Jake leaned on her as though she were his personal crutch. An entire closet became devoted to her outfits for charity events and board meetings. Luncheons. He dragged her to the movies with each change of film at the local theater. She woke at five to exercise before getting Noah and Jake out of the house.
The Cupcake Project’s success exceeded all expectations. Blessing or curse? Gig Baumer, their Jake-chosen accountant, swore that the taxes would break them, so thank goodness for Mira House. Being entwined with a nonprofit apparently saved their behinds. Gig took them under his wing as his own charitable arm. Phoebe couldn’t understand a thing. Zoya nagged her to educate herself, but all the monies went to Gig, who parceled them out as needed.
? ? ?
As they wound down the tasks that needed completion before the shop opened, Eva handed Phoebe a batch of employee evaluations tucked neatly into one of their trademark yellow and blue folders. Then she brought two mugs of ginger tea to the table where they sat. “What’s going on with you and Ira?”
Phoebe viewed Eva with suspicion. “What did Zoya say?”
“Why assume it was Zoya?”
“She’s got the biggest mouth and the dirtiest mind. Ira and I are friends. Why would you even ask such a question?”
“We can see how close you two are lately. Inseparable. When men and women are ‘just friends’?”—Eva punctuated her words with imaginary quotation marks—“it’s either because one or both of them is dead below the waist or they both find the other completely undesirable.”
“We certainly aren’t inseparable—gossip reigns here—but we are friends.”
Despite driving all over New York and Connecticut, managing the business, and keeping up with the chores that Jake piled on her, Phoebe still went to Mira House on Thursday mornings for Cooking for English. After that came her only peaceful time of the week: lunch with Ira.
“Is that what Jake thinks?” Eva asked. “My man would find it weird if I ‘ate lunch’?”—again Eva used air quotes—“with a guy every week.”
“Even if that man was part of your work life? In some sense your partner?”
Eva turned her head sideways and curled her mouth. “Oh, really? You’re meeting Ira for work?”
“Not everyone’s husband meets their every need. Honestly, Eva, the worry is much more about who Jake’s lunch partners are than about who I dine with.”
“Again?”
Phoebe dissected her fears about Jake’s fidelity with only one person: Eva, her only friend who didn’t either paper over Jake’s faults or resent him for his success. “I just get the feeling. Truthfully, I almost followed him the other day.”
“Followed him? Where would you pick up his trail?”
“That’s the problem. He’d probably leave from work, but he won’t be walking. Should I hail a cab and say ‘Follow that car’?”
“You could get a private detective if you really want answers.”
“That’s the rub, eh.”
“The rub?” Her puzzled air reminded Phoebe that Eva hadn’t been born in the United States. Colloquialisms confounded Eva.
“Sorry, just a weird expression, meaning ‘That’s the problem.’ If I knew Jake cheated—and I’m not saying he did—our lives would fall apart. Stop looking sorry for me. What? Do you think it’s true?”
“Of course not. Why would I?”
Should she believe Eva’s face or her words? “Did he ever come on to you?”
Eva’s horrified look convinced her that Jake had never said an inappropriate word, but Phoebe knew the answer before asking. Jake, if he were to cheat, wouldn’t play near their shared world. Her husband drew an inviolable circle around her and the kids, working overtime to keep two things from her: his work problems and whatever bad habits he knew she’d deem reprehensible. She pondered this as she drove, as she exercised on the rowing machine in the basement, doubting that Jake could be satisfied with watching old Westerns on TV as his sole recreation and release.
“It’s my insanity, Eva. My suspicion bubbles up every few years. Your job is to remind me I’m nuts.”
“Why would he cheat? Why would anyone cheat married to you?” Eva smiled. “Did I do that right?”
“I always think of the line ‘Should I worry about my drinking?’ Conventional wisdom says if you ask the question, you know the answer.”
Eva grabbed a napkin from the counter and placed a cupcake on it. “Eat this. We just made them. Meyer lemon.”
“Lemon?”
“To remind you even the sweetest life holds sour bits.”
“Tutsi wisdom from Rwanda?”
“My horoscope this morning.”
“Do you think our life is written out already, just waiting for God to unfurl it?” Phoebe asked.
“You mean do we have a predetermined destiny?”
Phoebe nodded before blowing on her hot tea.
“Reasoning like that indicates weakness. In my opinion.” Eva straightened the pile of polka dot napkins. “If you think your future is fated, then you do nothing to keep danger away. You just lay there and let it wash over you.”
Sometimes Phoebe blocked out how many sour bits of racial affronts forced her friend to pucker up each day. Some people pulled away their hands when she tried to give them change. They showed their shock at learning that Eva was the manager, not the counter help. Frosty reactions came from women walking the moneyed streets of Connecticut, as though Eva were there to mug them. Gentlemen slipped her their business cards, certain she’d happily meet them for an assignation.
“Call them out when it happens,” Phoebe had suggested the first time Eva revealed the problem. “Ask them why in the world they’re giving you their card. Loudly. Say this: ‘You want me to phone you? Are you offering me a job?’?”
“Nothing would make me happier, but I’ll stick with quiet seething,” Eva said. “The power dynamic rarely slides in my direction.”
? ? ?
Ira waited at their regular table. Puglia Restaurant, an institution in Little Italy, brought memories of her meals with Rob at Katz’s. The mix of locals and tourists recalled the deli, though it was fancier, with exposed brick and marble tables. Like Katz’s, they pushed the tables close enough for patrons to examine their neighbors’ choices with an intimate eye.
The first few times Phoebe and Ira ate together, she’d ordered grilled chicken, grilled fish, or the grilled vegetable plate. At their fifth meal, Ira pulled the menu from her hand and declared himself in charge of ordering.
“Any allergies?” he’d asked.
“No, but—”
He put up a hand to stem the words like calories and fat and told her to trust him, as though she were dining with an inverse of Jake: same style, different beliefs.
The simple dish of baked ziti with sausage the waiter placed before her that day had all but taken her to bed.
Now she traveled around the menu, moving from gnocchi to sautéed calamari with the ease of someone who’d never learned the language of Weight Watchers.
She squeezed through the narrow path to arrive at their table and kissed Ira somewhere between his mouth and cheek.
“You’re here!” Ira still seemed surprised when she appeared each week.