She reaches up, and I lean in to give her a hug. “Amazon,” she whispers in my ear.
“Pixie,” I whisper back.
And then we head off, in opposite directions.
Twenty-two
I look at chaos on my kitchen table. Piles of recipes and sketches. Versions of my resume. Photographs of food, lists, notes on napkins and Post-its and pieces of scrap paper. I’ve added and discarded dozens of recipes. I’ve redone sketches ten times. With the party only a month away, I’m definitely behind on my bet obligations. I mean, obviously I’ve killed it on the dating part. Shawn and I couldn’t be better. We had a great time with his family for Easter—they’re loud and raucous and fun, and it reminded me a lot of Christmas with Teresa’s family. After Easter we went back to Cheryl and Darren’s for pie and coffee, and Darren said that based on the chocolate cream pie alone, Shawn had better keep me happy or they might choose me over him.
Life is good, but the bet is weighing on me a little. I’ve completely slacked off on my socializing with strangers, especially since Teresa and Lynne informed me last week that I couldn’t count Easter with Shawn’s family, or meeting his friends, and that dates with Shawn to go to classes or things also don’t count. So I essentially have to find four more opportunities for me to get out and meet new people in the next few weeks, which should be doable. I finished the first drawing class and signed up for a second class, in lettering and graphics. I’ve been good on the exercising part: I work with my trainer once a week and Shawn and I are still doing the pool class on Wednesdays, and I bought some DVDs that I’ve been doing at home, much to Simca’s bemusement. I definitely feel physically stronger, and while I know I’ll never be fit the way I once was, it feels better to be more active.
But when it comes to creating, let alone sending out, the cookbook proposal, I’m stuck.
I read an article on pitching cookbooks, and it said the most important thing is to have a point of view, a story you are telling, a clear vision. But what does that look like? What story am I telling? The story of “Here is a bunch of stuff Eloise, who you’ve never heard of, thinks is delicious”? The story of “Have some recipes, because, dinner”? I know, why don’t I just call it what it is, the story of “I should never have told my friends that this was a dream because now they put it in a stupid bet.”
I know that isn’t entirely fair. The cookbook was my idea. I’ve always wanted to do one. All these years, testing and retesting recipes, writing everything down, it always felt like it was leading to something. But I don’t know what the hell I was thinking. I don’t have a story, I don’t have a point of view, and at this stage, I don’t have a book proposal. All I have is a disaster area on my kitchen table, and not the first clue how to even mock something up. I can’t fake it for the bet, because Lynne decided that they need to see a copy of the finished proposal and that I have to blind-copy them on the e-mails for the ten submissions I’m supposed to send out for the bet, so that they have proof. So I can’t just mock up something stupid, because they’ll see it, and I have to send it to real people, and I do have enough pride not to send shit into the world.
I look at the table, at the work that needs to be done to get anywhere near being ready. Despite the fact I’ve set aside the day to work on it all, I feel paralyzed. I know I should hunker down, but for some reason I can’t. I’ve already walked Simca, done my laundry, made a batch of blondies with pistachios and figs drizzled in white chocolate, and planned the Farber menus for the week. I sent Teresa all the e-mail addresses for the people I’m inviting to the party next month. I walk over to the table with complete resolve. And I pack it all back up into the large tub sitting on the floor and slide it back into the corner. I go to the counter and take a blondie off the rack I used to do the chocolate drizzle and bite into it. They have browned butter and a combination of dark and light brown sugar, which gives them a deep caramel tang. The pistachios have retained their crunch, and the figs are just slightly tart. The white chocolate takes the whole thing over the top, and I know that, if nothing else, I can cook.
“Saturday,” I say to Simca, who is giving me the side eye. “Shawn and his partners have their strategic planning meeting all day, so I’ll work on the proposal on Saturday.” Simca tilts her head at me as if to say that she isn’t convinced, and I don’t really blame her. I sort of don’t believe me either.
? ? ?
So, my darling girl, come sit with me,” Lawrence says when I get to his place. He has iced tea made and pours me a glass as I greet Philippe and Liagre.
“You look perky,” I say, taking in his pale pink button-down shirt and white jeans with lime green driving loafers.
“I am a bit perky, I have to admit.”
“You look like the preppy cat that swallowed the canary. What gives?”
“I have news. Huge news.”
“Barbra’s doing another farewell tour?”
He smacks my arm playfully. “Cheeky minx. No, I bought a house.”
I almost choke on my iced tea. “A house? A whole house? But you finally got this apartment the way you like it! And you’ve always said that you would never leave this neighborhood, and unless you’ve recently won a lottery I’m unaware of, you cannot afford an actual house within a square mile of this place!”
“Oh, no, lovey, not here—Palm Springs!”
“You bought a house in Palm Springs?”
“My friends Karen and Len called me last week. The house next door to them, the owner passed away. Family didn’t want it, just wanted to unload it quick, no muss, no fuss, and asked them if they knew anyone, before it went on the market, since they are the closest neighbors. Karen called me, sent me a bunch of pictures, and hooked me up with their Realtor. Bing bang boom, I have a house!”
“I don’t know what to say . . .” My head is spinning.
“I know! Can you believe it? I can barely believe it myself, it happened so fast. But you’ll love it. It’s darling. Little midcentury bungalow, sweet little saltwater pool in the backyard, two bedrooms, two and a half baths. You can come visit, pet!”
“Lawrence, it sounds amazing.”
“Well, it will take some doing to get it organized—it needs a total kitchen and bathroom overhaul, and of course there is the matter of furnishing—but I’m enormously excited. I’m going out there at the end of the month for the closing.”
“So, when do you move?”
“Oh, sweets, I’m not moving there. Not full-time, not yet. I’m going to snowbird there, at least for now. This year I’m going to try going right after Thanksgiving, and then come back sometime early April, and see how that goes.” He sees the look on my face. “I will be back for New Year’s, don’t you worry.”
“Good Lord, Lawrence, I’m not worried about that!” But I have to say I’m a little bit relieved when he says it.