by Dana Bate
“Totally. I get that. But a bunch of the people around here feel a little used. Like, you cared about them until a bigger story came along. All those new trees Maggie showed you? Thanks to your story, she has to find a new buyer.”
“But if I’d kept this story a secret, I’d be as bad as Bob Young.”
“Again, I get that. Doesn’t change the way a lot of us feel.”
My face grows hot. “But . . . but . . .” I trail off.
“But what?”
I fumble over my words, trying to think of anything I can say to keep Drew—handsome, caring, boring Drew—from hating me. Surely there is something?
“The . . . short-tailed albatross,” I finally squeak out in a faint voice.
“Yeah? What about it?”
I stare at him stupidly, willing myself to say something compassionate or insightful or, at the very least, sane. But nothing comes out, and instead I simply walk away, because as long as I’m burning bridges, I might as well light another match.
When I show up at Wild Yeast’s tent, Rick greets me by throwing a baguette at my head.
“Fuck you very much,” he says as I rub my forehead.
“Rick—what the hell?”
“Thanks to your little screed in the Chronicle, Green Grocers has put our deal on hold.”
I sigh. Another addition to my legion of haters.
“I know. But that doesn’t mean the deal is off forever. Once the uproar dies down, there’s a good chance they’ll revive the program.” I have no idea if this is true, but it sounds better than affirming the alternative.
“Fuck of a lot of good that does me now. Do you have any idea the sort of investment I made to give them the volume they wanted? I’m even more screwed now than I was before.”
“But . . . they put horse meat in their lasagna. . . .”
“La-di-frickin’-da.” He heaves a crate of rye onto one of the tables. “They could’ve put Rin Tin Tin in their beef stew, and I wouldn’t have given a crap, as long as they made good on their promises.”
“But you’re an artisan—a craftsman. Surely you wouldn’t want to associate with an organization like that.”
He throws another crate on the table and rests his hands on his hips. “I bake bread. Damn good bread, but let’s be honest: It’s bread. And at the end of the day, it doesn’t matter a lick how good it is if no one buys it.”
“Maybe there are other markets willing to carry your stuff. Have you thought about Dean and DeLuca? Or Marvelous Market?”
He rolls his eyes as he wraps one of his meaty paws around an oatmeal loaf. “Oh, yes, just what I need: More companies to make my life hell. Stop wasting my time with your explanations and cockamamie ideas and unload the rest of this crap like you’re supposed to. I don’t have all frickin’ day.”
He kicks one of the crates beneath the table with a loud thwack, and I wonder if there is a way I could fix things for Rick and Maggie and the others, or if I’m destined to alienate everyone in my life, until I have no friends left.
I do have at least two friends, the first being Heidi, and the second being Stu Abbott, who apologizes profusely when he finally speaks to me Saturday afternoon.
“I don’t know how all of this happened,” he says. “I could have sworn the version of the story I sent didn’t have your name on it. Honest.”
“Yeah, well, the damage is done.”
“I know. And I’m sorry.” He pauses. “Was Jeremy Brauer really your source?”
“He was.”
Stu hesitates, then hums into the phone. “I never would have guessed. Given what happened when he worked for me, I’m surprised Bob Young’s e-mails even bothered him.”
“Why? Because he made some bad decisions six years ago?”
“Yeah, I guess that isn’t really fair, huh?” He sighs. “Anyway, the good news is that your story is a massive success. Did you see how many times the link was posted and re-tweeted?”
“I have a vague idea,” I say. The answer: a lot.
“This story is perfect for updating our food page’s brand. It has everything: food, scandal, intrigue, meat—both literally and figuratively. You did an excellent job.”
“Thanks.” I scribble on one of my notepads. “It sounds like the farmers’ market partnership is off, though. At least for now.”
“Yeah, I heard. That’s unfortunate. But sort of inevitable with a story like this. On a brighter note . . .” He pauses for dramatic effect. “Now that your name is out there, you’re the young food writer everyone is talking about. My managing editor is really excited with the reception this story has gotten and would love more stuff like this from you.”
I sit up straight. Finally some good news. “Really?”
“Really. I take it you’re game?”
“Yes—definitely.” I flip my notepad to a blank page. “I already have a bunch of ideas. One is on the rising popularity of homebrewing, and another is about urban gardening, and—”
“Yeah . . .” Stu interrupts me. “When I said my managing editor wanted more stuff from you, I meant more stuff like the horsemeat story. We’re looking for sexier stuff—stuff that’ll get tons of page hits.”
“Oh.” I lean back in my chair. That isn’t the kind of stuff I’ve ever wanted to write. “But . . . what about stories with a human element? Not everything is doom and gloom. Not every story has to dismantle a company.”
“But if it could, that would be great.” Stu gives a stilted laugh. “I’m kidding. Sort of. Anyway, we have plenty of reporters on staff who do the regular features and human-interest stories. We need you to be our muckraker. That seems to be your specialty.”
My chest tightens. My specialty? What have I gotten myself into?
When I don’t speak up, Stu chimes in. “I thought this was what you wanted—a chance to run with the big boys.”
“It is. It’s just . . .”
“It’s just what?”
I gnaw at the end of my pinky nail. “Nothing,” I say. “Never mind.”
Because I can’t bring myself to say out loud that at the moment when everything is at my fingertips, when I could have everything I’ve always wanted—Zach, a food-writing job at the Chronicle, respect from my food-writing peers—I’ve never felt more lost or alone.
CHAPTER 42
A muckraker? Since when am I a muckraker? That’s never what I wanted to be. I wanted to write about heirloom apples and crazy bakers and eccentric food artisans. I figured the Green Grocers story would gain me entry into the exclusive cadre of food writers, but then I could write about whatever I wanted. How could I have been so naïve? And now I’m the scandalmonger. The scandalmonger with no boyfriend and a dwindling number of friends. Great.
Just when my morale hits an all-time low, I board a train to Philadelphia, where I will join my parents, my sister, and her shady fiancé for their wedding tasting at The Rittenhouse Hotel. At this point, all I need is a funeral and a house fire, and this will officially be the worst week of my life.
My mom picks me up Friday afternoon at Philadelphia’s Thirtieth Street Station, meeting me in the middle of the vast marble concourse. The grandeur of the hall swallows me up, the five-story rectangular windows and travertine walls dwarfing me as they climb toward the ninety-five-foot-high ceiling. As I push my way through the bustling horde of travelers, my eyes land on a large banner hanging above the doorway leading to Market Street, welcoming visitors to the 35th Annual Homebrewers Conference this weekend. I stop in my tracks. The Homebrew Competition. Jeremy. Is he here this weekend? He must be. Didn’t he say he goes every year?
Before I can fully process the idea of Jeremy and me running into each other, my mom approaches me from in front of the timetable, which flick-flick-flicks through its series of trains and departure times. She is dressed in a pair of black capri pants, a sleeveless blue tunic, and black sandals. As usual, she looks a thousand times more stylish than I do, even though she is more than twice my age.
“Hi, sweetie,” she says, beaming as she reaches out her arms and throws them around me.
She pulls me in tight, enveloping me in the powdery, sweet smell of her Shalimar perfume, the same scent she has worn for the past twenty-odd years. She pulls away and grips my upper arms, scanning me from head to toe. I haven’t slept well in a week and have been subsisting on large quantities of leftover muffins, cookies, and brioche.
“You look terrible,” she says, brushing my hair off my face.
“Thanks . . .”
“No, I mean really. You look like you haven’t slept in days. Are you okay?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“About what?”
“Why I look like a mess.”
She studies my face. “You’re sure?”
“Positive.”
“If you say so. Oh, but I’ve been meaning to tell you—our phone has been ringing off the hook ever since your story came out. Everyone is so impressed. We never knew you were such a sleuth!”
“Neither did I . . .”
“Well, we think it’s wonderful. We’re so proud of you.”
She kisses my forehead and then, with her arm wrapped around my shoulder, whisks me through the marble concourse and out the glass doors to the pick-up and drop-off area. I scan the rows of cars for her white Ford Explorer, but her signature mode of transportation is nowhere to be found. Instead, we head straight for a Toyota Prius the color of a pumpkin.
I slow my step as we approach the car. “Is this yours?”
“It is,” she says.
“Since when?”
“Since last month.” She pops the trunk. “With the dealership closing and everything else that’s going on . . . Well, we figured something smaller with better fuel economy made more sense right now.”
“But a Toyota? I thought Dad only bought Fords.”
She purses her lips. “That was before the company decided to close his business. But it looks like he’ll be able to start at the Toyota dealership next month after all, so the Toyota folks cut him a deal.”
“That’s great. Dad must be thrilled.”
“Thrilled is a little strong. But he’s happy. It isn’t the perfect job, but it’s something.”
She stuffs my suitcase into the trunk, and we hop into the car, which powers on with the push of a button.
“What about you?” I ask. “Any leads on the job front?”
She looks over her shoulder and pulls out of the waiting area. “Kitchen Kapers in Suburban Square has an opening for a sales associate. I should hear by the end of the week.”
“That’s exciting.”
“I guess. A little nerve-wracking, though. It’s been so long since I’ve been out there.” She takes a deep breath and shakes out her shoulders as she turns onto Market Street. “I guess change can be good, right?”
I glance at my mom as she grips the steering wheel with both hands, the skin around her eyes tense as she maneuvers the car down the street. Then I look out my window and watch the cars whiz by as I take a deep breath.
“Let’s hope so,” I say.
We pull into the circular driveway in front of The Rittenhouse Hotel, which rises thirty-three stories, the edifice zigzagging back and forth like jagged teeth, giving each room a view of the eponymous square. A bellman in a black suit with gold trim and matching cap opens my door for me.
“Welcome,” he says. “Are you a guest of the hotel?”
“We’re here for a wedding tasting,” I say.
He smiles. “Ah. Congratulations on your engagement.”
“It isn’t for me. It’s for my sister.”
“Oh.” He fumbles with the door handle. “Well, best wishes to your sister.”
“My guess is she’ll need more than wishes. Her fiancé is an ass.”
The doorman blushes and closes the car door behind me. He smiles uncomfortably, apparently at a loss for words. Great. Now I’m alienating total strangers.
“Sydney? Come on,” my mom calls from the front entrance. “We’re going to be late.”
I follow her through the lobby, with its beige inlaid marble floors and warm, blond wood columns, and scurry up the marble stairway to the second floor. We pass the grand ballroom and continue down a carpeted hallway to a boardroom whose door is propped open.
“There they are!”
Libby skips toward us, her golden-brown waves bouncing off her toned shoulders. She wears a cream silk shantung shift dress and pearls, looking conservative and bridal and very, very Libby.
“We were beginning to think you’d gotten lost.”
“Traffic on Market Street was terrible,” my mom says. “Is your father here yet?”
“Yep. He’s in there talking to Matt. I was shocked he beat you two. You know Dad—always running fifteen minutes late because he had to close ‘one more deal.’ ”
I lock eyes with my mom, who clutches her purse strap against her shoulder. “Yes, well . . .” She clears her throat. “Let’s get started with this tasting, hmm?”
She heads into the room, and I follow her until Libby grabs me by the elbow and pulls me aside. “You didn’t say anything to her, did you? About Matt?”
“Of course I didn’t. You told me not to.”
“Good.” She takes a deep breath and lets it out quickly.
“I assume you talked to him?”
She nods. “Yep. Everything’s fine.”
“So what was the deal? Whose earring was it?”
Her cheeks turn pink. “It’s a long story. Not important.”
“Not important because it was his mother’s? Or not important because you’re afraid of telling me the truth?”
“I’m not afraid.”
“Then whose was it?”
She presses her lips together, then lets out a sigh. “One of the first-year associates at his firm. But it’s not a big deal—it’s not as bad as it sounds.”
“Did it fall into his briefcase like I suggested?”
“Not exactly . . .”
“Then what happened?”
She waves me off with a flick of her manicured hand. “I told you—it’s not a big deal. It was just one night.”
My eyes widen. “Libby.”
“What? Listen, he said he was sorry. And I believe him. He cried, Sydney. Like, actual tears.”
“Well, whoop-dee-doo.”
She purses her lips. “You’re just jealous because Matt apologized, and Zach never apologized to you.”
“He did, actually. Last week.”
“Five years too late . . .”
I clench my jaw. “This isn’t a competition, Libby. Zach versus Matt, me versus you. This is about your life. Your happiness.”
“Exactly,” she says. “So stop making me talk about this and get your butt in that boardroom and help me pick out a wedding menu.”
She turns on her heel and marches down the hallway, and all I can think is there isn’t enough vodka in this entire hotel to get me through this weekend.
“To begin, we present you with our lobster bisque.”
The wedding coordinator beams as three waiters emerge from behind a swinging door carrying a small white bowl in each hand. The waiters place the bowls in front of the five of us, and we each pick up a small spoon and lap up the creamy soup.
“Wow,” my dad says, blotting the corners of his mouth with a napkin. “This is dynamite.”
The bisque is silky and rich, infused with the intoxicating combination of lobster, sherry, and a hint of saffron. I have to restrain myself from licking the bowl.
“There is, of course, a small supplement for the bisque, given that it’s made with lobster,” the wedding coordinator says, tucking a lock of white-blond hair behind her ear.
My mom and dad eye each other uncomfortably.
“But it would be worth every penny,” Libby says, oblivious to my parents’ uneasiness. “It’s soooo good.”
Matt sits next to her in silence, stirring his spoon awkwardly in
circles around his bowl. His thick, almost black hair is gelled to the side, and his bushy eyebrows jut over his eyes, which are cast downward. He hasn’t taken a single mouthful.
The wedding coordinator announces the next menu option: a chilled lobster salad dressed in a light chive vinaigrette.
“Oh, my,” my mom says between bites of supple lobster meat, each succulent chunk nearly the size of a golf ball. “This is lovely.”
“Again, there would be a slight supplement for this dish,” the coordinator says.
“But totally worth it,” Libby says.
Matt pokes at the bits of lobster with his fork and says nothing as the rest of us clean our plates.
The next course arrives: lobster ravioli bathed in a creamy rose sauce, the pasta so fresh and tender it nearly melts on my tongue.
“Again,” the coordinator begins.
“Let me guess,” I interrupt. “A small supplement.”
She smiles. “Yes. For the lobster.”
We next try a lobster empanada, followed by a dish of lobster and grits, followed by lobster tempura so delicate and crisp it’s like handling blown glass. When I say “we” try these dishes, I mean Libby, my parents, and I. Matt merely pushes the food around his plate, a sullen expression painted on his angular face.
Before the next course arrives, I clear my throat. “Are we going to try anything that doesn’t involve lobster?”
The wedding coordinator dons a pair of bifocals and skims a piece of paper in front of her. “Hmm . . . I don’t think so.... Though one of the entrées is a surf and turf—filet mignon and lobster tail.”
I lock eyes with Libby. “You’re joking, right? After everything we talked about?”
Her cheeks flush. “I thought we’d do a lobster menu. What’s wrong with that?”
“Seriously? Do you have any idea how much it would cost to do a lobster-themed dinner for a hundred-some people?”
“I thought you said two hundred,” the wedding coordinator interjects.
I roll my eyes. “Even better.”
“It’s my wedding,” Libby says. “I can do what I want.”
“It’s your wedding, as in you and Matt. Your fiancé hasn’t touched a single thing that has come out of that kitchen. Matt, do you even like lobster?”
