Infernal Affairs

by Jane Heller

  “Hello, my name is Patricia Kovecky,” said Pat, who rarely used her formal first name unless she was feeling insecure in front of a group. “My husband is Dr. William Kovecky.” She lowered her eyes as she waited for the others to recognize that they were in the presence of Mrs. God of Gastroenterology. No one did. Again, I felt the need to jump in.

  “Bill’s a regular contributor on GMA,” I said, jumping into publicist mode. “Brilliant gastroenterologist, which will come in handy if anyone eats dandelion greens and gets a bad case of the runs.”

  Jonathan laughed. He really was a likable person, the opposite of his mother, and I was glad he wasn’t letting her spoil his trip. But Lake seized on my comment as if it were a major teachable moment.

  “Dandelion greens are richer in beta carotene than carrots, and they provide valuable nutrients,” she said with the zeal of an evangelical.

  “We use the tender young greens in mesclun salads and smoothies,” her life partner Gabriel added. “They should become part of your diet, Elaine.”

  My diet was none of their business. Evidently, they were going to be a chore.

  Pat cleared her throat. “I have five teenaged children, and my youngest, Lucy, put on a few extra pounds in the past year. I didn’t think too much of it until she came home from band practice one day—she plays the clarinet—and said two of the other girls called her fat. Well, you could have knocked me over with a fender when she told me that.”

  I was about to say, “It’s feather, Pat,” but kept my mouth shut for a change.

  “So I’m interested in learning how to cook farm foods that will help Lucy lose weight the healthy way.” She patted her tummy. “The same goes for her mother.”

  “I’m Alex Langer,” said an attractive woman with flowing blonde locks, who was decked out in the style known as Boho chic. Her outfit involved an ivory top embroidered with butterflies and a matching bandana around her head, jeans with holes at the knees, gladiator sandals, and lots of interesting little chains and bracelets. The only deviation in her loose, laid-back look was the enormous rock on her left hand. I’m talking about a diamond that made my eyes bug out. She was about my age, I guessed, and showed the same signs of wear and tear, but she had two things I didn’t: an engagement ring and a man who was ready to commit. “I live in the city and I’m here for two reasons,” she continued. “I definitely want to improve my cooking skills. And I’m writing a screenplay about a chef, so this trip is research.”

  A screenplay? Was this a PR opportunity for Pearson & Strulley? Ever on the hunt for new clients, I asked, “Is it your first script, Alex, or have you written movies we’ve seen?” In other words, was there a studio that needed an Oscar campaign? I didn’t work on those accounts personally, but we had an entire department that did.

  “My first screenplay,” she said proudly. “In my real life, I’m a dental hygienist.”

  Well, that part made sense. Her teeth were spectacularly white and straight. She probably got discounts on the braces and bleaching.

  “My fiancé treated me to the week here,” she explained. “He would have stayed after dropping me off, but he’s got a business to run.”

  “He sounds like a catch,” said Jackie with an envious laugh. “Does he have a brother?”

  “He absolutely does,” said Alex. “We’ll talk.” She had a warm and friendly air about her—something this group sorely needed.

  “Well,” said Rebecca, “I’m glad you all came to Whitley and hope the week delivers on your expectations, whatever they may be. We have lots to do today, so let’s get moving. After I finish the guided tour of the farm, you’re going to forage for wild edibles with Kevin, our gardener, and then spend the afternoon with Chef Hill, who’ll teach you how to cook what you pulled out of the earth and much more.”

  “Jason Hill! Yay!” squealed Connie, who waved her arms in the air as if she were trying to beat back a colony of bats. “He challenged Michael Symon on Iron Chef a couple of years ago. He lost—the judges thought his rabbit risotto was too soupy—but I love him! The last time I saw him was when he came to Chicago, and he was the best!”

  As Rebecca turned and began to lead us up a steep slope, toward a dense thicket of vegetation into which we would be foraging, Jackie grabbed me and said, “Is Connie a chef groupie or what?”

  “She seems okay,” I said, “one of those comfortable-in-her-own skin people who follows her bliss, to pile on the clichés. Same with Alex.”

  “Jonathan is such a gentleman,” said Pat, “and a very devoted son.”

  “He’s probably loaded,” said Jackie. “I didn’t hear anything about a wife, by the way.”

  “I bet he had one, but Mommy Dearest bumped her off so she could have him all to herself,” I said.

  “Elaine.” Jackie groaned. “No murderers on this trip, remember?”

  4

  “What you’ll be seeing are the kinds of plants you’ll find around farms, around manure piles, around compost piles—agricultural settings where there’s disturbed soil,” said Kevin Koontz, Whitley’s forager-in-chief, a thin, serious man who wore a denim shirt, jeans, a wide-brimmed straw hat, and a handkerchief. If he’d been chewing on a blade of grass, I would have cast him in a dinner theater production of Oklahoma. “You might also find them among the weeds in your own garden or your neighbor’s. Here’s an example.”

  As he yanked one of the weeds out of the ground, I wiped a gallon of sweat off my face. After what had felt like an endless hike, we’d stopped under a shady grove—a respite.

  “It’s amaranth,” he said, passing around sprigs of a green-leafed plant I couldn’t tell from basil or a thousand others. “The leaves are incredibly nutritious, packed with vitamins and protein. That being said, it absorbs nitrogen, robbing oxygen from your body, so you can experience some toxicity if you consume too much of it.”

  I raised my hand. “Toxicity?” Why were we paying so much money to forage for supposedly edible foods that could poison us?

  “You don’t gorge on it,” said Lake. “You just use it in cooking the way you’d use other greens. Like sorrel.”

  Sorrel schmorrel. I had a terrible urge to punch Lake Vanderkloot-Arnold in the face, but she was so emaciated I could probably just breathe on her and she’d fall over.

  “I’m not trying to scare anybody,” said Kevin. “I just want you all to be aware that it’s not healthy to eat pounds and pounds of amaranth. If you watch sheep graze, you see that they’re foraging, eating a little bit of this and a little bit of that. We should follow their example.”

  “That’s what my cardiologist tells me,” Ronnie said, followed by a loud belch, one of those burps that start out as a hiccup. “Eat a little bit of this and a little bit of that, have smaller portions and skip the visits to Olive Garden for their all-you-can-eat pasta.”

  “You seriously go to that place?” Gabriel said, his expression registering pure revulsion. “Their food is antithetical to everything about farm-to-table.”

  Ronnie shrugged. “It comes from a farm somewhere. And it sure tastes good for the price. I have a nice little nest egg, but that doesn’t mean I can’t try to save a buck when I’m hungry.”

  “Lake mentioned sorrel, and we just happen to have some,” Kevin went on, bending down to pull more weeds out of the ground and pass them around. I noticed that Jackie was trailing right behind him, no doubt interested in him as a sexual partner.

  “Sorrel’s a really good diuretic,” said Gabriel, who between the diuretics and the inevitable juices probably peed every six seconds. “Everyone should add it to their diet.”

  “And here are highbush blueberries,” said Kevin, pointing to a tangle of plants I actually recognized. “Feel free to enjoy some while we talk.”

  Everyone reached for the little purple berries and popped them into their mouths except me. Weren’t we supposed to wash fruit thoroughly before eating it?

  Kevin led us deeper into the heart of darkness where he picked, dis
cussed, and passed around samples of lamb’s-quarter, chocolate mint, purslane, and many other varieties of plants that we were to add to our culinary repertoires. I have to admit that I did find the foraging expedition educational in the same way that any sort of travel is broadening, and I was open to eating weeds if they were really so healthy, but I didn’t have a farm in my apartment, you know? I didn’t have a backyard either, or even those tiny containers of herbs that people put on their windowsill. I didn’t have plants, period, because they always withered and died from too much water or not enough, and I’d feel like a failure every time I carted a dead philodendron to the trash.

  “Elaine, want to sample this one?” Jonathan asked, sidling up next to me and offering me one of the weeds.

  “Sure, thanks,” I said. It tasted like the sort of bitter, too-tough-to-chew garnishes I always left on the side of the plate, but what I did enjoy was the way the tips of Jonathan’s fingers gracefully brushed my lips as he fed me. It was a very intimate gesture, and I would have blushed if I’d been the type.

  “Did you sleep well last night?” he asked, his brown eyes boring into me with laser focus. I always heard that there were men who could make you feel as if you were the only one in the room (or in the woods, in this case), and Jonathan Birnbaum had that gift.

  “Yes, I conked right out,” I said. “You?”

  “I had a dream about you,” he said. “We were in Palm Beach swimming in my pool. You were doing the breast stroke, as I remember.”

  “Sadly, the dog paddle is the only stroke I know.” So he was imagining me in a bikini or perhaps as a skinny-dipper—doing the breaststroke.

  “At the risk of repeating myself, I’m really glad you’re here, Elaine,” he said. “Something tells me you’re going to make this trip a memorable week for me.”

  “Oh, come on. You probably say that to all the women who come to cultivate their bounties.”

  He laughed. “Only the ones whose bounties are worth cultivating.”

  “Help! Help!” came a shout from behind us. “I fell!”

  We turned to find the shout, and it belonged to Beatrice. She was lying flat on her back in the bushes, moaning. She must have slipped on a rock or a branch.

  Jonathan hurried to her side with me in tow. Amazingly, every strand of her shiny silvery gray hair was still in place, even her bangs, and there was no evidence of blood or torn clothing. Still, she was in her eighties, and bones were brittle at that age. My mother had her original hips, knees, and teeth—her marbles too—but it was a crapshoot.

  “Can you tell me where it hurts, Mother?” Jonathan asked. He lowered himself to the ground and sat next to her.

  “Try not to move, Beatrice,” said Kevin, our forager. “Let’s be sure you’re not injured.”

  As everyone gathered around and murmured their concern for a member of our newly formed group, Jackie whispered, “I love the way Kevin’s taking charge. He has a cute ass, too.”

  “Ow,” Beatrice wailed, ignoring Kevin’s warning and grabbing and clinging to her son’s hand and twisting her body in his direction, nearly dragging him down with her. “I think it’s my back.”

  “So you didn’t break a hip or anything?” said Jonathan.

  “I don’t think so,” she said, grimacing and wincing and making every pained face I’d ever seen, creating quite the theatrical experience. “My back is sore.”

  “It’s always sore,” he said gently. “You have arthritis, Mother.”

  Pat whispered, “Do you think she’s faking? Lucy fakes stomachaches when she doesn’t want to go to gym class.”

  “Anything’s possible,” I said.

  “More than possible,” said Jackie. “She probably saw her son coming on to you, Elaine, and got jealous.”

  Kevin told Beatrice to lie back down and then asked her to rate her pain level on a scale from one to ten.

  “My back’s a ten,” she said between moans.

  “I’ll call for the EMTs,” he said. “Once they get you to the hospital, the doctors will be able to diagnose—”

  “I am not going to any hospitals!” Imperious Beatrice had quickly replaced Vulnerable Beatrice.

  “It’s just a precaution,” said Kevin. “If everything checks out, they’ll let you come right back here.”

  “Nonsense,” she said. “My son will make sure I’m all right. Help me up, Jonathan, would you, dear?”

  He didn’t contradict her, as if he’d been through this routine before and knew it would be a waste of time. Instead, he held her hand and carefully pulled her to her feet, while we all stood there watching, a rapt audience.

  Beatrice gave us a triumphant wave, like a soldier limping off the battlefield after having been wounded in combat. She arched an eyebrow when she lit on me and said, “My son will take good care of me now.”

  Before Jonathan began their walk back to solid ground, he leaned toward me and said, “Welcome to my world. Please don’t let it scare you off.”

  “I don’t scare easily,” I said. I was lying, of course. I scared easily and often, but there was something about the way Jonathan had handled his mother that impressed me. He was sweet and kind and did what she’d asked, but without seeming reduced or resentful.

  “I’m counting on it,” he said with a wink.

  “Wow, he likes you.” Jackie nudged me after they were gone.

  “He does,” Pat agreed. “Now aren’t you glad you came this week?”

  “We’ll see,” I said. “I only just met him, let’s not forget. But no matter what happens between us, it’s good to be in the country, ninety miles away from you know who.”

  My friends didn’t answer, I assumed, because deep down they were still rooting for Team Simon—a fruitless enterprise.

  5

  Rebecca handed each of us a Whitley chef’s apron and instructed us to sit in the folding chairs arranged in two rows of five, facing the center countertop that functioned as a stage. I took a seat in the front row; Pat and Jackie sat on either side of me.

  “This demo kitchen’s a lot nicer than mine,” said Jackie, who was renting the guesthouse on the estate of one of her longtime landscaping customers. She lived rent free in exchange for tending to the customer’s gardens, and the only downside was a kitchen the size of a closet.

  “It’s nicer than most people’s,” I agreed.

  One of Whitley’s red barns had been converted into a state-of-the-art facility with high-end appliances, lots of countertop workspaces, and a separate alcove for a long oak dining table with chairs on either side. The table had been set for eleven, so I assumed we’d be sitting down to eat whatever it was we were about to cook. I would have known exactly what the menu was if I’d bothered to sort through the Whitley tote bag I’d picked up at the Welcome Happy Hour, but I’d dumped it somewhere in the cottage and forgotten about it.

  “Chef Hill, our artisan in residence, will arrive any minute,” Rebecca said. “He’s a busy man, and we’re lucky to have him whenever he gets here.”

  “He’s so worth waiting for!” Connie said, flapping her arms again from the end of our row.

  “I hope she doesn’t jump up and start screaming when he gets here,” Jackie muttered. “She’s like a teenybopper at a Justin Bieber concert.”

  Jonathan, who was sitting directly behind us, leaned forward and whispered, nodding at Connie, “She’s very enthusiastic, isn’t she?”

  I turned around and smiled at him. He smiled back. It was fun flirting with a hot guy in a cooking class, especially because I was newly on the market and hadn’t flirted in awhile. Men you hardly know are exciting in that there’s no stored data of the same inane arguments, no baggage to contend with. Well, okay, Jonathan had Beatrice, who was probably heavier baggage than a Louis Vuitton trunk.

  “For those who haven’t had a chance to read his bio,” Rebecca stood next to the counter, tapping her fingers on it, unable to contain her excitement, “Jason Hill became a leader in the creative, clean-food, fa
rm-to-table movement with the launch of The Grow, his flagship restaurant in Manhattan’s Hell’s Kitchen. You each got a complimentary copy of his most recent cookbook, The Grow Eats, in your tote bag last night. His other two cookbooks are available for purchase in our gift shop. A devoted husband and father of two, Chef Hill is a frequent competitor and judge on television cooking shows and appears at food and wine events around the world. He’s the owner-chef of six outposts of The Grow, the cornerstone of his Planetary Empire Corporation whose mission is to cook and serve food that’s grown responsibly and sustainably, to support farm workers’ rights, and to make ingredient choices based on the environment as well as flavor. Currently, he’s scouting locations for his next eatery.”

  “He needs to put it in Wisconsin!” Connie shouted. “Wouldn’t that be the best, Ronnie?”

  He patted her considerable thigh. “Maybe we’d get a discount since you’ve been to so many of his talks.”

  “I’ve never heard of him,” Pat whispered with an apologetic shrug. “The only TV chef I know is Julia Child.”

  “Unfortunately, she won’t be coming this week,” I said.

  “I’m thinking of basing my main character on Jason Hill,” said Alex, who was seated next to Jackie. “My script is about a chef who loses his restaurant to his young, ambitious sous-chef—only to find that the sous-chef is also angling to steal his wife. It’s All About Eve with a foodie twist.”