A Cold Piece of Work (30 page)

“You told me that you were going to call to set up a meeting with me because you wanted to tell me face-to-face that you wouldn't see me anymore. You said you cared about me and appreciated me, but that you were trying to do something you hadn't really done before, which was be committed to one woman.

“Then you told me that you had trust issues about her because she didn't tell you she was married and that she wanted to control
how you disciplined your son. Of course, I was stunned to hear you had a son. So you explained how you found that out and your history with, uh, Michele.

“You asked me what I thought and I told you that I sort of held out hope that we could really be a couple because I thought we got along great. I also told you I knew you were afraid of commitment; I just didn't know why. And then you told me about how girls disappointed you and basically made you the way you are—or were.

“You talked and talked. What I got from all of it, though, was that you really do want something with this woman. And I know that because in one breath you're telling me you can't see me. Then you immediately told me you weren't with her anymore because you had some problems. So if you're not with her, why wouldn't you want to see me?”

“What did I say to that?”

“You didn't say a damn thing,” she said. “What you did was get up and stumble to the bathroom and throw up.”

“Ah, come on. You're lying,” Solomon said.

“Go in your bathroom and see for yourself,” Marie said. “I was going to clean it up. Then I said, ‘He ain't my man.' So, it's waiting for you; or Michele.”

“Very funny,” Solomon said and he slowly made his way off the bed. His legs were shaky and his head was pounding. His body was wrecked. “I feel like I got run over by a truck; then it backed up and ran over me again.”

He got to the bathroom door and the odor and sight of his own vomit nearly made him hurl again. Marie could not watch him struggle, so she came over and helped him back to the bed.

“This is a first,” she said. “I've never taken a man to bed so he could rest.”

“Marie, I'm not drunk anymore, so believe me when I tell you that I'm glad you're my friend,” he said when he got back to the bed. He pulled himself under the covers and clutched a pillow across his chest.

“I'm sorry about last night and I'm really sorry about never giving us a chance. As I told you last night, even though I don't remember saying it, I decided a while ago to deal with women from an emotional distance. It's a cold way to be, but it protected me from being...you know…”

“Hurt? Heartbroken?” Marie interjected. “You can say it, you know? Men. Always trying to hang on to that one last raggedy piece of manhood.”

Solomon laughed. “You know what I mean. The point is that I respect and appreciate you and the friendship we have.”

“Thanks for saying that,” she said. “You actually are really good when you're sloppy drunk because you said something very similar to that last night. But I appreciate it more now since you seem to be aware of what you're saying.

“And since it seems like you're going to survive your alcohol poisoning, I want to say one thing before I leave: Many times a man's downfall is his pride. You told me, in so many words, that you loved that woman and you knew she loved you. So, what is the point of not being together? To prove you didn't give in first? That's really not cute or macho. It's dumb.”

Solomon heard Marie, even agreed with her, but pride and principles overruled him. His pride, combined with his issues, made it a certainty he would not contact Michele.

He missed her. He wanted her back. He even, in a flash moment of truthfulness, admitted he needed her; he had no desires for anyone else. But his principles would only embrace her if she made all the concessions. She had to dismiss the notion
of usurping his authority on how he disciplined his son. And she had to apologize for thinking he was a chronic abuser.

That same morning, Michele was less contemplative. She went on a date. A fellow caterer, Joseph Dancer, had been eyeing her for some time. They had met at Taste of Atlanta, and had stayed in touch on occasion via phone and e-mail.

Joseph's most recent contact included inviting her to a friend's 40
^th
birthday party in Southwest Atlanta. His phone call came soon after Michele awoke that morning, feeling particularly grim about her prospects with Solomon. She, in fact, was mad at him.

She thought:
How could he go nearly six weeks without talking to me? He left me again, only this time he didn't sneak off. He just walked away. How could he be such an Ice Man? Didn't we really have something? He must not have loved me at all. And when is he going to disappear on Gerald?

That last thought made her angry. He hadn't given any indication he would discard his son; he had been actually remarkable with him. But he was remarkably cold toward her, which left her feeling like he could dismiss them both at his whim.

While making breakfast with those thoughts swirling around her head, Joseph called. He had known Michele for more than a year and finally worked up the audacity to ask her out.

“Sure,” she answered him. “Why not?”

“Why would you do that?” Sonya said that afternoon, when Michele told her of her plans.

“Because I can't sit around and wait on a man who might not ever come back.”

“But you love Solomon and you don't have any interest in this other man. It's not fair to him.”

“He's a nice guy,” Michele said.

“Wow, really? That's ninety-nine percent of the men in the
world. If that's the first and best thing you can say about him, then that tells you something.”

“I've known him a long time, but I don't really know that much about him,” Michele said. “So I'm going to find out if there's something more I like about him. What's wrong with that?”

Sonya did not answer. She knew her cousin—if her mind was made up, it was not to be altered.

“I'll pick up Gerald at about six,” she said.

And at precisely seven o'clock, Joseph rang Michele's doorbell. It was if he was standing at her front door waiting for the hand to move to the twelve.

“Wow,” Michele said. “Talk about being prompt.”

She was ready, too. He came inside for a few moments and off they went to the party. But Solomon was all over her. First of all, she had heard of the restaurant before, but remembered when Joseph got there that Solomon had placed it on their list of spots to visit.

Then she measured everything about Joseph against Solomon. His looks: He was a subtly good-looking man. No really distinctive features, but he dressed neatly and carried himself with a self-assuredness that was attractive. He had the complexion of Terrence Howard with a slim frame.

His height: he was not as tall as Solomon and about equal to her in heels. His cologne: It was not flagrant; but not the intoxicating Cartier or John Varvatos Vintage of Solomon. His manners: He walked out of the house before her and only came over to open her door after she stood there waiting for him to do so.

Still, determined to have a good time, she tried to put Solomon out of her head and initiated a mindless conversation about the weather in Atlanta versus the weather in Texas, where he was from.

They arrived hungry at Marc and Deilah's beautifully decorated contemporary home off of Cascade. Joseph said he had been cooking all day and Michele's thoughts of Solomon ate at her appetite.

When they entered the house, Joseph morphed into a gregarious, life-of-the-party sort, which was opposite his calm, relaxed demeanor Michele had seen. He put his arm around her and introduced her to about a dozen others.

“If you think I can cook, wait until you taste this woman's cooking,” he said.

Michele smiled and looked at him with a quizzical expression. He had no idea of her cooking talents. She was irritated. Why was he posing as if they knew each other beyond the initial meeting, phone calls and e-mails?

They went to the basement, where a bar was set up. He ran into three guys he knew and they immediately ordered shots of tequila. “Want one?” he asked Michele.

“No, thanks,” she said. “I will have a glass of wine.”

After he took the tequila shot, she asked him about complimenting her on her cooking. “Oh, I was just trying to do some marketing for you,” he said. “These people like to do parties.”

“But you don't know if I can cook or not.”

“Someone who looks as good as you do
has
to be able to cook.”

His attempt at flattery made no sense and augmented her irritation.

“Where's the food?” she asked.

A woman in the basement heard her and answered the question. “It's upstairs. I'm about to get some myself. You can go with me,” she said.

She was Deilah, the hostess. “Beautiful home,” Michele said. “Thanks for having me.”

Joseph stayed at the bar, drinking. Upstairs, Deilah introduced Michele to more people and led her to the food. It was an elaborate spread of fish, chicken, rice, potatoes, broccoli salad, crab cakes and green beans.

It was awful. Bland. Overcooked. Disappointing.

Michele curbed her appetite by eating three cupcakes. But she was not fulfilled—or happy.

She went back downstairs to find Joseph, but he was not there. On her way upstairs, she ran into Deilah, who told her Joseph was on the deck at the back of the house.

When she stepped out there, she found Joseph and a few other guys smoking cigars.

“Hey, Michele, come on over,” he said. He introduced her to the men and offered her a cigar, which reminded her of Solomon. He convinced her to try one with him and she actually enjoyed it; they would share one on occasion.

“No, thanks,” she said. She could not bear the notion of getting that heavy cigar smoke on her clothes and in her hair. “I'm going to go back inside.”

“I'm coming right in,” Joseph said.

And just as he said, Joseph returned to the house to find Michele in the kitchen, listening to a few women discussing the awful treatment of President Barack Obama.

“Hey,” Joseph said into her ear. She could smell a horrible combination of cigar and alcohol on his breath. “How's it going?”

“Fine. Fine,” she said.

“Good. Did you get a chance to eat?” Joseph asked. She did not detect it at first, but he seemed eager, in hindsight, to hear Michele's answer.

“I did,” she said, softly so no one else could hear her. “I hope it's all right to say this to you, but the food was terrible.”

Joseph's face turned sour.

“What's wrong?” Michele said. “You hated it, too?”

“No, I didn't hate it,” he said, anger evident in his voice. “You're the only person I know who doesn't love it.”

“Why are you so angry?” she said. “You know the caterer or something?”

“I'm the caterer,” he said, staring at her with eyes that, if they could burn, would disintegrate her.

A sheath of embarrassment covered Michele's body. Usually quick with a comeback, she had nothing.

“I'm so sorry, Joseph. I don't know what to say.”

“You've said enough,” he said, and walked away.

Michele was left standing there. She wanted to talk to Joseph, but there were no words to soothe her abrasive critique of his work. As a caterer herself, she understood how devastating and embarrassing it would be.

She searched the house for Joseph; she wanted to profusely apologize. She also wanted to tell him how subjective peoples' tastes were and as long as others enjoyed his food, he should dismiss her words as nothing more than a picky person venting.

But she could not find Joseph. She searched the basement, the living room, deck and kitchen. She asked the friends he had cigars with and Deilah, the hostess. No one knew where he was.

Finally, Michele decided to go outside, to the car, to see if he was there. And he was.

“Joseph, I've been trying to find you. Why did you just leave like that?”

“I didn't want to curse you out.” He put his drink to his mouth and followed it with a tug off his cigar. He blew the smoke toward Michele's face.

“I guess you're the master chef, that you can go around telling
me that my food sucks,” he said. Anger seeped from every word. And embarrassment, too.

“I'm sorry, Joseph. You know almost everything is subjective. For every person who wasn't thrilled with my food, there were a dozen more to validate it. So, don't let what I said invalidate you. You know you're a good chef, and people have told you that.”

“Yeah, but you didn't.” He was almost pouting.

“I'm sorry I offended you. I wasn't trying to; I didn't even know you prepared the food.”

“Why would my friends have an event and let someone else cater? Of course, you knew I catered it. That's one reason I wanted you to come with me… That was a bad decision.”

“I can't apologize enough, Joseph,” Michele said. She was tired of apologizing and about ready to explode. “I don't know what to say.”

She wanted to say, “Grow up and take criticism like a man. Learn from it and get better.” Instead, she held her tongue.

“So that's it? You don't have anything else to say?” Joseph asked.

“I don't know what I could say to make it better for you. I know you want the truth from people. That's how we know what to work on and what not to. Clearly, the guests are enjoying the food. You should focus on that,” Michele answered.

“First you tell me my food is horrible and now you're telling me what to focus on. Let me tell you something: You can soak your clothes in gasoline and go to hell.”

If he was looking to get a fiery response out of Michele, he succeeded.

“Can you take me home now? And maybe by the time you drop me off you will have grown up,” she said.