Hot Flash (15 page)

Life with my second husband is peaceful, makes me feel good about myself, and he truly loves me as I am. My wings have been free to spread in our relationship and I think that’s what every woman needs more than the passion and more than a perfect man.

No matter how suitable he seems, don’t be so anxious to find a man that you make a poor choice for yourself.

Happy man hunting,

A short time later, the INS agent had departed, Chef Radkin had been carted off, and I’d thrown four roasts into the oven.

I was too busy to allow myself the time to worry about Radkin. While I was genuinely concerned about his alcoholism, nothing seemed to help for any period of time.

We had a like/annoyed relationship rather than love/hate. He was extremely talented when sober. As his disease progressed, my annoyance with him seemed to increase, as well. Since he was in a stupor half the time, I had to handle not only my job responsibilities but his, as well, and I had been doing so for some time—without the benefits of money or promotion.

I’d tried cajoling him and guilting him, but an addict of any type simply isn’t going to change until he’s ready. Radkin had hit bottom, and it scared me, but maybe it was a good thing. Hitting bottom might provide his best chance at conquering his fondness for the bottle.

Addiction to both drugs and booze is common in the food service industry. I think it’s because we get our highs by operating on an emergency level during working hours. We work our asses off, as quickly as possible, to get well prepared meals to customers, despite inevitable problems. Our bodies crave the adrenaline high, and some crave it 24/7. Radkin was like that.

No matter how concerned I was about him, there were still three more banquets to be served without any kitchen staff to prepare them.

Did I mention operating at an emergency level?

The good news was that Aiden hadn’t yet bailed and seemed inclined to assist me. The bad news was that while he knew the names of the cookware, he had no clue how to use it.

I couldn’t very well serve only bread, raw meat (sushi, anyone?), faux blood (if there was any left), or pastries to the four–hundred–plus people waiting for food. I had to feed them something and I needed help. Since my choice seemed to be begging for assistance from Housekeeping or Security, and neither was a great choice, instead I called Kurt at Patisserie. Having worked with me at the hotel, he was familiar with the kitchen and besides, when he left, he took half the staff with him. “Help.”

“Have you forgiven me yet for kicking you and your date out?”

“No. You owe me.” I quickly filled him in on the situation and begged for help.

“I don’t owe you that bad,” he said dryly.

“I’m desperate here.”

He made an exasperated grunt that I knew was the sound of capitulation.

“You’re going to help me, aren’t you?”

“I can probably spare a couple of guys and Nikolai has a brother looking for work.”

“Thank you. Thank you.”

Twenty minutes later, two cooks and Kurt himself arrived, along with Carlos, who, while a maître d’, knew his way around the salamander.

I grabbed Kurt and hugged him fiercely. “You’re a lifesaver.”

“Shut up and lead me to Fang.” Kurt never was comfortable with anything the least bit touchy-feely.

By the time we finished dishing up, I turned to check on Aiden, but he’d disappeared. “Where is Aiden?”

“The cookware salesman?” asked Carlos.

“Yeah?”

“He left about an hour ago.”

Damn.

“You dating him, too?”

“Instead.” I could only hope Aiden still wanted to go out on a date with me after everything he’d witnessed. “Or hoping to.”

“Just don’t bring him to Patisserie,
capisce?”

There are times in a woman’s life when she’s obligated to do things she doesn’t want to do. A few days later found me in that exact situation.

Attending a baby shower.

Want to strike fear in the heart of a woman over forty who’s a) not pregnant, or b) not expecting a grandchild? Mention a baby shower and excuses will start flying.

When Susan’s thirteen-year-old daughter, Jordan, insisted on throwing her mother a baby shower, we all tried to get out of it. But Susan begged nicely and promised booze. Lots of booze.

Susan kept her word about the booze. About a dozen very ladylike, nicely dressed women were seated in her stylishly decorated family room, daintily eating cake from colorful paper plates, pretending to enjoy themselves, and gulping down the punch. When I tried a sip, I wasn’t quite sure what was in it, but I guarantee it packed a wallop.

However, Susan did
not
keep her word when it came to our demand for “No games!” It wasn’t entirely her fault, because a teenage girl on a mission to throw “the best shower ever” can’t easily be deterred.

Sadly for me, I was the designated driver and couldn’t drown my misery in the kick-butt punch. Other than Susan and Jordan, I was the only sober woman in the room when Jordan first suggested some game about naming baby parts, and it probably sealed her fate as far as Connie was concerned. She quickly nixed the idea.

Jordan began guiding the group through a drunken update to Pin the Tail on the Donkey called, brilliantly, Pin the Diaper on the Baby. Unfortunately, the party revelers were
not
behaving themselves; they were attempting to one-up each other on the funniest placement of the diaper.

“Mom,” said Jordan between giggles. “Your friends are
sooo
weird.”

She was laughing
at
us, not with us, and I didn’t blame her. It’s not a pretty picture being one of the few sober people in a room filled with drunks. I suspected I’d have nightmares for years to come about women trying to pin diapers to baby heads.

When it was Connie’s turn for diaper pinning, she was blindfolded as expected. However, after Jordan spun her around, I feared Connie would get sick because she staggered, ahem, drunkenly. Rather than going after the baby poster with her thumbtacked diaper, her orientation was off. Either that or she could see through the blindfold.

With her hand stuck out, pointy thumbtack foremost, she homed in on Jordan.

The teenager screeched and jumped back before Connie’s thumbtack hit its target. Connie lunged at her again. Then all hell broke loose, with lots of giggling and screaming, as Jordan fled and Connie began chasing her through the family room, into the kitchen, into the formal dining room, and back into the family room.

Next Connie went after MaryEllen and a woman from Susan’s husband’s office. Paper cups and plates, napkins, and bits of cake went flying. Women who had previously been on their best behavior amazingly turned into hollering hoydens. They were hopping, leaping from chairs, and running for cover. I tried to escape to the bathroom, but three women had barricaded themselves inside, beating me to safety.

When I turned back to the family room, it looked as if the contents had been tossed into a mixer—puree de furnishings. How had things so quickly gone from exceptionally polite and well mannered to soooo very wrong?

Baby shower gone bad.

Connie’s attention had returned to Jordan. Connie managed, legs akimbo, to corner the teen near the TV in a corner of the family room. Jordan escaped by ducking down and crawling between Connie’s legs.

As Connie spun to find her next victim, Susan grabbed the thumbtacked diaper from Connie’s outstretched arm, ending the inebriated version of semimusical chairs and squealing guests. Susan announced, “It’s time for me to open presents!”

Everyone sighed with relief and took up positions around her for gift unwrapping. After all the packages were opened, Jordan’s need for a baby shower was appeased, and the other party revelers departed.

The Baby Swimming Group was seated in Susan’s kitchen while Connie and MaryEllen polished off the last of the punch.

Susan handed me her list of gifts with the names of the givers on it and asked me to check it to see if it was fairly accurate since MaryEllen had written it while under the influence.

I couldn’t read it. I pulled it closer, and it was still blurry. I held it farther out and it became more clear. In, out, like a trombone.

“Looks like you’re a candidate for reading glasses,” said Susan.

“Welcome to age forty, when your body parts start to wear out,” said Connie.

“Here,” said MaryEllen, pulling a gadget out of her bag.

She handed me a lighted pop-out magnifying lens. It worked and MaryEllen’s list only needed a few clarifying notes, but I was not thrilled.

Being forty flipping years old pretty much sucks, except the alternative sucks even more.

“One of Jordan’s games sounded interesting,” said Susan.

“You’re kidding, right?” Connie gulped more punch.

“It’s where each person writes down one piece of advice for the mother-to-be.”

“I know what advice I’d give,” said Connie. “Next time don’t forget the birth control.”

“I know what I’d zay.” MaryEllen, who’d misplaced her esses again, chipped in, “Epidural. Itz the only way to go.”

My mind, however, had fixated on the telephone conversation I had with the prison warden before the shower, the call my mom made me make. “My advice is to avoid phones.”

“Good heavenz, why?” asked MaryEllen as I handed her the magnifier.

“Okay. Make it avoid calls from my mother. Hell, just avoid my mother entirely.”

“What’s she done this time?” asked Susan.

“She nagged me until I called the warden about her insane plan for fiftieth wedding anniversary photos.”

“I think it’z zweet.” MaryEllen carefully folded up the magnifier and slipped it back in her bag.

“Do you think it was sweet of the warden to coerce Mom into using his son-in-law as the photographer? Evidently he’s tired of supporting his daughter and son-in-law while he struggles to get a photography business off the ground. The warden feels a society sponsor would make his son-in-law’s business blossom.”

“So he’s going to allow the photographs? That’ll make your mom happy.”

“Yeah. He’s even going to allow Dad to be fitted for a tux—kind of. The guard will do the measurements while the tuxedo tailor looks on and gives him directions from the other side of the window.”

Connie cracked up. “I’m picturing what’ll happen when your father’s inseam is measured.”

“Oh, Gawd.” I noticed the kitchen clock behind MaryEllen’s head. “It’s getting late and I have to get to work early tomorrow. I’m dreading it.”

“Why?” asked MaryEllen.

“Radkin went off the deep end. It’s going to be really hard, but for once I have a great opportunity for advancement. I seriously want his job.”

“It would be perfect.”

“Yeah,” said Connie. “You’ve been doing his job for a long time.”

“Kurt’s going to be jealous. He left and started his own restaurant because there wasn’t room for advancement. His loss, my gain. So I’ve got to work my tush off to show my boss that I’m ripe for advancement.”

“I don’t get why you haven’t left, too,” said MaryEllen.

“The shorter hours and big staff make it easier to be a single mom. Plus the health benefits.”

“You couldn’t start your own restaurant like Kurt?”

“You know how broke I am. It’s just not doable, even if I only kept the place open the hours I’m available. I still need to be there for Stephen.” I liked working in a huge hotel with a lot of staff. The predictability of a shift, and the shorter hours, made it possible for me to juggle parenthood with working for all these years. “It’s my chance to let hotel management see that I’m up for the job. It’s the opportunity I’ve dreamed about.”

“With the way you’ve been doing Radkin’s job anyway,” said Susan, “they’ll finally know it’s you who’s been keeping things running smoothly.”

“Good luck,” added Connie, grabbing her purse. She headed toward the exit and we all followed. “We’re all rooting for you.”

We walked out the door and Connie added, “Knock their socks off, babe.”

Susan had come in her own car, but I’d driven MaryEllen and Connie. I dropped MaryEllen off first since she lived nearby, then headed for Connie’s place.