“Scoot, you evil girl, or I will give your number to every single man I know under five foot five.”
I throw my hands up in surrender and gather my notes. I give him a kiss on his cheek and head out of the gorgeous apartment into a perfectly sunny and brisk fall day, thinking about what I should make for Glenn for dinner.
? ? ?
That, dear girl, was the best meal I’ve had in months. Bless you,” Glenn says, rubbing his little belly with a satisfied grin.
“Glad you liked it!” I say. “Sure you don’t want another helping?”
I made a classic French blanquette de veau, an old-school veal stew with a white wine sauce, served over wide pappardelle noodles that I tossed with butter, lemon zest, and chives, and some steamed green beans. I also made a loaf of crusty bread using the no-knead recipe that everyone is doing these days and is so simple and so delicious.
“I think three plates is plenty!” Glenn laughs. “Besides, I’m pretty sure I saw some dessert in there, so I had better leave a sliver of room.”
“You got me there.” I made a fallen chocolate soufflé cake filled with chocolate mousse. Mrs. O’Connor always talked about being married to a chocoholic: apparently Glenn believes that if it isn’t chocolate, it isn’t dessert. While he will happily eat any dessert placed in front of him, from fruit pies to vanilla ice cream, if there is no chocolate, he will literally stop on the way home for a Hershey bar or a drive-through chocolate milk shake.
He stands, and the two of us clear the table. He moves in his kitchen like a man who is still finding his way, opening two or three different drawers or cabinets to find the Tupperware containers or plastic wrap. It breaks my heart a little bit.
“Don’t look at me with those puppy eyes, you enormous goddess. I had no idea where anything was in this kitchen when Helene was alive. I cultivated very carefully my ignorance of where everything goes, as well as a complete inability to load a dishwasher the way she wanted, which kept me from having to do very much in the cleaning-up department. Frankly, I’m very tempted to load in a massive stash of paper and plastic and call it a day.”
“Don’t get sassy with me, mister, you are perfectly capable of putting things away in your own home. Kitchens are only intuitive for one person at a time. Next time I come, you and I will reorganize so that things go where your intuition thinks they should go.”
“Fine. If you insist on my self-sufficiency, you are going to have to get that dessert out sooner rather than later.”
“Deal.” We pack up the rest of the stew and side dishes, and Glenn puts on a pot of coffee while I cut generous slices of the cake. We sit back down at the cozy little kitchen table and clink coffee mugs before digging into the cake, which is at once light and rich. We finish our plates in companionable silence, and sip the bitter coffee, his light and sweet and mine black.
“So. How are you doing? What has been going on with you?” he asks.
I think about this for a moment. “I’ve mostly been just cooking for my clients, spending time with my mom and aunt, nothing terribly exciting.” I pause, thinking about the bet. “And I’ve been reconnecting with Lynne and Teresa, you know, since . . .”
“Since the memorial.”
I nod.
“It’s okay, you know. To talk about her, to talk about her absence. I sort of like it, in a way, how big the space is that she left. It would be so awful if she went away and left some minor hole, like a rock dropping into a pool of water. She was too monumental for that. What we have now is something of a crater. So we can celebrate that a bit, you and I, the enormity of the void.”
I love him for thinking of it that way. “She was larger than life in life; it isn’t surprising that she remains so after.”
“Exactly. And she would love that you girls rediscovered each other through her. She took special pride in your friendship, back in the day, in being a small part of that.”
“She was a huge part of that. I don’t know if we would have ever found each other if not for that class.” The truth of this seems somehow shocking when I say it aloud. When I think about what we were to each other, what we might be becoming to each other again, for it all to rest on the tenuous thread of coincidence, of ending up in the same English class in high school, of Mrs. O’Connor deciding to organize the class by birthdate, of all of us being born the same week . . . it’s just all so flimsy.
“I think the universe sends us the people we need. You would have found each other one way or another, but Helene always did like watching the three of you grow together. Maybe you can bring them by one night?”
“Of course! I know they would love that.” But deep down, it lands weird, this request to bring in Lynne and Teresa. I wonder why I have to fake enthusiasm for this. Especially since my goal is anything that will make Glenn happy, and clearly he wants to see them.
“Wonderful! That will be something to look forward to.”
“Indeed. And my mom wanted to come by sometime, if you were up for that.”
“Hmmm, let me see, filling the house with an endless string of smart, beautiful women? Well, I will suffer if I must . . .” His blue eyes twinkle mischievously.
“Wicked man.” I chuckle. It is clear why Mrs. O’Connor loved him so much. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”
“Your coming means the world, and your cooking is a gift from the gods. Why no restaurant? Helene and I both assumed you’d open one of your own after running that place in France. We were hoping to have a regular table!”
“That is sweet, but I don’t have the mentality for restaurant work, not for the long haul. I know so many chefs who burn out, who eventually dread the kitchen. I love the work I do. I think because I started cooking for my friends and family, doing it as an act of love and nourishment . . .”
“And comfort and healing,” he adds seriously.
I nod. “And that. My job is as close as I can get to that feeling. Yes, I’m doing it for money, but I genuinely care about my clients and I feel a part of their lives. If I had a restaurant, I might know if it was someone’s birthday or anniversary, but I wouldn’t know what their favorite dish was, or what childhood memory I could cook up. This way, I can make a living doing what I love, and I feel like I’m making a difference in a really personal way.”
“That makes a lot of sense. Being on the beneficiary side, I can tell you, you do make a difference.”