“New business.”
“Hear him out. Let him explain.”
You are so lucky you are dead.
“Yeah, a real lottery winner.”
“That is exciting, but I thought you were taking a break from working.”
“Well, I was, and it was good when Aimee was still with us, you know, I could manage the house and all the life maintenance stuff, be the house husband and the nurse, drive up to see Noah, but with Aimee gone . . .” He trails off, and despite the shitty pastry in my mouth, and the early hour, I feel for him.
Peerless has essentially asked nothing of me in my role as consultant for the last six months since Aimee took her turn for the finish line, and as there are only two annual meetings of the board, my “job” is essentially nonexistent. Andrea and the team have everything cranking along over at the Library, and while I’m better about stopping by, my days are sort of filled with futzing. Little projects I invent for myself. Puttering in the back garden. Organizing closets and drawers and cabinets. Polishing silver and entering piles of the old family recipes into the computer. Sharpening my knives by hand, which I frankly haven’t done since culinary school. Long walks with the dog. Dinners and sex with Brian once or twice a week, still casual and nice but undefined. He was semiserious about wanting to learn to cook, so we mostly stay in and make something simple together and then go to bed. I get the unmoored part. The dichotomy of a desire to have something to do to keep you busy and not thinking too much, and a total lack of energy to figure out what that should be. Except Wayne seems to have plenty of energy.
“So, you’re thinking about going back to work?” If he was making his own money he might not need to come see me as often; that could be good.
“Thinking about starting a business.”
This cannot be good.
“What sort of business?”
Wayne grins as if he is about to tell me his plans for the next Apple or Facebook. “Wax and Lube.”
“A car wash?”
“Better. A car wash, quick oil change, and spa.”
“Car spa?” Actually not a terrible idea if the neighborhood is right, Simon’s detailing place does pretty well in Lincoln Park, and there are a couple up-and-coming neighborhoods that might be ready for that.
“No, silly, girl spa.” Wayne drops Volnay on the floor, and she schlumps down on top of his foot. Et tu?
“Girl spa.”
“Yeah. See, my buddy Georgie was over last night playing Gran Turismo 6, and so we were talking about cars and stuff and how his business partner’s wife was always complaining because it takes so long to get an oil change and a car wash and you have to sit there. And you know, those are like the only thing that most women sort of have to do for the family cars while guys are at work and stuff.” Of course, here in 1954.
“You and I know plenty of stay-at-home moms and work-at-home women who end up taking on the bulk of that sort of stuff for the family.”
I’m not speaking to you right now.
“Fine, just hear him out.”
“Okay, so they are sort of time sucks, because you have to just sit there and wait for your car.” I’m really trying to get through the sleep haze to figure out his thought process.
Wayne lights up like a Christmas tree. “Exactly! So then I thought about all the stuff women would like to do, instead of just sitting and waiting, you know, and it came to me. Wax and Lube. A play on words. Come in for an oil change and get your personal waxing done at the same time. We could have all sorts of packages, you know? Car detailing with a lip and eyebrow wax. Full oil change with a Brazilian . . .”
“Okay, yeah, he’s lost the plot.”
You think?
“Um, Wayne, you are thinking that a woman would bring her car in for service and then get waxed while she waits?”
“EXACTLY! Isn’t that a great idea? I mean, wouldn’t you love to come out after your waxing and have a nice clean car?”
Sweet Mother McCreary. I put on my most impassive face, as if I am not being presented with the world’s most inane idea. “Wayne, spas and salons are very personal things. It can take a woman years to find the aesthetician she trusts. Those are not a walk-in-off-the-street impulse thing. And the whole point of a spa is that it is a relaxing, soothing environment. That doesn’t smell of motor oil.”
His face falls. “Oh. I just thought, two birds . . .” Poor guy, I do feel badly for him. And then I remember that he felt the need to wake me up at seven in the morning, and I feel more badly for me. A year of this is going to be a huge pain in the keester.
“Jesus, Jenna. He didn’t shit in your bed. He woke you up to share an idea that he thought was great. Because usually he would roll over and tell me and I would listen and we would talk about it and I would gently tell him it wasn’t such a great idea, and then make him feel better with a quickie.”
Seriously? Are you suggesting I give him a little morning delight on your behalf?
“I’m suggesting, Mrs. Snarky Pants, that he does not have his wife to tell his brilliant ideas to anymore, all he has is you.”
Okay. Dredge up supportive Jenna.
“Wayne, it isn’t that a twofer is a bad idea, actually, those kind of things can be great. I just think this is the wrong combo. But it’s exciting that you’re thinking about what you want to do; I think that’s terrific. Maybe you might not want to start as big as launching your own business, maybe just getting a regular job?” Which would be AWESOME. Forty hours a week of Wayne being someone else’s problem, and a steady income that wouldn’t require my oversight.
His whole face falls, and I can see that now I’ve actually hurt his feelings. “Could you go back to a normal job for someone else now, after where you have been?”
“Probably not, you’re right. I didn’t mean . . .” Great, now I’m a total asshole.
His smile returns, king of the bounceback. “I know you didn’t! No worries. I have a dozen ideas a week, eventually one of them will be the right one.” A hundred monkeys at typewriters. I give him points though, he does snap out of things quickly.
“Of course you will.” And I will have to hear every last ridonculous one of them. Whee.
“That’s the truth, Ruth! So, what’s on your agenda for the day?”
“Um, have to get dressed and take the dog for a walk, head over to the Library to check in, and do some prep for the stuff I’m bringing to Thanksgiving this week.”
“Cool. You need any help?”
ACK! I can just see him chopping off his fingertips on the mandolin, shattering my vintage Emile Henry roasting pans, and blowing us both sky-high with the gas stove. “I’m good, Wayne, thanks for the offer. I really appreciate that. Are you going to Indiana for Thursday?”
“Yep. Big bash over at the Brands’. Then I go pick Noah up Friday morning.”
“Tell everyone I send my love and that I will see them at Christmas.”
“Of course. Maybe I can bring Noah by Friday afternoon or something?”
“I’d love to see him. We’re decorating the Library that day, just bring him there, he can help with the tree. And thanks for the breakfast.”
“You betcha! I’ll talk to you later, Jenny.” He kisses me awkwardly on my temple, and I walk him to the door. Then I go back to the kitchen to dump the coffee and the rest of the donut, and head back upstairs to bed, hoping I can pretend it was just a bad dream.
Except I can’t fall back to sleep. I check the clock. 7:55. Hmmm. I reach for the phone.
“Good morning, beautiful.” I do have to say, I’m getting more comfortable with the fact that Brian genuinely likes me, despite being the type of guy who never paid the slightest bit of attention to me historically. Nancy keeps reminding me that he is actually an individual person and not personally representative of every classically handsome boy who ever ignored me in high school and college. And after.
“Good morning. What are you doing?”
“I’m just getting ready to go to work. What are
you doing?”
“Up early, thought you might want to stop by on your way to the office. Breakfast meeting with a client?”
Brian chuckles. “I don’t have anything horribly pressing this morning. On my way.”
I leap back out of bed and jump into the shower for a quick rinse off, brush my teeth, brush my hair out, change out of the oversized men’s V-neck white T-shirt I usually sleep in, and into a cute bra and one of the endless sets of lounging pajamas Aimee was forever giving me.
“I love a lounging pajama.”
You also love a marabou mule slipper and a satin robe with a train.
“It is elegant.”
It is insane.
“It is sophisticated.”
Sure, if you’re Nora Charles. It isn’t 1940.
“Yeah, but look at yourself.”
I look in the mirror. The silk and cashmere blend fabric has just the right amount of drape to conceal the lumpier parts of me without clinging, but enough weight to seem more substantial than sleepwear. The color is somewhere halfway between cream and ballerina pink, a color I would never pick, but is a lovely counterpoint to my pale skin and dark hair. All in all, I look fairly adorable for this hour, certainly good enough to warrant a little morning attention.
“Told you so.”
Yeah, yeah.
“Didn’t I give you a matching robe for that?”
Don’t push it.
“I’m just saying.”
Fine. I grab the matching robe. It has a wide band of gathered elastic in the back that hits right above my tush, giving me shape, even though the robe isn’t tied. Made of the same fabric as the pajamas, it doesn’t add bulk the way most robes do, but instead almost serves as the same elegant look a long trench provides.
“HA!”
You are such a bad gloater.
“Too bad. You look utterly shaggable.”
Well I hope so, since I’m pretty sure Brian doesn’t think he is coming over for an actual meeting.
“My work here is done. Go forth and lay the lawyer. Get some action from the attorney. Jump the jurist. Bang the barrister. Climb the counselor. Solicit the solicitor . . .”
I’m laughing so hard; tears are streaming down my face. Volnay is looking at me like I have gone completely off my nut. Which I suppose I probably have, since the imaginary voice of my dead bestie is making me giggle myself apoplectic.
Cut it OUT!
Lucky for me, the doorbell rings before the Voix goes off on another tangent.
* * *
I pop downstairs and open the door. Brian is standing there with a grin on his face, two steaming cups from New Wave Coffee in a cardboard carrier, and a bag in the other. I don’t smell anything that remotely makes me think of air freshener. He leans in and kisses me softly.
“Hello there.”
“Hello yourself.” I relieve him of his burdens, and can tell by the scent that the bag is full of croissants from La Boulangerie. I stand aside so that he can come in. He drops his briefcase on the floor by the door, hangs his black wool overcoat and gray scarf on the coatrack, then turns to me.
“You look awfully delicious this morning.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
Shut up.
“Bitter, party of one.”
“There is something a little fabulously glamorous about you today.” He smirks at me, then steps forward and slides an arm around my waist, and begins to waltz me around, my hands occupied with coffee and pastries, while he whirls me with firm control around my living room.
“Dancing with Darrow. Monkeying with Matlock. Partying with Perry Mason. Boogieing with Brandeis.”
This last one makes me snort laugh, and Brian looks down at me, giggling like an idiot in his arms.
“Well now, I do love to see you laughing. I like that I can entertain you.” He leans down and kisses me deeply, so proud of his ability to amuse me. And I place the coffee and croissants on the console table at the foot of the stairs, and take his hand, leading him upstairs where he can indeed entertain me. Which he does. And blissfully, the Voix does not provide color commentary.
While he’s in the shower, I head back downstairs to reheat the coffee and pop the croissants in the oven to heat up a little, grabbing butter and homemade apricot jam out of the fridge.
Brian comes into the kitchen, pink cheeked and sloe-eyed, coat and tie over one arm, crisp white shirt unbuttoned at the neck.
I hand him his coffee, and gesture to the pastries and condiments.
“You are going to have to take the rest of these croissants to work with you, I cannot be trusted alone in the house with a half-dozen buttery, crispy pillows of deliciousness.”
“Well, I wouldn’t have brought so many, but that place will only sell them if you buy eight or more!”
I laugh. A Logan Square conundrum. “I know. One of the neighborhood quirks.”
“You hipsters with your crazy convolutions.”
I laugh. The transitional predominantly Latino neighborhood I moved into almost fifteen years ago has indeed become hipster central. Full of young men in skinny jeans and ironic T-shirts and scraggly facial hair, and young women in cotton sundresses with motorcycle boots, all blithely riding about on their vintage Schwinns with earbuds in, making motorists stabby.
“What can I say. We have our own ways.”
“Indeed you do. I hate to um, eat and run . . .” He blushes a bit, in light of the recent activities. It suits him.
“I know, you have very important legal things to attend to.”
“That I do.”
“Well, at least one of them won’t be helping Wayne with his new business.”
“This should be nutrient rich.”
I fill Brian in on the whole Wax and Lube proposal while he finishes the last of his coffee and pops the final morsel of croissant in his mouth.
“Did he really say an oil change slash Brazilian package?”
“Yep.”
Brian stands up, wipes his mouth, and brushes a stray couple of crumbs off his shirt before coming over to kiss me, tasting of coffee and apricots.
“Well, it is just another ten and a half months.”
“That it is. I do feel a little badly for him, though. He’s pretty lost and doesn’t have much of anyone to turn to for this stuff.”
“He’s an overgrown man-child who needs to get his shit together. I get that he is grieving, but dumb ideas are not exactly in any five stages I’ve ever read about. I don’t think I am ever going to understand what Aimee saw in that guy.” Brian slides into his jacket, and drapes his tie around his neck.
His statement makes me feel weird in the pit of my stomach. But I ignore it, and walk with him to the door.
“Thanks for the visit and breakfast,” I say as he puts on his coat and grabs his briefcase.
“Thanks for calling. A lovely surprise. We still on for the Bears game Sunday?”
We both have holiday-related plans for the rest of the week, but Brian snagged two seats for the game from the firm’s season tickets and invited me to join him.
“You bet. I have all my layers ready, and double hand and foot warmers. I warn you, I’m a Chicago girl, and a die-hard fan. Your date is not going to be all cute and perky in a little jacket and high-heeled boots, she is going to look like a navy and orange Stay Puft Marshmallow woman with Frankenstein feet.”
“I’ll look forward to that. And trust me, I will take Stay Puft and not bitching about being cold, over a fashion plate who begs me to leave at halftime any day.” Something tells me this is a very specific reference, but I’m going to ignore that.
“Good.”
“I’ll call you later to check in.”
“I’ll be here.”
Brian leans in and kisses me softly. “Good-bye sweet girls.” He leans down and gives Volnay a quick head rub.
“Good-bye.”
I watch him head down my front stoop before closing the door.
/> “You know NayNay? I do believe that now, I could actually do with a little nap before we have to do all this cooking.” She nods up at me seriously, and we pad up the stairs together for a short rest before the work begins.
9
Andrea is coming to pick me up in about thirty minutes to head to her folks’ house for Thanksgiving. I’ve got buttery yeast rolls from Aimee’s mom’s old family recipe, my cranberry sauce with port and dried cherries, and a batch of spicy molasses cookies sandwiched with vanilla mascarpone frosting. I also have the makings for fried shisito peppers, which I will make there. Andrea’s mom, Jasmin, is making turkey and ham, and braised broccoli and an apple pie, Andrea is doing a potato and celery root mash and a hilarious Jell-O mold that contains orange sherbet and canned mandarin oranges and mini marshmallows, and her dad, Gene, is making his mother’s candied yams and sausage corn bread stuffing. Benji is cooking and serving most of the day at the group home where he grew up, and will come join us for dessert, bringing his chocolate pecan pie with bourbon whipped cream.
Jasmin and Gene always have a great event, with a few orphans they collect, usually exhausted and grateful residents from Northwestern Hospital where they both work, Jasmin in orthopedics and Gene in cardiothoracic surgery. There is football on the TV, all of us rooting against the Lions, classical guitar music on in the dining room, a warm and welcoming buzz of conversation, and the noise of a busy kitchen.
My phone rings and I reach for it, just as I put the last container of cookies into the insulated bag that holds all my offerings. Mom.
“Happy Thanksgiving!”
“Hello sweetheart. Happy Thanksgiving. How are you doing?” Oy vey. I can hear the freaking head tilt over the phone.
“I’m fine Mom, really.” Subject change, please. “How are you and Dad?”
“You know, sitting up and taking nourishment.” She always laughs off their advancing years, but the fact is, they are both in their eighties and neither of them is in particularly terrific shape. Dad has already had one open-heart surgery and a pacemaker, and Mom has high cholesterol and is in need of a double knee replacement, but she won’t admit it. They live in a small ranch house in Berkeley, and Dad spends most of his time gardening, and Mom does what all women of her age seem to do, lunches and good works and cards. She is a serious bridge player and apparently something of a terror on the northern California circuit. “We are going to our friends the Osbornes for the day.”
Out to Lunch Page 8
