Chapter 3
Monica
When Luke Pascal showed up at my restaurant to give me a bid for new tables and banquettes, I got so flustered that I asked what kind of wood he worked with twice, only realizing I’d done it when he tipped his head to one side and slowly said, “Well, as I said before—”
“Sorry,” I replied, “My stepson plays his music so loud—I think I must be going a little deaf.” I laughed self-consciously and forced myself to quit staring. But, really, it was hard not to.
His eyes were the same rich, golden brown as the beef-and-bone broth I make by the gallon for the restaurant. His physique caught my attention as well—tall and lean, athletic looking but not muscle-bound, which I now consider a plus.
Vince used to spend hours at the gym—at least, that’s where he said he was. It’s just as possible he was out bench-pressing blondes. But he was definitely a Muscle Beach type—big biceps, thick neck, even thicker skull. I’ve sworn off gym rats for life.
Luke was absolutely nothing like my late, hideous husband, not in manner, temperament, or looks. My first impression of him was that he was polite, capable, and smart—and undeniably attractive. But he wasn’t my type.
I don’t know why, but the men who melt my butter are always Italian. Always. Which is weird because my maiden name is Schiller and my roots are German/Polish and Lutheran. Yet, the men who make my heart go pitter-pat have names that end with vowels and marinara sauce running through their veins. It makes no sense, but it is what it is. And I have to tell you my track record is not good.
In high school, Johnny Zeffirelli cheated on me with my best friend and stood me up on prom night. In chef school, Anthony Esposito broke my heart, stole my recipe for bucatini alla Sorrentina, and became valedictorian because of it. Then there was Rob Russo, Joe Ricci, Matt Costa . . . And, of course, the infamous Vincente Romano.
You get the idea.
After Vince and his bimbo du jour downed four bottles of Borolo and rammed our boat into a piling (she survived: her most obvious attributes turned out to be excellent flotation devices), I decided to swear off Italian men forever, which was essentially saying I was swearing off men forever. All men. Forever.
And, hey, why not? I’m forty-two. I’m over it. I’ve already done it all—the lust thing, the boyfriend thing, the husband thing, the mother thing. Okay, technically it’s the stepmother thing, but still, I’m over it. Big-time. My step-kids are rotten.
I know, I know. I’m not supposed to say that. They’re just kids and they’ve been through a lot—first their mom runs off with some guy who was demonstrating juicers at the fair and is never seen or heard from again; then their dad dies in a boating accident with his mistress. I get it. But before you go judging me, remember that I’m the one who has stuck by them, fed them, clothed them, and contributed to their college funds, even though they’re rotten kids and I was only married to their father for two years.
To be fair, Zoe isn’t completely rotten. She’s whiny for sure. And mouthy. And a real drama queen. But so was I at thirteen, so maybe this is payback. She does seem to be entering a slutty phase that has me worried, but I still couldn’t call her completely rotten.
But Alex is. Definitely.
For example, his schoolwork. I’ve been Alex’s stepmother for three years. Since then, I’ve shown up for every parent/teacher conference—something Vince never bothered to attend—which translates to separate, private meetings with thirty teachers (I’m not even including the times I’ve been called to the principal’s office because he’s done some knucklehead thing or other). In all those meetings, I can’t remember a single teacher saying anything about Alex except that he wasn’t “living up to his potential” and then looking at me like it was my fault and I was supposed to fix it.
Look, I would if I could. Alex is smart, I realize that, and he’s totally wasting his talent. But what do they want from me? I came into mothering late in the game and with zero training. If kids were like recipes and came with detailed instructions, I’d know what to do. As it is . . .
Grace says I shouldn’t let Alex and Zoe push my buttons. I try, I really do. But can I help it if they know exactly where all my buttons are? Alex especially.
He’s like my brother, Stevie—the Brilliant and Favored One. Stevie was smart, too, like Alex, and way more competitive. Why he felt the need to compete with me, I’ll never understand. It’s not like he wasn’t already getting all of my parents’ attention. Even so, he put me down whenever he got a chance. And my parents never stood up for me, ever. When I was little, Stevie could torment me until I sobbed and the most my mother would say was, “Now, Stevie . . .”
One day, when I was nine, Stevie called me a name and waited for me to cry. I didn’t. Instead, in the sweetest voice possible, I asked if he’d noticed how that new automatic toilet cleaner Mom bought turned the water blue and how, after somebody used the bowl, the water was the exact same yellow-green as his eyes?
He went off howling, searching for my mother, who made me do dishes for a week. But it was worth it. I had discovered Stevie’s weakness and my weapon.
My brother was smart but not quick. I’m just the opposite—quick but not smart. Sarcasm worked for me and I got better at it as time went on. And now? It’s gotten to be a habit, especially if I’m feeling defensive. When it comes to dealing with Alex, I’m always playing defense.
Okay, I’m getting off track here—sorry, I do that sometimes—the point is, when Vince died, I decided I was over it—over Italians, over men, over motherhood, over all of it.
But lately . . . I don’t know. My grandmother ate herring in sour cream and kielbasa every day of her life and lived to be ninety-seven. Do I really want to be alone for the next fifty-five years?
I’ve had a run of incredibly bad luck, no doubt about it. But what if I was pickier? What if I refused to settle for anything less than the perfect man? Somebody with no secrets, no flaws. I’m not saying that such a man exists, but if he did, I’d be crazy to pass him up, right?
At first glance, Luke seemed to have perfect potential. Like I said, he is polite, capable, smart, handsome, and a good listener. And really passionate about his work. I could tell by the way he explained about the different decorative options for pedestal supports, options that were probably beyond my budget. All I really needed and could afford is a carpenter who could knock together a few nice tables and some benches, but Luke is obviously a real craftsman.
“Where did you learn all this?” I asked.
“I picked up my basic carpentry skills from my grandpa. He had a woodworking shop in his basement. When I was a kid, I spent all my time hanging out with him. And I put myself through college and law school doing construction for a big tract home-building company in the summers.
“After a few years, I figured out I hated being a lawyer, so I chucked it. After a couple of detours, I finally sold everything and went to France. I was there for three years, studying under a master furniture maker. I came back to the States two months ago to start my own custom furniture business.”
He is adventurous, an entrepreneur, no stranger to hard work, and he loved his grandpa. How sweet is that? And though he only looked to be about thirty-five, he’d already gotten through his midlife crisis and figured out what mattered in life. Impressive. I glanced at Luke’s left hand, noting neither wedding ring nor the telltale tan line of a married man who likes to cheat (after my Matt Costa debacle I always look for the tan line), so he is single too. The more we talked, the more perfect Luke Pascal appeared to be.
But still. Not Italian. I closed my eyes and tried to imagine him as Luigi Pasquale.
“Monica? Are you all right?”
I opened my eyes. No good. He was still blond and not only was my butter not melting, it was cold enough to make piecrust.
“Oh. Yes. I was just . . . uh . . . trying to picture those carved apron supports you were describing.”
Dang. You can’t start a fire without a spark, but a guy this good really shouldn’t go to waste. When Grace arrived with Alex in tow, it occurred to me that maybe he didn’t have to.
“Hey, Grace, do you have a second? Come over here. I need help figuring out what kind of tables to order for the restaurant.”
I knew Grace was in a hurry and that she was already doing me a favor by dropping Alex off after practice. But I also knew she had a hard time saying no.
Grace is a good person and unfailingly polite, a product of her Midwestern upbringing. Unfailing politeness is not something I suffer from. Normally, I try not to take advantage of Grace’s particular weakness. But since I was acting with her future happiness in mind, I figured it was okay.
After taking a moment to glare at me as he passed, Alex slumped down in an empty booth and started messing with his phone. He spends so much time on the phone that sometimes I feel like it’s been surgically attached to his hand. But when he’s texting with friends at least he’s not arguing with me.
Grace sat down at our table. Her polite but pained smile told me that she really needed to go, but I pretended not to notice. Potentially perfect men don’t just walk in off the street every day, you know. I wasn’t one hundred percent convinced that Luke and Grace would be a good match, not yet. But if my instincts turned out to be right, an extra five minutes of her time was a small price to pay. She’d thank me later.
“Luke is new to Portland,” I said, after completing the introductions.
Grace was distracted, her eyes a little glazed, probably thinking about all the things she should be doing besides helping me pick out furniture. I gave her a subtle nudge under the table and a pointed look, signaling that I needed her to focus. A bit startled, she looked at me, then Luke, and smiled.
“Oh. Really?” she said, sounding so vague that I wasn’t sure she’d actually heard my comment.
“Not completely new,” Luke said. “A returned former resident. Things have sure changed since I left, especially the housing market. It’s completely crazy. The asking price for my little bungalow in the Hollywood District, with a workshop garage for my business, was so outrageous that I asked the Realtor if she was quoting me dollars or yen.”
The joke wasn’t bad, just okay, but I gave him a couple of extra points for trying. So many guys have zero sense of humor (cough, cough—Rob Russo). But the thing that put Luke over the top was his grin. When he smiled, his eyes crinkled at the corners and his lips bowed, exposing a little chip at the bottom of one of his upper teeth, kind of a snaggletooth. Totally adorable.
I was right. He was perfect for Grace.
Grace, I knew, would disagree. Ryan Reynolds could have walked in the room with a dozen roses and an indecent proposal and she still wouldn’t have budged. For all her inability to say no, Grace is incredibly stubborn on this subject. But it was high time for her to find some happiness. As her friend, it was my job to help her, whether she wanted my help or not.
She’d thank me later. Or not. Either way, I had to come up with a plan to get these two together. But how?
“Look,” Luke said, his expression suddenly serious, “I’m going to be straight with you. I’m trying to get my business going, so I really need this job. I know you’re not really in the market for fine furniture; you just want something good looking and sturdy that will do the job. But I’m willing to work with you, make you some real quality pieces at a price that’ll fit your budget.
“I do good work, Monica. And I’ve trained with the best. But you don’t have to take my word for it. If you’d come out to my workshop, I could show you.”
Bingo! There it was. Luke didn’t know it, but he’d just teed up the ball for me. Now all I had to do was take a swing and follow through.
“You know, that’s a good idea. I would like to see some of your work. Do you have a portfolio?”
Luke nodded. “Sure. I’ve got a book with pictures of all the pieces I made when I was in France. I meant to bring it with me, but—”
“Great,” I interrupted. “But instead of going to your workshop. . .”
I made it up as I went—the food show I never attended, the restaurant gift cards I never received, the industry courtesy that didn’t exist. Luke wanted this job badly, so I knew he’d agree to anything I proposed. Grace, I was less sure of.
Besides being too polite for her own good, Grace has a couple of other weaknesses. Number one, she is loyal to a fault, will do anything for a friend. Number two, she loves to eat. I mean, really loves to eat. And for Grace’s own good, I was willing to exploit those weaknesses.
She’d thank me later.
“Really, Luke, you’d be doing me a favor. Those gift cards expire at the end of the week. It’d be a shame to let them go to waste. So, if you don’t mind coming downtown and bringing your portfolio, the three of us can meet at the restaurant.
The glazed look cleared from Grace’s eyes. “Wait. The three of us?”
“I’ll need your decorating advice.”
Grace let out a disbelieving laugh. “You’re kidding, right? You’ve seen my condo. It’s one step up from a refugee camp.”
I turned to Luke. “She’s being modest. Grace has terrific taste.”
“Monica, I don’t—”
I placed my heel onto Grace’s toe and pressed down, just hard enough so she’d get the message: If you can’t back me up here, at least shut up and go with it. Grace clamped her lips shut. Then I played my trump card. I told her about the restaurant, the chef, the menu, and the oysters. By the time I was finished, she was practically salivating. I swear I could hear her stomach growl.
“Really? I never knew there were that many varieties of oysters. I’ve only ever had them once before—too expensive and not exactly standard menu fare if you grow up in Minnesota—but they were so, so good. Okay, count me in.”
I looked at Luke.
“Sure,” he said. “Me too. Sounds like fun. Saturday?”
I was about to tell him that would be fine when I remembered Grace. She knows I never go out on Saturday. I shook my head.
“The restaurant is always crazy on Saturday night. How about Sunday?”
“Sunday works.” Luke looked at Grace. “Is that good for you?”
“Well, I was going to clean out the lint trap on the dryer, but you know”—she shrugged—“I guess I can reschedule.”
Grace is usually pretty shy around new people. The fact that she was trying to joke around, even if the joke was pretty lame, felt like a good sign.
“What a relief,” Luke said with a smile, showing off his snaggletooth.
That felt like another good sign. In fact, I was feeling very good about life in general. That is, until Alex put down his phone and pulled out his earbuds.
“Hey,” he said, in his usual sarcastic snarl. “You wanna wrap it up here? Zoe texted me. Desmond got into the lasagna and is yakking all over the carpet.”
I closed my eyes and pinched the bridge of my nose. The headache I’d been predicting ever since reading last week’s weather forecast had finally arrived.
I hate my life.
When I opened my eyes and saw Luke staring at me, I said, “Zoe is my stepdaughter. Desmond is our dog, a Newfoundland. He weighs one hundred forty pounds, has a delicate stomach, and no moral compass. Sorry to cut this short, but I have to go.”
I jumped up from the table, ticked off and with my head pounding, and yelled toward the kitchen so that Ben, my sous-chef, would know I’d be back before the dinner crowd showed up, then hissed something at Alex, who hissed something back, and walked toward the door. Grace fell into step behind me.
“Sorry,” she said. “I have to go too.”
“Oh, sure. No problem,” Luke said, sounding accommodating but also a little confused by the abrupt exodus. “Umm . . . But should I? I mean, do you want me to—”
Grace, always so polite, turned around to face him.
“Yes, absolutely. Meeting us at the restaurant will be perfect,” she said, backing out the door. “See you on Sunday. Six o’clock.”
It was devious. I admit it. So was what I did later—convincing Grace that I was interested in Luke but too nervous to go on a date alone. And then, when she started to waver, texting her photos of dishes from The Fish House website that pretty much amounted to food porn.
But it wasn’t half as devious as what I was about to do.
First, I called The Fish House and talked to Andrew, the manager, explaining what was going on, that there could be no check presented at the end of the meal and that the bill, however large, should be charged to my credit card.
Next, I started composing my text, salving the twinges of guilt by reminding myself that this was for Grace’s own good and that everything I was saying wasn’t a total lie. I really did feel a headache coming on and could tell already that it was going to be a doozy, a headache the size of a tumor.
No, I thought, deleting the tumor reference. Grace always made fun of my ailments. But people did get tumors, didn’t they? And weren’t raging headaches one of the symptoms? My head was just killing me.
I typed the words “brain tumor” and “headache” and “symptoms” into my phone. A bunch of pretty scary articles came up. The third one made up my mind for me—I was definitely going by Urgent Care after work.
I attached the article, hit Send, and sat there for a minute, imagining the look on Grace’s face after she read my message.
She’d thank me. Later.