A Second Bite at the Apple

by Dana Bate

  I laugh. “Hey, I had nothing to do with that e-mail.”

  “More than two thousand dollars on chairs? Are you kidding me?”

  “I had no idea chairs could be that expensive. I mean, I guess they’re pretty. . . .”

  “You know what else is pretty? The Hope Diamond. But your sister isn’t getting that for her wedding either.”

  “I hope you break the news to her gently.”

  He lets out an exasperated sigh. “I’m trying my best here, Syd. I’m trying to give your sister what she wants. But she sure isn’t making it easy.”

  “Why don’t you just tell her about the dealership closing?”

  Silence. “How do you know about that?”

  “Mom told me.”

  He groans. “I didn’t want you girls to know about any of that until the dust settled.”

  “Libby doesn’t know. I haven’t told her, and neither has Mom.”

  “Good,” he says. “Keep it that way.”

  “Wouldn’t it be a lot easier if you just told her what’s going on with your job? Maybe then she wouldn’t want two-thousand-dollar chairs.”

  “I want to give Libby the wedding of her dreams. I want to do that for her. And anyway, there’s a chance I might be able to move over to the Toyota dealership once we close in July. I’ll find a way to make it work.”

  “I’m sure you will. I just . . . I don’t want you to bankrupt yourself over one night. And I don’t want you to feel like you have to keep stuff like this a secret from me.”

  “There are some things parents shouldn’t discuss with their children,” he says.

  “I’m not a child anymore,” I say, though sometimes I wonder if that’s true.

  “I know you’re not. But your sister . . . She doesn’t always understand the way things work in the real world.”

  “That’s putting it mildly,” I say, my voice tart.

  “Yes, well . . .” He trails off.

  And whose fault is that? I want to say. Because anyone with a brain knows the blame lies with him and my mom. My parents always spoiled Libby more than they spoiled me. She was the one Mom would take on shopping excursions to the King of Prussia Mall and New York City to buy pretty clothes for all the parties and dances Libby planned to attend. I spent much of my adolescence watching my family obsess over Libby’s every social engagement: Libby’s bat mitzvah, Libby’s sweet sixteen, Libby’s graduation party. As the older sister, I reached all of those milestones first, and yet Libby always had the bigger party, mostly because she always had more friends. She was pretty and popular and athletic, and I was awkward and studious, and so when it came time to make up guest lists for our respective bat mitzvot, she had ninety friends on her list, whereas I’d only had twenty-five on mine. I didn’t even have a sweet sixteen because I was too afraid no one but Zach would show up.

  For some sisters, that would probably breed lifelong resentment. And, okay, I have always been a little jealous of how easily things fell into place for Libby—her instant popularity in every circumstance, her field hockey scholarship to Penn State, her engagement. But on some level, I always knew my parents’ coddling would ultimately result in her inability to handle adult life, and so at some point all of this would come back to bite her in the ass, and then she’d need me. That hasn’t happened yet, and maybe it never will, but given the direction this wedding is headed, my guess is it’ll happen sooner rather than later.

  “Anyway,” he says, “what are you up to tonight? Big plans?”

  “I’m meeting up with Heidi and some friends.”

  “I always liked Heidi. She’s a motivated free spirit.”

  I smile. “That is a perfect way of describing her.”

  “And how is the job search going? Any luck?”

  “Sort of. I don’t know if Mom mentioned the newsletter I’m working on, but now I’m writing a freelance blog for the Chronicle’ s food section, too.”

  “She did mention that. Sounds like a great opportunity.” He clears his throat. “She did express some . . . concern about the pay, though. And I’m guessing none of these positions provides health insurance . . . ?”

  “No. But don’t worry. I’ve managed to cobble together enough money with my farmers’ market gig to keep me afloat. It isn’t a long-term solution, but it’s fine for now.”

  “Okay . . .”

  “What about Mom? How’s her job search going?”

  He sighs. “Not well.”

  “No? Why, what happened?”

  “I’d better leave that for a conversation between you and your mother—who unfortunately is in the shower at the moment because we’re going out with the Hansons tonight. But I’ll have her give you a call. She’s taking all of this very hard.”

  “Sounds that way.”

  He lets out another sigh. “Anyway, now I need to go explain to your sister why the chairs the Rittenhouse provides for free are just fine.”

  “Good luck with that.”

  “Something tells me I’ll need more than luck.”

  “Something tells me you’re right.”

  He laughs. “But hey, have fun tonight. Will there be any . . . you know, guys in the group?”

  “Uh huh.”

  “Anyone . . . special?”

  I glance down at my list of pros and cons. I consider telling him about Jeremy and Drew and how I’m not really sure how I feel about either, but instead I fold up the list and stick it in my junk drawer.

  “Nah,” I finally say. “Not really.”

  Because my dad was right: There are some things parents shouldn’t discuss with their children.

  At three minutes to eight, I barrel down the front stairs and burst out of the house, slinging my purse over my shoulder as I lock the door behind me. The walk to Estadio only takes about eight minutes, so I’ve timed it perfectly: I’ll be a fashionable five minutes late, increasing the likelihood that I won’t be the first one there. As much as I don’t like being late, I don’t want to sit at the bar by myself or, worse, have to converse with Drew on my own. I still feel awkward about our kiss last night.

  As I hustle down Fourteenth Street, I think back to the conversation with my dad and his interest in my date tonight. My parents always loved Zach and probably thought, as I did, that we would end up together. Early on, they worried we were too serious for a high school couple, but when they saw our relationship up close, I think they knew we had something special, and they must have appreciated that he prevented me from sitting home alone on Saturday nights.

  Libby, on the other hand, never took to Zach. “He’s kind of a dweeb,” she said during her freshman year, when I was a senior. Then she quickly added, “I mean, so are you, so it makes sense, but I really don’t get what you see in him.”

  That’s probably because she was being hit on by my cooler classmates—the varsity soccer players and the captain of the swim team, the sort of guys Zach would have loved to befriend in high school but who barely spoke two words to him. What Libby never understood was that for every maternal instinct I felt toward my baby sister, Zach, by association, felt a paternal instinct. When she called me at Zach’s house one Saturday night, slurring her words in a drunken stupor, Zach was the one who pulled the plug on our attempt to make mushroom risotto and drove to pick her up and take her home.

  “You guysssarrr such goody goodiessss,” she said in the car, her words thick and sloppy as gravy. “But thasss okay. I should prolly be more like you.” Then, just before she puked all over the backseat, she said, “I misssyou, Syd.”

  When Zach and I broke up, Libby seemed to take the nature of Zach’s betrayal as confirmation he was never good enough for me. She ran out and bought me five pints of Ben & Jerry’s Peanut Butter Cup—my favorite at the time—and amassed a stack of feelgood DVDs for me to watch and did all of the things a supportive sister would do. But beneath it all, there was an air of, See? I told you so.

  My parents, on the other hand, were in a state of shock. I was l
ight on details, but they got the drift: Zach had cheated on me, and it was over. At first they supported me as any parents would, striking a surprisingly perfect balance between providing consolation and space. But as one year passed, then another and another, without my having so much as a cup of coffee with another guy, they began to worry. On a few occasions, they attempted to set me up with some of their friends’ sons, but when I blew up at them for meddling, they let it drop. Hence my dad’s delicate mix of hope, interest, and trepidation in inquiring about tonight’s date. I know deep down he is hoping I have finally met Zach 2.0. I guess I am, too.

  As predicted, I reach Estadio five minutes after eight, but when I check in at the hostess desk, I discover I am the first to arrive—just the scenario I had hoped to avoid. I wander over to the bar, a rectangular concrete counter situated in the middle of the room, surrounded by thick iron and wood stools and flanked on either end by columns made of Spanish tile. Bartenders hurry back and forth within the bar’s concrete confines, beneath huge legs of Jamón Ibérico that dangle from the bar’s wrought-iron trellis. The entire room has a rustic feel, with stone walls, wrought-iron chandeliers, and heavy wooden chairs. I order a glass of Tempranillo, which I sip as I survey the crowd, mostly young people in their twenties and thirties. The wine is fruity and rich, and as I take another sip, I feel a tap on my shoulder.

  “So sorry I’m late,” Heidi says as she unravels a cream linen scarf from around her neck. “Today has been a disaster.”

  “Things seemed fine this morning at the market.”

  “It’s all been downhill since then. Trust me.” She stuffs her scarf into her oversize purse and sighs. “Oh, but this is Sam. I don’t think you’ve met before.” She nods to the blond-haired man standing to her left.

  “No—hi, I’m Sydney.” I shake his hand and glance over her shoulder. “Any word from Drew?”

  Heidi throws her eyes to the ceiling. “Yes. That’s part of why today has been such a disaster. Drew can’t make it.”

  My shoulders slump. I’m not sure whether I feel disappointed or relieved. “Oh.”

  “His grandmother lives out in Leesburg, and she had a stroke this morning, so he had to go and see her. Apparently it’s really bad. Like, this could be the end.”

  “I’m so sorry—that’s terrible.”

  “I know. And he feels really bad about bailing at the last minute, but he’s really close with his grandmother, so he kind of had to drive out there.” She gestures toward Sam. “Anyway, you’re stuck with the two of us tonight. I hope that’s okay.”

  “Of course it is.”

  “Good. We’ll make the Drew thing happen another time. Promise.”

  “I’m going to hold you to that,” I say, but as I grab my glass of wine and follow her and Sam to our table, I wonder if she already knows I won’t.

  CHAPTER 24

  If there is an upside to my being the third wheel on Heidi’s date with Sam, it is that I have an easy excuse to leave early and crawl into bed by ten o’clock. It being the first weekend in April, the Dupont farmers’ market now opens at eight thirty in the morning, meaning I need to meet Rick by seven at the latest. I could pretend this is the reason I’m in pajamas at ten on a Saturday night, but let’s be honest: I was doing this long before I ever heard of Rick or Wild Yeast Bakery.

  The next morning I show up five minutes ahead of schedule, wandering up Twentieth Street in the dull morning light, the sky a muted gray. To my surprise, I’ve arrived before both Rick and Heidi, so I sit on the edge of the curb, pulling the sleeves of my charcoal gray sweatshirt over my hands to keep warm in the chilled spring air.

  “Did you get everything you needed Friday?” asks a voice over my right shoulder.

  I glance up and see Maggie standing above me. I get to my feet and rub my hands together. “I did. Thanks.”

  “When do you think it’ll be online?”

  “By the end of the week. I think we’re aiming for Friday.”

  “Very cool.”

  I’m about to ask whether Drew is working today, but before I can, Rick’s truck charges down the street, the wheels rattling and clanking as Rick attempts—unsuccessfully—to maneuver around all the potholes. He careens toward his station like some sort of wild cowboy, and Maggie and I jump out of the way as he races headfirst into his parking spot.

  “Morning, ladies,” he grunts as he rolls out of the front seat. He tosses the stub of his cigarette to the ground and stomps it out with his foot as he hikes up his pants. “Where’s your blond friend?”

  Given that Heidi has worked for him for more than two years, I don’t know why he insists on referring to her as “your blond friend.” Then again, “your blond friend” is better than “Tits McGee,” one of his other favorite epithets.

  “She’ll be here any second,” I say, unsure if this is true. If I had to guess, she spent the night with Sam, so her ETA could be any time between now and never.

  “Likely story,” he says. He unlocks the back of the truck and sends the door flying upward with a loud rip. “C’mon, sweet cheeks. Let’s get this party started.”

  Maggie heads back to her stand, and I help Rick unload the cases of bread and pastries. He rattles off the new items at market this week—almond poppy seed muffins, rhubarb streusel tea cakes, asparagus and goat cheese quiche—and instructs me to push the olive bread because it didn’t sell well yesterday and he needs to move it.

  “Any luck with getting an intern or two from L’Academie?”

  He heaves the cashbox onto the center table. “Yeah, actually. Hired two guys yesterday.” He sneers. “Let’s see how long they last.”

  “At least you’ll have a few extra hands.”

  “Assuming they don’t screw everything up,” he says. “But yeah. It’ll help. Especially since this Green Grocers thing looks like it might actually happen.”

  “That’s what I heard, too.”

  He throws a crate of cookies next to a rectangular wicker basket. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

  I unload the almond poppy seed muffins into a cloth-lined basket, and their sweet, vaguely nutty perfume fills the air. Unlike his sturdy raisin bran muffins, which are dense, dark, and chockablock with plump raisins, the almond poppy seed muffins are delicate and cakey, their crumb so light and tender they threaten to float right out of the basket. When Rick isn’t looking, I sneak a bite of one of the broken muffin tops, and before I know it I’ve eaten the entire thing, the flavor as rich as the texture is light, bursting with sweet almond essence.

  “You have crumbs on your face.”

  Heidi throws her canvas bag beneath one of the tables as I wipe my cheek with the back of my hand. “Where have you been?”

  “Sam’s place.”

  “Predictably.”

  She grins. “Oh, come on. You met him last night. He’s cool, right?”

  “He is. That said, you don’t exactly have the best track record.”

  She raises an eyebrow. “Pots and kettles, my friend . . .”

  “Hey, your dubious track record is much longer than mine.”

  “At least I never dated someone who made national headlines for some journalism scandal.”

  “What about Drew? You’re the one who set me up with him because he’s supposedly ‘nice.’ ”

  “He is nice.” She casts a sideways glance as she places a sign in front of the rhubarb streusel cakes. “Speak of the devil . . .”

  I look up and see Drew ambling toward our tent, his hands tucked into the center pocket of his hooded navy sweatshirt. His stubble appears about as thick as it did on Friday, which makes me wonder how much effort must go into maintaining a vaguely unkempt appearance. He hunches his shoulders and smiles sheepishly as he stops in front of my table, leaning back on his heels.

  “Hey,” he says. “Apologies about last night. Heidi told you about my grandma?”

  “She did. I’m so sorry. Is she okay?”

  He waves his hand back and forth. “U
nclear. She’s improved since yesterday, but she’s been in poor health for a while now, and she’s eighty-seven. We have to be realistic.”

  “I’m sure Maggie would give you a pass on working the market today, given the circumstances.”

  “Honestly? Hospitals really freak me out. The docs don’t think the end is as imminent as they did yesterday, so I’m happy to have an excuse to do something else for a few hours.” He brings his hands out from within his pocket, one of them clasped around a fat golden apple with a light pink blush. He tosses it back and forth between his hands. “But I feel really bad about bailing on last night, so I was thinking . . . What are you doing after the market?”

  My heart flutters. “Finishing up this week’s newsletter and editing more of the cold storage video. But that’s about it.”

  “Wanna grab a cup of coffee or something? I have to head back to the hospital at three, but we could hang for a bit before that.”

  My palms begin to sweat. Part of me felt relieved when he didn’t show up last night. There was no reason to feel guilty anymore for dating behind Jeremy’s back, and I didn’t have to choose between them. But my parents aren’t the only ones who hope I find Zach 2.0. Part of me hopes so too, and at this point, Jeremy has a lot more cons going for him than Drew does. And besides, we’d only be having coffee. What’s the harm in an innocent coffee?

  “Sure—coffee sounds great,” I say, with so much enthusiasm I fool even myself.

  Heidi and I finish packing up the truck after the market is over, and Rick slips us each one hundred dollars.

  “Those poppy seed muffins were unreal,” I say. “They were seriously some of the best muffins I’ve ever eaten in my life.”

  “They’re basically cake,” he says.

  “Call them whatever you want. I could eat a whole batch in a single sitting.”

  “But then you wouldn’t have that cute ass,” he says, flashing his tobacco-stained smile. He clears his throat as he heads back toward the truck and spits a huge hunk of mucus onto the ground. The man has a seemingly inexhaustible repertoire for making my skin crawl.