Out to Lunch (18 page)

Thank god.

I sink back into the water, letting the heat soak into my bones and relax my muscles.

“AAAAHHHHH!” I yell as nearly fifty pounds of puppy lands on my chest, then slides half into the tub, freaks out, and scratches the bejesus out of me getting himself out of the tub.

Nothing sexier than an overweight, naked, wet woman with red welts all over her torso and thighs chasing a soaking puppy all over the house. Wayne might not be as awful as I always thought, but this gift that keeps on giving that he has foisted upon my life is not exactly keeping him off my shit list.

* * *

B
y the time I get Chewbacca into his crate, a feat that takes the better part of a half an hour and four pieces of bologna, and clean up the broken vase in the hallway that fell off the table when Chewie slammed into it, my adrenaline is going. Despite the fact that it is now well after one in the morning, I’m wide awake. And I really don’t want to take a pill, because it’ll throw my whole day off tomorrow if I sleep till noon or something. I lie in bed, Volnay snoring on the pillow beside me, in the dark with my iPad, scrolling to see if there is anything I want to watch on my Netflix queue. Aimee convinced me not to put a television in my bedroom.

“It’s dangerous. Bedrooms are for sleeping and sex. TV in the bedroom is not elegant.”

But it is nice when you can’t sleep. Or when you’re sick.

“You have that tablet thing for that. TV in the bedroom is a slippery slope. You should at least have to get out of bed to be a couch potato.”

Nothing really sparks me on the queue, but I’m too lazy to get up and go downstairs to see if there is something good on the food channels or an infomercial I haven’t seen yet. I check my e-mail and decide to shoot off a note to thank Elliot.

E-

Just wanted to thank you so much for helping me with the book for Wayne. He really was very touched, and I think it was the perfect thing. You’re officially in trouble, since now I’m going to have to rely on you for all of his birthdays and Christmases in perpetuity. I really appreciate it, and hope your holiday was joyous.

Best,

Jenna

I look at a food blog I love called
Sassy Radish
for a minute, thinking I might want to try the recipe for sweet potato, parsnip, and carrot latkes with harissa, when my e-mail dings.

J-

It was my absolute pleasure to be of assistance. And frankly, I’m delighted to think you would rely on me for anything. Did you just get back this late? I hope it was a good day, and not too marred by Aimee’s absence. I know that holidays always seem to intensify loss. My dad and brother and I always really miss Mom most at this time of year. I hope there was enough happy around you to keep things buoyant, or at least enough booze to make things joyful. Any chance I’ll be seeing you New Year’s?

E

That’s so sweet of him.

E-

Thanks for the thoughts; it was pretty joyful all things considered, even without getting overly boozily lubricated. And I’m so sorry; I didn’t realize your mom was gone. Were you able to be with your dad and brother today? Thank you so much for the New Year’s invite, I believe the plan is to lie low and have a fuddy-duddy New Year’s. Brian is just getting back from skiing that morning, so I don’t think he’ll be up for a party, I’m fairly doubtful we’ll even see midnight. But I’m sure you’ll have a great time!

J

J-

I’m actually still here in sunny Missouri, driving back tomorrow. Mom passed away about ten years ago, but thank you for your kindness. Luckily my aunt hosts, dozens of cousins and an enormous ham, turkey with all the trimmings, and I make my famous gingerbread, and we stuff ourselves and sing carols, and we all wear horrific holiday sweaters and do a truly massive White Elephant swap. A good day. And just enough family time to appreciate them, and not get overly claustrophobic in the old twin bed. Sounds like a nice plan for you for New Year’s, but you’ll be missed.

E

E-

Um, famous gingerbread? I didn’t know you cooked. Recipe, please.

Your day sounds quite lovely. Although that many tacky holiday sweaters in one place might give me the heebie-jeebies. Which is probably a bad thing for a Jew to say, now that I look at it.

Going to try and get some sleep, have a safe drive back tomorrow.

HA! Never would have thought of that, but you’re right, looking at it is kinda funny.

Sleep well, Jenna.

E

And then, surprisingly, I do.

17

I
’m bundling myself up for the walk over to the Library. I’ve got confirmation that at the moment we are completely without customers, due I’m sure to the icky weather and the New Year’s preparations. No one ever needs last-minute New Year’s food books. But Chewie has never been there, and the trainer told me at puppy class last night that if there is a place I’m going to want him to spend a lot of time, I should acclimate him as soon as possible. He’s already met everyone except Lois, who apparently has baked a new batch of her famous peanut butter dog biscuits in his honor. The store is closing at three, but I want to get there this morning so that I’m home and settled before Brian gets there around two.

And even though the weather is gross, I’m looking forward to getting out of the house. Yesterday was a bad day. Aimee’s birthday. She would have been forty-two.

“Younger than you!”

I turned forty-two the week before Aimee died. I didn’t even realize it was my birthday until my parents called to wish me a happy day.

Aimee loved her birthday. And she never let anyone shirk on celebrating just because she was smack in the middle between Christmas and New Year’s. And god forbid you tried to pull the “I got you one bigger gift to cover both.”

“Hey, they are not the same thing. Two different events. Two presents. That’s the rule. Anything else is bullshit.”

Aimee always popped out of bed on her birthday bright eyed and full of glee and high expectations.

I? Woke up yesterday with a horrible sinking feeling, rolled right over and went back to sleep. I slept the sleep of denial till nearly eleven, by which point Chewie had not only shit on the kitchen floor, he had apparently practiced his Ice Capades routine upon it, managing to get it well and truly spread around, ground into the wide grout on my terra-cotta floor, smeared on the kickplates of half the cabinets. After screaming at the poor dog and smacking him a good one on the snout with the
New York Times
Dining section, I spent a full hour and a half on my hands and knees weeping angry tears of frustration, scrubbing dog shit of a particularly foul nature, much of which had already dried to rock hardness while I was wallowing in bed trying not to think about all the birthdays Aimee would never have.

By the time I was done, my hands were red and chapped from the scalding hot water I’d dosed with bleach, both my knees were black and blue and swollen, and Chewie was cowering in the living room. Where he had peed right by the door, since in my eagerness to get the mess cleaned up, I had forgotten to do so much as let him out into the backyard. And then I really lost it. Spectacularly. Curled up in a fetal position on the living room floor, sobbing so hard I could barely breathe, the dolphin noises coming out of me horrifying both dogs, who ran around and around me, licking any skin they could find and whining.

I eventually got up. Shook it off. Took a shower. Took some Advil. Then Brian called, and just when I needed someone to tell me that the whole thing was hilarious and a great story to bounce me out of my funk, he launched into another anti-Wayne, anti-dog tirade.

“Seriously, Jenna, I know you don’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings, but enough is enough. You’re a grown woman. If you don’t want something in your life, you can do something about it. Half-Brain has to realize that he can’t just do these things that have such huge consequences for other people. Give him the dog back, tell him you’re sorry, explain to Noah it wasn’t a good fit, and be done with it.”

“I can’t think about that right now.”

“Well then, to a certain extent, you get what you deserve on this one. If you don’t have the courage to just say what you want and need, you live with the results.”

“That’s a little harsh.”

“Just the way I see it. Sorry you’re having a bad day. Really, I am. We’re heading out to the mountain. I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon and hopefully the dog will behave himself between now and then, and we’ll have a very nice New Year’s.”

And then he was gone. And I? Dove headfirst into a tub of mocha chip ice cream and a bag of salt and vinegar potato chips and ate my way out.

It was, as they say, not a good day.

But today, today is fine. I’ll take Chewie to the Library, and tell everyone about the literal shitstorm, and they’ll laugh and make me feel better, and then we’ll come home and Brian will come back and we’ll make the small prime rib I picked up. Brian requested old school New Year’s, and I’ve come up with what I think is the perfect menu. Iceberg wedges with a homemade Thousand Island dressing and bacon bits. Prime rib, slow roasted in a very forgiving technique I developed after years of trying to make it for weddings and parties where the timing of the meal can be drastically changed based on length of ceremony, or toasts, or how well the venue staff can change over a room. Twice-baked potatoes, creamed spinach. I have a stack of crepes already made, ready to be turned into crepes suzette with butter and brown sugar and orange zest and flambéed with Grand Marnier, because if you go old school, something needs to be set on fire. With homemade vanilla bean gelato to cut the richness, of course! I’ve got two bottles of vintage Krug, a bottle of thirty-year-old Giacosa Barolo red label, and a 1985 tawny port. I spent an insane amount of money over at Howard’s Wine Cellar, but hell, what’s the point of being a millionaire if I don’t drink ridiculously well now and again?

I? Am flipping the script. Erasing yesterday like it didn’t happen. It was a blip, an anomaly. And now it’s back to normal.

I snap on the dogs’ leashes, grab some blue bags for my pocket just in case, and head out. The boulevard is lovely, covered in a light dusting of snow, the sun bright and the air brisk but not brutal. We walk up, both dogs taking opportunities to roll in the snow, and play with the other dogs we pass on the way. When we get close to the Library, I start to get a little clenchy, like maybe one of my attacks is coming on, but I breathe deeply and the feeling passes. I know I’m just nervous to have Chewie at the store. I really can’t handle another disaster so soon.

“Hello, Liebchen. And who is this handsome boy?” Lois comes to greet us. She hands a small treat to Volnay right off, but makes Chewbacca sit and make eye contact before he gets his. It is the perfect thing to do, immediately putting him in training mode and establishing Lois as an authority figure. He takes his treat, follows Volnay to the corner where her bed is, and flops down on the floor next to her as if he is the calmest most well behaved of all dogs.

And my shoulder blades release, and I can breathe.

“He’s very sweet for a terrorist,” Eloise says, sitting on the floor with Chewie sprawled half in her lap, receiving some excellent head scratching.

“Chewbacca Bin Laden is his AKC name,” I say, laughing. “Talk about your dirty bomb!”

“I would have thrown up. Did you want to throw up? I would have literally THROWN UP,” Andrea says, putting on her coat. She is leaving early to go get ready; Law isn’t picking her up to go to their New Year’s party till five, but apparently she has scheduled a half day of beauty prep at the salon. “Happy New Year, everyone.”

“Have fun,” Eloise says, releasing Chewie and levitating her lanky frame off the floor in one effortless motion, and going to give Andrea a kiss.

“Say hi to Law for me,” I say.

“Will do, and don’t you have to get going yourself soon?”

“Yeah, probably should head back.” I check my watch. It’s after eleven. Brian’s flight should just be taking off. “Everyone have a very lovely New Year’s, and I will see you all in a couple of days.” There are kisses all around, more dog treats, and a bag to take home. And all the way back down the boulevard, a prancing proud pup and his adoptive little mama, and their very relieved owner.

* * *

T
he first text comes at 11:30, just as I’m getting home.

Light snow. Flt delayed. Leaving in an hour. B

The second at 12:10, after I finish my shower and personal prep, I’m shaved and lotioned and perfumed, my hair is shiny and silky and smells of almonds and vanilla. I’m in one of Aimee’s lounging pajama sets, with the robe, puttering happily, and doing the mise for dinner.

Snow heavier, delayed again. Leaving at 2. Still back for dinner, but maybe not for cooking lesson. B

Well, that isn’t the worst thing. I make the creamed spinach, as close as I can get to the memories I have of eating it at Lawry’s Steak House with my parents when I was a little girl. My secret is mascarpone, which I stir in just at the end, to up the creamy factor and give it a little bit of tang. I put it in the fridge, since it will reheat beautifully alongside the roast. I pop the potatoes in a 400 degree oven, right on the rack so that the skins will get nice and crispy, and head upstairs to throw on some clothes so that I can take the dogs for another walk to hopefully wear them out a bit. I really want them mellow for tonight, especially Chewbacca. I can’t deal with another lecture from Brian.

The third text hits at 2:15, just as I’m snapping on leashes.

On the plane!

The fourth at 2:30, just as we’re hitting our stride, finding the perfect pace that gets Chewie working, but isn’t too fast for poor V.

Temp dropped, deicing planes. Supposed to take off at 3.

The fifth at 3:07, as I’m handing out treats and getting out of my coat.

Canceled. Will call you in 15.

And just like that, my lovely quiet New Year’s at home with Brian and all this good food and good wine goes right down the fucking toilet.

“I’m so sorry.” Brian calls just as I’m taking the potatoes out of the oven.

“You can’t control the weather.”

“No, but I could have been smarter and come back yesterday to be safe.”

“It’s okay. You know I’m not a big one for New Year’s anyway.”

“How do you feel about a New Year’s Day dinner instead?”

“That would be fine by me.”

“I’m rebooked on the morning flight, so barring more weather, I’ll be back tomorrow and we can have our date tomorrow night.”

“Sounds great. So what are you and the guys going to do tonight?”

“Huge party at the airport hotel bar.”

“Ugh. At least I get to be home.”

“Well you should go out or something. You said you had other offers, call someone and go play. No use staying home.”

“Maybe. I’m actually sort of tired, so I might take a little nap and see how I feel.”

“Okay. Well whatever you do, have a good time, and think of me at midnight.”

The nice thing about this menu is that it will keep fine for tomorrow. I decide to finish the potatoes, cutting the tops off and scooping out the fluffy interiors, leaving a quarter-inch-thick shell. I mix the scoopings with butter, sour cream, cheddar cheese and chives, add a splash of milk to keep it smooth, and restuff the potato shells, sprinkling a mixture of shredded cheddar and fried shallots on top, and pop them in the fridge. All I will have to do tomorrow is cook the beef, reheat the spinach, and bake the potatoes. I head upstairs to lie down, suddenly feeling dead tired, and probably still recovering from the emotional debacle of yesterday, and I let both dogs join me for naptime on the bed, a very special treat for Chewie, who continues his good boy routine, making me wonder if we might not be turning a corner of some kind.

The phone wakes me just after eight.

“Jenny! Happy New Year!”

“Hi, Wayne. Happy New Year.”

“You sound weird, I didn’t interrupt anything did I? Hi Brian! Sorry!”

“He’s not here, you didn’t interrupt anything. He got stuck in Aspen, flight canceled.”

“Well then get over here!” I can hear him calling out. “Elliot, Brian’s flight got canceled, Jenny is just home alone!” Crap. Then I hear rustling noises on the phone.

“Hey, Jenna.”

“Hi, Elliot. Happy New Year.”

“And to you.”

“Sounds like you’re having fun over there.”

“That we are; I hear your plans changed.”

“Nothing like weather to get in the way.”

“Well, we’d love to have you here if you’re up for it. Pretty low key, Wayne is here and Georgie, Ronald and Carolyn, and another couple that I don’t think you’ve met.”

“You’re in full swing over there, sounds like, I think it would . . .”

“Nonsense. I’m doing grazing buffet, no sit-down dinner. We’re all just milling around and nibbling at will, and drinking champagne. It’s easy and casual, and we’d love to see you.”

I pause. In the background I hear a happy noise. And after a four-hour nap, now I’m awake. Everyone else who invited me is well into dinner by now. As if to offer a vote, my stomach growls so loudly that Chewie jumps up and starts running around the bed looking for an intruder.

“I can hear you not saying no, so I’m taking that as a yes. And before you say one more word, I’m sending a car for you.”

“Elliot, that’s very unnecessary, I can get a cab.”

“On New Year’s Eve? I think not. Look for a black town car in twenty minutes.”

And I can’t think of a single reason to say no.

“Make it thirty, I have to get dressed.”

“We’re not fancy, so don’t pull out the ball gown.”