Too Many Cooks

by Dana Bate

  I try to stop my cheeks from flushing, but it’s of no use. My entire face is burning up.

  “No, I’m not!”

  She points at the screen. “Yes, you are. How long have I known you?”

  “Twenty years.”

  “And how many secrets have you successfully kept from me over that period?”

  I bow my head sheepishly. “None.”

  “Exactly. So out with it. What’s going on?”

  I look back at the computer screen. “That’s just it—nothing is going on. Nothing physical, anyway.”

  “Nothing physical? That means it’s something emotional. Are you . . . ? I mean, are you and her husband . . . ?”

  “No!” I say. “I mean, there has been some mild flirting. And I guess technically I slept in his T-shirt last Friday night. . . .”

  “WHAT?” Meg stares at the screen, her eyes wild. “WHAT DID YOU JUST SAY?”

  She bangs on her desk so hard that, for a moment, I lose her picture, and the screen goes black.

  “Hello? Meg?”

  Her picture returns. I can’t tell whether she’s breathing or not.

  “Ah, there you are,” I say. “The screen went black for a second.”

  “Did it? Well, good. Because that’s exactly what just happened to my brain.” She presses her hand gently to her chest and takes a deep breath. “So, take me through what you just said. Because I’m having trouble processing this. Why were you sleeping in Natasha Spencer’s husband’s T-shirt? And where were you while this was happening?”

  I take her through the entire saga: oversleeping, forgetting my keys, calling Hugh, sleeping in the guest room. By the time I’ve finished the story, Meg’s mouth is open so wide I can see her tonsils.

  “Wait. Hold on. You’re telling me you slept in Natasha’s house, while her husband was there and she was away?”

  “That is the story I just recounted to you, yes.”

  “What happened the next morning? Did you talk? Did you have breakfast together?” She leans closer to the screen. “What did you do with the T-shirt?”

  “I left it folded up on the bed. And no, we didn’t have breakfast. I tried to sneak out, but he caught me, so we talked for like three minutes before I left.”

  “Have you seen him since?”

  I blush again. The constant blushing is becoming a problem. It is one of the many disadvantages of having fair skin.

  “You have seen him again!” Meg crows. “Where? When?”

  “At a Lichtenstein exhibit at the Tate.”

  “You went together?”

  “No, we ran into each other. I realized I have no friends here, so I connected with another U of M alum who works at the Tate, and she invited me. Hugh just happened to be there. I had no idea I’d run into him.”

  “A likely story . . .”

  “Meg, stop.”

  “Listen, I get it. The guy is a fox. I’ve seen pictures.”

  “It isn’t like that. There’s nothing going on.”

  “Yet.”

  “Ever.”

  “I wouldn’t be so sure. . . .”

  “Okay, let me ask you the same question you asked me earlier: How long have you known me? Twenty years? And have I ever struck you as the kind of person who would sleep with a married man?”

  She sighs. “No, of course not. But that’s a scenario in a vacuum. Life isn’t a vacuum.”

  “I know. Which is, no doubt, the reason I’m thinking about a married man at all. I just broke up with the guy I’d been dating for six years. I’m probably just lonely.”

  “Probably? Definitely. But that doesn’t mean the two of you don’t have a legitimate connection.”

  I think back to the night I spent at Natasha’s house and the way Hugh made me feel—nervous, giddy, exposed. It was never that way with Sam. If anything, Sam made me feel the opposite: calm, steady, protected. Back then, that’s what I wanted from a partner—what I needed. I knew I’d always be safe with Sam. What I didn’t realize until a few months ago was that the more he protected me, the more the world around me shrank. But with Hugh . . . it’s different. Even though I’ve only known him a month, he has somehow made my world feel bigger and more complex, full of culture and excitement.

  “Besides,” Meg continues, “from what you’ve said, it doesn’t sound as if there’s any romance between Hugh and Natasha. They’re in separate bedrooms, right?”

  “That’s beside the point,” I say, shaking Hugh from my mind. “Married is married. And anyway, I met another guy last night who seems nice. He’s around our age, single, and interesting.”

  “Well, well, well! Isn’t it rough being Kelly Madigan? On the left, a famous, hunky politician. On the right, a dapper, English gent. How do you find the time?”

  I narrow my eyes, trying very hard not to rise to Meg’s bait. “Anyway,” I say, changing the topic, “tell me about my dad. He says you visited him. How’s he doing?”

  Meg grimaces and leans back in her chair. “Not so great. I’ve been meaning to write you. He’s . . . I think he’s having a really tough time with your mom’s death.”

  “More than before?”

  “Yes. Things have intensified.”

  “How? What did he say?”

  “It isn’t anything he said. It’s more like . . .” She trails off.

  “It’s more like what?”

  She frowns. “Well, he isn’t showering, for starters.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Because he stinks, Kelly. He stinks. Anyone within ten feet knows he isn’t showering. You don’t have to be Sherlock fucking Holmes.”

  “Ew.”

  “Correct.”

  I run my fingers along my keyboard. “I thought maybe he was doing better. He mentioned my mom in a letter he sent me. It’s the first time he’s mentioned her in a long time.”

  She shrugs. “I don’t know. Maybe he started doing better after I visited. But when I was there . . . Not good.”

  “He’s going to work, though, right?”

  “I think so. I kind of feel bad for his colleagues. He really needs to get the shower situation under control.”

  “I’ll give him a call tonight to check up on him.”

  “That’s probably a good idea.” She pauses. “Don’t mention that I brought up the shower thing, though.”

  “You just told me he needs to ‘get the shower situation under control.’”

  “He does.”

  “And yet you don’t want me to bring it up.”

  “I don’t want you to tell him I’m the one who told you. Just . . . weave it into the conversation naturally. Like, ‘I love my old-fashioned shower here. It’s so great. Speaking of showers... ’ You know. Like that.”

  “I’ll see what I can do.” I glance at the clock on my computer. “Shoot—sorry to cut this short, but I have to finish prepping three recipes for Natasha to taste tomorrow, since she wouldn’t eat anything on Friday.”

  “Cry me a river . . .”

  “Hey—you have no idea. You’d last five minutes in this job. Trust me.”

  “Not if I had Mr. Foxy Ballantine nearby . . .”

  “Meg—enough. Stop.”

  “Fine, fine. I won’t mention him again. But if anything else happens, I want to be the first to know.”

  “Nothing else is going to happen,” I say, but as I sign off, I’m not sure if I’m telling her that because I truly believe it or because I know I should.

  CHAPTER 18

  The conversation with my dad never happens. I call, but when I do, Irene O’Malley answers the phone and tells me he is picking up a new hose at the hardware store.

  “I’m happy to give him a message,” she says.

  “I’m sure you are,” I mumble under my breath.

  “Sorry?”

  “Nothing.” I clear my throat. “Just tell him Kelly called and that I’ll try him later in the week.”

  “Will do. Oh!” She lets out a yelp as something crash
es in the background. “Jeez, Kelly, your mom sure stacked her pots high.”

  “Why are you sorting through my mom’s pots?”

  “Your father needs a good home-cooked meal in his own kitchen is why.”

  My jaw tightens. Man, my mom called this one. “How kind,” I say.

  “It’s how I’m built,” she says. “I’m a giver. I can’t look at a handsome, lonely man like your father and not help out. No, ma’am. Not me.”

  I’m about to jump in and tell her she could help him most of all by getting him to scrub himself with a little soap and hot water, but then I think back to my mom’s note. My mom would, without question, rather my father stank up the entire state of Michigan with his stench than have Irene O’Malley insinuate herself into a potential sponge bath. The shower conversation will have to wait.

  “Thank you for your generosity,” I say. “I know it would have meant a lot to my mother.”

  “Yes,” Irene says, her voice tart. “Well.”

  “Anyway, please tell my dad I called.”

  “You got it.” Another pot crashes in the background. “Gosh darn it! This shelving system makes no sense at all.”

  “Maybe you can reorganize it next time you stop by,” I say. “You’ll need to make room anyway for that Tupperware of my mom’s you still need to return.”

  Irene goes silent.

  “Bye, now.” I smile to myself, and before she can say anything else, I hang up.

  Monday morning, I show up at Natasha’s house carrying two bags of food: poached salmon, carrot salad, and the preliminary makings of a kale burger. Poppy sent me a text last night saying Natasha would be ready for the tasting at noon, after which we can discuss the next recipes on the list—but only briefly, because Natasha has an appointment with her acupuncturist at one.

  Olga lets me in the front door and follows me as I hurry down the stairs to the kitchen. I begin unloading my containers into the refrigerator, while she stands at the edge of the counter, watching me.

  “Mr. Ballantine, he say thank you for the . . . ‘hodge podge.’ ”

  I freeze. “He did?”

  “Yes. He say the salmon is best yet. And the carrot salad . . . no needed Greek yogurt after all.”

  I try to contain my smile. “Good. I’m glad he enjoyed it.”

  She eyes me as I continue putting food into the fridge. “Miss Natasha, she is very happy you feed Mr. Ballantine so well.”

  “It’s no trouble at all,” I say, my face hot. “If someone didn’t eat the leftovers, I’d end up throwing them out.”

  “The cookies—those leftovers, too?”

  My chest tightens. The chocolate chip cookies. The ones I made the night I slept over.

  “Oh, those . . .” I don’t know what to say. Do I make up some elaborate story? No, I can’t do that. I’ll just get myself into more trouble. “No, they weren’t leftovers. Mr. Ballantine asked me to make some, so I did.”

  “When?”

  “Sorry?”

  “When he ask?”

  Why is she suddenly so curious? I can’t tell her the truth. At the same time, I can’t pretend he asked me while I was here at work. She knows that isn’t true.

  “You know, I can’t remember,” I say, reaching into the bag for the container of carrot salad. “The past few weeks have been a blur. For all I know, I imagined he asked for the cookies.”

  Okay, so that’s kind of a lie, but not really. The past few weeks have been a blur, especially that Friday night.

  “Ah.” She runs her eyes across my face. “Mr. Ballantine, he is happiest I’ve seen in very long time.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes,” she says.

  I close the refrigerator door, about to concoct some sort of explanation for his happiness, when Olga cuts me off.

  “Is good,” she says. Then she shrugs. “To me, is good.”

  I’m about to ask what she means by that, when we hear footsteps overhead.

  “No more talk,” Olga says.

  She grabs a duster from inside one of the kitchen cupboards, and as she makes her way toward the hallway, I could swear she offers me a slight smile before disappearing through the door.

  Later that morning, I put the finishing touches on the carrot salad and assemble the kale burgers, which I will sear to order once Natasha comes down. At five minutes to noon, I plate up the salmon, drizzling the mustard-dill sauce over the top in a zigzag pattern, and scoop out a portion of carrot salad into two small bowls, making sure I include sufficient amounts of both grated carrot and chickpeas.

  Ten minutes later Natasha storms into the kitchen, with Poppy close behind, a notebook and pen clasped in her hand.

  “So where is this salmon I’ve been hearing about?” Natasha says, flicking her long, glossy hair over her shoulder. She is, once again, dressed in blacks and grays, this time dark gray harem pants and a silky black tank.

  I grab the plate of salmon and push it toward her on the marble island. “I think I finally got it right. The coriander seeds really make the flavor pop.”

  “Let’s hope so,” she says, “considering Hugh has mentioned it twice since I got back.”

  “He has?” I say before I can stop myself. Then I quickly add, “Your opinion is the one that matters, so I hope you like it.”

  I hand both her and Poppy a fork, and Natasha slices off a small piece of salmon and swirls it around in the sauce.

  “Mmm,” she says, covering her mouth as she chews in her odd, rhythmic pattern and swallows. She nods at Poppy. “Try it—it’s good.”

  Poppy pokes at the fish and takes a small bite. “Lovely,” she says.

  Natasha holds the fork upside down in her mouth, tapping the tines against her teeth. “But I wonder . . . could we maybe add some rosemary?”

  “No,” I say, probably a bit too quickly.

  Natasha raises an eyebrow. “No?”

  “What I mean is . . . rosemary is a very strong flavor. Probably too strong for a preparation like this. Especially given the dill in the sauce. The flavors don’t really go together.”

  “Hmm, you’re probably right. . . .” She lays her fork on the counter. “But why don’t you take a crack at it, just to see.”

  I clench my fists beneath the counter. “Okay . . . I can do that. But the more times I retest things, the more trouble we run into with your deadline.”

  “Not if you work quickly.”

  “Even if I work quickly, we still have a long way to go. I can retest this recipe if you aren’t happy with it, but we’ll probably have to borrow that time from another recipe.”

  “She . . . isn’t wrong,” Poppy says timidly. “Your editor wrote today asking how things are progressing. You have time, but not loads of it.”

  Natasha raps her fingers against the counter. “Fine. We can keep this version for now. But if there is time at the end, I’d like to try it with rosemary. Just to see.”

  “Okay,” I say. “Deal.”

  Even though I already know rosemary won’t work.

  I bring out small bowls of the carrot salad for both her and Poppy, and while they sample small portions, I finish off the kale burgers.

  “I’m sorry, what are those?” Natasha asks, nodding at the burgers I’ve transferred to a plate.

  “Kale burgers.”

  “Why aren’t they green?”

  “I needed to add a few other ingredients to make everything stick together.” And not taste like a tree branch.

  “The kale burgers I used to eat in LA were much greener than that.”

  I push the platter toward her. “Maybe you could try a bite and let me know what you think of the flavor, and we can work backward from there.”

  She wipes the corners of her mouth with a napkin. “Or we could start with wanting them to be greener, and you could work forward from there.”

  I try not to lose my cool. It’s her book, not your book; it’s her book, not your book.

  “Okay,” I say. “Sure.”

/>   Not that it took me a week to develop the recipe or anything. Not that refusing to taste so much as a single forkful is rude and disrespectful and utterly infuriating.

  She takes another bite of the carrot salad and twists her lips to the side. “This is good,” she says. “But now that I’m tasting it . . . I’m reminded of a raw zucchini salad I once had while on location in Italy. Could we make this with zucchini instead?”

  “Sure. But I’d have to change a few things, since zucchini can be really watery. Do you want the same dressing, just with zucchini?”

  She rubs her fingers along her lower lip. “No, actually . . . The salad I’m thinking of was zippier. It had lemon juice in it, I think. And parmesan shavings. And toasted nuts.”

  “Pine nuts?”

  “Almonds, I think. Or was it pistachios?” She shakes her head. “I don’t know—I’m sure you can figure it out.”

  I take a calming breath. “So, just to clarify: We’re swapping out the carrot salad for an Italian zucchini salad.”

  “Yes, I think so. I think that’s for the best.” She dabs at the corners of her mouth as Poppy scribbles furiously in her notebook. “Oh, and don’t bother leaving any of the zucchini salad for Hugh. He detests zucchini.”

  “Ah, so no zucchini bread, then.”

  She narrows her eyes. “What?”

  “Zucchini bread. For Hugh—Mr. Ballantine. I guess that’s out.”

  “Why on earth would you bake zucchini bread for my husband?”

  “I wouldn’t. I just meant . . . since you asked me to bake banana bread that one time . . .” I trail off as I remember the finer points of the banana bread incident.

  “I never asked you to bake banana bread,” she says.

  “Right. Sorry. My mistake.”

  She glances at Poppy. “Where do we find these people?”

  Poppy does not respond. A wise choice, as far as I can tell.

  Natasha studies her manicured fingers and then looks back up at me. “Are we done?”

  “I . . . guess so,” I say. “That’s all I have for you to taste today.”

  “Then we’re done.” She motions for Poppy to follow her out of the room, but pauses before leaving. “Why don’t you plan on having the zucchini salad and kale burger ready for me to taste on Friday. And if you can start working on a version of my grandmother’s scrambled eggs, that would great. I know we already finished that section, but I’d like to add this recipe. Her eggs were fluffy and creamy without being wet and gross.”