Off the Menu (31 page)

“Right. Well, they got a call from the people they’ve been renting from down there, and they have been thinking that they probably want to sell in the next six months or so. They like Mama and Papa, so they wanted to give them a heads-up on buying the place.”

“What’s the issue?”

“The issue is that there have been six foreclosures and three short-sales in a two-block radius of the house. The fact is, their place is worth about half of what it was worth four years ago, and the chances of it selling at all in this market are slim.”

My stomach sinks. “How much are we talking about?”

“To buy the Florida place? It’s not exactly South Beach. I think we can get it for 150, 170 max based on the info I got from the Florida real estate agent about the comps for that area.”

“That’s a lot more than I have ready access to, Alex.”

“I know, kiddo, and I hate to even dump this on you, but
we are all on tightened belts right now, our investments and savings all took a huge hit in the crash, you know. …”

“Okay. Don’t say anything to them; just let me think about things and I’ll get back to you.”

“Sorry, Lana.”

“I know.”

“How’s RJ? Joshie hasn’t stopped talking about that tour at the Art Institute. He now wants to go to Art School like Uncle RJ!”

“That’s awesome. Give Sara and the boys a kiss from me.”

“Will do. And, Lana, if it doesn’t work it doesn’t work. Don’t do anything insane just to try to fix this for Mom and Dad. They’ll be fine whatever happens.”

“I know. I won’t.”

I get home, and take Dumpling for a quick piddle before settling in to write up the new recipes I tested over the weekend while I wait for the girls to arrive. But first, I shoot an e-mail to the guy who manages my finances, and ask how bad it would be for me and my future to try and make 150K liquid in the next six months. Can’t wait to see how that goes over. It isn’t like I haven’t taken a hit myself in this crazy economy. I make a very good living, but it isn’t millions. I’ve got two mortgages, two sets of taxes, two sets of housing upkeep, and only one income. I’m good about putting the maximum away every year in my retirement accounts, and not being overly aggressive or risky with my investments. I have trusts set up for each of the nieces and nephews, fifty dollars a month goes into each one automatically, to be handed over when they graduate from college. Plus the money for Mama and Papa. I try to put something from every check into short-term savings for vacations and unexpected expenses, and yes, the occasional spa treatment or household
splurge. With the extra two hundred dollars a month I’ll need to send to them now, that will pretty much wipe out the extra savings options.

The manila envelope from At Our Core is sitting on the table next to my laptop, and I look at it with a feeling of dread. I open it again. The offer letter is right on top. The salary is very generous by not-for-profit standards, and I know it is the limit they can offer, but it is still about half of what I currently make. It would put me in a lower tax bracket, so I would take home a greater percentage than I do now, and if I reduced my level of savings, my level of annual charitable giving, and significantly tightened my belt in terms of my lifestyle, cut the kids’ trust deposits in half, I could just barely make my monthly nut. But there wouldn’t be money for Mama and Papa. Not the way I currently handle things. I could sell the cabin, but that idea makes my heart break.

I think about the kids and how much I have grown to adore them in such a short time and how deeply rewarding the work has been. How much fun, how personally fulfilling. And Rachel’s discussion of what is to come, to be able to leave a legacy. Something that is actually mine, as opposed to a bunch of television shows and cookbooks with someone else’s picture on the cover. I seem to have forgotten along the way that just because I don’t want to be scrutinized in the public eye doesn’t mean it isn’t nice to have public recognition of accomplishments.

But first, you sort of have to have accomplishments.

W
hen I lay it all out for the girls, they are quick to jump on me.

“You have loads of accomplishments!” Emily says, smacking me playfully in the back of the head. “Dumbass.”

“Great, thanks, that is very helpful,” I say, wincing dramatically and rubbing my head.

“She didn’t hurt you,” Lacey says. “And she’s right, you are a dumbass. You have your name on six
New York Times
bestselling cookbooks. In the credits of more than three hundred hours of pretty damn good television programming. You have helped to create a new program that has already changed eight lives, and you will be a part of it moving forward even if it isn’t as the director. You have a family that loves you, one of the best dogs on the planet, and pretty spectacular friends.”

“And a majorly dreamy boyfriend,” Mina says.

“EXACTLY! Thank you, AND a majorly dreamy boyfriend.” Lacey is triumphant.

“I get it, you guys, I do, but you know what I mean. This job would be a chance to really do something amazing with the next part of my life. Not just the career part. Regular hours. Dinner before nine. No middle-of-the-night drop-ins, no vacation-interrupting phone harassment, no having to leave parties to bail someone out of jail …”

“But still, you do love your job. And Patrick is endearing in his way. You wouldn’t have stayed this long if you hated it. And since when is not-for-profit anything but overworked and underpaid?” Emily pipes in. “Maybe it would be regular hours to begin with, but as the program grows, my guess is you’ll be right back to long hours. And without the compensation to cushion things.”

“Oh, that is true. A woman who left us to take over marketing for a nonprofit now works at least twenty percent more hours than she did with us. AND no free chocolate.” Lacey shudders at the very thought of losing her Willy Wonka pipeline of delicious, and passes over the box of caramels and marshmallows they’ve been testing. “Personally, I think you
thank them for the offer and keep the job you have and keep volunteering. There is no shame in wanting to keep a lifestyle you worked really hard to achieve.”

“I dunno,” Mina says. “Alana has seemed extra happy since this program came along, and I’ve never heard her this excited to tell us about a show they were shooting or some cookbook as she has been to tell us about the kids and their progress. Money isn’t everything. Besides, she isn’t going to be a single-income household for much longer!”

“No way, guys, I can’t let RJ play into this decision beyond whether it would be detrimental or positive for our relationship. But nothing financial. I know he and I keep talking about the moving in together and getting married and everything, but I can’t do anything except assume that for the foreseeable future I am still very much a single girl and very much responsible for my own upkeep.”

“I’m just saying.” Mina shrugs. “Speaking of boyfriends, I have to go pick mine up. Alana, you’ll make the right choice. Whichever you pick. You’re lucky; there isn’t a bad decision here, just a decision.” She gets up and grabs her purse, kissing her palm to the room. “Toodles, bitches. See you all next time!”

“That girl is crazy. But she’s right.” Emily stands up and brushes the crumbs off her polo shirt, sighing at a midbosom hummus stain, and fluffs her golden curls. “You can’t make a wrong decision, you win either way. And you’ll figure out what kind of winning is most important to you.”

Lacey calls Jaxie over, and waves away my attempt to make her take the rest of the chocolates. “Got to get back in fighting shape,” she says, patting her belly. “Going back on Match this week.” She has been between servicemen for a
few months, I have no doubt that within the week we will start to hear about the latest uniform she is dating.

I put on Dumpling’s leash and we walk out with them. Lacey decides to walk Jaxie along with me and Dumpling.

“What does RJ say about the job thing?” she asks, as Dumpling and Jaxie romp around in the grass out front.

“He’s like you guys, totally supportive whatever I decide. And he keeps telling me that I can’t make a decision based on money or helping my folks. He says that the economy has hurt everyone, they wouldn’t be surprised to discover it impacted them as well, and they would respond accordingly.”

“He’s right, you know. The kids will be fine with a smaller trust from their aunt Alana, because they have your love and support and attention. Don’t be ashamed to turn the job down and keep the comfort, but don’t hesitate to take it if you think it is really what you want. The finances will figure themselves out.”

“Thanks. I know it deep down. But I’m genuinely torn. I’m not unhappy at work, I’m comfortable there, I’m good at it, it’s exciting and challenging in all the ways I like to be challenged without any micromanaging, and it gives me enough flexibility to participate in the At Our Core stuff on my terms. On the other hand, it has been a long time since I had a new kind of challenge, and my industry is notoriously fickle. From the moment you reach the top you are one bad season away from boring and underemployed. Think about how many shows we loved that annoyed us by season three. How many sophomore albums were grating and regrettable. You get to the third book in the trilogy and read it out of a sense of obligation instead of real joy. My fortune is tied to Patrick. He’s at the top now, but it’s a quick trip down, and
when he falls he takes me with him. Provided he doesn’t blow a gasket and fire me before then.”

“You can’t base any decision on what-ifs. Take the information you have, make the best decision you can, and live with it with as much happiness as you can muster.”

“You’re very bright, you know that?”

“I do, in fact.”

“We both appear to have blue-bag duty to perform.” I look over to where Dumpling and Jaxie are taking something of a synchronized dump.

“What is he doing?” she says, motioning at my goofy dog, who is pooping with one leg straight up in the air as if peeing on an invisible tree.

“Poop plié. He loves ballet.”

“That dog is bizarre.”

“I know.” When the dogs are finished, we pick up the evidence, and walk over to drop the blue bags in the garbage.

“Good night, sweetie. Talk to you later,” she says, heading for her car.

“Bye. Thanks for the pep talk.”

“Anytime!”

Dumpling and I get home just in time for RJ’s call. He’s wiped out from travel and meetings, so we keep it brief. I send best wishes from the girls, and tell him that they have not made my decision for me. He laughs and tells me to not pressure myself. To just let it be what it is and try to let the decision make itself. I tell him he is very wise, and thank him for his counsel. He tells me that he loves me and misses me and sends love to Dumpling and promises to call tomorrow when he isn’t so exhausted. Then he tells me to be sure to look under my pillow before I go to bed.

The front of the card I find there shows a diner scene,
and says,
I’ll have the special
. On the inside it says,
That would be you.
RJ’s note, in his usual scrawly handwriting says:

I shoot him a quick e-mail to thank him for his lovely words and for his support. It feels so amazing to have him in my corner, to have someone who truly believes in me with such purity of heart. I pour myself a glass of port from the bottle we opened the other night, a 1985 Fonseca that is like drinking the smoothest, yummiest raisins on the planet. I run a very hot bath, toss Dumpling a bully stick, and lower myself into the water, sipping the warming wine and letting my stress begin to ease a bit. No sooner have my shoulders begun to unclench than my phone rings. It’s after eleven. I’ve already spoken with RJ. Anything else will have to wait. I take a decent soak, and when I am appropriately pruny, I get out. I remember reading once that the best way to combat dry skin is to just stay naked after bathing and rub yourself with
the water till it absorbs. It’s a ridiculous exercise, but now and again I try it, because from November through April in Chicago, most of me looks like an elderly alligator. I am attempting this bizarre trick when suddenly Dumpling goes from sound asleep on the bathroom rug to bouncing and barking. Goddamnit all to hell.

I throw on my robe and go to the door.

“Alana-quintana! You look flushed.” Patrick kisses the top of my head, and kneels down so that Dumpling can launch himself into the loving arms of the last man on earth I want to see tonight.

“Patrick …”

He wanders over to the kitchen, grabs a glass, helps himself to the last of the port, and opens the box of chocolates Lacey left, popping two into his mouth at once. “Alana, get ready, my love, my light, your life is about to change.”

“Can I put clothes on before this change?”

“Of course. I’m raiding your fridge.”

“Of course you are. I’ll be back. Please don’t give the dog any food, he’s getting fat.” Dumpling turns to glare at me in an insulted manner and then returns his attention to Patrick.

I leave Patrick talking to the dog and rummaging in my fridge and quickly throw on some clothes. Every bit of relaxation I had achieved is gone, and my shoulders are back up around my ears. For the eleventh time today the pendulum swings, this time away from Patrick and toward the Foundation job. I’m pretty sure Rachel would never show up in the middle of the night to raid my fridge.

I text RJ that Patrick has just arrived, and if he isn’t asleep yet, he should feel free to call and save me. I wait, knowing that if he is up, I’ll get a reply text quickly, since his phone is always at his elbow. Nothing. Crap.