The Girls' Guide to Love and Supper Clubs (36 page)

I meet his gaze, his eyes glittering with sincerity and kindness. He wraps his arms around his bent knees and raises his eyebrows expectantly. From his expression, one thing is clear: Blake believes in me. He cares. He thinks I have what it takes to become a professional cook. And I’m about to ruin everything.

I take a deep breath, about to launch into a lengthy preamble, when I let out a long sigh and shake my head.

“Never mind. Forget I said anything.” Then I pour us both another cup of coffee.

I should tell him. I know I should tell him. But I can’t. I try—several times, actually—but each time I lose my nerve. Blake is the only person, aside from Rachel, who believes in me. He doesn’t think cooking is a trivial hobby. He doesn’t think I should apply to grad school and cook on the side. He understands how much cooking and food mean to me. He gets it. And if I tell him what I’ve been up to behind his back, I could lose his support. I don’t want that to happen.

So instead of talking about The Dupont Circle Supper Club, we spend the next few hours lying on the hill behind the Iwo Jima Memorial, finishing off the food and working our way through the Sunday
Washington Post
. Once Blake finishes reading through the Sports section, he looks at his watch and sighs.

“We should probably get back soon,” he says. “I have some last-minute campaign stuff to do. And I’m sure you have other plans.”

I pull the sleeves of my fleece top over my hands. “What time is it?”

“About three o’clock.”

I roll over on my back and stare at the sky. “What time does the sun set these days? Five-ish? Six?”

“Something like that. Why?”

I push myself up by my elbows. “If you’d be willing to make a quick run to buy some magazines and snacks, I’d be willing to stick around for a few hours until sunset. Since you say it’s worth seeing.”

Blake scrunches up his lips and considers my proposal, obviously torn between working on his ANC campaign and wasting time with me. Imperiling his campaign for neighborhood commissioner isn’t my primary goal, but I definitely wouldn’t mind if he didn’t win on Tuesday. Finally he grabs his keys and jumps to his feet. “Why the hell not? This is the first weekend I’ve had off in ages. I’ve earned a little fun.”

He drives off and returns twenty minutes later with some chips and pretzels, a bunch of candy, and a stack of magazines—
Food & Wine
and
Us Weekly
for me,
Sports Illustrated
and
The Economist
for him.

As I flip through the latest tales of celebrity woe, Blake throws me a bag of gummy bears. “Some sugar for the Sugarman,” he says, laughing at his own joke.

“Oh, Blake. You slay me.”

“I try.” He lies down on his side and props himself up on his elbow. “So I have a question for you.”

“Shoot.”

“I’ve been thinking about this ever since we chatted the other week. Why do you care so much what your parents think?”

I pop a gummy bear in my mouth and chew it slowly, trying to avoid having to answer for as long as possible. How do I explain twenty-six years of history?

“They’re both famous professors, for starters,” I say.

Blake raises an eyebrow. “So?”

“So … I’ve spent my whole life having people say, ‘Oh, you’re Alan and Judy Sugarman’s daughter? Wow.’ It’s clear from everyone’s reaction that my parents obviously made good career choices—the right career choices.”

“For them,” Blake says.

“Right. For them.” I roll a green gummy bear between my fingers. “But every time I talk with my parents about my career, they make a pretty strong argument for why those are the right choices for me, too.”

“They really have that much control over you?”

I shrug. “It isn’t so much about control. I don’t want to disappoint them. They’ve sacrificed a lot for me.”

“But won’t they be happy if you’re happy?”

“Mmm, yes and no.”

“By which you mean … no.”

“It’s complicated.” I pour the rest of the gummy bears onto the picnic blanket in a small pile and begin sorting them by color. “My mom used to have this Peanuts cartoon in her office. Charlie Brown is explaining to Lucy that life has its ups and downs, but Lucy is like, ‘Why can’t life be all ups? I don’t want any downs! I just want ups and ups and ups!’ That’s what my parents want for me: nothing but ups. And as far as they’re concerned, the only way that will happen is if I pursue the same things they did. They know how that story ends. They know all the pitfalls. And I think they see my rejection of their choices as a rejection of them.”

Blake grabs a piece of candy from the pile. “But you’re an adult now. You have a job, an apartment, your own life. If you don’t want to get a PhD, don’t get a PhD. If you want to be a cook, be a cook. There are no rules. You can do whatever you want.”

“Yeah. And I know that, intellectually. Emotionally—that’s another story. Plus, my parents don’t really treat me like an adult. They still see me as the confused twenty-three-year-old who left their home three years ago and still needs their direction.”

“That doesn’t mean you have to be that person.”

I nod. “I know. But sometimes I look at my parents—how accomplished and successful they are—and think, wow, maybe they have it right, and I’m the one getting it all wrong.”

“Don’t write off your instincts like that. Give yourself some credit.”

“I guess.” I take a long sip of apple cider. “Did I tell you I’m supposed to take the GREs next weekend?”

“No. Why would you do that?”

I let out a sarcastic grunt. “I don’t even know anymore. I guess because I’m supposed to?”

Blake sits up and wraps his arms around his bent knees. “Do your siblings feel the same sort of pressure you do?”

“That’s the problem—I don’t have any siblings. My mom couldn’t have any more after me, so I’m like their ‘miracle child.’ Which means all the pressure is on me to become the next great Professor Sugarman.”

Blake takes a swig of water and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Then why don’t you tell them, point-blank, that’s not what you want?”

“Because it’s not that simple.”

“True. But the longer you wait to talk to them about this, the more difficult it’s going to be.”

My stomach churns. The same could be said of keeping my supper club a secret from Blake.

He screws the cap back on his water and holds the bottle tightly in his hand. “I know for me, I felt a lot of pressure from my dad to join the military. So what did I do? I said, fuck that, and went to Georgetown and got a job on the Hill. My brother Sam, of course, went to the Naval Academy, where my dad taught. I was convinced my dad was disappointed in me—that he wished I’d done what Sam did. I went along for years thinking that. It poisoned our relationship. My relationship with Sam, too. It wasn’t until my dad got sick that he and I ever talked about it. We made amends, but it was too late. I wasted years—good, healthy years—being pissed off and feeling like I had to prove myself to him, when really there was nothing to prove. Now all I have left of him is the stupid town house I bought with the money he left me when he died. Don’t make the same mistake. Have faith in your parents. They want you to be happy.”

Blake could be right. Maybe. But he doesn’t know my parents—how smart and dedicated they are, how they manage to be right about everything 98 percent of the time. Is there any indication they will accept that my happiness falls within the 2 percent they occasionally get wrong? No. Because, the way they see it, following their lead thus far has landed me at Cornell and one of the top think tanks in the country. Their ideas have worked. What I need them to understand is that
I’m
the one who brought myself this far. I have ambition and drive, and applying those characteristics to a job in the cooking industry instead of a PhD doesn’t make me a failure. There are more metrics to success than the number of degrees after my name. I suppose, on some level, I have to convince myself of that, too.

Blake stares out toward the horizon, fiddling with the cap to his water bottle. He looks lost and a little sad, and I wonder if it has something to do with the talk about his father.

“How did he die?” I ask. “Your dad.”

“Cancer. Pancreatic. It’s been about five years, but I still miss him as much as I did the first year.”

I run my hands along the blanket, wondering what I could say that would be of any comfort. “Missing him is better than not, right? In a way, you’re keeping him alive. In your thoughts, at least.”

Blake offers a sad smile. “Yeah. I guess that’s true,” he says. “But, I don’t know, the whole experience made me realize how unpredictable life can be. There are so many things in life beyond our control. I could get hit by a car tomorrow. I could get cancer. We have such a limited time to find happiness, to make a difference in the world. All my dad wanted was for me to do something good and real and meaningful. It didn’t have to be serving in the navy. It could be anything. It could be running for city council. It could be finding the love of my life or being a good dad. I figured all of that out too late. You can’t worry about what other people think you should do. The only way you’ll ever be happy or make a real difference is by pursuing the things that motivate you and make you excited to be alive. Life is too short to waste years of it being miserable or asking, ‘What if?’ ”

Blake takes another sip of water, and I feel my cell phone vibrate against my leg. I look down and see the caller ID flashing up at me: Jacob Reaser. A week ago—hell, an hour ago—I would have excused myself and relished an opportunity to talk to him. But something about this place, about listening to Blake talk about his views on life and family and independence, makes me want to stay here in this moment forever. With a few words, Blake has managed to inspire me to take hold of my life and really
live
. My thumb hovers over the buttons on the phone. I press
IGNORE.

Blake looks out across the skyline, and his expression softens, his look of somber introspection melting into one of awe. “Check it out,” he says, pointing into the distance.

I follow the tip of Blake’s finger and shift my attention to the horizon. The Washington Monument soars into the sky like a tall red flame, flickering against the gray-blue sky, a building ablaze in the light of the setting sun.

“It looks like it’s on fire,” I say. “The Capitol, too.”

“Wait,” Blake says. “It gets better.”

He scoots in closer to me and presses his shoulder against mine, and we sit in silence, our gaze fixed in the distance, as we watch the monuments burn.

Going back to work after a Sunday like that is akin to eating canned SpaghettiOs after dinner at The French Laundry. The two experiences cannot compare, and it becomes painfully clear one event is far more representative of your everyday life than the other.

But I keep telling myself soon my life
will
be The French Laundry. Or at least closer to fine dining than canned pasta. First thing Monday morning, inspired by Blake’s pep talk, I cancel my registration for the GRE exam this weekend. My parents would spontaneously combust if they knew this, so I’ve decided not to tell them until I see them in person—an event I have managed to put off until Thanksgiving, much to their chagrin. There is too much going on at the moment, between the supper club and my ongoing work misery, and though my discussion with Blake bolstered my confidence, it’s not as if one good conversation is going to undo twenty-six years of dysfunctional behavior. Eventually I will tell my parents everything. Just not yet.

As soon as I cancel my GRE registration, I submit my completed application to L’Academie de Cuisine, and according to both Blake and the L’Academie Web site, I should receive a letter of acceptance or rejection in a few weeks. I wish I could know now,
today
, but I suppose I can keep my impatience in check for a few weeks. After all, I’ve worked at NIRD for three years—three long and painful years—so it’s not as if a few more weeks of uncertainty will kill me. I can handle it.

At least that’s what I tell myself on Monday. By Tuesday, I’m starting to lose it.

When I get into the office Tuesday morning, Mark is running in circles like a dog chasing its tail, all atwitter over the election, even though this is an off-year election. Aside from two hot gubernatorial races, there isn’t much going on. The only reason Blake is even running for his dinky neighborhood commission is because someone resigned earlier this year.

“Did you vote?” Mark asks, his flame-colored eyebrows bouncing up and down on his forehead.

“Yes, Mark. I voted.”

“Well done.” He pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “I know it doesn’t affect us, but this New Jersey gubernatorial race is fascinating. Absolutely fascinating.”

I nod. “Mmm.”

“Oh, by the way, did you see the e-mail I sent you?”

“About …?”

He sighs and drops his shoulders in an exaggerated fashion. “Global leverage and asset price bubbles?”

By his tone, he might as well have just said,
DUH
.

“No, I didn’t see it. But I’ll take a look.”