“Here you see the entire family of muffets,” I cooed. The show’s food stylist had outdone herself. On the first platter, one muffet sported two apple wedges poking out of the top to make a bunny shape. I tipped it toward camera number two, as I’d been instructed.
The audience did its “Awwww” thing again, just as the other four hosts of The Scene appeared onstage. They clustered around us at the table. “So can we eat now?” asked Wanda, the comic.
“Sure!” With a flourish I offered a plate of bite-size slices. “These are the Apple and Cheddar, and”—I gestured regally, like a game show hostess helping contestants to buy a vowel—“here we have the Carrot and Black Bean, and on the end we’ve got Focaccia Fiesta.”
That’s when I stopped cold. Because one of the ingredients in the Focaccia Fiesta was lime juice, for flavor. And Lizzie had just said she was allergic to citrus fruits.
Sweat pricked my neck. The five hosts of The Scene were swarming around the table, popping bites of muffets into their mouths, tasting the various flavors.
“I don’t really taste the black beans in here,” challenged Wanda.
But I almost didn’t hear her, because I was staring at Lizzie who was within striking distance of the Focaccia Fiesta.
“It’s . . . ,” I stammered, weaving between silken talk-show hosts toward Lizzie. “The, uh, black beans are sweetened up by the uh . . .” I planted myself at Lizzie’s elbow, body blocking her from the fated muffets. “The carrots,” I finished lamely.
“Oooh! I wish I’d had these when Gabby was little,” said the hostess named Charity, from the other end of the table. “She loved anything with apples. Still does. I can’t believe cheddar goes so well with the apples!”
“Gross!” countered Wanda. “Cheddar and apples, together?”
Next to me, Lizzie pouted. “That’s Ava’s favorite. They are absolutely not gross.”
For a minute I felt redeemed, but then I realized that praise warmer than “not gross” was usually necessary to sell TV viewers on the flavor. I opened my mouth to say something, but then became distracted again as Lizzie’s hand crept toward the focaccia plate.
I grabbed the plate. Then, by reaching behind the backs of the other hosts, I set it on the opposite end of the table, in front of Wanda. “Here—I bet you’ll like these.”
I wondered what would happen to Lizzie if she ate citrus. Would she get hives all over her face, or would she swell up and turn red? Would she sue me if she couldn’t appear on the show for the rest of the week? Would my business insurance policy even cover that?
The sweat was rolling down me now.
“I just feel so good about giving muffets to Ava,” Lizzie said, nibbling a bite of Carrot and Black Bean. “Every one of them is so much better than fast food.”
“I’ll bet Julia’s kids don’t eat fast food,” Charity commented as she tossed another bite of muffet in her mouth.
“You’re right,” I said. “But remember when it was perfectly acceptable to advertise a ‘secret sauce?’ Remember that?”
“Yes!” Lizzie shouted. “Nobody cared that we didn’t know what was in it.” She traded places with Wanda and landed in front of the dreaded focaccia once again. “Eew! We were so foolish then.”
“But that was before the finger-in-the-chili days, wasn’t it?” Wanda said wryly.
The audience made telltale grossed-out sounds, and Wanda grinned.
“It’s a different world now,” I managed, as I wove my way over toward Lizzie again, just in case she should reach for the wrong muffets. “I would like everyone to know how muffets are made, so they can feel good about giving them to their children.”
Lizzie’s manicured hand reached for the focaccia.
Panicked, I grabbed both her hands and squealed. I very much hoped the gesture conveyed the sort of excitement teenagers might express having discovered a big sale on designer shoes. On TV it might have looked like I made a strange pass. “I have an idea,” I said desperately. “I’m going to give away the muffet recipes on my website. All of them. So mothers can know exactly how they are made or even bake a batch themselves if they want to.”
“Oooh! You’ll give them away for free?” Lizzie asked. “How generous!” She gracefully dropped my hands, widening her embrace to include the entire TV studio. “Julia, it’s been lovely having you on the show. And for our lovely studio audience we have Ava’s favorite muffets for everyone! Thank you, Julia. And thank you to all my wonderful costars! Where would I be without you? We’ll see you all again tomorrow on . . . The Scene!”
There was a final burst of wild applause, and I clapped right along with them. The music swelled, and then finally the lights went down. The air around me magically cooled by about ten degrees. Just as I was processing this phenomenon, I felt a swish of wind to my right where Lizzie had been standing. She was gone. Without a word, she and her costars had swept off the stage, probably to the five dressing rooms with the stars on the doors that I’d glimpsed during my hurried arrival.
I looked back toward the audience, which I could finally see more clearly, now that the studio lights were off. Somehow they’d filed out with remarkable speed, as if there had been a fire drill. But then I remembered the enormous goody bags full of giveaways the ladies were rushing toward, and it all made sense.
I was suddenly perfectly alone on the stage, my two-hundred-odd new friends having vanished before my very eyes. I felt some kind of weird grief at the loss. And my feet were killing me. A lone stagehand, dressed in black and whistling, began coiling up an electrical cord a few yards away. Even he didn’t look at me.
I had the sudden urge to cry.
“Mama! Mama!”
“Wylie!”
He came running toward me, chubby arms pumping. He arrived at my feet, lunged forward, and hugged both of my knees together. I scooped him up and buried my nose in his soft hair. “Were you a good boy for Marta?”
“I see Mama on TV!” he said.
“You did?” I asked.
“Like Elmo.”
Marta caught up with us then. Her eyes were wide. She gave me an enormous high five but was otherwise uncharacteristically speechless.
“What’s the matter? Did I do okay?”
“Genius!” she whispered. “Giving the recipes away is genius.”
“Oh, Marta, it was an impulse. It sounds like a no-no. But I thought that maybe three potential customers will actually cook them instead of buying them. And another three thousand might love me for it and become loyal customers.”
Marta nodded, her eyes flashing. “Absolutely. Genius.”
I laughed, but tears pricked my eyes. Who knew that being on TV would make me so emotional? “God, I didn’t plan to say that. I was trying to keep Lizzie away from the focaccia.”
Marta’s eyebrows went up. “Why? Because of the lime juice? Chica, I left it out for this batch. Because of her allergy.”
I stared at her. “You did? Oh my God, I was so panicked.”
Marta waved a hand dismissively. “She did a whole segment about it last year. The poor girl has never even tasted a margarita. Isn’t that sad?”
“Margaritas?” I could really use one myself. Pass the tequila and organic limes. Maybe it would bring my heart rate back into the normal range. Then I remembered. “Marta, I have something for you. Do you have my purse?”
She opened up her shoulder bag and pulled it out.
I set Wylie down on the stage and pulled the envelope out of my purse. “Marta, this TV appearance is the best shot we’ve had at a break. And it wouldn’t have happened without your quick thinking. So I want to give you this.”
I handed her the envelope. She took it with a curious frown. She unfolded the paper inside and looked with confusion upon the numeral ten.
“Marta, the lawyer won’t have the documents ready for a couple of days. You are to own ten percent of Julia’s Child. I had Jasper draw this for you—it’s a stock certificate!”
Now un
derstanding, Marta put one hand to her mouth, and two tears squeezed out of her eyes and rolled down her cheeks.
“Oh,” I said. “Please don’t cry. I want you to have it. And, hey, it’s not like we’ve ever turned a profit, so I’ve really just given you ten percent of nothing.”
“Oh, shut up, Julia,” Marta said. “An equity stake?” She pressed her hand to her mouth. “Thank you. It’s the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me. Do you think . . . Is that supposed to be Spider-Man?” She held up the stock certificate. Indeed, there was a red and blue, webbed scrawl in one corner.
“Probably,” I said. That made it a high honor from Jasper too.
Marta dabbed her tears with her sleeve. “Well, check him out.” She pointed.
Wylie had climbed up on the display table where I’d “cooked” for the show. He was kneeling there, licking the batter off the spatula.
Marta laughed. “Turn the cameras back on. That’s the shot we want.”
I gave the stock-in-trade mommy line: “Wylie, tables are not for climbing.” He ignored me.
“Come on, honey, we’re leaving,” Marta called to him. “Time to bail your nanny out of jail.”
My mouth fell open. “What?”
“Luke called,” she said, by way of explanation.
“Where jail go?” Wylie asked.
Chapter 10
The closest I’d ever come to a real courtroom was on television, so I wasn’t prepared for Courtroom 125. It was a windowless dungeon striped by wooden pews. Fluorescent lights flickered over a rumpled judge who sat at the front on a raised dais. I scanned the sparsely populated benches, looking for a familiar face.
I spotted Luke in the middle of the room, sitting just behind a railing that divided the front section from the rear. I scurried down the aisle and slid onto the bench next to him. He looked up expectantly and then opened his arms to gather me in. When he smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkled.
“How did it go?” Luke whispered into my ear.
I gave him a thumbs-up sign, mindful of the proceedings in the front of the room. A scrawny, tattooed young man faced the bench and was standing beside a suited woman who might or might not have been his lawyer.
I turned back to my husband and cupped a hand to his ear. “What happened? Have you seen Bonnie?”
Luke shook his head. “I haven’t, but . . .” He pointed.
Ricky Dean, Luke’s now-balding high school buddy, approached from the opposite side of the railing—the business end of the room. Years ago he had graduated from petty arraignments to more lucrative litigation and was obviously here as a favor to Luke.
Ricky leaned over the railing to give me a quick kiss on the cheek. “Hi, gorgeous,” he stage-whispered. “How are the boys?”
“Great, and yours?” We rarely saw Ricky and his family because they had decamped to the burbs several years earlier.
“Good! And, you know? We’re actually expecting a third one early next year.”
Luke grinned. “Rick, when are you going to leave that poor girl alone?”
“Docket 7-4-2-7, case 1-7-Z-42!” erupted one of the court workers at the front of the room.
My back stiffened at the announcement, but Ricky didn’t even seem to hear it. “That’s not us,” he said without even a glance toward the judge.
“So now will someone please tell me what happened to Bonnie?” I asked in a whisper. She was nowhere in the courtroom.
“Bonnie is fine—pissed off, but fine,” Ricky said. “On her way home last night, she fell asleep on the subway and missed her stop. A cop woke her up, told her she couldn’t sleep there. Bonnie got very upset that the cop was trying to throw her off the train like a homeless person. The train had gone all the way into the Bronx then circled back around into Manhattan, and Bonnie wouldn’t get off the train, because it was headed home.”
“So . . . he arrested her? For falling asleep?”
“It’s illegal to sleep on the train. You know, so they can keep the place from filling up with homeless people. But the cop only brought her in because she pissed him off. Apparently, she sassed him. Accused him of racial profiling. That kinda thing.”
“Oh,” I said, trying to make sense of it.
“As I told Luke—this will probably be over fast. I’m hoping the ADA goes for the ACD,” Ricky explained.
“Um, what?”
“The assistant district attorney. He might give us an adjournment in contemplation of dismissal.”
“They might throw out the case?”
“Sort of. It would stay on the books for six months. But as long as Bonnie’s not arrested for anything else—no speeding tickets or fines—it will go away completely.”
Luke looked at his watch. “You think that will work?”
Ricky beamed. “Sure! Look around you. The other poor slobs dragged through this room have nobody. We’re going to look like the Brady Bunch in comparison. They took her to central booking, found no rap sheet at all. It will be fine. The DA even looks cheery today,” he added, gesturing toward a ruddy man at the front of the room. “Maybe he got lucky last night. Hey! Is that your little man?”
I turned to see Marta carrying Wylie down the courtroom aisle. He beamed at us from Marta’s hip. His was the only smiling face in the room.
“I sent them around the corner to buy some diapers. I didn’t want him in here any sooner than necessary. This place is skeevy.”
Ricky laughed. “You want skeevy, you should see the holding pens.” He sat down on a bench on his side of the divide.
“Daddy!” Wylie exclaimed, scrambling over me to reach Luke, as if to say, “Fancy meeting you here.” All the world was a party to Wylie.
Marta slid onto the bench next to me. “I should head back to the office now,” she whispered.
I smiled. “The phone might be ringing off the hook! Orders rushing in.”
“You never know, chica. Besides, we have a website to figure out.”
Didn’t I know it! Good thing I was married to a computer genius. “Pssst,” I said to my husband. “I need a website.”
He nodded. “Makes sense.”
“I mean, I need one by tomorrow. It’s a long story, but I announced on live television that I would publish my recipes on the Web.”
“Tomorrow? I don’t know many Web developers.”
Luke didn’t seem to understand what I was asking of him. “Sweetie, I know you’re not really a Web developer, but . . .”
Luke stared. “You don’t mean me?” he hissed. “I’d be . . .” He trailed off. “Inappropriate for that position.”
“Are you saying it’s like Mrs. Picasso asking her husband to paint a signpost?”
Luke chose his words carefully while allowing Wylie to yank on his necktie. “You had a big day, so you should think big. If you hire a proper Web developer, you’ll get professional results.”
“Are you saying you won’t do it? It would take you, like, fifteen minutes!”
“If that were true, I’d be happy to help. But you need someone who is familiar with all the latest fashions. My field is systems architecture, not page design. You’d be asking me to choose things like . . .” A look of distaste crept onto his face. “Typestyles,” he finished, as if I’d asked him to select a nail polish color.
Marta nudged me. “Chica, don’t worry about it. We’ll get Derrick’s team.”
I wasn’t quite ready to let Luke off the hook, but Marta’s idea had merit. Our little Manhattan office at the Chelsea Sunshine Suites was part of a small-business ghetto. Most of its other, younger denizens worked for Internet start-ups. Derrick, a hip-looking dude with a pierced lip, sat out in the bull-pen area. Even if I’d never exchanged more than polite greetings with him, it was somewhere to start. “Great idea,” I agreed. “As long as he has time. They always look busy.”
“We’ll offer him extra,” Marta said. “And if he still says no, I’ll sleep with him.”
I feigned surprise, mindful of Wylie. This
is the kind of situation where our español habit comes in handy. “¡Puta sucia!” I threw one of Marta’s colorful phrases at her, one I heard whenever her computer acted up. The translation was “dirty whore.”
“Ladies,” Ricky warned over his shoulder, “even though the baby doesn’t speak Spanish, everyone else in the courtroom can. Including the judge.”
“Me not a baby,” Wylie pouted.
“Docket 7-4-2-7, case 1-7-Z-43!” a court officer called out.
“Here we go,” said Ricky, standing. In four great strides he moved to the front of the room. A metal door on the left clanged open, and a young woman was led, head down, into the courtroom by two muscled bailiffs. I stared, unsure if it was really Bonnie up there. With her back to the room, and her sleep-flattened hair, the poor girl could have been any sad waif. The Bonnie I knew always held herself with a queen’s bearing.
When her bailiff escorts stopped in front of the judge, she shrugged off their touch. She took a deep breath and improved her posture. That was the Bonnie I knew.
I wasn’t the only one who saw her. “Bonnie!” Wylie shrieked from Luke’s lap. As quick as a flash, he slipped off Luke’s knees to duck under the railing. He slid in front of Marta and me, gunning for the center aisle. He clearly meant to rush the stage.
We dove at the same time, thrusting one arm each through the railing. I caught an arm, and Marta grasped his pants. Together we pulled him back toward our side of the courtroom.
“No take Bonnie!” He struggled.
Startled, the two bailiffs actually stood back, as if God himself had ordered them away.
I scooped Wylie back over the railing and held him up. “Shh,” I told him. “Bonnie will come out in a minute, okay? Shh.”
He stopped yelling, thankfully. But then he began to sob. “Want it Bonnie. Where Bonnie go?” I held him tight and whispered in his ear.
Bonnie turned around then, a look of terrible remorse on her face. The defiant posture disappeared again. She met my eyes only for a second and then turned back to face the judge, her chin drooping toward the floor.
Julia's Child (9781101559741) Page 9
