by Beth Merlin
Over the next two hours I shared stories of past hurt and frustrations but mostly, regret over how I’d treated my mother and her illness. As a young girl, I couldn’t appreciate the gravity of the situation and felt abandoned by my parents, who were understandably fully consumed by doctor’s appointments and treatments.
In my teenage years, feelings of abandonment turned to resentment, and I started to pull away from them both, relying more and more on Sam. By the time I was an adult, my relationship with my parents was so frayed, I moved to New York to be with Sam the moment I was old enough, throwing myself into work and building a life with him.
It sounded crazy to me now, but I always assumed there would be more time to repair things with my mother. When there wasn’t, when I ran out of time, I completely fell apart, taking down almost everything in my path. I drank more than ever before, missed or completely bombed auditions, and picked countless fights with Sam. A few weeks after he proposed, things really came to a head.
Every year, Sam’s office held an over-the-top Christmas party at some fabulous New York venue. Sam pleaded with me not to overdo it that night. He was so excited to share the news of our engagement with his colleagues, and because my drinking tended to ratchet up during the holidays, he was worried. I promised him I’d be good, and I was, for most of the evening.
Then, Sam’s boss’s wife came over to make small talk, which, of course, led to wedding talk. She knew Sam and I were both from the West Coast and asked if my mother would be making a trip out to New York for wedding dress shopping, or if I’d be heading home to shop with her there. It was an innocent enough question, but one that sent me into a tailspin.
I headed straight to the bar and began throwing back shots. When Sam asked me to please slow down and stop embarrassing him, we ended up having a fight of epic proportions. He pulled me outside, but it was too late, I’d already made a huge scene in front of all his coworkers.
The next day, he left me a note asking me to meet him for a “yes date” at our favorite neighborhood restaurant later that evening. I was sure he was going to ask for the ring back and end the engagement. Instead, when I arrived, he was waiting with a bouquet of yellow teacup roses.
Before I could say a word, he got down on his knees and told me he loved me more than anyone in the world and had since he was eighteen years old. He said I was the only woman he could ever imagine making him happy, and that he wanted more than anything for me to be his wife, but that there was a condition. I had to stop drinking and get my life together, or he wouldn’t marry me. With a sweet, loving grin, he reminded me of the strict provisions of the yes date agreement, and without a second’s hesitation I agreed and enrolled in Benji’s Bridal Boot Camp the very next day.
For months, the strict class kept me on the straight and narrow. But as the wedding inched closer, my grief felt as raw as ever. I didn’t keep my yes date promise to Sam—I tried but couldn’t. For a while, we both went on pretending I was holding it together, and a lot of the time I did, but eventually things unraveled again, right around the time he met Lena Moore.
A harsh, bright light bulb went off in my head. I was as much to blame for our relationship ending as Sam was. I cheated, maybe not with another person, but on all my promises, and in my own self-destructive way, I was just as unfaithful to our relationship as he’d been. Suddenly, all the pieces of the very messy puzzle began fitting together to form a complete picture of who I was and the role I played in the breakdown of not just my relationship with Sam, but all my relationships.
And while twenty years’ worth of issues couldn’t possibly be solved in a single therapy session, this was the first time in my life I’d even allowed myself to acknowledge those feelings, let alone say them out loud. And by the end of the two hours, the weight I’d been carrying around for so long began to ease up ever so slightly, and I could draw in a complete breath.
Dr. P passed me the box of tissues. “I’m proud of you, Jo.”
“You are?”
He nodded. “What you just did was very brave. A poet I like once said, ‘forgiveness is the release of hope for a better past.’ We know we can’t change our past, but now that you’ve finally allowed yourself to confront it, we can slowly work toward helping you find forgiveness with others, and most importantly, yourself.” Dr. P handed me an empty notebook. “Here’s a clean slate. I want you to take another stab at that letter we talked about in our first therapy session for our next one. I have a feeling the words will come much easier now.”
Dr. P was right, the words did come far easier. After the session, I took my notebook down to the beach, letting years of feelings spill out and onto the black-and-white lined pages. I followed Dr. P’s original directions, exploring the good and bad parts of our relationship, as well as some of my favorite memories. I took responsibility for my part in our problems for the first time ever, addressing anything and everything to help say goodbye and glimpse the beginnings of moving on. Before I knew it, I’d filled half the notebook.
I ripped the pages from the binder, stuffed them into my tote, and pulled myself together as best I could before meeting up with Zosia and Emmy in the hotel’s lobby. Zosia told me and Emmy she’d arranged a surprise to celebrate the end of Boot Camp, and more importantly, the start of a lifelong friendship between the three of us. Even though I wasn’t feeling quite up to it, I didn’t have the heart to disappoint her.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
“Joanna, are you okay? You look like you’ve been hit by a bus,” Zosia said, rushing through the lobby toward me.
I’d done my best to recover from the session with Dr. P followed by the massive letter-writing session, but my nose was still red from crying—so were my eyes and cheeks. “More like a Mack truck,” I deadpanned.
“I had my breakthrough session with Dr. P yesterday. It took a massage, facial, and V-Steam just for me to make it down to dinner, but I feel a million times better today, and you will too darling, I promise.”
I smiled warmly at Zosia, who, even in just the two weeks we had spent together, had become like a surrogate mother figure to me. She didn’t talk much about her own two sons, but I had a feeling I was filling one of the few voids in her life that money couldn’t buy.
“Now for the surprise,” she said, practically bursting at the seams. “I booked us a private cooking lesson with the hottie with the body, chef Todd-y,” she said, shrieking at her own joke.
A private cooking lesson with Todd Aldrich? After seeing him snuggled up with Louisa, I felt like a complete fool for thinking there was even the slightest spark of something between us. Now there’d be no avoiding him, which had been my current plan ’til the end of the Boot Camp.
“Joanna, what’s wrong?” Zosia asked. “Aren’t you excited?”
“What? Sorry, I think I’m still a little bit in my head from this morning.”
“Well, nothing takes your mind off one man, like another one’s abs,” Emmy teased.
Zosia spied Emmy suspiciously. “Have you actually seen Todd Aldrich’s abs?”
“Jo and I caught a glimpse of him in a very formfitting wet suit after surfing, and let me tell you, they did not disappoint.”
Zosia waved her finger in the air. “You girls are bad. Come on, let’s go. We’re already late.”
We walked into the hotel’s large, well-appointed kitchen. Todd had three stations set up along the largest countertop, complete with aprons, chef hats, cutting boards, and all the cutlery and cooking equipment we’d need for the class. Todd’s back was to us as he finished sharpening knives and setting out ingredients on aluminum trays. Shaking water off his hands, he turned around.
“Okay, ladies, let’s do this,” he said, wiping the remaining moisture on his apron before looking up and into the room.
Our eyes locked, and a strange combination of confusion and delight registered on Todd’s face, which he quickly masked. He cleared his throat and walked down the line, setting a menu down in front of ea
ch of our stations, giving no indication we had any sort of history.
“For our first course, we’re going to be making oysters with Champagne Strawberry Mignonette,” he said in a very serious and professional tone. “For the main course, Pork Chops with Fig and Grape Agrodolce, and for dessert, a White Peach Tart.” Todd pulled three pie pans off a high shelf and passed them out. “Since the oysters are our freshest ingredients, we’re going to prepare this meal a little backwards, so they can stay on ice as long as possible. We’ll start with the tart crust and let the tart bake while we work on the other courses. You’ll find the recipe on the other side of your menu, and I’ll be around to each of your stations to assist.”
Emmy leaned into me and whispered, “He can assist me all he wants.”
Never much of a chef, I did my best to follow the directions, combining flour, sugar, baking powder, and salt in a bowl before adding the softened butter and egg yolk until it formed a stiff dough. I shook the dough ball out onto the flour-lined parchment paper to knead it.
A few minutes later, Todd came up beside me, his broad shoulder grazing against my own.
“You want to form the dough into a disk, then use the heels of your hands to push down in the middle and stretch the dough away from you, like this,” he said, putting his hands over mine to demonstrate the motion. “Then, rotate the dough counterclockwise by a quarter turn. You’ll want to repeat the stretching, folding, and turning, dusting with a little more flour each time if the dough sticks,” he said.
Emmy eyed us up and down quizzically, and then said, “Chef Todd, when you’re finished, my dough could use a little stretching, folding, and dusting too,” she teased.
He lingered for a moment. “The kneading process should be rhythmic and steady. Don’t work too slowly; handle each part of the dough quickly, never letting it rest for too long between turns,” he said, before leaving to help Emmy and Zosia with their crusts. After he was finished making the rounds, he came back to the front of the room.
“First, we’ll want to wipe down the counters from the flour. The first and golden rule of cooking is to clean up before moving on. After that we’ll dive into the filling. I found all this incredible stone fruit at the farmers market yesterday and was looking for just the right dessert to showcase them,” he said, placing four ripe peaches on each of our stations. “You’re gonna want to cut the peaches into wedges about half an inch thick. Then, in the medium bowl, whisk together the grated ginger, lime zest and juice, turbinado sugar, and flour. Once you have the syrup good and stirred, add the sliced peaches and toss gently to coat them in the mixture.”
I followed his clear directions and poured the filling into the pie crusts. After checking the peach distribution was nice and even, I popped the pan into the oven and set the timer. With that done, I turned my attention to the pork chops.
Over the next half hour, Todd led the class through a series of recipes and techniques. He was a wonderful teacher, patient and easygoing, cracking jokes and telling stories about working under legendary chefs like Thomas Keller and Dan Barber, who, incidentally, had both cooked for Zosia and her husband at their vacation home in Malibu.
“Now that we have the pork chops marinated in the fig and grape agrodolce, we can turn our attention to the oysters. These,” he said, holding up a bushel, “are from Pamlico Sound on the coast of the Outer Banks, North Carolina. They’re great oysters, salty with a clean aftertaste, but they’re larger and less sweet than the ones Joanna and I harvested the other day on Stump Sound, which are still my personal favorites.”
Zosia and Emmy’s heads whipped in my direction. I hadn’t told either of them about my day oyster harvesting with Todd. I suppose if things had progressed further, I would have, but given our relationship’s arrested development, there didn’t seem to be much point. The extremely confused looks on their faces were evidence enough for me to understand they didn’t agree with my logic.
“Ladies, if you’ll excuse me, I have to run down to the wine cellar. This recipe calls for champagne, and it doesn’t appear my sous chef remembered to grab a few bottles,” Todd said.
As soon as he was out of earshot, the interrogation began. Why did I go oyster harvesting with Todd? When did we meet? How did we meet? Why had I kept it a secret? Were we dating? Sleeping together? What did he look like without his shirt?
I closed my eyes and rattled off answers. “We met on the jetty the day I sprained my ankle. He found me and carried me back to the hotel. We’re not dating or sleeping together, and we haven’t even kissed. And if you must know, he looks damn good with his shirt off,” I said in one complete breath.
“If it isn’t anything serious, why didn’t you just tell us about oyster harvesting?” Emmy asked.
“I don’t know. I think maybe there was the start of something between us, but the other night I caught him snuggled up with Louisa Brier in the Palm Lounge. I’m not sure they’re really over, or maybe things have restarted between them—either way, it was probably too soon to get back in the ring anyway.”
Todd walked back into the kitchen, triumphantly holding a couple of bottles of Dom Perignon over his head. “One for the oyster recipe, and the rest to enjoy with our meal.” He set them down on the counter next to a large silver saber. “Who wants to do the honors of cracking these bad boys open?”
“Joanna does,” Zosia said, pushing me forward.
“I—”
Zosia raised her eyebrows. “Go on, have fun,” she mouthed.
I took two steps forward before glancing back at Zosia, who was grinning from ear to ear. I stepped up to the kitchen island, and Todd handed me the saber.
“The biggest misconception about using a saber or sword to open a bottle of champagne is that you are literally cutting the top of the bottle off,” he said. “In fact, if we do this right, the saber should strike the glass in such a way that it cracks and the high pressure inside the bottle takes care of the rest. First thing’s first, I want you to grasp the bottle firmly by the base.”
I picked up the champagne from the counter, bent my knees ever so slightly, and shifted the bottle so I was holding the glass body by the base.
Todd came around behind me. “The trick here is to point it away from any onlookers, so we don’t take out any eyes with the cork.”
I nodded and rotated my body about forty-five degrees.
“Perfect. Now, you’ll want to locate the vertical seam running up the side of the bottle to the lip. The intersection of the seam and lip is where you’ll get the cleanest break, so this is where you’ll want to aim.”
Todd took hold of my hand and guided my finger along the seam to find the bottle’s sweet spot. He leaned in closer, speaking softly into my ear. “You’ll want to hold the knife flat against the bottle with the blunt edge toward the lip. One of the biggest misconceptions is that you need the sharp end to break the bottle.”
I flipped the blade around, so the flat edge was facing the top of the bottle.
“That’s exactly right. Okay, now, on the countdown of three, run your saber slowly back along the seam toward your body, then quickly and firmly thrust it back up the seam toward the bottle’s lip.”
“A real countdown?” I replied, thinking back to our exchange on the jetty, when he pulled my ankle out from the rocks on three instead of five to spare me pain.
“A real countdown,” he said with a knowing smile. “Now, strike the lip sharply with the blade at a slight angle, not perpendicularly. Remember, it’s all about follow-through. The most important thing is for the strike to have conviction behind it. Are you ready?”
“As I’ll ever be.”
He stepped back and away. “You got this. Remember, it’s all about the follow-through. Three . . . two . . . one.”
I pulled the saber back down along the seam, squinted my eyes, and thrust it back up toward the bottle’s lip at a slight angle, hitting the intersection just as Todd had instructed. Right at the point of strike, the glass fractu
red, allowing the bubbles and pressure to do the rest, shooting the cork clear across the room.
Zosia and Emmy cheered loudly as champagne overflowed from the top of the broken bottle. Todd grabbed glasses from the counter, filling each one to the rim.
“I knew you could do it,” he leaned in and whispered. “Ladies,” he said, turning to address the rest of the room, “the staff has prepared a beautiful table for you on the balcony so you can enjoy your very delicious three-course dinner with outstanding views of the Atlantic. If you’d like to carry a drink outside, one of the Retreat House servers will be waiting to greet you.”
Zosia and Emmy each grabbed a champagne flute and hurried to the balcony, while I hung back with Todd to help wipe up champagne bottle glass shards from the floor.
“I got this,” he said. “You can join them out on the balcony.”
“Isn’t the first and golden rule of cooking, clean up before moving on?”
“Touché. I’ll dustpan, if you sweep,” he said, passing me the broom. “You know, I’ve been hoping to run into you since the other night. I’m sorry about how we left things. How was the play?”
“It was a good production, but you’re right, the plot’s full of flaws, impulsiveness, and immaturity when it comes to love and relationships.”
“I should’ve parked my ego and gone with you like I promised. I’m sorry.”
“It’s fine, really. You don’t owe me an apology. You don’t owe me anything, really. We hardly know each other.”
“No, it’s not fine. I was being an idiot. Of course, you wouldn’t be completely over your ex yet.”
“I’m beginning to wonder if anybody ever really gets over a past love.” I motioned toward the balcony door with my head. “I should probably get outside to Zosia and Emmy.”
