the ravioli now, but he nodded at her in a way that made her certain she had his full attention. “I hadn’t thought it possible to improve upon these dishes, but my Italian mama would be giving you a standing ovation.” He exhaled and beamed a look at her that was two parts admiration, one part hunger. “I’ll bet your husband feels he’s the luckiest man in the world to come home every night to your culinary creativity.”
The comment skewered Bridget’s heart like a shish kebab. Thankfully, she had her mouth full of a perfectly al dente wedge of ravioli, so she wasn’t required to answer right away.
And she needed the time.
The thing was, whether it was intentional or not, Luke had taken a sideswipe at her marriage. She knew she couldn’t be so disloyal to Graham that she would be able to laugh aloud at Luke’s suggestion, but she, likewise, couldn’t bring herself to lie either and claim her husband was remotely appreciative of her cooking skills.
So she chewed slowly, smiled, then deflected the comment with a remark about how difficult it was to get kids to eat anything “adventurous.” But, thinking of Evan’s stomach upsets as well as Graham’s lack of interest in her “exotic meals,” she couldn’t help but frown. This was something Luke apparently picked up on, although he attributed her discomfort to only one source: Evan.
“Hey, how’s your little boy doing? Any improvement with things at school?”
“No, it’s not good. He’s a very sensitive kid. We’re trying to do what the teachers suggested—make sure he gets enough sleep, eats healthy meals, talks out his problems instead of internalizing his frustrations. Stuff like that. But I’m not sure how much it’s helping.”
She’d told Luke and Candy about her conference a few days after it’d happened, and both had been very sympathetic. Yet another contrast between the dentist and her husband, she couldn’t help but reflect, and with a touch of bitterness.
Luke was solicitous of her opinion and tried to suggest possible reasons for Evan’s behavior change (“Could it be a bully in his classroom? A food allergy?”), while Graham dismissed most of her concerns outright with lines like: “It’s just a phase” or “Probably growing pains.” His idea of handling Evan’s problem was to pat their young son on the head, tell him to “be truthful” and to “make sure to poop” when he needed to and “not hold it in.” Very helpful.
She didn’t mention any of that to Luke, although she admitted to having gotten another phone call from teacher Miss Welsh, and she explained that Evan’s siblings were going out of their way to, as Cassandra put it, “cheer up their depressed brother.”
“It’s sweet, the effort Cassandra and Keaton have gone to,” she told him. “It’s nice seeing them do something besides trying to torment their little brother.”
But she didn’t add that the recent sibling kindness had had an unexpected effect: She was a touch…jealous. There. She admitted it, at least in the privacy of her mind. Her old
er children couldn’t make Evan’s stomachaches go away, but they’d managed to make him laugh, which made her feel both powerless and a bit of a parental failure. She couldn’t even do the simplest things to help her baby boy. In fact, the only place she felt remotely successful these days was at Smiley Dental.
On that subject, though, it was almost as if she’d had too much success. “I wish you’d consider going to full time at the office,” Luke said. “Jim and I have been talking about adding more receptionist hours. Something you might be interested in?”
She’d heard rumors from Candy about this but hadn’t wanted to be presumptuous. “I don’t know,” she blurted. “I’m still adjusting to working part time.”
“Well, think about,” Luke said. “Keep it in the back of your creative mind. We could use more Bridget hours.”
She smiled. Oh, yes, she’d consider it.
They’d talked so long and eaten so leisurely that, when the time finally came for dessert, Bridget found she could be cajoled into splitting a treat with Luke. “Seriously. Two bites, though. That’s all I’ve got room for,” she told him.
“You say that now, but wait until you taste their Bellissimo Tiramisù.”
Bridget didn’t need to shift her imagination into overdrive on that one. Even at average Italian restaurants, there wasn’t much that could ruin the combination of ladyfingers soaked in espresso and rum and then layered with sweetened mascarpone cheese. She made some mention of the weight she’d gain from this luncheon, but he cut her off.
“No. A woman like you, with a healthy appetite and a good attitude toward delicious food, is a rarity. People—mostly women—they get all caught up in calories and nonsense. What’s a few extra pounds? If you usually eat reasonable portions of well-made food and enjoy the dining experience, you’re treating your body and your spirit far better than those myopic folks who stuff a meal—healthy or not—into their mouths without tasting it. Who deprive their bodies of something delicious and nourishing just because of some strange power play. That’s not good. And it’s not attractive,” he said, implying with a tilt of his brow that she was, as long as she didn’t dare turn down dessert.
Quite honestly, she wouldn’t have dreamed of doing so.
When it came, along with the two spoons Luke requested, he raised his wineglass and motioned for her to do the same. “A toast to world peace. May everyone dine as richly someday, and may they realize the sweetness of fine food is more powerful than the bitterness of human discord.”
They clinked glasses and drained the remainder of their red wine. As she was licking her lips, her empty glass still in her right hand, her spoon in her left—poised for digging into the tiramisù—her male friend winked at her. “You’d better do justice to your half,” he mock-threatened.
Giddy with the joy of the day and, perhaps, a little high on the rich scent of mascarpone, she threw her head back and laughed. And right at that moment, her laugh still floating in the air above their table, that couple from before—the one with the scowling lady—walked by again. They were headed in the other direction but, on this pass through, the woman didn’t just scowl. She stopped.
“Luke?” the forty-something woman said, her greenish eyes narrowing, her vocal tone chillier than a pint of Häagen-Dazs.
He saw her this time around. His only response to the woman—who’d handed a big box of leftovers to the guy next to her and had crossed her sticklike arms in front of her flat chest—was an expression of surprise and an exclamation. “Hey, Nancy. How’re you doing?” Luke raised his hand in greeting to the man in the business suit, who seemed preoccupied with figuring out a way to escape the restaurant.
Nancy’s male companion flashed a return wave at them, jauntily held up the Styrofoam box and then announced he needed to get the car from the parking garage.
After he’d scurried away, Bridget returned her gaze to the woman whose eyes were, if possible, even narrower than they’d been. There was something oddly familiar about her, but Bridget couldn’t place her. She didn’t think she’d ever seen this Nancy person before, but she couldn’t shake the fact that she felt she should know her.
“A long way from Glendale Grove just for lunch, eh?” Nancy said, directing her frigid remarks at Luke but eyeing Bridget’s hands as she spoke.
Bridget set down her empty wineglass and tried to inconspicuously lay the spoon on the white tablecloth, but it hit the dessert plate and clattered. Despite the noise, the woman kept focusing on Bridget’s fingers. What was up with that?
Luke said, “Yes, but Bridget and I needed to make a trek here. Bridget, this is Nancy. She’s Dr. Nina’s sister. Nancy, this is Bridget, one of our fabulous receptionists at Smiley Dental.” He grinned. “Plus, she’s an amazing cook in her own right. No one makes a chestnut ravioli like Br—”
The woman shifted away from Luke and stuck her bony hand in the vicinity of Bridget’s face. “I’m Dr. Nancy Brockman-Bertelstein,” she said, her words clipped and cold with a dash of smug. Bridget shook her icy hand. “I don’t believe we’ve met at the office, but I’ve seen your picture on the staff board, and my sister has told me about you.”
Bridget blinked at her. “Oh?”
“Oh, yes. Nina and I are very close. We talk a lot.” Nancy gazed at her coolly enough to convince Bridget the commentary hadn’t been favorable.
Bridget wondered, was she the problem or was it Dr. Luke? Had he taken out other staff members for lunch before? Did Nancy and Nina think he was, like, some kind of serial Italian food seducer? But, of course, she didn’t say any of this.
“So, you must know I’m part time, then,” Bridget mumbled. “And kind of new.”
“And married,” Nancy said, her gaze returning to Bridget’s fingers. Oh, her wedding band. That was what she’d been staring at.
“Yes,” Bridget said. “I am.” She forced a grin at the witch. “Are you a dentist, also?”
“A surgical gastroenterologist.”
“Ah.” No wonder she was so skinny. She probably dissected all her food before eating it.
Nancy bestowed upon them a pinched smile, which, to Bridget, looked more like a grimace. “Well, nice to meet you. Enjoy your—” She waved her palm at the sweet confection in the middle of their table as if it were a platter of live roaches. “Your dessert.” And with a parting glare in Dr. Luke’s direction, she floated away.
The encounter was almost enough to ruin Bridget’s appetite for the tiramisù, and that was saying something.
“Well, she’s, um, interesting,” Bridget ventured. “I didn’t know Dr. Nina had a sister. Do you know her well?”
Luke shook his head. “Not really. She pops into the office every once in a while. But she lives in Chicago, and I think she doesn’t much care for the untamed suburbia of Glendale Grove.” He laughed, forced a few spoonfuls of tiramisù on her (so spectacular!) and essentially played off the incident as if it were nothing.
But, try as Bridget might, she couldn’t shrug it off as easily. Not even after they’d left Buona Cucina Italia behind and Dr. Luke—he was definitely Dr. Luke again—had returned her to her vehicle and she’d thanked him profusely for the lovely lunch.
At heart, she may still have been a naive Catholic girl, but she knew being spotted by someone like Dr. Nina’s sister could present complications in her…her friendship with Dr. Luke. Innocent though it was. She knew the Who of the problem (Nancy!) and she suspected the Why (the woman despised her—what had Dr. Nina said?), she just wasn’t sure about the How, the Where or the When. But she figured she’d better be prepared for anything.
14
The Trio
Friday, October 15
They wandered into the Indigo Moon Café at varying times: Jennifer first, who privately clocked their arrivals and worked to slow her breathing—part of her never-ending quest to incorporate yoga techniques into everyday life.
She was followed by Tamara (two minutes later), whose mood had taken an optimistic turn on account
of both seeing her son the prior weekend and actually having good sex with her husband—even if it had just been that once.
And, finally, Bridget raced in (five minutes after that), and she, too, found herself almost content, but not because of her family and certainly not because of her luncheon with Dr. Luke but, rather, because each member of their threesome seemed, oddly, okay.
Well, “okay” was the wrong word. It was more like “familiar.” Too often lately she hadn’t recognized her friends. They’d been distant, withholding. And so had she. But she didn’t sense the same degree of tension on the faces of the other two women that morning, so it felt like a return to old times. At least initially.
“It’s been a while since we’ve all been together,” Bridget said cheerily. “The fall’s been sort of stressful, so it’s…nice to be back again. How are you both doing?”
Jennifer inhaled, nodded, exhaled. “Good.”
“Much better,” Tamara said, reacting immediately to Bridget’s words. They were a reiteration of Jon’s comments about the difficulty of the past couple of months and, also, they offered a ready excuse for her less-than-charitable behavior toward her friends during much of that time. She wasn’t going to pass up an opportunity to take it. “We went to see Benji over Columbus Day.”
Her friends exclaimed at this news with predictable enthusiasm and pressed her for details on the visit. For a few joyous minutes, Tamara reveled in playing the part of the proud mother again, as opposed to the depressed, pathetic and abandoned one.
She echoed Bridget’s sentiment of it having been a tough start to the autumn and she said, by way of subtle apology, “This past weekend was the first time I felt like myself since Aunt Eliza died. Or, really, since Benji left for Austin.”
Bridget smiled at Tamara, fully and genuinely, compassion flooding her rounded body, and her lingering apprehension slipping away. Like a UFO chaser, she wanted to believe. And, like a (kind of) good Catholic, she also wanted to forgive.
Friday Mornings at Nine Page 18
