Chapter 13
Grace
Restaurant Month, when local eateries offer a limited, three-course, value-priced menu, is a big deal in Portland.
“It’ll be our first year participating,” Monica said when she phoned, “and I need to audition potential recipes, make sure they’re up to snuff. Come to the restaurant on Monday night; I want you and Nan to taste test.”
This is one of the perks of being Monica’s friend. When she changes the menu or caters a special event, she tries out new recipes on us. I always look forward to it. But this time, a week after I’d started working as Gavin Nutting’s assistant, I didn’t think I could make it.
“But it’s support group night. We always get together on Monday.”
“But now I can’t leave until Nutting leaves. The earliest I’ve gotten home this week was eight thirty, and that was only because I was so exhausted that I skipped visiting Jamie. Maybe you’d better do it without me.”
“No way,” Monica said. “I need your opinion, and your finely tuned palate. We’ll just start late. Nan won’t mind.”
“You’re sweet, but I don’t think I should. Maisie will have been home alone all day. I’ll be tired and she’ll be starving.”
“So bring her. Zip by the apartment, grab Maisie, and come to the restaurant. We’ll bring all the dogs—have a puppy party. It’ll be fun.”
“Monica—”
“You’re coming,” she said. “I insist.”
When Monica insists, there’s no point in arguing. It was almost nine when Maisie and I arrived at Café Allegro. When I opened the door, the canine chorus was so loud it practically knocked me backward.
Desmond, Monica’s lumbering Newfoundland, carried the bass line in a series of deep, reverberating woofs. Blixen and Nelson took the tenor, barking in an oddly syncopated rhythm. Two dogs I’d never seen before, a pair of floppy-eared, paddle-footed basset hounds who looked as alike as a pair of bookends, sang the alto, baying in unison. Maisie, always the diva, started yipping in a piercing soprano and wriggling in my arms, anxious to get down and show the big dogs who was boss.
“Hey!” I shouted, trying to make myself heard over all the barking. “Sorry we’re late. New boarders?” I asked, indicating the bassets.
“This is Peaches. And this is Cream,” Nan said, pointing toward each hound in turn. “They arrived this afternoon. Their owner has gone into hospice, poor man. They’re sisters and very sweet, but I suspect they’ll be with me for a while. Bassets are hard to place—baying is an issue—but the owner said they can’t be separated.”
“Can I put Maisie down?”
“Oh, yes,” Nan said. “Their bark is definitely worse than their bite.”
I set Maisie on the floor. Mindless of their difference in size, she ran over to Peaches and Cream, gave them a yip and a sniff, then did the same to Nelson, who withdrew behind the safety of Nan’s legs. Having asserted herself, she moved on to Blixen, who thumped her tail in welcome, and finally to Desmond. He stopped his woofing and bent down to lick Maisie’s face, then calmly lay down on the floor, resting his enormous head on his enormous paws. Maisie circled him with little prancing steps, like a perky pilot boat sailing around a stately cruise ship, then nestled in next to him, settling into the hollow between his head and beefy shoulder.
“Desmond has always had a crush on Maisie,” Monica said.
“And why not,” I said. “She’s a commanding presence.”
As soon as Maisie lay down, all barking ceased. The dogs, aside from Maisie and Desmond, who were curled into a lover’s knot on the floor, sat in a state of calm expectation. Monica clapped her hands together and addressed them.
“Good. Now that everybody’s here, we can get the party started. Who wants a cookie?” The dogs perked up their ears, almost as if they understood what Monica was saying. “Everybody? Okay, good. Now where is my pastry chef?” Monica looked over her shoulder. “Alex!”
“Just a sec! I’m taking the last batch out of the oven.”
A moment later, the kitchen door swung open and Alex emerged. He was smiling. Broadly. I didn’t gasp at the sight of him, but I could have.
* * *
An hour later, after Alex disappeared through the kitchen door carrying an armful of dirty dishes, I leaned across the table and whispered, “Monica, what have you done with Alex?”
She grinned. “I know, right? He’s polite. He’s helpful. He’s happy. Hard to believe it’s the same kid. I keep looking under his bed for pods.”
“The haircut,” Nan commented. “How did you talk him into it? And dying his hair a normal color? One that could actually grow naturally out of a human head?”
“I didn’t talk him into anything. He asked me to make him the appointment. He wants to impress that girl, Gwen, when he goes back to school.”
“He will,” Nan said confidently. “He looks so handsome.”
“I hope so. Turns out he’s a doll when he makes an effort. And he bakes. What girl could resist? And speaking of baking,” Monica said, glancing across the room at the pile of dogs, dozing contentedly after having devoured homemade pumpkin-peanut, chicken parmesan, and liverwurst dog biscuits, “the pups obviously approved of their menu selections. But what did you two think?”
“The peppercorn fettuccini with lemon gremolata was good, but the eggplant parmesan was truly inspired,” Nan said.
“Agreed,” I said. “And roasted rosemary pork—fabulous. I wasn’t as crazy about the chicken rollatini. Maybe a little bland?”
Anything Monica cooks is ten times better than anything I make, so it felt odd saying anything negative about her dishes, but I knew she wanted honest opinions.
“I thought so too. Maybe I should add a little more oregano?” Monica said.
“Predictable,” I replied. “How about thyme instead? And more garlic?”
Monica nodded and made a note on a pad of paper. “See, Grace? This is why I needed you to be here. Your palate is always spot-on. As much as you love to eat, I’ve never understood why you didn’t really learn to cook.”
“Because if I had, I’d weigh three thousand pounds. And it’s not like I don’t cook at all. I do my basic recipes to keep from starving—chili and soup in the Crock-Pot, turkey meat loaf, tuna salad—then enjoy my occasional treats and the pleasure of being able to button my jeans.”
“Turkey meat loaf.” Monica shuddered. “I’d rather wear stretch pants. Okay, I still need a chicken dish. What did you think of the piccata? If I pounded the breasts thinner? I thought it was a little tough.”
Monica finally settled on four dishes—eggplant parmesan, chicken piccata, roasted rosemary pork, and grilled salmon with fried capers, served on a bed of winter greens. With that decided, we moved on to the important business of catching up.
Monica beamed as she poured wine and told us about Alex’s transformation, some of which she credited to Bob Smith, Alex’s new advisor.
“He actually came by the house to check on him, then stayed for two hours to help Alex with his homework,” she said. “Talk about going above and beyond.”
“Are you sure he wasn’t checking on you?” I asked, teasing her.
“Not my type at all. I mean, seriously. Bob Smith? Could there be a more generic, less Italian name? He’s a terrific teacher, though. I’m so happy he’s advising Alex. The kid needs a positive male role model. So, Nan? What have you been up to?”
Nan admitted to feeling a little frazzled with four dogs in residence. “But it’s been a good week. I think I finally have an idea to raise some money for the rescue.”
“Oh no! I forgot,” Monica said, thumping her forehead. “We were going to talk about a fund-raiser. I’m sorry, Nan.”
“Don’t worry about it. You’ve been busy. Besides, it worked out. I stopped by the pet shop the other day. Sylvia, the owner, mentioned that the company she buys her dog jackets from had just gone out of business. So I said, what about letting me sew dog jackets for her to sell in the shop, with the proceeds going to Rainbow Gate?
“She loved the idea,” Nan said. “If it works, it’d be year-round income for the rescue. And who knows? Maybe we could sell in other shops too.”
“So,” Monica said doubtfully, “in addition to pet therapy, fostering dogs, and raising money for the rescue, plus all your ten zillion other projects and hobbies, you’re going to start a dog jacket empire?”
“Not an empire. A pilot project. Sylvia said she’d take a dozen to start and we’ll see how it goes. But I take your point,” Nan said, propping her chin in her hand. “It’s a big job to take on by myself. If only I had some helpers.” She sighed theatrically.
I looked at Monica.
“You know how I’m always accusing you of roping me into things? I’m starting to think Nan is an even bigger culprit,” I said.
“Oh, come on,” Nan said before Monica had a chance to agree. “It’ll be fun. Instead of sitting around and talking every week, we could sew and talk. If we do it together, I bet we can make a dozen jackets in no time.”
“Don’t look at me,” Monica said. “I had to make an apron in my eighth-grade Home Ec class. Sewed right over my thumb. Blood everywhere, purple stitches showed right through the skin.”
Monica lifted the once-wounded digit, tracing a line with her finger where the thread had been. I felt my stomach lurch.
“Okay,” I said, “you’re not allowed to get within fifty feet of a sewing machine. You can be in charge of cutting. Or maybe just pinning,” I said, considering the kind of damage Monica might be able to inflict with a pair of sewing scissors.
“So you’ll do it?” Nan asked, her face lighting up. “You’ll help me?”
What a question. If Nan had called me in the middle of the night and asked me to paint her house, I’d have grabbed some drop cloths and brushes and headed right over. Of course I’d help. So would Monica.
“Thank you! We really appreciate this!” Nan said, looking toward the dogs, who wagged their tails in agreement.
Monica started filling our glasses with more of the Chianti she’d chosen to accompany the meal. When she got to me, I placed my hand over the top of the glass.
“Better not. I’ve got to be at the office by five thirty.”
Monica gasped. “You can’t be serious. Five thirty in the morning?”
“That was the deal I made with Nutting so I could leave ‘early’ tonight,” I said, making air quotes with my fingers.
“Nine o’clock is early?” Nan asked.
“It is in Gavin Nutting’s world,” I said, and put my hand over my mouth to cover a yawn. “He works constantly, never eats lunch, and has no discernible sense of humor. He may be a robot.”
“Oh, Grace,” Nan said sympathetically, “maybe you should start looking for another job.”
“Believe me, I am. If it was only about salary, I could find a new job tomorrow, but the insurance . . .” I shook my head. “Probably a third of the companies I’d be interested in don’t offer it, another third have insurance plans, but really crummy ones, and the final third—with good plans—require a waiting period before the benefits kick in. I can’t afford to pay for ninety days of Jamie’s care by myself.”
Monica bit her lip, the way she does when she’s thinking.
“What if they fired you? Spector would have to offer you insurance coverage for a while, wouldn’t they?”
“But the premiums would be more expensive and it wouldn’t last forever. What if I couldn’t find another job? It’s too big a risk to take. Besides,” I said, tossing back the tiny bit of wine left in my glass, “a part of me wants to hang in there—prove that I can take whatever Nutting is dishing out, like getting through hazing during pledge week. Guess what he had me do on Thursday?”
Nan and Monica shook their heads simultaneously.
“Interview cleaning ladies. For his house.” More head shaking, but this time it was the disbelieving sort. “Apparently, it was not the highest and best use of his time.”
“You’re joking,” Monica said.
“Oh, how I wish I was.”
“I don’t get it. Where’s Mrs. Nutting? I mean, it’s her house, right?”
“Palm Springs.” I changed my mind about the Chianti, reached for the bottle, and poured an inch of wine into my glass. “She goes from January to April every year—not a fan of Portland winters. I hope Nutting will cut back on his hours when she gets back.” I drained my wineglass and sighed. “But somehow I doubt it.”
“You must be exhausted,” Nan said.
“I’m okay. It’s worth it to keep Jamie in Landsdowne. He gets such great care there. I’ve only had time to visit three times last week. Alicia texts me twice a day with updates, but it’s not the same as seeing him myself.”
“I shouldn’t have pushed you to come tonight,” Monica said.
“Don’t apologize,” I said, dismissing her comment. “This is the first decent meal I’ve had in days. And I needed to see you two. If only to vent a little bit.” I reached for the bottle again. “If this is going to be the new normal, I’ve got to figure out how to have a little fun sometimes, right? I’ll burn out otherwise.”
“True,” Monica said. “Say, have you heard anything from Luke?”
I looked at her blankly. “Luke. You mean, Luke Pascal? No. Why would I?”
“No reason. It’s just . . . you two had a good time that night. That’s all.”
The abrupt but too-casual way she’d broached the subject, coupled with the overly ladylike, utterly un-Monica manner in which she was sipping her wine, made me suspicious.
“You didn’t tell Luke to call me, did you? You didn’t give him my number?”
“Of course not! I was just wondering. Luke is such a nice guy. He’d be—”
I pointed a finger in her face.
“Don’t, Monica. I mean it. Don’t try to play matchmaker. And do not, under any circumstances, give Luke Pascal my phone number.”
“Fine,” she groused. “No need to bite my head off. You were the one who said you needed to have a little fun sometimes.”
“Right now, I’m too exhausted for fun,” I said.
“But you should get out a little bit,” Nan said. “You can’t spend every waking moment in the office. It’s not good for you.”
“Don’t worry. I get out a little bit,” I assured her. “I never miss my three o’clock Starbucks run. I couldn’t get through the afternoon without it. It’s only a two-block walk, but it’s nice to breathe a little fresh air and see some daylight.”
“Well, I guess it’s better than nothing,” Nan said. You need to give yourself something to look forward to, even if it’s just an afternoon latte.”
I shook my head. “Lattes are only for special occasions. A tall drip is all my budget can bear.” I sighed. “Maybe I should give it up. Seems selfish to spend two dollars on a cup of coffee I could get free in the office.”
“But it’s not about the coffee,” Nan said. “You said so yourself—it’s a little break that helps you get through the day.”
“Right,” Monica said. “As hard as you’re working, you need to get out now and then—breathe some fresh air, rub elbows with humanity, meet people.”
“Why would I need people when I have you?”
I’d intended it as a joke, but Monica didn’t laugh. Maybe it was my delivery. I’ve never been much good at telling jokes. Jamie used to double over laughing when I tried because I was always mixing up the punch lines. For years, all I had to say was, “Then one muffin turned to the other and said, ‘Got any grapes?’ ” and he would laugh so hard tears came to his eyes. Monica’s a tougher audience.
“I should go help Alex with the dishes,” she said, but then the kitchen door swung open and Alex entered.
“You’re too slow,” he said. “I already finished.”
“Aha! My evil plan worked!”
Monica rubbed her hands together and let out a maniacal laugh. Alex rolled his eyes and set down a plate of chocolate brownies.
“I found the recipe online. Tell me what you think.”
“I don’t know,” Monica said, eyeing the brownies with pretended distrust. “Aren’t you the kid who got suspended for peddling suspicious substances outside the library? Is there oregano in these brownies?”
“Ha. Ha,” Alex deadpanned. “Did anyone ever tell you that you should consider a career in comedy? No? There might be a reason for that.”
Monica grinned. “Too soon?”
“Way too soon,” Alex said. But he smiled when he said it.