When in Doubt, Add Butter

by Beth Harbison

  “Hello, Chef-girl!” Rose called out. She was a staple of the book group, the one who had the most opinions. She was probably only in her early forties, but there was something distinctly old-fashioned about her, like she was a character from an old Fred Astaire movie or something, with her barrel chest, tiny legs, big face, and huge smile. I really liked her. “Aren’t you looking beautiful?”

  If it were anyone but Rose, I would have thought she was being sarcastic about my plain attire, hair pulled back, lack of makeup, but Rose was so kind that, even though I thought she was crazy, I knew she meant it. “Thanks, Rose.”

  “It’s true,” Lex said. “You’re just glowing.” He raised an eyebrow. “What have you been up to?”

  I laughed. “Nothing nearly as interesting as you think.” My mind flew to Mack. It seemed to do that a lot, actually. I had replayed our night together in my mind so many times, it was ridiculous.

  “That doesn’t look like nothing to me,” Rose said, clucking her tongue against her teeth. “I think you’ve got someone special on your mind.”

  I felt my face go warm. “I don’t,” I objected. “I mean, I know it looks that way, but—”

  “But what?” Lex patted the satin chaise for me to sit. “Come on, tell us everything.”

  This wasn’t quite so awkward as it seems, because I’d seen these people a hundred times before and we’d had some lively conversations, but at the same time, I felt pretty adolescent. “I met a guy,” I confirmed. “He was cute and we flirted,” I hedged, “but there’s truly nothing more to it. I don’t even know his last name.”

  “Maybe this is a mystery we can solve,” a little mouse of a man named Melvin said from the sofa across the room. “Tell us everything you do know.”

  “I know I can’t go chasing some guy I met one time without seeming psychotic.”

  “Or romantic.” Rose clapped a hand to her chest. “Maybe this is meant to be! Maybe that’s why you’re here tonight talking to us. Because we’re meant to help you find him!”

  I reached for a chunk of cheese from a platter on the coffee table and hesitated before dipping it in what I recognized as Provençal grainy mustard. Did Lex have any Frank’s hot sauce? Because that would be a perfect complement to cheddar. How had I never thought of this before, given how amazing it was on macaroni and cheese?

  “I’m not having you lot search this guy down,” I said, laughing. I could totally picture it, and that was not what I wanted my next impression—if there was a next impression, that is—to be.

  “Absolutely not,” Lex said, and handed me a bottle of Tŷ Nant water. “We need to be much more subtle than that. Don’t want to scare him off. After all, when was the last time you had a boyfriend?”

  My face felt hot. “Date or boyfriend?”

  “Boyfriend, dear. You haven’t been interested in any of the dates you’ve been on this year. Except, of course, this one.…”

  “Is it a friend of that hottie, Peter Van Houghten?” Rose asked. “You cook for him, right?”

  “He just got a new show at the network,” Melvin said. I always forgot he worked for a cable sports station because not one thing about him was consistent with that.

  “Did he?”

  Melvin nodded. “And they’re throwing a lot of dough at him.”

  “Does he have any friends for me?” Rose asked with a giggle. “I’d like a lot of dough.”

  And on the conversation went, the group’s speculation moving from whom I’d met to how much Peter Van Houghten would be making at his new gig, to how much other local D.C. celebs made, and eventually, to whether or not the famous mystery writer Angus Barton had been murdered or committed suicide.

  Finally, around 11 P.M., everyone had left and I was doing the last of the cleanup.

  “You don’t have to do that, you know,” Lex said. “It’s not part of your job.”

  “It’s not part of my job to sit and laugh all night with your guests either, but you let me do that, so let me help out.”

  “We love it when you stay, you know that.”

  “Thanks, Lex.”

  “Come sit down and talk to me for a minute,” he said, returning to the chaise where we’d started the night.

  “What’s up?” I asked, drying my hands on the dish towel before going to him.

  “That’s what I’m wondering. Are you okay? You seem a little”—he shrugged—“off.”

  “I know.” I sighed and leaned back. Suddenly I was exhausted. “I’m very stressed out about my work situation.” I explained.

  “That’s tough,” he said when I’d finished. “I had no idea you were doing all that catering on the side as well. When do you breathe?”

  “Oh, I slip it in here and there.”

  “It would be pretty hard to have a social life on top of all that, though.”

  “Probably. But sometimes that feels important, maybe more important than the rest. I don’t often admit this, but even though I’m busy, it can be pretty lonely to go home to an empty apartment every night.”

  He gave a sweep of his arm, indicating the large space he inhabited himself. “But isn’t there something lovely about the peace and quiet at the end of the day?”

  I looked at him. This was one of the lessons I had to keep learning in my life: that everyone was different, sometimes to the point where I couldn’t relate, but that didn’t mean they were more right or more wrong than I was. “You never wanted a companion? Someone to just drape across at the end of a long day and cry to when things are hard? Or laugh with when things are good?”

  “I have all that when I want it,” he said, and watching him, I could see that he meant it. That he truly was fulfilled and didn’t want anything else. “But it’s on my terms.”

  And there it was. Myself, I was weary from drawing up terms for everything. Sometimes I just wanted to share it, to let someone else take half the burden and share half the glory.

  Then, inexplicably, I started to cry.

  “Honey, honey.” He put an arm around me and shushed me gently. “It’s okay. You’ll have what you want. You’ll have everything you want.”

  “I’m okay, really,” I said, all evidence to the contrary notwithstanding. “I’ve just been a mess lately.”

  “And who wouldn’t be? Look, we sometimes have events at the store. I’m going to get that department to make sure you cater all of them.”

  “Oh, Lex.” I sniffled unattractively. “That’s not necessary.”

  “Hey.” He pointed a finger at me. “I want the best, and you are the best.”

  I mustered a smile. “Thanks.”

  “We’re also going to get your love life straightened out.”

  “Good luck with that.”

  “Gemma.”

  I looked at him, knowing I was kind of a sad sack right now, and had to smile. “Yes, Lex?”

  “If you expect the worst, you’re going to get it. You know what that means?”

  “Yes, Lex.”

  “It means,” he went on anyway, “that if you expect the best, you’re apt to get that, too. So expect the best.”

  I nodded. “Yes, Lex.”

  “I mean it!”

  “Thank you, Lex.”

  I left his apartment that night realizing that what I’d seen of his life tonight—including our time alone at the end of it—was exactly enough for him.

  And that, despite my years of protestations against love and anything like it, it wasn’t enough for me.

  Chapter 13

  It was with a strange mix of nervousness and confidence that I went to the Van Houghtens’ the next Monday night. Nervous because of Peter’s pass, but confident because bland food was so easy to make (if not fun) that I wasn’t too concerned about disappointing Angela. The trick was to be able to do my work without having to tangle with him in any personal way. Especially not if she was anywhere nearby.

  So it was a surprise when she said, “You might want to spice up Peter’s portion tonight.”
>
  I stopped dicing tomatoes and looked at her. “I’m sorry?”

  She paused, lips pursed, then said, “He seems to be wanting a bit more spice.” Another pause. “So I’m just suggesting you might give it to him.”

  “Well, I’m just making gazpacho, so he can add salt and pepper to it if he wants. That’s all it needs, as far as I’m concerned.”

  She looked at me critically—a look I’d seen before and that usually preceded some elementary lesson in bland cooking—but then she just shrugged. “I think it’s time for some change around here.”

  “Angela, are you trying to say you’re unhappy with my cooking?” I was not going to make any assumptions. If she wanted something done differently, I wanted to know it now, not until it was too late and I’d lost another client.

  “What makes you ask that?”

  I set down the knife and turned to her. “You just said I should put more flavor in Peter’s—”

  “Spice,” she corrected crisply. “He seems to want more spice.”

  Same thing, right? “If you want me to make your food separately, I’d be glad to do that, just let me know. I’m glad to accommodate you however I can.”

  “Do that.”

  I couldn’t figure out what was going on here. “O … kay—?”

  “Give him whatever he wants, I don’t care. In fact, I want you to give him what he wants, since I clearly can’t.”

  All right, clearly they were having personal problems. And obviously, I could have guessed that from the fact that he made a pass at me.

  But what was my best response?

  She probably didn’t know he’d made a pass at me, or for one thing, she would have sacked me on the spot. She was exactly the sort of person to go all “Queen in Snow White” if she was afraid someone thought she was not the fairest in the land.

  “He seems to be good with your choices,” I said. Then, worried that it sounded as if I knew more about her husband than she did, I added, “But if you want me to switch things up, I certainly can. You’re the boss.”

  He came into the kitchen then, and wordlessly went to the fridge and took out the almond milk.

  “I was just telling Gemma you seem to want more spice these days,” she told him, her voice both sharp and cold.

  He looked at her, puzzled. “Do I?”

  “Evidently.” She looked at me. “If you make our food separately, it should be fine.” She took a short breath, idly ran her hand along the counter edge, then, tossing a hostile look over her shoulder at her husband, left the room.

  Leaving him and me alone.

  I wished he would leave as well, but he didn’t. Instead he leaned on the counter and said, “Look, about the last time you were here—”

  No. I did not want to go there. “You already apologized,” I said. “I’m really uncomfortable revisiting it. Again.”

  “I understand,” he said, and I felt his gaze on me like a wet washcloth. “I just wanted to explain.”

  I shook my head. “No explanation is necessary. It shouldn’t have happened, it won’t happen again, let’s just leave it at that. Please. You’re my employer, it’s just not my place to be having personal conversations with you. Let’s leave it.”

  So much for spicing up his meals, right? I only wished that was the biggest of my problems here. Flavor, spice, organic or not organic, oil or water … these were all issues I was ready and able to address at any moment. But stuff with Peter wasn’t about cooking. It was the age-old business of a lonely or desperate or ignored or fill-in-the-blank husband looking to someone else for comfort. Or just plain old sex. I honestly didn’t think he was taking advantage of his position as my employer, but the fact that he was my employer just made it that much more awkward for me.

  And then some.

  He nodded. “You’re right. Again, I apologize.” He left the kitchen without waiting for me to respond.

  But even after he’d gone, I had the strange feeling he was still watching me.

  * * *

  “I haven’t heard a thing,” Lynn said the next Saturday night, when we were at the country club for a forty-fifth wedding anniversary. “Believe me, if someone was bad-mouthing you, I would let them have it.”

  “Thanks,” I said, arranging chocolate-dipped strawberries onto small china plates. “Do you know if there have been any complaints at all? It won’t hurt my feelings—I just really need to know if my work hasn’t been up to par.”

  “The response to your cooking is always outrageous,” she said, moving the plates onto serving trays. “You know that!”

  “I don’t know anything anymore,” I said, and pushed a stray hair back out of my eyes. “Losing the Fouty party is throwing off my finances for the whole month. I don’t know what I’ll do if I lose any more.”

  “Well, for all her peculiarities, at least you have Angela on your side,” Lynn pointed out.

  I thought about it for a moment. It was true, Angela had a tendency to be pissy with me, heaven knew, but where else was she going to find someone to cook to her exact—and ever-changing—specifications? “True, but if someone doesn’t like what I do, she can’t change their mind.”

  A waiter came in and took the platter just as Lynn put the last plate on it, and then she started on another.

  I plated, she plattered.

  “Not unless she’s sleeping with them or something,” she said flippantly.

  “Not likely.” I gave a laugh. “I don’t even think she’s sleeping with her own husband.”

  “No?”

  “Nope.”

  “Okay, spill it.” She paused and looked at me with interest. “What do you mean?”

  I told her about Peter’s pass at me and how awkward it was in the house now.

  “Girl, you need to get some new work,” she said, giving a low whistle. “If Angela finds out about that, you will lose every job here.”

  “Do you really think she’s that powerful?”

  “Oh, yeah.” She lifted the platter. “Listen, if I were you, I’d go back to that psychic guy and see if he can tell you where to find some new jobs.” She gave a quick smile. “And take me with you. I have a bad feeling that if you get screwed by this, I’m going to get screwed by association.”

  “No pressure there.”

  “Aw, don’t worry about it. Jimmy, my first husband, is an attorney. If I get fired unfairly, he’ll have their asses in a sling.”

  “I didn’t know he was a lawyer!”

  She nodded. “In some ways, I marry well.”

  “And in others…”

  “Yeah, well. I won’t make that mistake again. And if I try, I’m counting on you to stop me.”

  I sucked air in through my teeth. “I don’t know about that. I’m with you in theory, but I’m afraid I’m a real sucker for romance. If you tell me you’re in love and want to go for it, I’m going to be hard-pressed to be a big buzzkill on that.”

  “I know.” She shrugged, then leaned against the counter and said earnestly, “For all my kidding around about it, the truth is, I’d love to be happily married. I didn’t go into either of my marriages with the idea that divorce was an option.”

  I nodded. “I’m sure you didn’t. What happened?”

  “Oh, the typical stupid story you don’t think happens in real life. I married for the wrong reasons. I had daddy issues and married two men who were older and who could ‘take care of’ me, then the age difference took hold and”— she shrugged again—“it didn’t work.”

  “So at least you know, now, what you were doing wrong.”

  “Oh, yes. The problem is, knowing what you’re doing wrong and getting it right don’t necessarily go hand in hand. Romance is tough. Everyone wants a soul mate. But maybe we don’t all have them out there.”

  It was a depressing thought to contemplate. When I was young, I’d assumed it was there if I ever wanted it, which made it easy to shun the idea and declare I’d never get married. Now and then over the years, though, I�
�d revisited the idea, only to feel that maybe I’d been wrong all along. Maybe it wasn’t a choice I’d made, but a decision that had been made for me by forces more powerful than myself.

  Or maybe love was really only the domain of the young and lucky. In high school or college, it was easy to get a boyfriend. As time passed and people paired off, life became lonelier.

  And despite the fact that a huge number of people seemed to be facing that and feeling that, the fact remained.

  Life could be cold.

  “Anyway,” Lynn said, breaking my melancholy mood. “Jared and I are going to give it another try, so … who knows?”

  I looked at her. Her smile was tentative but unmistakably hopeful. And I felt an odd twinge that maybe she was right, maybe this time it was going to happen for her. “No one knows,” I said, and smiled. “That’s the point. We never, ever know what’s coming.”

  Chapter 14

  “Now you want to see me?” Vlad asked, his mouth drawn into a tight little line.

  This was stupid. It had been a stupid idea to begin with, and an even stupider thing to pursue. Worse, I had cash in my pocket—cash I couldn’t afford to spend—in case he wanted payment for his psychic services this time.

  “I was hoping you could help solve a mystery,” I said, like I was trying to entice a six-year-old into telling me where he’d hidden the TV remote.

  “Shuffle the cards.” He nudged a large deck toward me across his desk.

  “Don’t you want to know what I’m asking about?”

  He looked at me. “If you must. But I think it’s about money, no?”

  “You can see that?” I had the sudden thought that my situation must be even more dire than I’d thought if he could tell the minute I walked in.

  He scoffed at me like I was an idiot. “Everyone worries about money. Money and love.” He nodded toward the cards. “Shuffle.”

  Okay, wow. That’s how far gone I was. Was I so desperate for some easy solution to this situation that I was willing to leap to magical explanations and methods of detecting them?