Add Spice to Taste

by R. G. Emanuelle

  “Sounds good. Okay, see you tomorrow.”

  “See you tomorrow. Thanks.”

  A drag queen approached the door to the bar just as I was about to re-enter, and I held the door open for her.

  “Thanks, doll-face,” she crooned in a baritone as she sauntered in.

  I made my way back to Julianna, whose face brightened when I appeared. “Welcome back.” Even over the din of the bar, and macerated in alcohol, her voice was sweet and sensuous.

  “Thanks.” I sighed. I hadn’t realized I’d missed her until just then.

  “Everything okay?” she asked.

  “What? Oh, sure. That was Brit. You know, from class? She needs someone to cater a party.”

  Clouds settled in her eyes and her features seemed set lower on her face. When she caught my eye, she quickly picked up her drink and took a sip.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  She looked at me a moment, and put her drink down. “She’s kind of cute, huh?”

  Where had that come from? “Uh, yeah, I guess. If you like that sort of thing.”

  She smiled again, but this time, it was somehow fake, as if she’d forced it. “That sort of thing?” She chuckled, a bit cynically. “You mean Barbie doll face, slamming body, and ridiculously gorgeous, impossibly colored red hair?”

  I had to stop and visualize all the components she had just described and put them all together. Yep, that was Brit, all right. “Yeah, that sort of thing.”

  “Do you?”

  “What?”

  “Like that sort of thing?”

  Was she jealous of Brit?

  But wouldn’t that be arrogant of me? And I could be totally jumping the gun. Just because Julianna seemed to like me and wanted to go out with me didn’t mean she wanted anything meaningful or exclusive, which would be the only reason for jealousy.

  Why did I feel like I was constantly walking into traps?

  “Uh, well, I can see where people would find her attractive. I mean, she’s got that, uh, obvious attractiveness.” Shit. I sighed. “I really hadn’t thought about it.” I shrugged, hoping she’d realize that I wasn’t interested in Brit.

  Julianna quirked an eyebrow.

  Despite the air conditioning, sweat began to spread across my forehead and upper lip. I felt thirteen years old again, completely ignorant of what people wanted and how I should react to things they said. It was as if the last twenty years of my life had been completely erased and I had no experience with women at all. Or, maybe despite my experience with women, I still didn’t know shit about them.

  I was going to fuck this up.

  “I like you.” There, I said it.

  She regarded me for a long moment, then her face relaxed. “Good. Let’s get out of here.” She threw the rest of her drink back and set the glass down on the narrow ledge behind her.

  If relief were a tangible object, I would’ve held it in my hand, squeezing it to death.

  We walked out into the sultry night and I had the temerity to reach for her hand, which she gave readily. We crossed the street and somehow it was understood that I would take her home and we headed toward the train station.

  I glanced back over into Christopher Park. The woman with the flower was still there sitting next to her “girlfriend.” She wore a wistful far-away gaze, and I got the feeling that she was not present in the here-and-now but in a time long ago, when she was happier, and maybe not so lonely. I turned away and looked straight ahead, Julianna’s hand firmly in mine.

  WE STEPPED OUT of the subway in Julianna’s Brooklyn neighborhood and walked down the block. “This is a great area,” I said. “I love Carroll Gardens. Can’t afford to live here, though.”

  “The only reason I can afford to live here is because my grandfather owns the building I live in. I pay only half the rent he would otherwise get for it.”

  “Wow, that’s pretty nice of him.”

  “It’s not that big a deal. He’s owned it outright for decades. He bought it back when this neighborhood was shit and no one really wanted to live here. But, for whatever reason, my grandparents did. Maybe they saw the future.”

  “Boy, were they right.”

  Julianna laughed. “Yep. Now, all the rent they get is for taxes, utilities, and maintenance. There’s no mortgage.”

  “Lucky them.”

  “And lucky me.”

  We walked for another minute, past well-lit shops and people sitting on benches outside bistro-style restaurants. Some of them had their dogs with them, who were happily watching humans go by or lapping water out of metal bowls. While the neighborhood was not as architecturally pretty as nearby Park Slope, it was evocative of a bygone era, with original wooden door and window frames and signage that recalled the turn of the twentieth century and that Old New York charm. It still clung to that time, even as the well-to-do were turning it into an “acceptable” place to live.

  She pulled me to a stop in front of an elegant brownstone behind a pristine iron gate. A wreath of twigs and flowers hung on the front door and the window of the door was shaded by white lace curtains. Flowerpots lined the window sills on all three floors, and small flagstones formed a path to the sub-street-level entrance. It wasn’t a basement, exactly, since it was only partially below street level, and I knew that what was once the servants’ entrances before the twentieth century was now hot property, sought after by hipsters and yuppies alike.

  “Wow, this is beautiful,” I said.

  “Come on. I’ll show you my apartment.” She walked up the terra-cotta–colored steps and I followed close behind, through the first door, then the second. We stopped just inside the vestibule. She turned to shut the door and her face was so close to mine that I couldn’t resist. I leaned in close and she didn’t push me away. So I leaned closer until our lips met. Before I knew what was happening, her back was against the wall and we were making out, right there in her grandparents’ vestibule. Did her grandparents still live in the building? She hadn’t said. What if they came out and saw us?

  My concern for decorum was overshadowed by the breathtaking experience of feeling a desire and passion that I thought was long gone. I was like a recovering addict who had learned to live without, until one day, I unexpectedly got a taste of it and all resistance was lost. The difference was, this drug would only do me good.

  I pressed her up against the wall and gently placed my hands on her hips. She pushed her hips into me, which I took to mean she wanted more. My hands felt like they were made up of live wires as I ran them over her ass, and she moaned. My body was pressed hard up against hers, and I craved more. She put her arms around me and pulled me tight.

  My thigh was between hers and I pushed in firmly. She responded by parting her legs, then her lips as she let my tongue farther in. She moaned again and I glided my hands back up her waist. Then my phone buzzed. We pulled our lips apart, but only barely.

  “Your pocket is vibrating,” she said in a devilish tone. “You must be happy to see me.”

  “Mm, hm.” I kept plying her with kisses while my phone buzzed a second time.

  “Are you going to get that?” she asked in between kisses.

  “No, it’s a text. I’ll look at it later.” I barely got the words out with my lips pressed against her skin.

  My phone buzzed again, but this time, it was accompanied by a ring, indicating that it was a call. Who the hell is bothering me now, of all times?

  “Seems you’re popular tonight.”

  “I’m ignoring it.”

  “It might be important.”

  “They can leave a message.”

  “Clearly, somebody wants to talk to you, and that just might keep happening until you answer.”

  Reluctantly, I reached into my pocket, still kissing her face, neck, and lips. “Hello?” I had the phone to my ear and I didn’t care what the person on the other line might hear.

  “Hi, it’s Brit again.”

  Julianna pulled her face away and looked di
rectly into my eyes. I’d left my phone on high volume after being in the bar and I knew she’d heard Brit’s voice.

  “I just texted you and I was just going to leave you a voicemail, too, just in case. I wanted to make sure I reached you. Listen, I can’t stay after class tomorrow after all. I have to do something. Do you think we could meet before class?”

  I heard every word Brit said but I was watching Julianna change from seductive to annoyed. In my hands, she went from supple and yielding, to stiff and inflexible. “Uh, yeah, sure. That’d be fine.”

  “Great. See you then. Bye.”

  I shut off my phone and put it back in my pocket. Julianna’s head was turned to the side. She stared blankly at the ground floor apartment door.

  I leaned in again and pressed my lips on her neck but she recoiled.

  “What’s the matter?” I asked cautiously.

  As her head turned back toward me, a sickening feeling came up from my stomach, through my chest, and lodged itself in my throat. It felt like my dinner had earlier.

  “Nothing,” she said. “Maybe it’s better if you to go home now. I’ll see you tomorrow. Thanks a lot for the evening. I had a great time.” One side of her mouth quirked up wanly.

  Every inch of me went cold and my hands were suddenly clammy. “I’m sorry. Was it the phone call? I didn’t want to pick up.” I was totally screwing up.

  “I’m just tired.” The flush in her cheeks had disappeared and she did indeed appear tired. “I’ll see you in class tomorrow, okay?”

  “All right. Good night,” I said, reluctantly releasing her. Without looking at me again, she began to ascend the stairs. Watching her go up without me was like standing on a train platform in September, waving goodbye to a summer love.

  What the hell had just happened?

  When I got back to my own place, I threw myself on the couch and stared up at the ceiling. The window was open and through the metal bars, I listened to the sounds of cars honking and planes flying low overhead, on their way to JFK or LaGuardia Airport. There were no more boxes lining the hallway and the sounds seem amplified in the cleared-out space.

  Was Julianna really jealous of Brit? I had brushed off the idea because it was absurd, but maybe it was true. Hadn’t I made it clear that I liked her? Maybe I hadn’t. Maybe I was not being bold or direct enough. Or passionate enough.

  That’s what I’d been told in the past. That I had no passion. Not enough for the women I had dated, anyway. I had always thought that I was a passionate person but, evidently, I had directed too much of it toward my career, and then my business.

  A business like that requires so much from a person, and whoever that person is with has to be flexible and willing to wait it out. Brenda certainly wasn’t that person. But I understood her frustration.

  But I couldn’t have done otherwise. Opening up that café had been my dream and I had to give it a shot. If I hadn’t, I would’ve hated myself.

  Apparently, it wasn’t meant to be. Neither the relationship nor the café.

  A tear rolled down my face and dropped onto the couch. I hadn’t cried in a long time. This time, though, I wasn’t crying because of my past relationships. I was crying because I had no idea what the fuck I was doing with my life. Would I ever feel like I had my shit together?

  The folder with the next day’s lesson plan and recipes sat on the coffee table and I got up to review them. Tomorrow was the last day of the Moroccan series.

  And I wondered if it was the last day I’d ever see Julianna.

  Day 4

  GETTING TO CLASS a half-hour early gave me time to set up while I waited for Brit. I always arrived early out of necessity, but I also embraced the quiet before the craziness of the day began. However, I didn’t wait more than five minutes before Brit showed.

  The denim shorts she was wearing were pretty short, but not slutty-short, and her purple T-shirt fit snugly on her curves. Without being completely solicitous, she was slinky and sultry, and I was suddenly uncomfortable. I had nothing against slinky, sultry women. In fact, I approved of them. And if whatever magic these kinds of women possessed was directed at me, all the better.

  At least, that’s what I used to think. Strangely, it kind of bothered me now.

  Brit dropped her things at a table and I went over to sit with her.

  “Hi. Thanks for coming in early,” she said, with no hint of anything unusual.

  “No problem.” Indeed, I really needed the extra money.

  “So here’s what I was thinking. I’m having a party with about 40 people. It’s for my sister’s twenty-first birthday and I want to make it really nice, you know?”

  “Sure. That sounds good.”

  “I was thinking something really elegant. Like a Champagne theme.”

  “Champagne? That could run into a lot of money.”

  “That’s okay. Money’s no object. She’s a special girl and I want to make this really memorable for her.”

  Of course money’s no object. “That’s sweet of you. Anything specific in mind for the food?”

  “Mmm . . . help me out. What can you offer?” she purred. Her knee was touching mine and the thought that maybe she wanted a five-finger discount of a different sort made me cringe. But I ignored it, assuming that she was just kind of flirty. Or that I was just out of my mind.

  I coughed, as if it would dispel whatever freaky sexual current was in the air. “Do you want it to be a sit-down dinner, cocktails, or a buffet? If you want dinner, we can do a standard service, or family-style dinner or tapas plates, too. How many courses would you like? Do you want me to actually use Champagne in the food, or do you want me to pair Champagnes with the dishes?”

  “Wow,” she said, her eyes widening. “So many questions. Um, I don’t know.” She looked bewildered and slightly pale.

  I laughed to put her at ease. “Okay, I’ll tell you what. You just answer the first question—dinner, cocktails, or buffet—and I’ll handle the rest. I’ll draw up a menu and you can look at it and tell me what you think. How does that sound?”

  She exhaled and relief brought color back to her cheeks. “That sounds good. I think I like the idea of a buffet.”

  “Great. When’s the party?”

  Her eyes became still, making her seem somewhat like a baby bunny seeing a fox for the first time. Her grin had a hint of guilt to it. It took a moment for her to respond and I wondered why the question was so difficult.

  Finally, she said, “Um, well . . . two weeks.” Her features crunched up and she pulled away slightly in a dramatic “don’t kill me” sort of way.

  In response, I gave her a “you’ve got to be kidding” look.

  “I know, I know. I’m sorry for the short notice but this all came about kind of suddenly. Lana gets into these moods sometimes and she got into one a while back and insisted that all she wanted to do for her birthday was go away. She didn’t want a party, she didn’t want to go out. Then, all of a sudden, last week, she informs me that she wants a party. So now, I find myself with a couple of weeks to plan, and I want to strangle her. I’ve got a few things lined up but I wasn’t sure what to do in the way of food. Then I met you and it hit me—I’ll have a personal chef come in and do the food. She’ll absolutely love it!”

  “Two weeks, huh?”

  She batted her eyes innocently.

  “Okay. How about I show you a menu on Monday? I need a few days to plan it.”

  “Perfect. Oh, and I want lots of great food, which I have no doubt you can provide.”

  I inwardly groaned. People have absolutely no idea what’s involved in catering a party.

  She put her hand on my knee and gave it a little squeeze. Oh, geez.

  “I am really amazed at how you master all of this. It must take some brains and a lot of, um, control.”

  Did her voice go down an octave when she said “control”? My mouth dried up and heat rushed up the back of my neck.

  “Years of training and practice,” I managed
to say.

  She stayed that way for a moment, slightly bent, with her hand still on my leg and looking at me in a way that I couldn’t quite decipher. It was as if she were contemplating something. As if she were contemplating me maybe naked.

  “I—I’m going to need some help,” I said. “I’ll have to hire someone. Maybe more than one.”

  “Oh, sure. Do what you have to do. I leave it in your capable hands.” She sat up and pulled her hand away as if nothing had happened. Maybe nothing had. God, I was so confused.

  “Okay, then. I’ll show you a menu and give you a cost estimate.”

  She stood up and said, “Awesome.” Then, she walked out of the classroom, leaving me to my latest befuddlement.

  It was still a bit early for class, so I went back to the kitchen and continued with my prepping. I kept looking up at the doorway, hoping Julianna would come in a few minutes early so we could talk.

  Ten minutes before class was to begin, I went to the blackboard to write the day’s menu and prep breakdown. Focusing was hard, as I kept wondering when Julianna would come in. My handwriting on the board was starting to slant and tilt downward and it was illegible by the time I got to the dessert elements. I picked up the eraser and swiped it across the bottom third of the board, picked up the chalk, and began rewriting the last list of ingredients.

  The students began coming in. “Morning,” they each said in turn.

  “Good morning,” I replied as brightly as I could.

  When the room was filled, I faced the class and looked around. Julianna was missing. Oh, no. What had I done?

  No, really—what had I done? Everything had been going so nicely and then went quickly to shit.

  “Hi, everyone,” I said, trying to muster up the enthusiasm I usually felt on the last day of the Morocco series. “Today is going to be the best day of this class because the menu is the best one in this series. We’re going to have an amazing feast later.” I turned halfway toward the board so I could read what I had written but easily turn back to talk to the students. “Kefta meatballs are self-explanatory, but you might not recognize some of the other dish names. So let’s go over them quickly and then you all can decide what you might like to take on.”