Sweet Love (16 page)

Our job as underlings is to lay out half the almond biscotti while Angela uses a pastry brush to paint it with a syrup of amaretto liqueur combined with sugar and espresso powder. Next comes the filling and then more biscotti/amaretto-espresso syrup and finally the filling. Cocoa is sifted over everything and it’s put in the refrigerator for at least four hours.

“That’s impossible,” I say. “Not in my house.”

Angela cleans off a spoon and says, “Why?”

“Because it’d be eaten way before then, that’s why.”

Chris’s husband says, “You got that right. My house, too.”

“I don’t understand.” Angela blinks her large superblack eyelashes. “If you eat it before four hours, the biscotti won’t have a chance to soften and the flavors won’t have melded.”

After she leaves, Chris, her husband, and I agree Angela is some sort of mutant alien who must have been hatched instead of raised in a family. How else to explain someone who doesn’t sneak tiramisu?

I almost forgot about D’Ours’s wish to see me after class, so I’m halfway out the door before I feel a hand on my arm and am hooked back in.

“I need to talk to you.”

At first I wonder how much champagne he’s had since he’s slurring his words until I realize he’s not slurring out of drunkenness but out of Frenchitude. His black tie is undone and his shirt collar is slightly open as he pins me against the doorjamb and leans toward me seductively. Suddenly, he’s all mannerisms and suave, sexy French accent.

Liza would kill to be in my spot.

“I had no idea you were on television,” he starts in, his eyes darting downward to check the state of my chest. “You should have told me.”

“Why?”

“Because that’s where I want to be. On TV.”

I have to think about this. “You want to do the news?”

“No, silly.” It comes out as
silleeee
. “I want to be on The Food Channel. We are closing in on a deal any day. Or so my people tell me.”

Ah, yes. He has people. But of course!

“I was so pleased to read in the paper that you made sure to mention my name.”

I stare back blankly. What’s he talking about?

“Cobbler D’Ours? Not exactly right. It was Peach Cobbler D’Ours, but it will do. My agent tells me it might help with The Food Channel deal. Do you think so?”

“I have no idea. Food TV isn’t exactly my bailiwick.”

He repeats the word “bailiwick” and looks off as if an invisible English-French dictionary were behind me to define it.

Nearby, Michael pretends to be deep in conversation with Chris. A faint ruse since he keeps frowning at D’Ours as if he’s hitting on me. I let him think so by giggling a bit and leaning close to catch each precious word.

“I think there is someone else who wants to talk to you, too.” D’Ours cocks his dimpled chin at Michael. “You have to go, I understand. But let’s get together after the next class. I would be very interested to talk more with you about this television business. I have the feeling there is much you could teach me, for a change.”

“Absolutely,” I say, fully aware Michael is overhearing everything. “I’d love to.”

D’Ours leans down and brushes my cheek with a European kiss. “I am in your debt.” I have to say, that kissing habit can be quite lovely.

“Didn’t mean to interrupt,” Michael says as soon as D’Ours is across the room, talking up Carol.

“Yes, you did.”

“You’re right. I did.” Thumbing in the direction of D’Ours, he asks, “Is every woman in love with that pompous ass?”

“You mean, like Carol? Hmmm. I hadn’t noticed.”

Michael grins and shoves his hands in his pockets. “I just wanted to apologize for whatever part I might have had in screwing up your career. First I made that comment to Budso.”

“Bledsoe,” I correct. “Kirk Bledsoe.”

“Totally unfair he took my sarcasm out on you. Anyway, and then that speech I had no business giving you about showing your bias. I . . . I guess I had no idea it would be such a big deal.”

“All that Simon and Garfunkel. You’ve become too sensitive,” I say, patting him on the shoulder. “Cheer up, old friend. Like I said, it’s not your fault. It’s theirs.”

“Uh-huh.” He doesn’t believe me. “That aside, I’d like to make it up to you. I don’t know if you’re doing anything tomorrow, but I have to go up to the North Shore to visit my mother. I haven’t seen her in a month.”

Frankly, I’m surprised she’s still around, considering she seemed to prefer being horizontal to vertical.

“She doesn’t really recognize me, but the doctors and nurses claim the visits are worthwhile.” He shoves his hands deeper into his pockets. “Alzheimer’s.”

Oh, God. That’s the pits. I don’t know how I’d cope if my mother came down with Alzheimer’s and I became a stranger to her. Mom’s so much a part of my daily life, gossiping, talking, lecturing. I couldn’t go on without her advice and counsel—as nosy and unrequested as it can be.

“I’m so sorry, Michael. I had no idea.”

“ ‘All the world’s a stage,’ ” he says. “ ‘Last scene of all, / That ends this strange eventful history, / Is second childishness and mere oblivion.’ ”

“More Shakespeare?”

“A famous scene from
As You Like It
. Anyway, it’d be easier if you came with me. And afterward, I thought I might start making things up to you with a trip to the old Revere Beach and maybe dinner overlooking the ocean. Game?”

I must look shocked and I am. A week ago, Michael hated my guts and here he is asking me to visit his dying mother and go to the ocean. What gives? Unfortunately, he takes my shock for something else and, ripping his hands from his pockets, smacks his forehead.

“Oh, God. I didn’t mean to put you in this position. Some people can’t deal with Alzheimer’s patients. Like Carol, for instance, she can’t . . .”

That does it. “I can handle it,” I tell him, straightening. “I’d love to, actually. It’s been years since I saw your mom. Who knows? I might spark a memory.”

He brightens. “That crossed my mind, too. You never know what will trigger something. It’s often the people in her distant past she cherishes the most.” Pausing, he adds softly, “I guess that’s something she and I have in common.”

“Me too.” And I reach out and give his hand a reassuring squeeze. “Pick me up at noon. I’ll bring a picnic lunch.”

Chapter Thirteen

“Now who are you making dessert for? Another person your station’s going to screw over?”

Ignoring Mom, I eye the tablespoon of ground espresso beans and carefully even off the top with a knife like Angela showed us. This is going to be tricky.

How do I possibly expect to pack this picnic—cold chicken bought ready roasted, green grapes, strawberries, French bread, some gooey cheese, and almond biscotti tiramisu—and sneak out of the house to meet Michael without my mother finding out?

I simply can’t risk her knowing. The questions alone would take up most of my morning. And she’d make a much bigger deal out of it than necessary.
So? You’re going to meet his mother? Sounds like things between you two have taken a turn. Could this be the beginning of a beautiful relationship?
Two minutes out the door and she’d be on the phone to all her friends.

“Just making a tiramisu for fun,” I tell her. “No big deal.”

“Cooking in this heat?” She pinches her sleeveless yellow blouse and wafts it back and forth so that within seconds the floral scent of her Avon Smile perfume overtakes the more enticing smells of almond and coffee. “You know what you should make instead? That icebox log with the Nabisco cookies and whipped cream. Don’t even have to turn on the stove. The recipe’s in that barn box I gave you.”

Keeping my tongue bitten, I carefully turn the tablespoon of espresso into the bowl of amaretto and sugar. . . .

Mom clutches my wrist in midair. “Holy Mary mother of God. I hope you’re not thinking of putting that in.”

“Please. I know what I’m doing. We made this at class last night.”

“Impossible. You can’t put in ground coffee beans. That’s disgusting.” She flicks my wrist and the espresso sprays all over the kitchen counter.

Great. Just great. This is going to be a mess to clean up and I’m running out of time. The tiramisu has to sit for at least four hours.

Already it’s ten-thirty and I’m behind schedule thanks to the outrageously long line at the grocery store this morning. Everyone was trying to get their shopping out of the way so they could spend the rest of the day enjoying the glorious summer weather—a balmy eighty-three degrees with a slight breeze and clear blue sky. Summer Saturdays don’t get much better than that in Boston.

Mom is frowning at D’Ours’s recipe and muttering under her breath. Something about espresso
powder.

Honestly, I have no idea what’s wrong with her these days, I think, getting the broom and dustpan from the back hall. First she has these dizzy spells, then she’s holding conversations with her dead mother. Now she’s talking to herself. Could she be depressed? Maybe there are drugs she could take. I’ve seen ads for them on TV, women looking out rainy windows on the verge of tears.

“That’s okay, Mom,” I say, sweeping up the last of the coffee. “I’ve got more beans. It’ll take no time to grind them into powder.”

“Powder.
Powder
,” she repeats, running to my pantry. “Like Sanka. Not grounds like what you throw under the azaleas. You do have Sanka, don’t you. Or Postum?”

“World War II is over, Mother. No one drinks Postum.” Or, for that matter, Sanka.

Yet another difference between my new professionally acquired culinary skills and my mother’s, most of which she picked up from women’s magazines and free shoppers.

Along with back-of-box recipes, Mom is a sucker for shortcuts. Instant coffee. Liquid Smoke. Minute pudding. No-bake pies made from Jell-O, and chicken stock from bullion cubes with enough sodium to incite a cranial hemorrhage. Artificial sweeteners in pink and blue packets. Fake butter that comes in plastic tubs. Even Ritz crackers in “mock” apple pie.

Whereas I am approaching
la art de la cuisine
, as D’Ours would say, from a more sophisticated background. The highest quality in the smallest doses. Granted, this background is only two weeks going while Mom has been cooking for fifty years and counting. Still, that’s no reason to pooh-pooh the minimum I’ve learned, namely that Sanka cannot be substituted for fine Italian roast.

I head back to the coffee grinder.

“Look. Cut out the espresso powder. It’s only a tablespoon or so.” Mom gives the cream filling in the double boiler a stir and turns it off. “Or throw in some coffee left over from this morning.”

While she goes back to the pantry to ferret for the Sanka she refuses to believe I don’t have, I sneak behind her back, whisk the filling again, and test the temperature—a mere 130 degrees, far from the required 160. This is going to take forever unless I ratchet up the heat. Turning the flame to its highest, I cover the double boiler for good measure and go back to the grinder as if nothing happened.

“Coffee from this morning. That’s what I’m grinding,” I say, shaking some beans into my Krups, a wedding gift my ex-husband Donald and I received and, until now, have never used.

“Not grounds. I mean coffee as in the liquid. What the hell . . . ?” At which point Mom, so furious with me for disobeying her orders, leans against the kitchen wall and closes her eyes to gain composure.

And stays there.

I lift my finger off the grinder. “Are you okay?”

She doesn’t say anything, though the deep crevices between her brows fold in, as if she can’t bear the pain of me using real coffee.

Odd the way panic is delayed, how it seems so distant. Slipping over an overlooked patch of the ground espresso, I run to catch her before she falls. “All right, all right,” I say, holding her by the shoulders. “I’ll use the leftover coffee. Just sit down and take it easy.”

“Chair.” She slides into it and collapses. “Thank you.”

“Are you okay?”

“Of course. It was nothing.”

No, it’s something. And this is not simply about her being upset over ground coffee. Or about her getting old, either.

“Do you want a glass of water?” Should I call Dad? Oh, forget him. He won’t know what to do. Maybe Teenie across the street or Lois or—shoot—911!

Mom nods and I go to the sink. The kitchen thermometer says eighty degrees outside, eighty-five inside because of the stove and my lack of central air, which might be the problem right there. Yes, that’s it, I decide, feeling only slightly better. I should break down and buy a couple of room air conditioners because the fans I have now are useless.

Mom takes a couple of sips of the ice-cold water and massages her forehead.

“Do you have a headache?”

“No. It’s this dang blasted sauna you’ve created. How do you expect anyone to manage in this sweltering heat?”

Goodness sake. It’s not
that
hot.

Her eyes open and not for the first time does it strike me how their color has watered down to a milky gray. Old eyes. Eyes that have seen Christmases come and go, along with hot summers and many cups of Sanka.

I take her warm hand in mine and, like when I was a child, fiddle with her antique diamond and platinum engagement ring. It’s so loose and worn thin that the diamond falls to the side as if it, too, doesn’t have the energy to stand.

I suppose these signs of aging—her eyes and dizziness, the liver spots on her translucent skin, her mumbling—are to be expected. After all, in most families she’d be considered old. Though by the standards of our clan—where women tend to live to their upper nineties and beyond (aside from my aunt Charlotte, who died from breast cancer, and Aunt Anne, who was rushing to a League of Women Voters meeting and got hit by a bus)—Mom is a good twenty-six years from kicking the bucket.