Over the next hour or so we work up a dough, mixing in the puréed beets so that it turns a luxurious purple-red. Though I’m not as good as Willow when it comes to pulling silly faces, the magic of the pasta machine entrances Chloe—the same way it entranced me the first time I used one—and we bond over the careful process of flattening out the red dough until it resembles a thin velvet curtain. Chloe takes the task of keeping the counter well floured as seriously as a monk’s prayers, and though I’m a little nervous those tiny hands are going to make a mess of the chore, Chloe exhibits a precision and skill that kinda shocks me.
“What are we going to do about the filling?” she asks. “It needs to be the best, so we can’t afford to slack off.”
I laugh, feeling in a good mood. This is the second time I’ve been compelled by somebody else, and just like the last time, I’m kinda enjoying it. “What do you want?”
“I have some ideas. What do you got to work with?”
I laugh again.
“Let’s see,” I say, moving toward the industrial fridge. “Time for a crash course in ingredient combination, I think.”
For a while I work through a number of ingredients with Chloe—many of which she never seems to have tried before. Mascarpone, gorgonzola, chèvre; butternut squash, truffles; various fresh herbs and spices. I’m impressed both by her adventurous spirit in trying different mixtures, and her honesty in calling out the ones that don’t work together. I can think of a dozen chefs I’ve worked with that had less persistence and invention than this nine-year-old.
“So?” I ask, standing up from the counter we’ve filled with bowls of various cheeses, ingredients and chopped vegetables. “What’s it gonna be?”
Chloe peruses the selection with the severe seriousness of a critic one more time, then points at a bowl.
“That one.”
“And what is that one?”
“Taglio—”
“Taleggio,” I correct.
“Taleggio, rosemary, and I want to do roasted carrots with lemon.”
“Changed your mind about the citrus, did you? I thought it wasn’t your speed.”
She blushes. “I worked with it some more and it turned out to be a good contrast for the herbs—it keeps them from tasting too heavy. But still…” she trails off, screwing up her face as she muses. “It needs something else.”
I look down at the ingredients, thinking for a few seconds.
“You ever had a brown butter sauce?” I ask.
“Yes!” Chloe says, brightening up as she points a triumphant finger at me. “That’s it!”
“Let’s do it, then,” I say, feeling like I’m getting into it as much as she is.
Once we’re done separating the milk, mixing in a little chopped sage as well, we move back to the pasta and I show Chloe how to cut it into the frilled squares of ravioli, though immediately Chloe shakes her head.
“No,” she says.
“What? These are perfect.”
“No,” Chloe repeats, a little more adamantly. “I want to cut it into different shapes.”
“You can’t cut it into different shapes,” I say. “I mean sure, maybe that’s good enough for a novelty restaurant, but if you want to be a serious cook then you cut ravioli the right way. You’ll risk it bursting right open if you try anything too complicated, or you might end up with some pieces where there’s too much dough and it cooks unevenly.”
“I want to cut it into shapes,” Chloe insists, looking at me as if I’m the dissident.
I pause for a second, once again asking myself what Willow would do.
“Ok,” I say, giving in. “What shapes are you going to cut it into?”
“Lemon shapes, to match the lemon flavor on the carrots in the filling. But I’m going to need your help,” Chloe says, with the lack of irony only a child can have. “So please try to do it well.”
I nod, shrug, then say, “Sure. I guess you’re the boss now.”
Somehow, the elliptical shapes aren’t too bad. Against all my suspicions, Chloe seems to have a good sense of correct proportions, covering just enough of the sheets with filling before we press the top layer of ravioli down. Forty minutes later, the pasta all boiled and drained, drizzled with just a little olive oil and fresh-cracked pepper for sampling purposes, we’re eating away, and I’m genuinely impressed.
When Maggie comes to pick her up, even the teacher stays to eat a little, nodding in approval at the youngster’s precocious talent. We package up the leftovers into a few to-go containers, say our goodbyes, and they start to leave.
“Hold up,” I say, as they reach the door of the kitchen. I pick up one last container that they left behind and move toward them. “You forgot one.”
Without missing a beat, Chloe says, “That one’s for Willow. Tell her you made it for her. She likes food. So if you want her to be your girlfriend, you should do it.”
Chloe looks at me with parental gravity, while Maggie shoots me an apologetic, slightly-embarrassed look.
“Yeah. Sure,” I say, trying to make it sound sarcastic for Maggie’s benefit, though when they turn to leave, I look down at the red lemon-shaped pasta, and feel a strange sense of contentment. Maybe the kid is right. Maybe Willow will appreciate it.
And judging by the way she ran off like Cinderella last night at the club, I feel like I could use all the help I can get.
10
Willow
Of course the investor meeting would be a last minute thing the morning after I’ve had a night out. What did I expect? A second to breathe? Time to prepare for a massive pitch? No chance. I never should have let Asha talk me into hitting up that second club and drinking those blueberry mojitos. But damn, we had fun—even with the Cole incident fresh in my mind. Then again, maybe all the fun I had was just a futile attempt to erase the memory of what I’d done with him against the wall of that first club.
What got me out of bed at the crack of dawn this morning was a call from Tony telling me he was already on his way to pick me up, and plenty of advice on how I should dress for the meeting. At least I’m too pumped full of anxious adrenaline to dwell on what I did with Cole last night, how badly I wanted him, how I almost lost control…
Half-asleep, the club’s music still thumping painfully in my sinuses, I manage to get dressed and leave the house, where Tony is leaning up against his convertible with a broad smile.
“Finally! Sleeping Beauty awakes!”
He hugs me quickly, briefly scans my outfit with an approving nod—the way I’m getting used to people doing—then opens the car door for me to slump into the passenger seat.
“Is this really legit?” I ask as he hops in on the other side and turns on the engine. The second half of a Rihanna record fills the air. “I mean, who arranges meetings this sudden?”
“They’re rich, sweetheart,” Tony says as he revs the car recklessly out of the parking lot. “They jump on planes—Tokyo, Paris, New York—the way other people ride the metro. They’re only in town for today, and we’ve got to grab the opportunity while we can.”
I try to steady my nausea as Tony weaves in between the traffic, the thumping pain behind my eyes loosening a little as the air whips against my face and hair, pressing me back into the seat.
“Still,” I say, straining to be heard over the roar of the engine, “we didn’t have any time to prepare. Do we have a financial plan? Projections? Cost lists?”