And we hung up. In some ways, I couldn’t wait until I next talked to him. But also, saying Oh, this banter is fun and all, but let’s get serious about our child was not a thrilling prospect.
Was it even possible that I might never have to say it?
Chapter 19
“Okay, so tell me what a diet meal is to you,” I said to Willa.
She was sitting at her computer at the kitchen counter, having just finished—and won—a five-thousand-dollar hand at poker. It was incredible, really. I had to wonder what her yearly gross was.
And what on earth she could write off on her taxes, since her overhead pretty much consisted of her computer and Internet connection. There was no way to get a deduction for the brain you were born with.
“When I was really dieting hard, I’d have a plain yogurt and a banana for dinner.”
“Typical. I can see why that seemed reasonable.” I nodded at the computer. “Look up the nutritional content of that.”
She started clicking away, and it was clear she was ace on the computer. “Got it. An average banana has a hundred and twenty-one calories.”
“Write that down. We’re going to do a comparison.”
She switched screens and clicked, then switched back. “What now?”
“How many carbs?” I knew that would be high. Frankly, that was what was so good about bananas. Especially if you sliced them in half, sautéed them in butter and brown sugar, then topped them with toasted cashews and vanilla ice cream. But this didn’t seem like the right time to point all that out.
“Thirty-one carbs,” she said. “But no fat.”
“Fat is not your enemy,” I said. “At least not unsaturated fat. How much protein in a banana?”
“Um.” Click. “One-point-five grams.”
“Okay, jot that down—now find out the same information on the yogurt.”
It took her only seconds. “Eighty calories, no fat, eight grams of protein, and only fourteen carbs.” She looked pleased with herself. “I bet the fruit yogurt has a lot more than that.”
“I’m sure it does. So, in a way, that was a good choice. Plain versus sweetened. But how satisfying was the meal?”
“Yogurt and banana?”
I nodded. “I mean, you can’t call it a meal, but that’s what you were using it for.”
“True. And un. Unsatisfying. Completely unsatisfying. Almost worse than having nothing at all.”
“Did you tend to eat something decadent a few hours later?”
“Not always. I was really, really militant about my diet back then.” She sighed, as if she missed those days. But clearly, those days were gone and I had to show her a better way. I had to do whatever I could to help her.
See, I really liked Willa. I didn’t always particularly like the people I worked for. The Van Houghtens were a good example of that. I was always grateful for the work, and grateful to anyone who was willing to pay me good money for the thing I loved to do, but not everyone felt like a friend.
Willa was beginning to.
And the more I saw her, and the more I got to know her, the more I truly did worry that her health problems were going to take a serious toll on her.
“Add that up, would you?” I asked. “What are the totals?”
“Two hundred and one calories, forty-five grams of sugar, and nine-point-five grams of protein.”
“And satisfaction, one to ten?”
“Two.” She shrugged. “I do like bananas.”
“Me too.” I smiled. “Okay, now consider this. We’re going to compare values, nutritionally and satisfaction-wise, okay?”
“What’s the goal?”
“To match or beat the calories in the banana and yogurt with something that’s actually delicious.”
“Wouldn’t a Three Musketeers bar do that?”
“Okay, yes.” It was true. “But also something that’s satisfying and gives you energy and vitality and all that stuff that makes us feel good.”
“Go for it.”
“All right.” I reached into my bag. “Six large shrimp.” It was the Costco ones, which I loved. Each was like one of Paul Bunyan’s fingers, solid and meaty.
“A hundred and ten calories, no carbs, two grams of fat, and twenty-two grams of protein.”
“Good stuff, right?” I turned on the water in the sink and started slipping the shells off the shrimp, putting them in a colander to dry as I went along. “All of that is good.”
“I do know protein is key. Especially for me. Carbs make me want to sleep.”
“They turn to sugar in your system right away.” I finished the last two shrimp, then sprinkled all of them with a little bit of salt and pepper. “No caloric significance here,” I said as I did it. “But flavor. Flavor is significant.”
“I’ll say. What next?”
“Butter.”
“Margarine?”
“No, seriously, butter.”
“Be real. I can’t eat butter. There are like a million jokes built right into that one single ingredient!”
“Moderation,” I said, then crinkled my nose. “Don’t you hate that word?”
“Totally.”
“But it’s really true with food. A little bit of real butter or real cheddar or real Parmesan or whatever can make a huge flavor difference where you might use a lot more of something a lot less healthy. I remember there was this diet guru a few years back who said we could eat whatever we wanted as long as there was no fat in it.”
Willa nodded. “I remember her.”
“Do you remember how we all ballooned when we believed it? Because they added sugar and fake ingredients to everything. So”—I took out my stick of Land O’ Lakes—“two teaspoons of butter in a nonstick pan. What’s the nutritional value there?”
I have to admit here, I wasn’t entirely sure how this was going to shake down. There was the possibility that what I concocted would end up having the calories of a Big Mac, making the yogurt and banana seem like the better option, but I knew that even if it did, we were talking about food that would be used nutritionally so much more that it was worth it, regardless.
Still, the butter concerned me.
“Two teaspoons?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“That’s just a sliver.”
“Well, no, it’s a couple of slivers. Theoretically, we could sear the shrimp without any, but we want the flavor and the moistness. So go ahead, hit me with it.”
There were a few clicks, and Willa gave a low whistle. “Seventy-two calories and three grams of fat.”
“Fine.” I dropped the butter into the nonstick pan. “Keep the heat on medium so the butter doesn’t burn, thereby making you add more. As soon as it’s melted”—I paused a minute, then pointed—“like this, add the shrimp.” I dropped them in and they sizzled in the heat and immediately started to curl. “This takes only a minute or two per side. The rule of thumb is that when they curl into a C, that means they’re cooked.”
“Cute.”
“Completely.” I turned off the heat. “Okay, this is gratuitous, but let’s go for it anyway. Three cloves of garlic.”
She concentrated on the screen and announced, “Four calories, one carb, no fat, no protein. But that carb surprises me.”
“Statistically insignificant.”
“I know.”
I chopped the garlic quickly and tossed it in the pan. “Now, this stuff you don’t even need to look up. A little lemon juice and some Cajun spice don’t add up to anything.” I tossed them in and moved the shrimp around with tongs.
“I have to admit, that smells amazing,” Willa said.
“Better than yogurt?”
She laughed. “A little bit.”
“All right. Now we have a bunch of romaine lettuce, as much as you want, really, but this is one small heart of it.” I’d already washed it—there’s nothing I hate more than watery salad from lettuce that was washed but not dried properly, so I tore it quickly into a bowl. “Dark
leafy greens have fiber, iron, calcium, lutein, magnesium, and vitamins C, E, and B. In other words, this is worthwhile.”
“Gotcha.”
“Now look up two teaspoons of olive oil.” I poured two teaspoons into a measuring cup with a spout.
“Forty calories, four grams of fat.” She looked at me. “That seems like a lot.”
“Yeah, but it’s worth it. Monounsaturated fats aren’t as troubling as, like, bacon fat.”
“Which is awesome.”
“Tell me about it.” I took out another bottle. “Two teaspoons of balsamic vinegar?”
She clicked, then laughed. “Ten calories, nothing else.”
“Good. And honestly, you might want to go more. Sometimes I do like three-quarters vinegar to one-quarter oil, but the oil has omega-threes for your heart and brain, and it’s important for absorbing the nutrition of the greens, so don’t skip it.”
“And chocolate is important to mood.”
“It is.”
“I know.”
We laughed.
“Okay, and we’ve got a little chopped onion, chopped carrot, salt, pepper, mustard, nothing significant.” I tossed them into the measuring cup as I spoke, then took out a whisk and whisked it all together to emulsify it. “And that’s it.” I poured it onto the lettuce and tossed it well.
“I have to admit, it looks impressive.”
I plated the salad and arranged the shrimp next to it. The plate was full, and it was a regular dinner plate, not a tricky, optical-illusion salad plate. “What’s the breakdown here?”
She looked at her computer screen and raised her eyebrows. “Two hundred thirty-one calories, one carb, five grams of fat, and twenty-two grams of protein.” She made a face. “Jeez, you went over by thirty calories.”
For a moment, I thought she was serious, but then she broke into a smile.
“So try it,” I said.
She took a bite of the shrimp and nodded. “That’s amazing.”
“Try the salad.”
She did. “Wow.”
“So on the one-to-ten scale of satisfaction?”
“Ten!”
“Come on, it’s not Brie en croûte. But, seriously, one to ten.”
She thought about it. “Brie en croûte being a ten?”
“Or whatever your poison of choice.”
“Deep-dish pizza from Armand’s.” She sighed. “Okay, I’d give this an eight. For real. Maybe even a nine.” She took another bite. “It’s seriously amazing.”
“See what we’re doing here?”
She nodded. “Thinking. Calculating.”
“Which is exactly what you do for a living, right?”
“Ideally.” She had another bite. “Don’t you want some?”
“I already ate,” I lied. The truth was, I was a little queasy, and shrimp wasn’t on the list of foods that appealed to me right now. “Besides, if you had only half that, you’d be hungry again in a couple of hours, and fast food would be looking all too good. Believe me, I’ve been there.”
“Okay, so what’s really going on with you?” she asked, as if she were asking where I’d gotten my shoes.
“What do you mean?”
“Something’s bothering you. It’s obvious. What is it?”
“Oh, nothing. I’ve just had a lot on my plate lately. No pun intended.”
“Yeah?”
“Believe me.”
She didn’t meet my eyes, but I could tell there was a lot behind her next question. “You’re not going to quit here, are you?”
“What? No!”
She looked at me. “Really?”
“Of course I’m not going to quit! You’re not going to fire me, are you?”
“No way!”
“Good!” I smiled at her. “Then we have no problems at all.”
She squinted at me, clearly assessing me and seeing right through my veneer. “Okay.” Pause. “But if you want to talk about it, feel free, okay? I might not be the ideal person to give diet advice, but I’m not too bad with regular life stuff. Keep it in mind, okay?”
I believed her. And meant it when I said, “I just might take you up on that.”
* * *
As great as Willa was, Angela Van Houghten was the exact opposite. Obviously, I’d learned this over and over again, but it didn’t stop me from being surprised every time she did something I didn’t see coming.
“I won’t be here to eat tonight, so don’t bother with anything for me,” she said, stepping up to me in a cloud of heavy perfume and standing before me like we were gang members playing chicken. “In fact, it’s just Peter tonight. The two of you will be completely alone.”
She paused only briefly, but a shudder ran through me.
“So,” she went on, “there is a rib-eye steak in the refrigerator for you to prepare for him.”
“A rib-eye steak!”
She nodded. “It’s his favorite.”
“Okay.” Something was off here. “But I thought you were concerned about any sort of cross-contamination, whether it’s pans, utensils, or whatever. I’m not sure how to prepare a steak without using the tools I usually do.”
“Don’t worry about it.” She waved her hand airily; then her tone changed to something, if not nice then at least nicer. “Just clean it well, and I’m sure it will be fine.”
This just didn’t sound like her. “Are you sure?”
“Of course. Why are you doubting me?”
“I’m not, it’s just…” Just what? “Whatever you want, Angela. I just don’t want you to be concerned about it later.”
“I won’t even be here,” she said, as if that were the solution. “That’s why I thought it would be nice for you to just give him what he wants for once. If I’m not here, who cares?” She shrugged broadly. “It’s nothing to do with me.”
It didn’t make sense, but I wasn’t interested in figuring out what was behind this change of heart. Maybe she was slipping off to sleep with some boyfriend or something and wanted to assuage her guilt by letting her husband eat something she would normally deem sinful—who knew? It wasn’t for me to decide.
“Okay, I’ll make the steak.”
“Perfect,” she said without enthusiasm. “And, I hate to ask this, but perhaps you could stay with him while he eats, since Stephen and I won’t be here? It can be upsetting to eat alone.”
As far as I knew, he’d done that plenty, but I was pretty sure she was up to something now and whatever it was, I did not want to know, so I just nodded and said, “If he gets here while I’m still cleaning up, then, yeah, of course I’ll keep him company.”
“Good.” She headed for the front door and didn’t say another word.
Peter came in about fifteen minutes later.
“What is that smell?” he asked, incredulous. “Is that steak?”
“It’s about to be,” I said, scraping shallots out of the pan and onto a plate. “Angela got it for you.”
“Angela got me a steak.”
“Yup.”
“Did you check to make sure there were no holes in it from the injection of poison?”
“No, I didn’t. But it’s right there if you want to take a look.” I gestured with the spatula.
And he actually went and looked.
“She said she wasn’t coming back, so she wanted you to have one of your favorites,” I fudged. “I think she was trying to make a nice gesture.”
He looked at me as if that were every bit as unlikely as it felt when I said it. “Nice.”
“So how do you like your steak cooked?”
“Rare.”
I nodded. I could have predicted the answer. Whatever I asked, the answer was bound to be the opposite of what Angela approved of. “I can have it ready in fifteen. Does that work?”
“Sure. Just give me a shout. I’ll be”—he gestured—“in the den, watching TV.”
“Will do.”
When he’d gone, I seared the steak for two minutes on each side, and
then set it aside, tented with foil, while I reduced port wine in the hot pan. I couldn’t get over how incongruous it was to be doing this in Angela Van Houghten’s kitchen. If she were here, smelling the delicious aroma of steak and anything from the onion family, her head probably would have blown off.
But that scent was going to linger for hours. When was she planning on coming back? Was whatever she was doing so compelling that she was willing to put up with this in order to do it?
It seemed so. She didn’t have a suitcase in her hand when she left. There was no moving van out front. Presumably, she was going to come back to this tainted kitchen and her husband’s steak breath, and then what?
Oh, well. It wasn’t for me to figure out.
All I had to do was cook when, where, and what I was told to, and to take the money and run.
And after I called Peter to dinner, and he brought the day’s Wall Street Journal and a clear disinterest in any sort of interaction with me, that was exactly what I did.
With tremendous relief.
Chapter 20
I was surprised to find Mr. Tuesday himself—well, okay, Paul—in his apartment when I got there. This never happened.
But I have to admit, I felt a thrill as soon as I saw him.
“Hey,” I said, dropping the keys into my pocket. “I wasn’t expecting you.”
“Sorry.” He put some papers aside and stood up. “I should have warned you so you wouldn’t be alarmed.”
I laughed. “Yes, from now on, you must make sure to tell me when you’re going to be in your own home.”
We walked into the kitchen together. “I finished early at work.”
“Oh?”
He shook his head. “No, I wanted to see you.” He opened the fridge. “Beer?”
“No.” My hand shot instinctively to my stomach. “Thanks.”
He didn’t appear to think anything of that, just took one out and opened it for himself. “You know, you’ve been coming here for more than a year, and suddenly even the word Tuesday makes me nervous as a cat.”
“I know what you mean.” Excitement flowed through my veins and muscles like cool water. “I’m having a hard time thinking of you as Paul and not Mr. Tuesday.”
“Mr. Tuesday?”
I nodded. “You were very mysterious for a long time, you know. I couldn’t puzzle you out. All I knew for sure was that you were a man and I cooked for you on Tuesdays. Hence, Mr. Tuesday.”
When in Doubt, Add Butter Page 19
